In spite of the early morning heat, the taxi driver insisted on keeping the AC turned off. My feet, puffy and pink after the extended pressure change of the 14-hour plane ride, throbbed against the straps of my sandals. Now, nearly ten years after her last visit to Hong Kong, my mother found herself called back. I didn’t understand why I had been forced to come with her this time. But I guess she didn’t want to leave me home alone for an entire week, even if I was sixteen. I wanted my mother to ask the driver about adjusting the temperature, but she appeared unphased by the humidity. My entire body felt swollen.

“I love this tropical climate,” she said.

The lush green mountains stirred up an indistinct feeling of familiarity as we drove along the coast. From Lantau Island, we crossed the bay to Second Uncle’s new apartment. He had recently moved the family to the New Territories, away from the cramped downtown and the rising rents in Central. To me, it all looked the same—the ubiquitous high-rises, identical Goliath sentinels keeping watch along the water’s edge. I could hardly tell one set of building complexes apart from the others.

The cab pulled up to Block B, where a man stood smoking a cigarette in front of the 7-Eleven. He wore thin, silver eyeglass frames, dark slacks, and a white button-up, his sleeveless undershirt just visible beneath the fabric, hugging his lean figure. His face was tan but not too weathered.

Wah! So handsome! My mother embraced her older brother as she stepped out of the car. But you’ve really lost weight!

Swimming! I swim every day! Second Uncle patted his non-existent belly. Who is this pretty girl?

He turned to me, eyes twinkling. He looked exactly as I remembered.

“Do you understand what Uncle said?” my mother asked.

“I said, ‘YOU ARE A VERY PRETTY GIRL!’” Second Uncle repeated in English, making sure to enunciate each word. “More and more like your mother!”

I nodded and smiled.

Does she understand Cantonese?

Why don’t you ask her yourself?

“Neih sikmhsik gong gongdongwa a?”

“Siusiu,” I answered.

“Siusiu!” Second Uncle chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder. It didn’t seem to matter that we hadn’t seen in each other in almost ten years. His grip felt firm, unshakable.

No one had asked me if I had wanted to come the last time my mother went to Hong Kong for my grandmother’s funeral. I was in the second grade. My mother told me later it was because she didn’t want me missing school.

Second Uncle ushered us into the building’s air-conditioned lobby and helped us with the bags. A line formed for two out of the three working elevators.

“There is always one out of order,” Second Uncle explained, shaking his head.

When it was our turn, he dragged the suitcases into the car. More people piled in until the constricted confines could fit no more. We rode the elevator up to the sixteenthfloor. At the end of the dim hallway, Second Uncle pulled back a metal gate and pushed open the front door. 

A slim woman with cropped hair greeted us. My mother spoke excitedly.

Long time no see! You’re so skinny!

Auntie dismissed the compliments in her typically humble manner and handed us slippers. While my mother and I removed our shoes by the door, I heard a sigh of relief escape her. I noticed the callouses on her feet. I wondered if that’s what mine would look like when I got older, or if their roughness was specific to overuse, to whatever wearisome journey she had tread.

The flat consisted of a narrow kitchen, a small living room that also doubled as the dining room, three bedrooms, and one bathroom. Of Second Uncle and Auntie’s three sons, only the youngest had yet to move out. Shaking her head, Auntie pointed to the nearest bedroom, its door currently shut, indicating that he was still asleep. My mother gestured to me.

She’s the same.

The two mothers laughed. Auntie showed us to the only bedroom with a full-sized bed. My mother protested. 

But where will you sleep?

Me? I sleep in here.

Auntie pointed to a twin bed in the third room.

And him?

Tonight, I return to Shenzhen. I have work in the morning.

A back and forth ensued between my mother and Second Uncle about not wanting to be an inconvenience and being no inconvenience at all. It took several minutes of persuading before my mother finally relented and allowed our luggage to be placed in the largest bedroom. There was further talk about going to yum cha. My stomach had been growling since the plane ride. Again, it was only after Second Uncle and Auntie were able to assure my mother that it was no trouble that the four of us headed out the front door and rode the elevator back down to the lobby.

We walked outside, past the 7-Eleven, and re-entered the building on the ground floor through a set of glass doors that led to a large dim sum restaurant. Inside, a host wearing a maroon vest and bowtie waved us forward. 

How many seats?

Four seats.

Four seats!

He yelled the number of our party to a server, who hustled us over to a large circular table. Not even occupying half of the table intended for ten, the four of us sat huddled together in a semicircle. The lunchtime crowd had yet to trickle in. I looked around at the handful of other morning patrons: pairs of elderly women chatting loudly, old men reading the newspaper.

