American Panda(60)

“I doubt any of your friends are here.”

“Still . . .” She asked the hostess for a booth in the back corner, beside the bathrooms.

We settled in, my mother sitting with her back to the entrance as an extra precaution. Then she handed me her cell phone.

“Can you erase my call to you in case Bǎbá looks? Now I just have to practice my story for what I did today. Or erase the tire tracks from the lawn.”

“Or not drive over the lawn when you’re backing out of the driveway.”

She ignored me. “I don’t even know what he would do if he knew I was here.” She shuddered, and pity surged through me.

“But I’m your daughter too. You should get to decide for yourself whether or not you want a relationship with me, regardless of what he thinks.”

She shook her head. I couldn’t tell if it was because she couldn’t comprehend what I was saying, or because she did want to make her own decisions but didn’t know how to get there.

“Whether we have a relationship is up to you, Mei. Not me. We’re disowning you to get you back on track. You cannot become Ying-Na. Not just for my sake but yours. That’s no life to live.”

“You don’t even know what Ying-Na is doing. Everything you hear is a rumor. For all you know, she could be a neurosurgeon married to a billionaire tech god.” Or maybe she’s struggling but happy. I kept this thought to myself since my mother wouldn’t understand the value of that life.

My all-knowing mǔqīn shook her head confidently. “No. I’m sure Ying-Na’s still taking off her clothes for money. I just heard it from Mrs. Ahn yesterday. That’s your future unless you come to your senses. Just try biology. Meet Eugene. Stop seeing Xing. How will you pay for college, food, a place to live? You need us.”

I made a mental note to find Ying-Na, not just to prove my mother wrong, but also to get a glimpse of what post-disownment life was like. If she had survived, maybe I would too.

“You’re trying to use money to control me. Forcing me to do what you want with threats isn’t healthy. Can’t we talk? Don’t you want to know how I feel?”

“That’s why I’m here.” She fanned her flushed cheeks. “But I feel like I’m having an affair. This is so stressful. How does anyone else do this?”

I dug my nails into my palms. I closed my eyes, and when I spoke, my voice was serrated. “You feel like seeing me, your own daughter, is the same as cheating on your husband? This is so messed up. All of this. Your relationship with Bǎbá needs to change. You don’t have to do everything he says. How do you feel when he orders you around? Don’t you want to stand up for yourself??” I mimicked my father’s booming voice, supposedly made deep from all the raw eggs he was forced to swallow growing up. “Old woman, fetch me my tea. Cook ten dishes for me to eat the second I come home, not too cold and not too hot.”

My mother winced, her shoulders slumping so much her spine curved. “It’s my place. That’s how it is.”

“Just because you were born with one more X chromosome than him?”

“When the daughter marries, she joins the male’s family. She becomes theirs.” Her monotone voice made her sound like a Stepford wife.

I shuddered. “People aren’t property, not anymore. Are you expecting to pay a dowry when I get married?”

“Yes. Because your husband will be accepting the responsibility of having you.”

“Because I’m such a burden.”

“You will be if you’re jobless and broke!” Cluck. “You’re too young to understand all this.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re the naive one. You’re in denial about your relationship. Bǎbá should treat you better—appreciate you, be nicer.”

“He is nice to me! He’s changed! Now after he yells at me, he tells me he’s sorry.”

I raised an eyebrow. “He says the word ‘sorry’?”

“Well, no, but he shows me. He ends the silent treatment, then says something sweet, like how I’m not as bad of a cook as I used to be.”

“That’s not sweet.”

“How would you know? You’ve never had a boyfriend.”

I clenched my teeth, forcing my secret—Darren, or whatever we were right now, anyway—back inside. We needed to step back and reboot. Lu-suvius was bubbling ominously, and I didn’t want to boil over before we could actually talk about anything substantial.

In the ensuing silence, the waiter approached.

“She’ll have a side salad, extra vegetables,” my mother ordered for me.

I slammed my menu shut. “I’d like a Coke and the meat lover’s pizza, extra cheese.” Meat lover’s didn’t even sound good to me, but it was the unhealthiest option I could think of.

My mother whipped out her credit card. “I’m paying. If you want a tip, she’ll have water and the side salad.”

“If you want to support freedom, Coke and pizza. I have money too.” I pulled out my wallet. He didn’t have to know there was only a five-dollar bill in there.

The poor waiter took a step back, looked between the two of us, then rushed off with a mumbled excuse, not even returning to bring bread—he sent someone else. I snatched a roll and dodged my mother’s hand swat in one swift motion.