The Angry Typist

For as long as I can remember, I knew that I would not grow old in Hong Kong. For as long as I can remember I knew that I would not even graduate from primary school in Hong Kong. The plan was always to vacate the tropical little island before it fell back into the hands of Mainland. My parents, having narrowly survived the clutches of Communism, were hell-bent to ensure that Gēgē and I would know nothing but the freedom to choose. The longevity of British rule over the colony would at last come to an end. And that is precisely when we were bowing out.

Bàba had found his calling as a moderately successful regional author, complete with his own set of groupies. He was also an adjunct professor at the local university teaching Chinese literature. Since he had an established career with steady income, it was decided that Māmā, Gēgē, and I would immigrate to the United States first, then once Māmā secures employment, Bàba would follow. It was indeed a reasonable and practical plan. One that should have been carried out with little fanfare but I suppose that’s why there’s the American idiom of best-laid plans going astray.

The initial few months of separation quickly turned into a year, then another. It was never really clear why Bàba chose to remain in Hong Kong without us but after two and a half years he finally was on his way to rejoin the family unit. He was catching the first plane out of Hong Kong in late February into JFK. Early in Hong Kong meant arriving very late into the cold winter evening in New York. Since it was a school night, Māmā had the excuse notes ready for us to miss school the following day. At the airport, we were packed onto a sloped platform ramp like sardines along with other families waiting for their loved ones. It was loud, it smelled of sweat, and cigarettes. Everyone was jockeying for a better position on the stupid ramp. On one side we were overlooking the masses on the lower part of the hairpin ramp that unfolded to the lower lobby. And on the other, a solid faux-brick wall. The wall inhibited the view to the passenger deplane area unless one was fortunate enough to be near the very top of the ramp. The deplane area was a large open space. There was an archway with a stream of pot lights streaming down which gave a celebrity-getting-out-of-the-limo-at-a-red-carpet event sort of feel. Because I was so little, I managed to shimmy my way up far enough on the wall that I managed to catch glimpses standing on the handrail on my tippy toes. 

One herd of passengers after another came walking through the archway but to my dismay, the massive amount of people waiting didn’t seem to decrease in correlation. My calves were starting to cramp, my hands were starting to slip, and I was about to climb down to endure the lovely view of people’s backsides when Māmā called out announcing that Bàba’s plane had just landed. With a renewed sense of purpose, I clung on to the top of the wall and stole glimpses of the passengers coming through. I was filled with such angst and excitement, but I was also filled with apprehension. 

Two and a half years for a child might as well be an eternity, as I was starting to forget Bàba. His eyes, the slightly crooked nose, and the strong square jaw, were all fading from my mind like the photograph left out in the sun too long. His voice was no longer a familiar sound that resonated comfort. My grasp of life with him was falling through my fingers like cupping water. Only a smattering of moments remained resolute – like the time he tried to serenade the family with his version of the Chinese opera, complete with melodramatic arm gestures. I distinctly remember laughing so hard that I peed a little. I do not recall laughing with such velocity in the U.S. without him. I do not recall much laughter living in the U.S. without a father.

The hours of waiting seemed like days. The swarm of exiting passengers walking through the archway seemed to have come to a trickle and yet I still did not see any sign of the striking man strolling through. My excitement began to waiver and in its place a gnawing feeling in my stomach began to emerge. I could not shake the sudden onrush of unexplained dread. The archway all but emptied and an airport person led us onto the landing. I scrutinized the landing in grave detail. Everything from the blinding pot lights to the deep red carpet with mystery dark spots. I scoured the left to the right, and still did not see any signs of Bàba. I began to internalize a laundry list of rational explanations. 

Perhaps he had missed the plane. 

Perhaps Māmā had the wrong date. 

Perhaps we were waiting at the wrong terminal and Bàba had landed hours ago, took a taxi, and was waiting for us at home. 

All these sound explanations busied my mind as I continued to visually skim the landing. 

To my left were boarding agents moving with urgency and to my right a frail man slumped in a wheelchair. To my left were suitcases being brought over to Māmā and to my right a frail man slumped in a wheelchair. To my left airport security chatted away on their walkies talkies and to my right a frail man slumped in a wheelchair.  A sudden compulsion forced me to examine the frail man slumped in a wheelchair. My eyes locked on but I did not recognize him. He wore a dark colored wool blazer over a mock turtleneck sweater. The frail man sat unusually still. His right foot had slipped off the footplate and an attendant came by, gently lifted it and placed it back on. The mere sight of the frail man in a wheelchair petrified me. I had never seen an adult so ill or so helpless. My head started to buzz with a lightness, as if I stood up much too quickly. My eyes struggled to stay in focus. My heart raged against my breastbone as it was knocking on the door screaming to be let out. A cold sweat broke over me as I openly gawked at him and came to the realization that the man slumped in a wheelchair was Bàba. The thumping of my heart grew louder, my diaphragm seemed to have seized up entirely causing me to double over, and I could not suck in enough air to satisfy my lungs. I was so devastated that my mind had thought it was best to go completely numb, as if someone hit the pause button on the remote. My instinct was to cry, but I could not. I wanted to call out to him but my brain failed to engage my vocal chords. I wanted to run over to him but my legs refused to move. I was desperately trying to process how the vibrant and brilliant Bàba I left in Hong Kong could possibly be this frail, infirm, vulnerable slumped man in a wheelchair.