Almost instantaneously, two teapots, one filled with bo-lay tea and the other with hot water, appeared on the Lazy Susan in front of us. Auntie began the process of collecting everyone’s chopsticks, spoons, teacups, and rice bowls from the table setting. She filled one bowl with hot water, using it as a washbasin to rinse the rest of the utensils and dinnerware. One by one, she handed back the cleaned items while Second Uncle poured tea for everyone. My mother smacked her mouth in satisfaction as she took a sip. I continued to blow on my cup, which was still too hot for me.

A woman pushed a food cart in front of our table. She lifted the lids from the round containers to reveal a variety of steaming bites—har gao, siu mai, lo mai gai, fung zao. My mouth watered. Though I had eaten these dishes countless times back home, I thought the food always tasted better—fresher, more flavorful—in Hong Kong.

After the woman stamped our ticket and rolled away, a second woman took her place, offering different items from her cart. Auntie and Second Uncle selected a few more, including taro cake and cha siu bao. The waiter returned with a plate of Chinese broccoli, pan-fried noodles, and bowl of congee, which he ladled out into smaller bowls. Between the four of us, we had more than enough to eat, considering that my mother and Auntie merely pecked at their food, leaving the rest for Second Uncle and me to finish. My appetite did not go unnoticed by my relatives, who remarked that American girls looked more “muscular” (a kind euphemism) than Chinese girls. I smiled meekly between mouthfuls of noodles, the thick sauce oozing from the corners of my lips.

When no one could eat anymore, Second Uncle flagged down their waiter for the check. 

“Mhgoi, mai dan!”

As soon as the bill landed on the table, my mother snatched it out of Second Uncle’s hands, just as he was reaching for it himself. I listened to them argue loudly, the Cantonese effortlessly rolling off her tongue. My mother succeeded in pushing his arms away and purposefully walked off with the cash in her hand to settle up at the front of the restaurant. When she returned, Second Uncle made a few more attempts to offer money, but my mother would not hear of it, though she was smiling. She seemed more relaxed, more like herself. I wished I saw this side of her more often.

Back in the apartment, my mother went to lie down, the jet lag having caught up with her, while Auntie stepped out to run errands. Second Uncle sat on the couch smoking cigarettes and watching TV. I sat at the small dining table with a book open.

“Do you want to see something?” he asked.

Walking over to the cabinet, he pulled out a stack of photo albums. He turned to a photograph clearly taken in the eighties. Standing next to her brother, my mother sported a denim jacket, big hair, and a coy Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes were bright. She looked like a model. Second Uncle flipped to another page, this time stopping at an old black and white snapshot of all five siblings. I could pick out my mother instantly: she stood in the middle, holding her baby brother. The tank top and shorts she wore showed off a slender and boyish figure on the verge of puberty. Long, wavy locks flowed over her bare shoulders. I had no trouble believing that my mother had indeed been the prettiest girl in the village.

“That was taken in front of our old house,” he said, as he walked back to the couch.

I flipped through page after page, each photograph capturing a different era, a different Iris budding and blooming at various stages of youth. I wondered about the hopes and dreams of the girl I saw. She would eventually leave her village, go to college, and find her way to America. She had enjoyed the attentions of a wealthy, older man. And now, as a single mother raising a teenage daughter, she was alone again, or at least as alone as she allowed herself to be. Was she disappointed to see the relationship come to an end? Or did she look upon her newfound situation, uncertain as it was, as merely the next phase in a hard-fought life, a life of learning to make the best of things? I gazed into the girl’s eyes, finding myself torn between pity and admiration.

A door to the bedroom creaked open, followed by the sound of bare feet slapping against the parquet floors. I looked up in time to see the bathroom door slide shut. A few minutes passed. When I looked up again, a lanky form clad in boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt stepped into view. His dark hair stuck out every which way. As quickly as he had emerged, he disappeared again into his bedroom. He reappeared, fully dressed this time. 

“My youngest son,” Second Uncle said, introducing him without moving from the couch. “Your cousin.”

In passing, the boy waved to his father while stepping into his sandals and out the front door. The dull noise of the television gave way to Second Uncle’s bear-like snores. I pushed away the stack of photo albums on the table and resumed my reading.

◆

Early the next morning, my mother hailed a cab into the city to meet with her youngest brother, Small Uncle. I thought we were supposed to go shopping together. She handed me some cash before she left. 

