giant goldfish with bulbous eyes and vibrant colors. Above, a neatly lined row of books on a shelf. Higher, on a mantel, three ceramic figures, maybe a foot high, of long-bearded Chinese men—each with elaborate, ancient robes bestowing an air of importance. Still higher, enshrined on a wrought-iron stand, a framed black-and-white portrait of a man with even-cropped hair and studious eyes.
Beneath the counter, a large cardboard box of toys held board games and puzzles piled high. Folding trays and stools were stacked next to the box.
A woman in a light, short-sleeved beige sweater and dark blue shorts cuffed at the knees welcomed us with a smile. She wore a short, unadorned hairstyle reminiscent of a young Audrey Hepburn. My mother introduced her as Poi Yee, my aunt.
Aunt Poi Yee ushered us to a futon couch and waved for me to put down my travel bag. After we sat, she brought a folding tray and set out a large bowl of oval-shaped fruit protected by a rough skin the color of peanut shells.
My mom said, “Dojeh, Poi Yee.” She reached into the bowl, separated one of the fruit from a waxy vine, and peeled the skin to reveal a berry resembling a skinless, green grape. “I don’t know how to say this, but is good.” She handed it to me. “Be careful the seed.”
A unique taste, something between a grape and a kiwi, with a big pit in the middle.
From behind the door of a bedroom, two small heads, a girl’s and a boy’s, popped back and forth to spy on us. Seeing my aunt, they scrambled to their bunks, and she went into the room. My mother identified the ten-year-old girl as Jing-Wei and the seven-year-old boy as Ming, my uncle’s children.
Hoy and Uncle Chun-Kwok took seats on stools near the TV and immersed themselves in conversation with my mom. Though most of their words sounded like gibberish, I recognized some phrases.
Laughter spilled out in loud voices, and sentences ended with last syllables carrying like the close of a song. Body gestures also accompanied the words; the upper torso of the speaker leaned forward with hands and arms thrusting and sweeping in constant motion. The fully animated face—eyes, mouth, brow, temples, and even the constricting and contracting neck muscles—added emphasis to an idea or opinion.
Laughter notwithstanding, an American watching might have thought they were arguing.
Soon, their gazes shifted to me, and I had the distinct feeling the discussion was about to veer in my direction. I plucked another piece of fruit from the bowl.
Hoy asked a question, and my mother shot a quick glance at me before responding. “He ask what you do, so I say you work for school, right?”
I nodded. The details of being a vocational counselor aspiring to become a marriage and family therapist would bring up more questions than I wanted to address. I dared not mention my interest in writing to avoid being seen as frivolous or worse.
Hoy, his face unable to contain his grin, said something to my mom. My uncle added a comment.
She said, “They ask if you have girlfriend.”
My discomfort grew. How does one explain to relatives, upon first meeting, about a history of dysfunctional and destructive interpersonal relationships? Would they understand the term “codependency”? Somehow, going into my last two years of intense “inner child” work to deal with my unconscious self-sabotaging tendencies with women didn’t seem quite the thing to do.
They trained their eyes on me, the complete and utter silence colluding in the eager anticipation of my response.
“I’ve been dating someone.” I cupped the partially peeled piece of fruit in my hand and shook it like Vegas dice.
My mother told them, and Uncle Chun-Kwok said something to her.
“He say, is she Chinese?”
“Is that important?”
“’Course.” Her tone reprimanded me for having to ask.
“She’s Vietnamese. We’re just getting to know each other.”
The translation induced somber expressions, as if I’d announced the collapse of my business.
My uncle broke the silence, and they chuckled. My mother chimed along, and the three appeared to be having a royal time again.
She said, “They think you come to Hong Kong to find Chinese wife.”
My turn to wave my arms. “No, no. I’m just on vacation! Tell ’em, Mom. Tell ’em I’m just here on vacation.”
Ignoring me, they started again, jabbering and snickering with my mother a ready accomplice.
“They say you should marry good Chinese girl so she teach you Chinese.”
An avalanche of laughter, Hoy with his head back, blustering, Uncle Chun-Kwok holding his gut and slapping his leg in fits, my mom crowing, her whole body rocking.
I had been the butt of some good-natured teasing. Finally, the cackling subsided, and all I could do was shrug.
My mother shook a finger at me and said, “Aiya, msik teng, msik gong.” It meant, “Cannot understand, cannot speak,” and the room erupted again.
Father 父親
Chapter 4
My mom and I waited with my uncle, aunt, and their children for a bus to take us to the Eastern District of Wan Chai. I felt nervous about meeting my father. I appreciated Uncle Chun-Kwok’s hospitality but felt strange about the prospect of my father treating us to dinner. One question consumed my thoughts: why didn’t he contact me?
My uncle, an off-duty bus driver, showed his company badge when the transport arrived, and we all rode for free. The moment the last person loaded on, the packed vehicle lurched forward, and I grabbed a handrail to keep from tumbling. We climbed the narrow steps to the upper level among passengers so squished together it reminded me of the contests to see how many bodies could be jammed into a VW. Did people ever get hurt? The mind-set must’ve been different from the US, where a woman could spill coffee in her own lap and win a lawsuit against McDonald’s because no label warned of a hot beverage.
I sat by a window next to my mother and observed the activity in the streets below. Vendors in threadbare jeans hawked newspapers and magazines on street corners, and merchants set out produce and dried meats on makeshift tables at tiny stalls piled with empty wicker baskets and cardboard boxes. These crude stands competed close to modern multistoried department stores which would’ve looked right at home in La Jolla. Older folks in simple, dark-toned peasant clothing walked alongside men in executive suits. A constant rush of people crammed the sidewalks, their voices lost in the trumpet of blasting car horns on the congested roads.
I asked my mom, “How long have you known Uncle Chun-Kwok and Aunt Poi Yee?”
“Many years. I know him first. He very nice, always treat me good,” she said.
“You met him through my father?”
She paused. “Your uncle run away from China, stay at my house in Hong Kong.”
“He lived with you and my father?”
“He write from
