Trade Me (Cyclone #1)(57)

Mr. Chen simply gestures to the room around him—to the plastic flowers, the wall hangings, to Felix the Cat swinging his tail with every second. “Where else?”

TINA

After the hearing in the courtroom, the families come together in the parking lot just outside the courthouse. They chatter and talk. It has been a while since I accompanied my mother to a gathering, and I’m immediately reminded why that is.

My mother doesn’t boast about her children directly in company. That would be gauche. Instead, she practices the indirect boast/insult.

“Ah,” my mother says to Mrs. Ma. “Lucky you that Annie is so consistent in school. My Mabel is all over the place. She never remembers anything except saxophone and band all the time. Practice, practice, practice—all we ever hear about is practice.” Of course she doesn’t mention that Annie had one ignominious piano recital years ago and has never played again.

“You’re so lucky,” my mother says to Mrs. Chan, “that Tommy is staying at home for school. He’s there for you for support. Tina is always gone, studying to be a doctor. It’s hard on me.”

I stand under a cluster of palm trees, fixing my gaze on the Spanish-style courthouse beyond. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t hurt.

Or, my favorite: “You’re so lucky to have a grandchild so early. I wish Tina had a baby at nineteen. But she isn’t even dating the nice boy she brought home. Oh, yes, he’s okay for a white boy. He even speaks Mandarin.” My mother shakes her head sadly. “And he’s going to walk away. Sometimes I think that Tina is missing out on life.”

That’s the one that really sinks under my skin. I make my excuses and go wait for her in the car. It’s stupid to let myself get upset about things like this. I know that to Western ears the practice sounds a lot ruder, a lot more passive-aggressive, than it really is. This is my mother’s way of telling everyone how proud she is of me, of boasting without really boasting. But I can’t help it. I am westernized, and there’s enough truth in those backhanded compliments that it stings.

Tina works so hard; she never has time for me.

Tina is missing out on life; she isn’t even dating that nice boy.

It hurts. It really hurts. I’m here, aren’t I?

My mother comes back to the car thirty minutes later, beaming and happy, filled with all the latest gossip. I’m reining my emotion in as best as I can.

“You shouldn’t have left so early,” my mom says as she pulls out of the lot. “You’re so serious. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”

“I don’t know,” I snap back. “Why do you think I never have any fun? Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who has any sense of responsibility in this family.”

Mom goes silent. The light turns green, but she’s a few seconds too slow, and she misses her turn onto the freeway despite the angry honking of the cars behind us. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t pay the electric bill,” I say. “You barely make rent. Every month, it’s one thing after another. You don’t get Mabel’s meds, you don’t see a doctor until everything is at its worst. You don’t take anything seriously and so I have to do it instead. Why do you think I’m working all the time? It’s not because I love work so much. It’s because you can’t afford for me to stop.”

“Tina…”

But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop talking. “Do you think I want to be a doctor? I don’t really care. But I have to do something to take care of you guys. All I want is to not worry.”

Her face sets in grim lines—furrowed forehead, flattened lips.

“I wish I was fun, too,” I tell her. “I wish that I could just forget myself and have fun with Blake. But I can’t, and it’s your fault. You take care of everyone but yourself, and I’m the one who has to clean up your mess.”

My mom looks straight ahead. “I didn’t know you felt that way. How was I supposed to know? You never said anything like this before.”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “You know what everyone else needs. It’s just your own daughter you never pay attention to.”

She sighs. “I never asked you to do any of those things. I thought you wanted to help.”

I bite back tears. I do. I did. But I also sometimes wish that I was allowed to need her instead. I wish that it was just help, that I didn’t resent her as much as I loved her. I wish I could let myself relax instead of worrying, that I could stop being the responsible one. But I’m the only one who is responsible. I can’t stop. We can’t trade places, her and me, because everything would fall apart. But I’m not going to get my wish. And worst of all, more money hasn’t made it hurt less. I still worry.

“Never mind, Ma,” I say, my throat raspy. “Forget I said anything.”

But she just sits straight in her seat. “I can’t forget,” she says stiffly. “I don’t forget. You should know this about me already.”

15.

TINA

I don’t think the rest of the weekend could get any worse, but it does. When I ask Mabel how much a saxophone of her own—as compared to the dented one she has on loan from the school—would cost, my mother interrupts me.

“That’s not your worry,” she says. “It’s my worry.”