In the apartment, I struggled by myself to communicate with Auntie. Between my all but forgotten Cantonese and Auntie’s limited English, a mix of pantomime and elementary-level vocabulary got us through breakfast. Auntie toasted white bread and handed me a glass of orange juice, which tasted different from home, sweeter.

After I finished eating, Auntie rapped on the closed bedroom door. It took some convincing before my cousin, still half-asleep, finally stumbled out.

“My mom says she needs to go out, so I will show you around,” he said in his formal English. “Is there anything you want to do?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, I will think about it. Please give me ten minutes.”

Already dressed, I sat on the couch and waited for my cousin to finish getting ready. Auntie barked several more instructions at her son before shutting the front door behind her. He scurried between the bedroom and bathroom, spending most of his energy shaping his hair into intentionally haphazard spikes that were more exaggerated than how the Asian guys at school normally styled them. He wore a black graphic tee, jeans, and silver chain around his neck, modeling himself after the fashion trends in Japan, he explained to me.

Exiting the apartment building, he led the way through the same glass doors I remembered from the day before. We popped out on the other side, onto the street, where we waited as a minibus pulled up to the curb.

“Do you have any money?”

I opened my wallet, showing him the large notes my mother had given me. He put up his hand.

“It’s all right,” he said.

We boarded the minibus. He dug into his pockets for loose change, plunking the coins into the slot. As the bus lurched forward, I fell into a seat by the window. He took the seat in front of me.

“I don’t know what to call you,” I said. 

We both laughed, realizing neither of us knew each other’s Chinese names. Now that we were teenagers, it seemed silly to refer to him by his family nickname, which translated roughly as Baby. He said his English name was Randy.

The bus stopped. More passengers got on. A mother with a boy in tow boarded the bus and sat across the aisle. The boy’s feet dangled as he clutched a tiny bottle of yogurt drink that I remembered from my own childhood. But it didn’t seem like something my mom would buy. Maybe my aunt had offered it to me. I tried to recall those summers in Hong Kong with my cousins, running around the different playgrounds spread across the public housing complex where Second Uncle’s family used to live. Exhausted and sweaty, we’d scurry back to the apartment, desperate for the cool rush of the AC, giddy about how good it felt.

Randy signaled that we would be getting off at the next stop. As the vehicle stuttered to a halt, I followed him off the bus. Alongside the other passengers who had also disembarked, I found myself swept up in the current of people climbing the steps of the MTR station. At the ticketing booth, Randy helped me buy a single ticket to Central. Since the station was at the end of the line, a train stood ready and waiting for us as we descended the escalators onto the platform. We boarded the subway car and found a pair of empty seats. The rest rapidly filled up around us.

In three languages—Cantonese, Mandarin, and British-accented English—an automated woman’s voice announced the closing doors, the train’s departure, and the next stop. Randy pointed to the map above the doorway, tracing in the air the roundabout route on the red line. We had a long ride ahead of us. Even after he finished explaining, I continued studying the names and characters I should have recognized but couldn’t. Bits and pieces of conversation floated past my ears, the sounds incomprehensible yet oddly soothing. As I stared out the window, fleeting glimpses of strange, tall buildings elicited an indescribable yearning. A frantic hunger seized me, like I would never be able to take in enough.

With a nudge, Randy offered an earbud, which he unwound from his headphone cord attached to a portable MP3 player. He asked if I recognized any of the songs. I shook my head. He said they were by French DJs. We listened to the sequence of lyric-less beats for the remainder of the ride.

When at last the train pulled into the terminus, I once again felt lost in the movement of bodies. Passengers flowed out the subway car doors, funneled into corridors, up escalators and stairways. I looked for my cousin, trying my best to keep up. As soon as we stepped outside, the moisture in the air condensed around my skin. We didn’t remain out in the open for long. After crossing a pedestrian bridge, we were thrust back into the chilled refuge of a pristine shopping center, far nicer than any mall I had ever been to in California. High-end brands lined the perimeter. After one pass around, we agreed to go somewhere else.

Back on the street, Randy led us away from the high-rises toward the waterfront. He seemed to know all the quickest routes and which shortcuts to take to avoid the crowds. At the ferry terminal, we hopped on the next boat departing for Kowloon. As the ferry cruised into Victoria Harbor, we walked along the deck and paused to admire Hong Kong’s signature view: mighty skyscrapers, contending with mountain peaks, jutted into an infinite, blue sky. My mother frequently complained that the shorelines, now littered with plastic bottles and other washed up debris, had been white sand beaches, the fine grains once soft under her feet. She remembered how the polluted, ship-bearing waters—the bay she and her brothers grew up swimming in—previously glowed aquamarine. That was a Hong Kong I would never know.

