Soy Sauce for Beginners Read online

  “Good bagels,” I said.

  He closed his eyes and nodded approvingly. “There was this one bagel place by NYU that I used to go to at least three times a week. I still dream of those bagels.” His eyes darted open. “But you’re from California, so I’m not sure you know what a good bagel tastes like.”

  “Hey,” I warned. But when he laughed, I laughed, too.

  Near the end of the meal, after I’d set down my knife and fork, and James had finally pushed away his plate, and we’d ordered espresso in place of dessert, I asked, “So how’d you decide to come back home after business school?”

  James dropped a lump of raw sugar in the tiny cup and stirred. “I didn’t decide. The choice was already made.” The expression on his face was matter-of-fact. He raised the cup to his lips and downed its contents in two long pulls.

  I waited for him to go on, but he dabbed his mouth with his napkin as though to indicate there was nothing more to say.

  “I guess that makes things easy,” I said. “My parents gave me all the choices in the world, and then stood back and let me do whatever I pleased. And look at me now.” Our eyes met, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly embarrassed. This was a small town; we had plenty of friends in common. I knew I didn’t have to elaborate.

  He chuckled softly and said, “You seem to be managing just fine.”

  When he signaled to the waiter, I felt a pang of disappointment, knowing the evening was about to end. How stupid of me to call attention to my failed marriage. It had been so long since I’d been on a date, I’d apparently lost all ability to carry on a conversation.

  Instead of asking for the check, however, James winked and said, “Let’s end this meal on a high note.” To the waiter, he said, “The lady is ready to try the porron.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” I said. “Definitely not.” But the waiter was already heading to the bar.

  When he returned with his pitcher, it seemed everyone in the room had their eyes on me, so I threw up my hands, raised my chin and opened my mouth wide. The cold, tart stream hit the back of my throat as cheers rose from around the dining room. Two tables down, a group of Spanish businessmen burst into song. “Cumpleaños feliz, cumpleaños feliz,” they sang, having decided that it was the only logical explanation.

  I made it halfway through the song before I had to hold up my hand to tell the waiter to stop. By then, the other tables and the wait staff had joined in in English, as had James, who, in a surprisingly robust baritone, sang louder and more enthusiastically than anyone else.

  When the check finally came, I dutifully wrestled for it, even though I knew a guy like him would never let me pay my share. We rose from the table. As we walked out of the restaurant, his fingertips found the small of my back, sending a jolt up my spine.

  The night was breezy and relatively cool. James and I fell in step with each other, and soon we were following the boardwalk along the river. He pointed out where he lived—a trio of tall gray buildings, not far away, that towered over a dense forest of new luxury condominium complexes. It was nearing ten, and the after-work crowd at the outdoor tables was at its peak: large groups of men, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, knocking back mugs of beer; the occasional trio of women who sat clutching their purses in their laps as they eyed the men with equal parts intrigue and revulsion.

  James and I strolled away from the shouts and guffaws, the showboating and posturing, the dense cooking smells, the multicolored Christmas lights draped from rooftops, balconies, lampposts, and more. Here by the river, on this smooth lamp-lit path with the breeze in my hair, my hand slid down James’s forearm and landed neatly in his. Hoping it was too dark for him to see me blush, I kept putting one foot in front of the other, but he hung back. Startled, I spun around. Our arms stretched out between us as though we were in the midst of a choreographed dance. He tugged me gently to him, combing his fingers through my hair as he brought his face to mine. His mouth was warm and wet, his tongue undulating, sly, more alive than any part of Paul. As we sealed the spaces between us, Paul faded from my thoughts, and then I couldn’t think at all.

  Before long we were in front of James’s condo. Through the glass doors, I admired the sparkling marble floors and the pair of art deco chandeliers. Of course he would have a flawless home. Upstairs, I pictured minimalist Danish furniture, sweeping city views.

  I said, “Thank you for dinner.”

  “You’re most welcome.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I can have the concierge call you a cab.”

  “Great,” I said at the same time that he said, “Unless.”

  I met his gaze. “Unless what?”

  James shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Unless you want to come upstairs?” He posed the question lightly, as if he were asking whether I took my tea with milk.

