7
Chinese Banishment
“I have some news,” I announce at the dinner table.
My father looks hopeful. “Yale?” he asks.
My mom shoots him a withering stare, which she then turns on me. I frown and dig my completely chewed-through, nonexistent fingernails into my palms.
“What is it, Iris?” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s better to deal with it today than wait until it’s too late.”
Angrily, she dumps three large pork chops onto my plate and then adds a messy scoop of overcooked broccoli and mashed potatoes.
I fidget, like I’m suddenly five years old again.
An ugly, spud-size lump forms in my throat.
I force it to go away by ignoring it.
My mom glares at me.
Inwardly, I shrink. I apologize nervously.
My dad doesn’t even notice.
But I can’t bring myself to say that I won’t be graduating this year, so I finally forward the email from the guidance counselor to my parents’ email accounts. Their iPhones ding simultaneously and the noise makes me shudder. Text alerts are like recurring nightmares. I never want to read a text message again.
“Check your email,” I say slowly. My vocal cords sound strangled.
I wait for their reactions.
No one speaks.
“Just check your email,” I say again in a flatter tone.
I touch my cold, sweaty upper lip, and I can feel new three-inch hairs growing from stress. Normally, I’d be upset about the recurring distress-mustache, but I almost don’t care. My horrific Tiger curse. I guess I haven’t been cured of my weirdo problem.
I can see my parents rereading the email over and over again.
More silence. The bad, suffocating kind.
I can’t breathe.
“Dinner is over,” my mom finally says. She leaves the table abruptly, her food untouched.
I turn to my father, hopeful.
His eyes are moist.
“Iris, go to the car,” he says.
This is not a suggestion but an order. I slink to the green Volkswagen because the Mercedes is in the shop for repairs. My father has never taken that tone with me before. He has gotten aggravated, certainly, and sometimes he’ll take on the loud repeated bleating sounds of animal-like annoyance. My mom always says that he is a true Goat. But since my mom was born in the Year of the Dog, she is the noisy barking one and usually does all the disciplining.
Usually when my dad has something serious to discuss with me, like the time when he wanted to tell me about his early stage II colon cancer, we take a field trip to this discount salon in a strip mall and get pedicures. He always says he finds the public bustle calming when he wants to share shitty news.
We park and then slowly walk toward the salon entrance. It’s more like a sidestep shuffle, really. I count to one hundred and stare at the cement ground. I don’t look at him.
At the salon I choose a sad-looking lilac color, and a pretty Korean lady examines my toes. My dad soaks his feet in the bubbling tub and lets out a remorseful-sounding sigh. Another Korean lady begins to vigorously file his wide, hoof-shaped heels.
I don’t know what will happen. My heart is beating in triple time, filling my hollow chest, mouth, and head with extra-fiery heat. The technician clucks in sympathy over my calloused feet.
“I spoke to my brother this morning,” my dad announces slowly. He sounds like he has a severe toothache. “He offered to help with your situation. We are sending you to Beijing to live with him and his family.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. The way my dad is saying “situation” is almost like he is saying that I am secretly pregnant.
Although come to think of it, me getting pregnant would be so much less shameful than not getting into college on top of failing senior year. All my life, my dad has always wanted me to be “smart like Mom” and my mom has always wanted me to be “smarter than Dad.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, shocked and hurt and baffled. Hearing his news is like devouring a 32-gallon Slurpee and brain freeze is spreading, slow-motion, through every major organ. Is this what happens before turning into a human-size freezie? You feel every spiky, stomach-churning, chill-inducing emotion as you simply stop existing.
“Your mom and I only want you to be better than us,” my dad says, staring at his hands. “We immigrated to the US so you could have more opportunities. We wanted you to be semi-professional at one or two things. Iris, you tried synchronized swimming, country dance, and even a candle-making class. You always said it was too hard and quit.”
I don’t know how to respond. This is far too much responsibility on someone who can’t even remember to vacuum her room! How can I be better than both my parents? It’s unfair because their IQ combined functions like unlimited 5G LTE internet. Despite what my dad is saying, I still feel betrayed and hurt that I am capable of causing so much melon-size disappointment.
To their credit, the spa ladies keep paying attention to our feet.
I am suddenly even more confused. My dad’s story actually makes zero sense.
“But I thought you were an only child. You told me your parents were dead!” I protest instead.
“My half brother,” my father says, as if that answers my question. “My dad, your grandfather, had an affair, but it had to be a secret because of the shame that it brought on the entire family.”
What the hell is my dad talking about?
“We have relatives in Beijing?” I interrupt, not caring if I’m being loud or rude. I’m so done with this whole politeness-in-public thing. “I have grandparents living in China?”
No response from Dad.
More silence.
“Your grandparents are dead.”
“Does Mom have family I don’t know about too?” I finally yell-ask.
“No, her parents and brother are all in Flushing.”
“Are you sure?”
My dad says nothing again for a long time. He looks deeply uncomfortable. Like he’s just ingested an unlimited amount of dairy. Our entire family suffers from severe lactose intolerance, but it doesn’t stop us from regularly ordering ice-cream cakes from Dairy Queen. Dad looks like he’s just eaten six slices of ice-cream cake by himself.
“Your uncle and I never spoke until this year. He was the one who asked a lawyer to send me an email, and we have been talking regularly since. I have been telling him about you for two months. He thinks we can help each other.”
“Why are you sending me off to TOTAL strangers?”
“He’s not a stranger. We’ve already video-chatted many, many times. Sometimes even twice a day! And he has one daughter called Renxiang. Her English name is Ruby.”
So I have a random uncle, aunt, and some girl cousin called Ruby? What is my life coming to? What else has my dad been lying about?
“You can’t stay here,” my dad continues. “Your mother is worried about talk at the country club.”
“Who cares about the country club?” I’m practically screaming now. The woman filing the dead skin off my heel has stopped filing.
“Should I come back?” she asks hesitantly.
“Yes!” I say, while my dad shouts, “No!”
The Korean nail technicians, who aren’t even pretending to scrub our feet anymore, exchange superlong meaningful glances. I wonder if they are used to witnessing family drama or if we’re the first ones to ever have embarrassing heart-to-hearts over double mall pedicures. Either they are accustomed to CW Network–style soap operas or else we’ll give them something to gossip about later on.