On the deck below, a couple wearing matching Mickey Mouse T-shirts leaned against the railing. As they pressed their heads toward each other, the man held a disposable camera outstretched in one hand and snapped what would probably turn out to be an off-kilter photograph they would only see once it was developed. After they finished posing together, the woman covered her mouth to giggle. Randy inquired if I had a boyfriend, citing popular movies as his source on American teenagers.

“Like Cruel Intentions,” he said.

I shook my head and turned the question on him.

“I think I will wait until I go to university to find a girlfriend,” he answered, as if it were only a matter of choice. But even in Hong Kong, as modern as it was, I knew there was still a conservative attitude toward dating.
As the ferry docked, passengers spilled out onto the promenade. Walking alongside my cousin, I discovered how easily I blended in. Teenagers packed the sidewalks in groups separated by gender. Small, aging women fanned themselves on benches lining the walkway. We stopped by a shopfront selling shaved ice. Randy ordered a large mango slushy served with coconut milk and tapioca, which we passed back and forth.
We joined the throngs milling about Tsim Sha Tsui, where retailers piled on top of restaurants on top of vendors. The brilliance of the dusk sun eventually gave way to the illumination of neon signs. Randy ferreted out more street food—fried fish balls, egg custard bites, and skewers of octopus—as if daring my American palate to out itself. I ate whatever was handed to me, whether or not I recognized what it was.

When we had stuffed ourselves full, Randy located the correct bus line, which he said we could ride directly back to Tsuen Wan. I envied his swagger, the way he navigated the streets with ease. My entire life, I had been led to believe that I had grown up someplace special. That being American was desirable. I was lucky, my mother had said. But was I really so superior? Standing beside my cousin, I felt less sure. Maybe his haircut was silly, a tad on the FOB side, as classmates back home would have been quick to point out. But in less tangible ways, I wondered if he wasn’t better off, more deeply connected to the people surrounding him, and therefore more secure about his sense of belonging in the world. For me, Hong Kong was like an idea—a place that almost felt like home.

We boarded a double-decker bus. I climbed up the steep staircase to the top and plopped myself in the front row, where the wraparound windows transformed the city into a panoramic movie screen. As the bus careened through the streets, I became transfixed by the pageantry of lights. 

When war broke out in China, my grandparents had been forced to flee Hunan. Gong Gong came from a highly respected family. My mother told me he had served under Chiang Kai-shek. My grandfather’s political connection was regarded with pride in the Tam household, though history would remember the military leader as a brutal dictator. Meanwhile, Po Po, as I was supposed to have called my mother’s mother, had studied banking—a rare accomplishment for a woman in those days and a sign of a good education. (I always knew her as Nai Nai, the honorific my cousins used, no matter many times they tried to correct me.) My grandparents wouldn’t be able to carry their wealth with them as they ran, and so they buried their gold in hopes of recovering it one day when they could safely return home. They bid goodbye to their families, believing they would be reunited in the future. They died without ever setting foot in China again.

This was the story I had been able to piece together from fragments my mother had let slip over the years. There were questions I didn’t know yet how to ask. I thought about what I would say to her once we got back to the apartment. A twinge of sadness flared up inside me like an old injury.
“Why don’t we visit like we used to anymore?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “The Tams are weird.”

I looked at him. He tried to explain.

“They act very funny. Ever since my grandmother—I mean, our grandmother—died, something has not been quite right. I think our parents fought about money. Your mother wanted Small Uncle to have it. But her sister, our aunt, did not think that was fair. She thought everyone should have an equal share. I think my father agreed with her. And well, I guess they stopped talking to each other.”

I let the information sink in. My mother had never told me anything about a falling out. Randy scrunched up his forehead.

“How is your father doing?”

It was the first time that anyone had asked about him. It wasn’t unusual for my mother to visit Hong Kong without my father. But even if she didn’t talk about marital problems in front of them, our relatives must have known that my parents had separated. Did they also know about his other family?

“I think it must be a very Chinese thing to do, to not acknowledge problems,” Randy said.

Lights streaked past. My eyes glazed over as the bus merged onto the highway.

“Maybe,” I said.

◆

My mother was not at the apartment when we came back. While Randy played computer games in his bedroom, I stayed up with Auntie watching the Cantonese version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? When the program ended, I grew worried. Auntie tried reaching Small Uncle on his mobile, but the call went straight to voicemail. Even here, on the other side of the world, my mother’s tendency to disappear into the night surfaced.

