Ghost Forest Page 7
GO? My sister and I looked at each other and burst into tears.
No, Dad, we said. Don’t go! Please don’t go. You’re going to get better!
Where are you going, huh? my mom asked.
I didn’t understand why she was so calm.
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My sister slumped over the railing on the other side of the hospital bed. Everything was cloudy through my tears.
My dad kept writing.
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We still have so many vacations to take, my mom said. You promised me you would take me on vacations. You haven’t taken me on any vacations yet.
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He wrote it all over again, letter by letter.
Dad, don’t go, please, my sister said. Please.
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Don’t give up, Dad, we said. Please don’t go.
He shook his head from side to side and kicked his feet.
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We clapped and cheered.
Yes, Dad, don’t give up!
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Wait, you want to go to Hong Kong?
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If you want to go to Hong Kong, you have to get better first, my mom said. We’ll go back after you get better and get a transplant.
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My sister and I looked at each other.
Why didn’t he just write bad? my sister said.
We started to laugh and couldn’t stop.
FOUR A.M.
That afternoon, when visiting hours were over, my mom told my dad she was going to rest and would return in the morning. My dad shook his head and kicked his feet. He glared at my mom and gripped his lips around the respirator. Since we noticed the family next door always stayed past the visiting hours, we asked them how they did it. They said if we were quiet, the nurses would pretend not to see us. So, my mom stayed overnight, sitting on a wooden stool by his side.
The next night, my sister and I stayed so that my mom could go take a shower and sleep on a bed. When my mom told my dad she was leaving, he shook his head from side to side until she was out of the room. My sister and I sat there in our baby blue plastic hair caps and gowns, on each side of the bed, staring at our feet.
It was summer in Hangzhou and there was no air-conditioning.
We sat in silence as the light inside the room faded from gray to gray-orange to gray-blue and shadows moved across our faces.
After it got completely dark outside, my sister looked at me, slowly tucking her face into a double chin and grinning. I checked the ceiling corners a few times in case there was a surveillance camera. Then I flared my nostrils and fluttered my fingers near my ears. We hid our faces below the plastic railing of the bed and emerged each time with a new facial invention. We performed grand dance gestures and mirrored one another. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders and did lunges around the hospital bed.
I could see drops of condensation forming inside my shoe covers.
By four a.m., my sister was asleep on two rectangular wooden stools that she put back to back as a makeshift bed.
Once in a while, my dad woke up, eyes wide, and shook his head from side to side. My mom had said that when this happened, it was because the evil spirits were trying to take him away.
I sat next to him and took his hand, watching his face. Each time he woke up, eyes wide and shaking, I stood up over him and straightened my shoulders, inhaling, exhaling, looking steadily into his eyes and patting his hand.
Each time, when his eyes focused on me, his face softened, and he fell asleep again.
DONGPO PORK
One of my favorite things about Hangzhou is the food.
They have a dish called Dongpo pork, which is pork belly that has been stewed in a thick sauce on low heat for hours. It is so rich that it is served only as a two-by-two-inch square, in a tiny brown clay cup, with a bit of sauce. The layers of meat and fat alternate like a luscious cake, covered by thick shiny translucent skin. They say that women should eat the skin more often because it’s full of collagen. The dish is named after the poet Su Dongpo.
We ordered it several times while we stayed with my dad in Hangzhou. Usually we ordered one and cut it into four pieces to share. In my mouth, the fat melted and the meat fell apart, oozing sauce. It was delicious. It left a layer of oil shining in the brown cup.
THINGS MY DAD LIKED
Steamed rock cod with sweet soy sauce
Bright-colored clothing, but not on himself
Boiling hot Cantonese double-boiled soup
Hong Kong, his home
Hair growth oil and wooden combs
Converse shoes for his narrow feet
The color brown
The evening news
Views of the sea
Mr. Bean
The World Cup, and the Brazilian soccer team
The Sound of Music, his favorite movie
Poached chicken with ginger scallion sauce
Sunshine and hot temperatures
Studying the Heart Sutra
Sliced papaya on a plate
Perfect handwriting
Practicing tai chi
Fa
lling asleep
YELLOW
My mom persuaded the doctors at the hospital to let my dad have acupuncture once a day in conjunction with the western treatment. Because he had water swelling, after the acupuncturist pulled out each needle, yellow fluid surfaced. With gloved hands, my mom, my sister, and I bent over and dabbed the liquid away with soft cotton squares. By the time we finished one section, the liquid seeped out again.
