American Panda(70)

Xing sighed. “Oh, she’s fine. She’s, uh, doing the zuò yuèzi thing.”

I widened my eyes until they felt dry from the air. “The sitting month? She hasn’t showered since giving birth?”

Ugh, their bedroom must smell disgusting. I had thought the ancient Chinese postpartum tradition had died away, but I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised given that my own mother carried a cow’s hoof comb in her purse.

If Esther was doing the sitting month, then Mrs. Wong’s stern look at the door was explained (though not justified) since visitors were not allowed.

Xing answered the question in my head without my asking. “Yuèzi was her mom’s idea, but she agreed to it because she thought she’d be pampered for a month. Turns out, it sucks pretty bad, and her mother is so strict it’s ridiculous. Esther didn’t know she’d be bedridden.”

As if on cue, raised voices trickled down the hallway. Xing winced, and exhaustion lined his face, overshadowing the joy.

“Come on,” he mumbled, and we bounced to the master bedroom.

Esther was sitting in bed, unwrapping a long, dirty cloth from her abdomen while her mother tried to simultaneously rewind it. If I hadn’t known better, it would have looked like attempted murder.

Esther threw the cloth aside—a third of it still constricting her—and screeched, “Mǎmá! Stop it! No one in America does these things and they’re all fine!”

Even though it was sixty degrees outside, Mrs. Wong raised the down comforter and covered her daughter up to the chin. She spoke in Chinese with a Kaohsiung accent.

“American and Chinese bodies are different. Put the bandage back on—it’s the only way to flatten your belly. Do you want to be flabby the rest of your life? And do you want to lose your teeth in the future? The baby sucks your calcium out while in the womb. Didn’t you learn that in dental school? Your yin and yang are unbalanced. If you don’t restore it, you’ll have joint problems and frequent illnesses in the future.”

“That’s not scientifically correct! And I’m disgusting! I’m going to take a shower.” Esther threw the blanket aside, then ripped wool socks off her feet and threw them across the room.

Mrs. Wong batted the air with her hand. “You’ll be taking a shower over my dead body. If you came to Taichung like I asked, then you would be in a confinement center. We would have splurged for you. Two hundred dollars a day for one month is worth a lifetime of health, is it not? Do you want arthritis?”

When Esther rose out of bed, Mrs. Wong pulled out the big guns. “You owe me this. You got pregnant on a random day and you refused the C-section. You deprived my grandson of good fortune. Such a terrible mother before he was even born. He could have been famous, rich, but no! You refused!”

So Mrs. Wong believed in Chinese fortune-telling, better known as suànmìng—which, literally translated, means to “calculate fate.” A common practice was to use the parents’ birthdays, the current year, and other arbitrary details to calculate the ideal day and time to give birth so that the child would have good luck. Obviously, to follow this practice, a C-section was needed.

Xing finally jumped in, telling his mother-in-law, “We don’t believe in any of that stuff. You’re here because we invited you. Don’t make me kick you out.”

Mrs. Wong turned to Xing. “So you don’t love my daughter? You’re depriving her of good health so what, you can run off with another woman when she dies young?”

Despite my intrusion into the private affair, I was frozen in place. Wild card.

Esther faced her mother, her expression calmer, probably because she was no longer lying in a pool of sweat. “This month is all about rest, right? I can’t rest when I’m hot and dirty. And arguing like this is raising my blood pressure through the roof. So with that in mind, let’s negotiate some new rules, okay?”

With a sigh of relief, Xing tiptoed out of the room. I followed.

“That’s my wife, smartest person around.”

Or . . . master manipulator? Maybe I could learn a few tricks.

Back in the nursery, with Jonathan swaddled in his crib, the tension ebbed, leaving just the poopy scent in the air.

“You did it,” I said. “You’re happy. Congratulations on everything.”

“You’re almost there. Business classes—”

“Actually, I just declared my major yesterday as business.” I had grand jetéd through my marketing and optimization classes this past spring, and I had especially loved that the latter involved math. Now, not only did I have a bunch of career options in front of me, but the degree could help if I decided to open a dance studio in the future.

Xing nodded his approval, then amended his previous statement. “Business major, teaching dance, loving boyfriend . . .” He peered at me. “Are you ready for your dinner with Mom and Darren?”

I nodded. “Ready to release the beast. I can take whatever comes.”

Xing laughed. “I wasn’t worried about you. Or Mom. I was worried about Darren.”

“Worry about Esther. Isn’t Mom coming over to meet Jonathan next week?”

Xing nodded, his face twisting with anxiety (and probably mirroring mine). “Touché.”



I had held off on talking to my mom about Darren for months. She had changed, but this was asking a dog to stop eating shit.