The shock of the scene had taken its toll on my ten year old self as I cannot recall any details of how we arrived in the emergency room. I do not remember walking out of the airport terminal and getting into a vehicle. I have absolutely no memory of whether we rode in the ambulance or traveled by private car. Nor do I possess the faintest of memory walking through the waiting area into the emergency room. What I do remember was one minute I was looking around on the platform and the next was being subjected to the fluorescent lights in the ER. 

Bàba laid on the gurney that seemed almost too narrow for his bulky frame. He was alert but he did not speak. His right side seemed to have fallen asleep and he was only able to reposition himself reaching over with his left hand pulling on the guardrails. The madness of the ER faded and for a moment it was just me and Bàba, playing peek-a-boo like when I was little. I would crouch down onto the floor out of his range of vision then bounce up with a “Boo!”  Bàba leveraged himself on one arm against the guardrail quite well. His eyes remained bright, his face handsome, and his smile filled me with a familiar warmth and happiness. But yet, no words passed his lips. I wanted to hug him tight.  I wanted to tell him how difficult life had been without him, how much I missed him, and how much I loved him. I managed to accomplish none of those things. It was so disheartening to see the symbol of strength, protection, and immortality to be whittled down to such formidable reality. It was more than I could manage to process and that inability reduced me to interact with him the only way I knew how, through a child’s game. If I had known that was the last time I would see him alive, I would have battled through and did all those things. But I did not know, I was not able to conquer my fear, and I had missed my one and only opportunity. 

Four months had passed and the sky was boasting with its crisp blue hues, serving as the perfect backdrop to the occasional puffs of  marshmallow like clouds. The fresh spring air had departed days prior and the vindictive New York summer heat has yet found its stride.        

The small brownstone was hidden from prying eyes by an enormous pine tree and outlined with bushes. Māmā had always sung the greenery’s praises and predicted that Bàba would love it. The red brick steps leading to the house had begun to chip, with rogue bricks occasionally wiggling free causing me to skin my knee. All the homes in the neighborhood had storm doors to offer some buffer to the brutal northeast winters.  The really fancy neighbors matched their front doors with their storm doors. Ours did not because we were not one bit fancy. The house was always peppered with fragrances of food intermingled with incense. Today the dominant scent was a rich, milky wood fragrance with just a slightest hint of sweetness from the sandalwood incense burning throughout the night. The house was filled with a heaviness of unspoken sadness that I felt but could not quite elaborate upon.

I struggled pulling the zipper on my ivory fit and flare chiffon layered dress. My long hair almost always gets ensnared in the protruding metal teeth of the back zipper. In frustration, I dropped the F bomb, “Fucking zipper!” Māmā ignored my outburst and beckoned me to the master bedroom.  I automatically kneeled in front of the dark chestnut rocking chair crammed into the corner waiting for Māmā to fix my hair. 

She was adorned in crisp white cotton linen, from head to toe.  Her long ink-black hair pulled tightly into a low bun. Somehow the look aged her. She looked worn, lost, and empty. Māmā ran the hard plastic comb against my scalp, raking out the knots from days of neglect.  The motion of combing and separating seemed to ease her anxiousness and she seemed quite lost in her thoughts. Perhaps she was contemplating the day’s events; perhaps she was overwhelmed with the responsibility of raising two children on an accountant clerk’s salary; or perhaps she simply just welcomed the familiarity of the comb’s stroking through the hair as it has done hundreds and thousands of times before, and freely gave-in to the temporary simplicity of the activity.

My eyes wandered to the black & white photographs hanging against the baby blue walls. Each photo captured a moment in time, encasing it forever within the black wood frames.  My eyes are always drawn to the photos of Māmā when she was younger, single, and carefree.  There was one photo that she was particularly fond of.  Her trim figure was shaded under a parasol. She had dark cat eyed sunglasses on and the slight breeze from the beach swayed her hair just so.  “We were in Macau,” she said softly. “That was a good day at the beach. Your father hated the sand,” she finished with a half laugh. 

She ran the edge of the comb from my hairline to the nape of my neck, parting my hair into two equal parts. One hand held the right parted hair while the other shepherded more hair to make a pigtail. It was secured first with a rubber band then with ivory ribbon tied into a bow. She did the same to the other side. With one last tug on the ribbon we solemnly mustered into the foyer.

