possibly have been important enough to abandon a child on an airplane?
An Asian flight attendant offered refreshments. My mom asked for a soda, and I requested water. She sipped from her cup, paused, and said, “Pretty face, that one. Eyes very round and nose not flat, but mouth too big.”
She relished picking out every flaw in a woman’s appearance, one of the reasons I never told her about Quyen, a Vietnamese woman I met several months ago. We were getting along; nothing to warrant back flips, except she was the first Asian I ever dated—a major accomplishment achieved through years of painstaking therapy—given my lifelong aversion to anything Asian. Still, Quyen wasn’t Chinese, and I learned my lesson from Donna. Caucasian, separated, and even worse in my mother’s unrelenting, razored scrutiny, Donna came with baggage—two children. So I didn’t let on about Donna, but that didn’t prevent my mom from finding out. The day I chose to take Donna and her kids for a dip in the pool at my parents’ house, my mother happened to come home early from work, something she never did. So I introduced her to Donna and Jonathan and Timothy. Mom was pleasant and engaging, but while Donna changed the children in the bathroom, my mother pulled me into the kitchen and whispered, “If you marry this one, I never speak to you again.” Then she turned and put glasses in the dishwasher as if she had just handed me the recipe for her fried wontons. I never forgave my mother for planting the seed which led to the eventual breakup of that relationship.
***
Seoul. I departed the plane with my head reeling and a twisted cord of quivering knots in my back. Mom’s peppy gait suggested a willingness to launch into an extended search for the choicest flea markets in the vicinity.
We still needed to kill two hours before the connecting flight to Hong Kong. Worse, in the airport bathroom, I discovered a string of hives mottling my chin and neck.
In the waiting area, my mom peered out the wall of windows to the runway below and said, “We pretty close now.”
“Yeah.”
“Raymond, I want to say something.”
I looked at her.
“If you see your father, you should give hug,” she said.
“What?”
She hesitated and avoided eye contact. “Also should give some money, not lot, but is the custom for son your age.”
I was dumbfounded. My mother telling me to embrace and give money to a man who hadn’t so much as written me a note in nearly three decades!
After a long silence, I said, “I’m not going to do that.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
“That the Chinese way.”
“I’m not Chinese.”
She stared at a plane accelerating down the runway and remained silent as it lifted into the air.
Arrival 抵達
Chapter 2
My mother and I lugged our carry-ons through the maze of Hong Kong Kai Tak International Airport to the line for visitors entering the city. So many Chinese people everywhere: the same dungeon-black hair, thin bodies, and statures considered short by American standards. In the line for residents coming back to Hong Kong, a pair of loud voices broke through the din. I turned to see two men in tailored suits. One, holding an embossed leather briefcase, gestured emphatically. His companion didn’t appear alarmed, so maybe that’s how Chinese people talked.
Behind them with her family, a high school–aged girl wore a Calvin Klein T-shirt and Guess jeans. Auburn streaks tinted her straight, shoulder-length hair, and heavy blue eye shadow and garish red lipstick disguised her face. She would’ve fit right in at San Diego malls. I felt the strap of my travel bag biting into my shoulder, so I let it drop to my feet and wished it would transform into one of those rolling suitcases everyone else seemed to be wheeling. After my mom went through the passport checkpoint, I strolled up to the glass cubicle with my visa, where a stiff-postured man on a stool behind the partition spoke to me in Cantonese.
Taken by surprise, I shrugged. “Uh . . . I speak English.”
He examined my passport, then me. “Arrival paper.”
“Oh. Yes.” I unzipped the travel pouch and handed him a slip.
He inspected it, regarded me again, and entered something into the computer. He studied the monitor and appeared to be gathering enough data to process an application for political asylum. Minutes passed. He punched in more information.
I shifted my feet, tugged on the strap of my pouch. My mom’s visa came from the same country, so why didn’t he ask for her arrival paper?
After hitting the keys for the third time and dissecting me with his gaze again, he stamped the tiny book and motioned me through.
I released my breath and walked toward my mother.
She said, “What take so long?”
“He asked me something in Chinese, and I answered in English. Maybe he didn’t like my voice.”
“Chee-se.” Her attempt at saying “Jesus.” She picked it up from my stepfather, who used it so much people must’ve thought he was in divinity school.
Bumping our way through a crush of elbows, shoulders, and luggage, we followed signs marked in both Chinese and English. Jammed with travelers, the airport, probably the size of San Diego’s Lindbergh Field, seemed small.
Hong Kong was one of the world’s busiest commercial centers, and lighted billboards and placards promoted everything from French perfume and Swiss watches to the latest pop singing sensation. Marketed toward the young, many boasted a Western flair. Couples in various stages of undress, in embraces seductive enough to earn an “R” rating, flaunted clothes with designer labels. American faces and bodies graced some of the ads, representing youth, vitality, and modern sex appeal. Funny, I couldn’t recall displays in San Diego’s airport depicting Asians.
At the baggage claim, I said to my mother, “Are you sure someone’s going to meet us here?” When she didn’t answer, I frowned.
After we retrieved the suitcases, I suggested we get a luggage cart.
“Prob-ly cost money,” she said.
“We’ve just spent fifteen hours like caged hamsters. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to drag a bunch of suitcases around looking for people who might not even be here.”
“If they not here, I call somebody else.”
I grabbed a cart and brought it back. “It’s free,” I said, and stacked our bags on it.
We circled the waiting area twice with no sign of our welcoming party. Tired, sore, and jet-lagged, I could only think about unfurling on a soft pillow.
Mom continued to search with a worried expression. “Maybe they here. You wait. I go look some more. If no can find, I call my friend.”
She started off, spun, and pointed at the
