Bitter Melon

A
UGUST
1989

“Fei Ting, you are my reason for living,” Mom says to me. “You give me a purpose for my suffering.”

Fei Ting is my Chinese name.
“Fei”
and
“ting”
mean “fly” and “stop” respectively. So to me, my name sounds like it means to stop flying, though I know that is not what Mom meant when she named me. When my mother took me to get naturalized, she was trying to come up with an American name that sounded like my Chinese name, hence Frances. I looked up the name Frances in a baby name book recently and found that in Latin, it means “free.” So my American name seems to mean the opposite of my Chinese name.

Mom and I are in the living room of our small one-bedroom apartment. Mom is lying on our dilapidated dark green couch. She is short and slightly plump and looks as if she is wearing two small life preservers around her waist. Her hair, which is cut into a bob, is thin at the top of her head and white at the roots. Though I would never admit this to her, I am afraid of looking like her when I get older. Like her, I am thick waisted, with a long torso and short legs. Mom is very proud that I inherited her ears. However, she is less happy with my nose, which is too flat; my cheeks, which are too big; and my eyelids, which lack creases.
All these characteristics, she says, I inherited from my father.

Mom’s bouts of stomach pain have become worse since my grandmother died two months ago from stomach cancer. I am kneeling beside my mother on the cold, hard linoleum floor, massaging her abdomen in little circles, pushing up the gas from her stomach as she periodically lets out little belches. Her belches sound like Chinese syllables or exclamations,
“Gnuh, gnuh,”
gagging sounds that make me want to throw up. But I keep rubbing, even though my fingers and wrists are tired. When her stomach goes into spasms, it fills with air, forming a big balloon in her middle. It hurts her so badly that she has to curl forward like a shrimp when she stands or walks. The only relief for her is to lie down on her back and have me push the air out.

I’ve been doing this for the last hour. My knees hurt from kneeling, and my back aches. I can’t stand this any longer, but I’m afraid to ask for a break.

Mom lets out her final belch.
“Gwai nui,”
she says. That means “good girl,” or “obedient girl.” That also means that she’s feeling better, and I can stop. “Because you were good, Mommy feels better.” She is more relaxed and half smiling. On the outside, I ignore her praise. Yet a hidden part of me smiles.

Once Mom’s bloating subsides, we wait at the bus stop on Balboa and 32nd, which is located in the Richmond District of San Francisco, just north of Golden Gate Park, facing the
ocean. This is the foggiest part of the city. Tomorrow is the first day of school. Because of Popo’s death, Mom did not have the energy to buy school supplies. That’s why we have to go today. Just the thought of school creates a heavy stone in my chest that weighs down my whole body. It is hard to endure boring classes and to come home to a long night of tedious studying just to prepare for more tests I will have to ace.

The icy wind whips us left and right as we wait in the fog, barely sheltered by the bus stop structure, which has once again been shattered by vandals.

“My seams are coming apart.” That’s Mom’s way of saying that she’s exhausted and in pain. “My stomach hurts and my knees and back hurt. The cold only makes the pain worse.”

Finally, the bus arrives. Silently, we board the bus and head to Walgreens.

At Walgreens on Clement Street, Mom chooses my school supplies. She picks Bic ballpoint pens, even though I would prefer the Pilot rolling balls. She chooses the generic notebooks, though I secretly covet the ones with pictures of flowers or puppies. The ugly stuff is cheap. That’s why she gets it. It seems unfair that other kids get the fun school supplies. I still think in this selfish way, even after getting a senior sweater.

Afterwards, I walk towards the 38 Geary bus stop to go home. But Mom has other plans.

“Let’s take the Clement bus to the bank,” she says.

“I thought we went to the bank yesterday.”

“We did.”

“Why are we going again?”

“I want you to see something.”

What does she want me to see? And why can’t she tell me what it is? I am itching with curiosity. But I know better than to ask her.

The Clement Street bank is a bright red fake-brick building. The builders did not go out of their way to make the brick facade look real. It isn’t brick red but an orangey Chinese red. The glue holding the “bricks” together is too straight and too white. It reminds me of dentures. Despite the tacky look, this bank seems to have good business. The customers like that all the tellers are Chinese and that the building is a good luck color.

After waiting for twenty minutes, we finally get to the head of the line and go to Minnie’s window. Minnie is Mom’s favorite teller. As her name suggests, Minnie is very petite, about five feet two and probably a size two. Her hair is cut in a stylish bob that is shorter in the back and longer in the front. Her bright red dress suit contrasts with her quiet voice and demure manner.

“See?” Mom says to me. “Minnie is a student, yet she is working to help her family. You should be like her.”

I blush with embarrassment. She says this every time she sees Minnie. The last time she said this, I offered to get a job, but Mom replied that work would distract from my studies.

Minnie smiles shyly. “Good morning, Ching Tai Tai,” she says in perfect Cantonese.

“Listen to how beautiful her Cantonese sounds,” Mom says to me. “Not like you with your
gwai lo
accent.”
“Gwai”
means “ghost” or “devil,” but she is referring to my American accent.

“You’re too generous,” Minnie says. “My Cantonese isn’t really that good.” Actually, that’s not true. Her Cantonese is great. It’s her English that has a slight accent, only Mom can’t hear it.

“And see how modest she is too,” Mom adds.

Mom then tells Minnie that she wants to see her safe-deposit box. I didn’t even know she had one. I’m not even sure what that is. Minnie escorts us into the vault.

The air-conditioning is blowing against the back of my neck, making the hairs stand on end. The fluorescent lighting makes Mom’s pale skin look gray, as if she were dead. The walls of the vault are lined with little gray metal rectangles arranged in perfect rows and columns. They look like wall-to-wall library card catalog boxes. Each rectangle has two keyholes. Mom points to one, and Minnie sticks her key into one of the keyholes. Mom pulls a key out of her purse and inserts it in the other keyhole. Then she pulls it out and removes the lid, revealing a long box filled with shiny orange, red, pink, and turquoise silk pouches, the kind made for storing Chinese jewelry. They shimmer and glow under the lights.