Bitter Melon Read Free

says. “But even the strong will grow weak and sick and die. I know you think I will live forever. That’s how I felt before Popo died. But now I see the truth, that life is fragile, short, and brutal.
    “We must help each other to survive. You must get intoBerkeley and get straight As. That way, you can get into medical school and become a doctor. You will make lots of money and buy us a nice house so I can quit my job and tell your father’s family to go to hell. With your medical skills, you can even cure the illness I have now. You can only accomplish this if you are focused. No distractions. No sports or other after-school activities. No socializing or running around with boys.”
    As she talks, she squeezes harder, her nails digging deeper into my skin. “This is our pact,” Mom says. “You understand?”
    I nod.
    “Answer me!”
    “Yes,” I say, my voice barely a squeak.
    “Yes who?”
    “Yes, Mommy.”
    Finally, she lets go of me. She leaves four white ovals on each arm where her fingertips were. Gradually, they fade, leaving behind four crescent indentations from her fingernails.
    “No one can love you like your mother,” Mom says. “Just remember that.” Then she holds one of the boxes to my face. “I know you won’t fail me. And when I die, all this will be yours!”
    The sparkle of the jewels, like the sound of Mom’s voice, is dizzying. I look around at all the safe-deposit boxes lining the walls like the ash containers in Chinese cemeteries. What treasures from the past lie hidden in all those little boxes? What hopes and dreams for the future?
    As we exit the bank, I open the door for Mom. The harsh wind makes it heavy, almost impossible to open. The wind cutsright through my jacket and turns my cheeks and fingertips to ice. Silver rays of light peek out from behind the clouds as the sun melts the thick layer of white-gray overcast that blankets the city most days of the year. When the East Bay finally cools down, leaving a little summer for us, it will be late September or October. We’ll have our long-awaited Indian summer, a week of azure blue sky and golden sunshine, temperatures in the eighties or above. But we’ll be back in school by then, buried under books and deadlines, no time to see the blueness of the sky or feel the warm rays bake our cold skin. And by the time school is over and we run out to the beach in shorts, we’ll be met with the bitter fog, a big white dragon pulled in from the ocean by the ninety-degree heat of the inland cities of Oakland, Concord, and Walnut Creek.
    “Could you spare some change, ma’am?”
    I am not prepared for this voice beside me. It is almost inaudible, easily brushed off as imagined. It comes from a homeless man sitting on the ground against a building, bundled in a knit mustard-colored hat and a green ski jacket. His curly hair looks knotted and matted. There is dirt in his clothes, on his face, and under his fingernails. As the wind whips the other way, it brings with it his smell, that familiar homeless smell, a combination of cigarette smoke, booze, and pee. His stench repels me, yet I am held captive by the contrast between him and us. We have a treasure hidden in the bank. We have each other. He has nothing. As night falls, we will be safe in our cozy apartment. Where will he retreat: in a shop doorway,under a graffitied bus stop facility, or under a tree in Golden Gate Park?
    Slowly, I reach into my pocket. But Mom grabs my hand and pulls me away.
    “His mother should have helped him more. And he should help her more,” Mom says. That’s the problem with this country. No family loyalty. At work, you should hear what my coworkers say. When kids turn eighteen, their parents want them to leave home. When parents get old, their kids just dump them in a nursing home,
ka-chunk
, like a greasy, half-eaten Big Mac into the trash.
    “You are surrounded by all these bad influences. I try to protect you from their contamination. Your papers