A million tiny yellow domes shining all over my dad’s body.
RETURNING
We’re going back to Hong Kong tomorrow, my mom said. Pack all of your belongings.
After speaking with the doctors at the hospital in Hangzhou, my mom decided to take my dad back to Hong Kong. They expected it to be a long time before he would be healthy enough to get a transplant.
Since regaining consciousness, he asked over and over to return to Hong Kong, and every time my mom assured him that they would be going back soon, but not until he got the transplant. Every time my mom entered the hospital room, he glared at her.
Y O U A R E E V I L, he wrote with his index finger.
Eventually she gave in, with the doctor’s permission, so we packed our bags and took the next flight to Hong Kong.
THE BIGGEST HURDLE
Back in Hong Kong my mom said, This morning your dad said Kwun Yam came to him last night. She told him that he overcame the biggest hurdle, and everything is going to get better from here.
I looked over at my dad. He was sleeping in the hospital bed. The green-gray blanket covering his body rose and fell as the ventilator gasped in and out. The air conditioner hummed. He was home now, in Hong Kong. Even the shape of the ventilator looked smaller, his face and lips more relaxed.
How did he tell you? I asked.
He wrote out the characters with his finger, my mom said.
Do you think it’s true?
Kwun Yam is watching over your dad every day.
TEMPLE OF RED AND GOLD
That weekend we went to the temple to pray. We stood in a long line that led up to a man sitting at a small table covered with stacks of red and gold papers. In one hand, he held a pencil, and in the other, a cigarette. His teeth were yellow.
Above us, thick coils of incense burned in slow spirals. A woman knelt on the floor, shaking a cylinder of bamboo fortune-telling sticks with both hands, filling the air with the sound of maracas.
Everything inside the temple was red and gold.
When we got to the front of the line, my mom said: We’re here to pray for my husband’s recovery.
She handed the man with the yellow teeth some money, and he led us over to the big gold Buddha statues. He lit several sticks of incense and handed one each to my mom, my sister, and me. He started to chant, hitting a small gong, and from time to time, he told us to bow.
It was cold, and the air was thick with smoke. My nose started to run. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. The man kept chanting, and we kept bowing. Every time I bowed my head, my nose ran more. I tried to make it look like I was scratching my nose. I thought, people are probably too busy to notice anyway. After a long time, the man said we were done. We thanked him and stepped out of the temple doors.
The sun was so bright. I lifted my hand to shield my eyes.
EMERGENCY SURGERY
Three days after we returned to Hong Kong, my dad had to have emergency surgery, and we were not allowed to visit him at the hospital until the afternoon.
That means we get to sleep in tomorrow, I said to my sister the night before.
When we arrived at the hospital, my dad was asleep.
He’s very tired from the surgery, the nurse said.
So my sister, my aunt, and I went out to buy snacks. We bought matcha milk chocolate and airy pink shrimp chips and pineapple juice boxes.
When we got back to the hospital, my dad was still sleeping. My mom sat in a chair beside him. We waited for a few hours, then we decided to go downstairs for dinner.
You should eat something, I said to my mom. Or get some fresh air outside. It’s so stuffy here.
No, I’m okay, she said. You can bring something back for me.
My mom stayed in the hospital room with my dad the entire time.
We took the elevator down to the cafe in the basement of the hospital. We ordered clear winter melon broth and thick hot and sour soup, braised soy sauce noodles and mango tapioca pudding. We laughed and joked. We ordered Singapore fried vermicelli in a takeout box for my mom.
Mom should really loosen up and take care of her own health, I said to my aunt and my sister.