  I turned the question over in my head.

  I hadn’t been on a date in over a decade, and I hadn’t dated enough in my lifetime to be able to say for certain, but still, I had a feeling that going upstairs was something I wouldn’t normally do.

  But then I thought about tiptoeing through my parents’ dark house and up to my childhood room. I saw myself sitting in bed, scanning the numbers in my cell phone, wishing I had someone to call, someone who would appreciate the absurdity of the position I now found myself in. My exchange with Frankie, while rushed, had been just long enough for her to make clear she disapproved. Kat’s reaction would be less measured. I could reach out to Marie or Jenny in San Francisco, but they’d only ever known me in the context of my relationship with Paul. Given that I’d vanished without fully explaining the state of my marriage, the leap to my present circumstances seemed far too vast.

  So I tucked my arm into James’s, and told him that I would indeed like to come upstairs. Together we walked past the concierge desk to the bank of mirrored elevators at the far end of the lobby, where our reflection caught me by surprise. How symmetrical we looked with our matching black hair, narrow builds, and understated, tailored clothing. We were the kind of couple who appeared in advertisements for sub-zero refrigerators and flat-screened televisions. Paul had towered over me at six foot three; even holding hands had been awkward.

  The elevator dinged, we entered, the doors slid shut. As we rose up in the air, I counted the floors—six, seven, eight, nine—wishing I could both stop time and fast-forward to the end.

  6

  IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS’ HOUSE, I raked my fingers through unkempt hair and smoothed my rumpled blouse, preparing to explain where I’d been.

  This was uncharted territory. As a teenager, I may have snuck out to see a boyfriend once or twice, or lied that I was spending the night at a girlfriend’s, but I’d never stayed out without notifying my parents of my whereabouts. The windowpane by the front door reflected the ridiculousness of my situation. Here I was, a disheveled thirty-year-old woman dressed in yesterday’s clothes, about to walk in on Ma and Ba in the middle of breakfast. There was nothing else to do but get it over with.

  When I pushed open the front door, a cry pierced the air—my mother’s—followed by my father’s stern retort, too low for me to decipher.

  In the dining room, Cora, my parents’ live-in maid, was crouched low to the ground, broom in hand. When she saw me, she sat back on her haunches, but clamped her lips together and shook her head. Around her, shards of glass glittered against the marble floor. The jagged lower half of a highball glass lay on its side in the dustpan.

  I took the stairs two at a time and found my parents’ bedroom door ajar. Ma was on the floor with her legs straight out in front of her, still dressed in her old cotton nightgown, her arms wound tightly around her body.

  “I won’t,” she said, shaking her head so forcefully her lank uncombed hair flopped over her eyes. “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” With each repetition her voice gained strength.

  My father sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Sensing my presence, he turned
abruptly to the door. His face went slack. “Xiao Xi,” he said.

  I entered the room. “What’s going on?”

  He gestured to my mother. “Your ma,” he said, his voice cracking. He started over. “Your ma isn’t feeling well. She wants to stay home, but I’m taking her to dialysis.”

  My mother struggled to push up onto her knees. I stepped forward to help, but she swatted me away. “She’s not a child. Why can’t you tell her the truth?” The fermented tang of her breath made me pull back.

  “The truth?” Ba said. “Fine. You tell her. You tell your daughter what you just told me.”

  Ma’s lip curled as she spoke. “Don’t you try to use her against me. Don’t you manipulate me.”

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Ba turned back to me. “She didn’t want to go,” he began.

  “Doesn’t,” my mother snarled in a way I’d never heard before. “She doesn’t want to go. Present tense. D-O-E-S-N-apostrophe-T!”

  Ba didn’t flinch. “Your mother says she’s done with dialysis.”

  My gaze traveled from my father’s eerily calm face to my mother’s, which was frozen in a state of exquisite fury. It had been three months since her kidney failure. Three months since she’d given up work and travel. Three months that she’d spent tethered to that wretched machine for three hours a day, three days a week.

  Ba spoke again, “Your ma wants us all to stand back and watch her drink herself to death.”