Auntie sat in bed, keeping me company while I attempted to fall asleep. In the darkened room, I grew increasingly agitated. I wrestled with the fact that my mother had kept us apart. And out of what—pride? Over money? More now than ever, couldn’t my mother see how much I needed our family?

Next to me, Auntie dozed. I stared up at the ceiling, creating constellations out of the tiny cracks and bumps in the plaster. 

I saw all too clearly my mother’s weakness, the way she depended on men, and how they took advantage her trust. I didn’t want to repeat her mistakes. When it came to relationships, my terms would be absolute. This stubbornness, like a protective shell, I wore around my heart. 

I fell asleep listening for the sound of footsteps.

◆

The next morning, pregnant clouds over the bay portended rain. Sitting at the table, still in my pajamas, I heard the front door unlock. On the table, the photo album lay open next to a drained glass of orange juice, a pulpy residue smearing the lip. My mother drifted in, kicking off her shoes.

“Where have you been?” 

“I told you, didn’t I?” My mother yawned. “I went with my brother to see our family’s old house before they demolish it.”

“No, you didn’t tell me,” I said, my irritation growing. “Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want you to. I didn’t think you’d be interested. Besides, it’s so far. We had to take a ferry, then a bus…”

“Why didn’t you call?”

The purse slipped from my mother’s shoulder.

“We got back so late. I thought you might have gone to bed already. I didn’t want to bother you. It was just easier for me to spend the night at Sai Uncle’s place.”

My mother moved toward the bedroom, but I wasn’t ready to let her off the hook.

“Auntie tried calling.”

“Oh, I think his cell phone must have died…”

All these excuses appeared as just that—an evasion. I was tired of all these unanswered questions. I was tired of my mother making all these decisions. But I never got a choice. Just like I didn’t get a say in whether or not I went to my grandmother’s funeral, or why we stopped seeing our relatives, my family. I was never asked about what had happened between my mother and father. It was just assumed that I would go along with it. Maybe we would have been better off if he had stayed. Maybe my parents could have worked it out. Maybe my mother should have tried harder. 

All of it, it wasn’t fair, I wanted to cry. The black and white photo of my mother as an adolescent came to mind. I tried picturing what the house looked like behind where she and her siblings stood, but I could see only leafy green trees. Now I would never know. It wasn’t fair.

“Why did you leave?” I asked instead.

My mother looked worn out. “I already told you where I went yesterday.” 

“No. I mean, why did you leave us—me and Daddy?” I felt my throat catch. “Why did you leave me behind?”

My mother faltered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

But that wasn’t good enough. For months, I had been waiting for an explanation. I needed something more. Now, I sought to wound.

 “So you just decided to abandon your only daughter?” I could hear my voice bouncing off the walls of the tiny apartment. “What kind of mother does that?”

I watched as the words landed. I had driven in the stake, and there was no pulling it back out. Eyes red and ringed with remorse, my mother looked back at me.

“There’s no need to be cruel, Sane.”

With that, my mother walked out of the room. A mere ten feet away, she sank onto the bed, succumbing to exhaustion. I could hear her soft sobs. I remained sitting on the stiff chair with its plastic seat cover. Auntie emerged from the kitchen and put her arms around me. I let myself be enveloped by my aunt’s bony bosom. Shoulders heaving, I didn’t bother to wipe the tears and flecks of mucus that fell into my lap.

Your mother loves you, Auntie said.

Unable to speak, I could only manage a nod in response. I wanted to say that I never doubted my mother, even as I had accused her of the worst. But I didn’t have the vocabulary.

“Why does she have to be like this?” I croaked between hiccups, gasping for breath. I wasn’t sure if my aunt understood.

She is who she is. You forgive her.

But I could not relinquish the hurt that was still buried so deep and go to my mother and utter the words that might have ended it all: I’m sorry. They were the same words I had longed to hear my mother say. If only she could have admitted to some wrongdoing, said something consoling, words like: I didn’t want to leave you.

I tried to understand. I wanted to believe that my mother had her reasons, her own demons that she was battling. I had trusted my mother to be there. Perhaps that was why it had stung so much, those times that she wasn’t physically present. But emotionally absent? No, I knew it was wrong to suggest that.

The truth about my mother’s time on her own during those lost months—whether she had driven aimlessly up and down the Californian coast, or that she had taken comfort in the arms of another man—I didn’t need her to tell me. Perhaps it was a form of denial. Or maybe because I already knew. Either way, it was the closest I could come to forgiveness, as close as I could handle for now. What should have mattered was that my mother eventually had come home.

The rain began to fall outside. Sequestered in different rooms, we sat unmoved.