When we got back to the room, several of my aunts were standing at the foot of my dad’s bed.
Why did you eat for so long? my mom said. The doctor says your dad won’t live through the night.
What do you mean? I asked.
The nurses came to wipe his body, and after that, he became unconscious, my mom said. I’ve already notified our family and friends.
I walked over to my dad.
His eyes were wide open and pointed at the ceiling.
WAITING
We stood in a semicircle around the bed.
We have to decide if we’ll save him or not, my mom said. Of course we’ll save him.
The numbers on the screen were falling.
What do you mean save him? I asked.
It might break his rib cage, my mom said.
What did the doctor say?
The doctor said we shouldn’t.
We stood there, looking.
Are we going to save him or not? my mom asked.
The doctor and nurses rushed into the room with the crash trolley.
They stood there, waiting.
Are we going to save him or not?
I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know!
HANDS, ONE
You’ve got to tell him happy things, one of my aunts had said, back when my dad first checked into the hospital. Hold his hand. Tell him that he has to walk you down the aisle one day. You’ve got to hold his hand and say these kinds of things.
Would I just reach out and put my hand on his hand? From above or from below, like a handshake? Should I hold his hand with both my hands? What if he won’t want to walk me down the aisle?
When I landed in Hong Kong, I took a taxi from the airport straight to the hospital. I walked into the room, put on a surgical mask, and rubbed alcohol gel on my hands. As I walked over to my dad’s bed, I saw his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for mine. His cheeks were hollow. I went over and took his hands in mine.
I’m sorry, he said.
I started to cry.
I love you, he said.
I love you too, I said.
I’m sorry for not being a good father. I’ll try harder when I get better.
After that, I held my dad’s hand every day.
WATCHING
We stood in a semicircle around the bed.
One of my aunts lunged forward.
Don’t worry, I’ll take care of my younger sister! she shouted.
I looked around at everyone else. Was I supposed to speak too? What was I supposed to say?
My mom stepped forward and, with her arms still by her side, she rested her cheek gently on my dad’s chest.
It was the most affectionate gesture I had ever seen between them.
When she got up and stood back in the semicircle, I went and did the same.
HANDS, TWO
I was holding his hand, the day he died. It was smooth and bloated, like a glove filled taut with water. I looked at his face, then I looked up at the numbers on the screen. Then I looked at his face, and then I looked up at the numbers on the screen. I don’t know why I looked at the numbers on the screen so much. After a while, I realized his hand was warm only where I held it. So I held
onto his hand with both my hands, one hand to keep the thumb half warm and one hand to keep the pinky half warm. Then I moved one hand to his wrist because that was getting cold too. I kept moving my hands around, as evenly as I could. I can’t remember how long I did that for.
Later, one of my aunts said, You’ve got to let go of his hand. Otherwise, his soul won’t leave in peace.
So I let go of his hand then.
YOU CAN GO IN PEACE
We couldn’t close his eyes.
One of my uncles said, It’s me. I’m here now, you can go in peace.
One of my aunts said, He wasn’t ready to go. That’s why his eyes are open. There’s something he wasn’t ready to leave behind. Maybe you’ll be able to do it. You try.
I stepped forward and lifted my right hand, lowering it slowly onto my dad’s forehead. I felt his eyelids on the edge of my palm.
Don’t worry, Dad, I said. You can go in peace now.
I imagined his eyelids slipping down under my hand. But they felt rubbery, like they had been glued onto his eyeballs. I lifted my hand and lowered it down again, pressing harder. I breathed in and out and tried one more time.
My aunt said to my sister, You try.
I held my breath. What if my sister could do it?
My sister tried to do the same.
His eyes were still wide open when they loaded him into the truck.
TAKE CARE OF YOUR MOTHER
Because my dad passed away within twenty-four hours of the surgery, the police had to investigate the death. As my dad lay motionless on the hospital bed, we gathered around the policemen outside the room.
We didn’t want them to investigate the death. We didn’t want to sue anyone. We just wanted a peaceful funeral with the body intact.
The policemen said we could pick up the body from the morgue the next morning.