  It was the first time I’d ever heard him acknowledge her drinking problem, and I was flooded with relief. Even Ma was so stunned she seemed to forget her anger.

  But as my father’s words echoed in my mind, panic rose within me. I stepped forward and took my mother’s bird-thin arm. Her skin was cold and dry and shifted too loosely over the brittle bone. “Come on, Ma,” I said. “You have to go.”

  “You both think it’s so simple,” she said wearily.

  I could not look at her. I motioned for Ba to take her other arm. “Help me,” I said, as though referring to a heavy box, or an unwieldy piece of furniture.

  “Careful,” she shrieked as he took the arm ridged with the fistula that received the thrice-weekly dialysis needle. But she let us guide her down the stairs.

  She said, “I can’t spend the rest of my life this way.”

  And, “What would you do if you were me?”

  And, “Are any of you listening? Say something.”

  Like Ba, I trained my eyes straight ahead. For once, I understood his reticence. Ma didn’t need either of us to tell her there were no alternatives to dialysis.

  Outside, Ba got in the driver’s seat, while I steered my mother to the passenger side of the car. Once I’d buckled her seatbelt, I hesitated with my hand on the door handle. My parents would be at the hospital for the better part of the day. Without an appointment, there was no guarantee we’d get a chance to talk to Ma’s doctor. Did I really need to be there?

  Ba watched me expectantly; Ma wouldn’t glance my way.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He protested that they were running late, but I was already sprinting into the house and up the stairs, past a concerned Cora, who sometimes pointed out the new bottle in the recycling bin, her eyes lowered.

  In my parents’ bedroom, I pulled a silk blouse from the dozens hanging in the closet, reached for the pair of thin wool slacks draped over a chair, and raced back outside.

  Through the car windshield, my parents looked small, vulnerable, and, most of all, old.

  I laid the clothes on the back seat of the car. Gasping to catch my breath I said to my mother, “For when you get to the hospital.”

  She smoothed the cotton nightgown over her thighs and pretended not to care.

  “Okay,” Ba said. “We really have to go.”

  I raced around to the other side of the car and hopped in. I hadn’t had a chance to shower, but at least James had let me use his spare toothbrush before sending me off with a chaste good-bye kiss that made me wonder if I’d done something wrong.

  If Ba and Ma were surprised I’d decided to come along, they didn’t let on. Anchoring a hand on Ma’s headrest, Ba backed out of the driveway. He checked for traffic over his left shoulder, and when our eyes met, he smiled.

  Once we’d deposited my mother in the dialysis center, I pulled Ba out to the hallway. “When can we talk to Dr. Yeoh?”

  He took a step away from me. “We don’t need to. She’s fine now.” He turned to go back in the room. “Besides, it’s impossible without an appointment.”

  “She’s nowhere near fine.”

  A trio of nurses glared at me as they passed. “Please keep your voice down to avoid disturbing the patients,” one of them said.

  “She’s sorry,” Ba said sharply.

  At the end of the hallway, a door swung open and a young woman in scrubs stepped out, followed by Ma’s doctor, a tall man in a white coat with thinning hair and soft jowls.

  I hurried toward the pair, calling out the doctor’s name.

  At first he looked startled, but then he smiled. “Gretchen, Xiong, good to see you. How are things?”

  I said, “I know you’re busy, but my mother had a really rough morning, do you think we could get your advice?”

  The doctor told his colleague he would catch up with her later. “What happened?” he asked.

  Before my father could interrupt, I proceeded to recount the events of the morning as quickly as I could.

  When I finally stopped to take a breath, I felt Ba’s hand on my shoulder. “My daughter just got home. She’s scared. And a bit excitable, lah.”

  I shrugged off his hand and shot him a look.

  The doctor’s eyes passed from Ba’s face to mine. He glanced down at his watch and said, “As a matter of fact, I do have a few minutes to chat.” He took us to an empty conference room and told us he’d be right back.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ba said.

  “Why are you so afraid to ask for help?”

  Fuming, we regarded each other across the narrow width of the conference room table.

  The doctor returned. “Please, have a seat.” He slid a crumpled brochure across the table. “I mentioned this the last time,” he said to Ba—a conversation I hadn’t been a part of.

