One
Claire
Shanghai, China
I lie in bed listening for the shuffle of my father’s slippers. It’s 7:30 a.m. My father, if he were home, would be in the kitchen, sitting down to his breakfast: three egg whites, scrambled, with oatmeal—doctor’s orders—which he would remark to Tressy, our maid, were either overcooked or undercooked, just so he could get up and go rummaging around the kitchen for one of the taro buns he’s not supposed to eat but that my mother secretly buys for him anyway. She buys them for him because she hopes the sweet gooey taro will somehow lure him away from his mistress, providing the kind of warmth and stickiness that will make him want to come home.
Except that his mistress also knows to buy him taro buns.
I’ve never met her, but the other week, she tried to add me on WeChat. I stared at her picture for almost an hour, trying to decide if she was prettier than my mom. She looked about twenty-five—half my father’s age—with long flowing hair, styled curly and tinted red at the tips. Her hand was running casually through her hair, pulling her shirt up just enough to reveal her milky-white skin. The whole thing looked so effortless and staged at the same time, the kind of shot I try and try to take but can never get right.
I deleted the friend request and didn’t tell my mom about it, though maybe I should have. It was bold of her to reach out to me. There have been others, I’m sure. But none of them dared make contact.
I close my eyes, sinking back into my bed, trying not to think about what this means. Or where my dad is, for that matter.
The softness of my mother’s hand on my cheek wakes me hours later. My mom’s sitting on the bed, staring at me. Like a creep.
“Mom, ew, what are you doing?” I squirm away from the light pouring in from the window, burying my face in the sheets.
“It’s nearly noon,” she says in Mandarin. She’s wearing big Chanel sunglasses.
“You okay?” I ask her, peering at her sunglasses.
She nods. “Oh, yeah, just allergies. Probably from the pollution,” she lies.
I glance out the window. The Shanghai sky, normally gross and gray, looks peacefully white today, like those might actually be clouds we’re seeing.
Her shades slide down an inch, and when I turn to look at her, I catch a glimpse of her red, swollen eyes underneath.
“Is it Dad?” I ask gently.
She pushes her sunglasses up firmly, like a shield.
“No, of course not. He’s just working,” she says. I don’t know who she’s lying to—me or herself.
She reaches out a hand. “Hey, let’s go out for dinner tonight!” she says, her face brightening.
I hesitate—I have so much homework—but her eyes say, I need this.
“Sure, Mom.”
It takes me six hours to slog through the homework my teachers assigned me. I’m in eleventh grade at a local school in Shanghai, which means every day I’m a slave to my taskmaster. First math, then science, then English, and then Chinese, my weakest subject, despite the latest fancy tutor my mom got me. Her name is Ms. Chen, but I call her Sticky Fingers for the way she licks her fingers after polishing off the plate of fruit that Tressy brings us when I’m being tutored. When she’s not busy eating fruit, she’s barking at me what to write for my essay so I’ll get a high mark, literally word for word, as though I’m not capable of producing my own thoughts. I always throw away the paper after she leaves.
My friends and I sometimes watch American movies about teenagers hatching plots and going to crazy places, and we’re like, when do they have time to do this? In China, every second of my day is usually decided by someone else.
When the last of my assignments is finally done, I walk upstairs to my mom’s room. I can hear Snowy’s bell, our poodle. If Snowy’s still in there, it means my mom’s probably forgotten about dinner. She never lets Snowy in her room when she’s getting dressed, for fear of Snowy chewing up her Louboutins. I’m about to turn when the door swings open. My mom’s in her satin robe, her hair’s up in a towel, and she’s holding a glass of chilled rosé. Adele plays in the background.
“Go put on something nice,” she tells me. “We’re going to M.”
M on the Bund is one of my mother’s favorite restaurants, right on the water, a tourist attraction but in a good way. My mom used to take me there when I was little, usually after I’d just won a swim meet. Now she takes me only when she’s all out of girlfriends. She usually goes out with Auntie Maggie and Auntie Pearl, women who share her love of complaining and laser skin treatments.
We sit at the corner table, overlooking the balcony. My mom’s in a Costume National wool gray dress, chic but not loud, thank God, unlike some of her other clothes. I’m in black pants and a white shirt. Unlike my mom, who likes her clothes colorful and tight, I opt for understated and functional.
Mom sips champagne while making small talk with the waiter. She’s a regular, and he kisses up to her so shamelessly I have to look away. She orders for us while I gaze out the window at the boats going up and down the Bund, tourists taking pictures, the Oriental Pearl Tower. There’s a roller coaster inside. When I was little, I used to go on it with my dad. I smile at the memory.
The waiter finally leaves us alone.
“Did you know your father and I met here?” she asks. She points to the foyer, where the hostess, in pencil-thin stilettos, balances delicately behind the white marble table. “Right over there.”
She’s told me the story a thousand times. She was a college student at Fudan, working as a hostess that summer. He was an executive with a considerable expense account. It was love at first sight. And a trip to Cartier shortly after.
“I was just nineteen!” my mom reminds me. “Not much older than you. So young.”
Her cheeks flush with nostalgia, and I settle in for a trip down memory lane. I try to take a sip of her champagne, but she moves the flute out of reach.
I protest, “Aw, c’mon.”
“I was so beautiful then,” she continues, ignoring me.
“You’re still beautiful,” I remind her. I can’t tell you how many classmates—the guys especially—have commented on my mom’s appearance.
“Your mom’s gorgeous,” they’d say, usually followed by “You sure she’s your mom?” Har har har.
It used to bother me that she looked so much younger than all the other moms. I guess that’s what happens when you get started at twenty. She used to joke that we were both still kids. She’d ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and I’d ask her back, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” And she’d laugh and laugh.
I don’t know when she stopped laughing. She shakes her head at the champagne, pursing her lips.
“I’m getting old,” she sighs. She grows quiet, eyes welling up. I hope that’s not what she’s blaming Dad’s infidelity on.
My phone dings. It’s a WeChat voice message from my boyfriend, Teddy. He’s a year older and studying hard for his gaokao. The Chinese college entrance exams are so intense that girls take birth control pills to avoid getting their period during that week and construction work is halted, traffic diverted near the examination halls so as to not disturb the students. So far, though, he still has time to mess around. I try to tap out of the app, but my finger accidentally presses Play.