The doorbell rang prompting Māmā, Gēgē, and I to file into the black Lincoln Continental waiting outside. I regretted not wearing panty hose the second I tried to readjust on the leather seats. Everytime I tried to get comfortable, a farting noise would emit from my bare legs grazing against the leather and it was very difficult for a 10 year-old to suppress a giggle at farting noises of any kind. So finally, I relented and just sat awkwardly still. 

Traffic, as expected, was terrible as it always is in the hustle and bustle of the big city, but perhaps especially so during rush hour. The traffic lights refused to cooperate and the 30-minute trip is now nearing an hour. The longer we were trapped in the car, the worse Gēgē’s Tourettes seemed to escalate in correlation. I noticed the driver’s growing nervousness, checking the rearview mirror with increased regularity. Gēgē’s involuntary movements became grander in scale and increased in frequency and I wanted to explain that his spastic twitches and arm waving were harmless. I wanted to explain that it was probably just due to the stress of the day. But I could not muster enough energy to reassure the driver while running on empty myself. 

Stepping out of the car, a tall, thin framed man dressed in a three-piece tailored suit immediately greeted Māmā. He was smiling just enough to exude warmth but not so much to be disrespectful. “I am so sorry for your lost Mrs. Wuźebha,” he said gently cupping her hand. Those words seemed to have unleashed pent up sobs which Māmā could no longer restrain. Right on the sidewalk, she began to sob uncontrollably, unapologetically, unembarrassed to show the world her raw, unfiltered pain. The gentleman gently patted her hand repeatedly, no doubt regretting that he had expressed his sympathy before we were inside. The onlookers glared at the commotion and the inconvenience of having to walk around the small gaggle of Chinese people blocking the sidewalk. It was finally my aunt who muscled Māmā passed the useless gentlemen inside of the funeral parlor, away from uncompassionate eyes.

The entry was covered in wall-to-wall maroon color, low pile carpet. The walls were decorated in a gaudy gold foil wallpaper with large flowery patterns. Although there were wall mounted lights every few steps, the hallway still seemed dimly lit. There was an odd mix of chemicals and fresh flowers in the air. As we were led into the visitation room, the flowers thankfully were triumphant over the chemicals. The room was lined with rows of metal foldable chairs and a moat of large flower arrangement surrounded the open casket set in the caddy corner. 

My eyes failed to look beyond the flowers. To Māmā’s severe disappointment, I refused to sit in the front row, 10 feet or so away from Bàba, propped up in a box. “He is your father, there is nothing to be afraid of,” she lectured. “Show some respect!” Māmā scolded in disgust. My lips parted slightly as if I was about to say something significant. Something like, how I had been having nightmares every night since Bàba’s passing. Something like, how cold sweat drenched my sheets because I was overcome with fear that his ghost followed us home. Something like how I slept with my Carebear desk light on and how paralyzed with fear I was of the dark. But all that made it past my lips was, “búyào xièxie” (no, thank you) and headed straight back to the very last seat in the very last row. I sat quietly, staring blankly at my dangling feet, watching the spot of light reflected in my white patent Mary Janes, swinging to and fro.

On the last day of the wake, I had developed a callousness to death. I had grown accustomed to Bàba propped up in a box. My walls were efficiently built and I mustered enough courage to stand within an arm’s length of the open casket. At first, I could only look at Bàba’s arm. He was laid to rest in one of his new tailored suits – it was a classic black pinstripe. It hugged his arm in all the right places and was the perfect length ending right past his wrist. He had a crisp white shirt on and a tie. My eyes started with Bàba’s fingertips and followed one of the pinstripes to his elbow then to his shoulders. My breath was labored, as if I was trying to grab air through a wet towel. I had to battle strenuously for my eyes to stay in focus. I forced my eyes to continue to follow the pinstripes to the lapel until I reached the collar of the shirt. Bàba’s face was vacant of life. His eyes were shut peacefully as if he was sleeping. A small pleasant smile alluded me to think that perhaps he was just sleeping. I searched for the rise and fall of his chest, but then I realized that it was just a stupid childish hope. For a microsecond, curiosity overpowered my fears and I poked his arm with my index finger ever so lightly, as if I would wake him. His arm felt like it was set in cement with little resemblance that it was ever living flesh. There was a coolness to the fabric which I did not expect. I studied the hollow husk of Bàba propped up in a box and for the first time, understood that I would never see him smile again nor would I hear his voice call my name. 

Death was a cruelty which left all in its wake an eternal brokenness about them. My heart could not bear the burden, so it elected to shut down completely. I was unable to reconcile that life was going to move forward without Bàba in it. I have grown envious of those who had the good fortune of being totally ignorant of death and its merciless aftermath until well into their adulthood, I was not one of the fortunate ones.