  The brochure advertised Light on Life, a rehabilitation center that resembled a sun-drenched, tropical resort. Glossy photographs showcased the center’s idyllic grounds, but on the back flap of the brochure, a pair of sad eyes peered out of a gray, wrinkled face. Why had they included a close-up of this man who looked so tired, so grim?

  I was still staring into the old man’s eyes when Ba took the brochure. Barely glancing down, he folded it in half and then in half again. He stuck it in his breast pocket. “We’ll think about it.”

  “Okay then,” said the doctor, drumming his fingers on the table in a manner that was too jaunty for the situation and checking his watch again. “And please, really give it some thought this time.”

  I wanted to reach out and shake the doctor until he told us what to do. Ba and I needed orders, not gentle cajoling. “We will seriously consider it,” I said. “Especially because we understand that this could be the only way for her to get better.”

  The doctor seemed satisfied that he’d done his job. In the meantime, he said, there were things we could keep trying at home: stricter supervision, more activities, concrete short- and long-term goals. He spouted off the terms as if reading a grocery list. No doubt he saw a steady stream of patients like Ma accompanied by families like ours: in denial, afraid to act.

  We thanked the doctor and watched his form recede down the hallway.

  Once he was out of hearing distance, Ba said, “It’s out of the question.” He was already walking off.

  I grabbed his arm, but he wrenched away. “This isn’t America. We don’t ship off family members for other people to take care of.”

  “This
is not the time to be thinking about saving face,” I said.

  His eyes grew wide; his nostrils flared. He leaned in and took my wrist. “I’m still the head of this household. I get final say.”

  Only when he let go did I feel the tightness of his grip, the pressure stemming from the tips of all five of his fingers. I knew he wished I hadn’t come to the hospital. He and Ma had been a self-contained unit for so long. Xiong and Ling against the world. So much so that I’d been lulled into believing they didn’t need me, their only child, that they would always have each other.

  He stalked off to the waiting room, and I trailed behind, pausing in the doorway to squint up at the clock on the wall. It would be at least another hour before Ma’s dialysis session was over.

  Ba settled in a blue padded chair, took off his glasses, and began to work the spot between his eyebrows. I took the chair beside him. “With the right treatment, she can get better.”

  He returned his glasses to his nose. “If you give people the respect they deserve, they will rise to the occasion.”

  I fought to tamp down my frustration. “Alcoholism is a disease, Ba.”

  His voice rose. “We can take better care of her. We can.”

  After that, neither of us said a word. We sat in silence with our eyes fixed on the door to the treatment rooms, waiting for Ma to emerge, safe and healthy, for at least another day.

  That weekend, Frankie called to ask if I wanted to go to the beach with her and Kat and our other friends. “The regular crew,” she called them.

  A half-dozen snide remarks danced on the tip of my tongue before I isolated the true source of my irritation: to think I was actually jealous that Kat and Frankie had made plans without first consulting me.

  “Thanks for the invite, but I’m going to spend the weekend with my mom,” I said.

  Several hours later, Kat called, too. But when I offered the same explanation, Kat, for once, backed down. “I guess that’s a valid excuse,” she said. “I’ll let you go. Tell Auntie I said hi.”

  Over the years, I’d spoken candidly to Frankie and Kat about Ma’s drinking, though neither of them knew how serious it had become. Given that Ba and I were just figuring out how to deal with Ma’s latest developments, I didn’t offer my friends any new information, and they didn’t ask. They didn’t even press for details about my date with James, which disappointed me more than I cared to admit. I was dying to share and analyze every aspect of the date: from how I slept in one of his old T-shirts, threadbare and silky smooth, to the way he kissed the crown of my head in the morning when we said good-bye. Late at night, he’d wrapped his arms around me and pressed my head to his chest, and in this manner we’d fallen asleep. What did it mean that in those last conscious moments, lying there absorbing his strong, steady heartbeat, I felt so grateful I could have cried? What did it mean that when I sent him a text message the following day, it took him six hours to reply? What did it mean that I hadn’t heard from him since? I could hear Kat now: “Aiyah, woman, what do you expect when it took him five days to phone you in the first place?”