Date Line, which means it’s now been seventeen days since Sam committed suicide, thirteen days since his funeral, and two days since Joy ran away. There was never any question that I’d be the one to chase after Joy. A kind person would say that May wouldn’t want to leave Vern, her invalid husband who was never right in the head to begin with, but I know her. She wouldn’t want to leave her business or put herself in danger. What’s that phrase she uses? She wouldn’t want to break a fingernail. Joy may not be my birth daughter, but she is mine and I’ll do anything for her. I keep thinking of my mother, who used to tell me I should beware the trait I carry common to all those born in the Year of the Dragon: a Dragon, believing he is just, will often bound headlong into a disastrous situation. My mother was right about many things.
“You’re very brave,” the woman sitting next to me says as the plane bumps through the air. She’s white with fear and her hands grip the armrests. “You must have done this before.”
“This is my first time on a plane,” I say after a long moment. I’m so paralyzed by grief for my husband and terror for my daughter that I wasn’t afraid when the plane took off and have barely noticed the turbulence that started after we refueled in Tokyo. I turn back to the window and stare into the darkness. Later, I hear the woman throw up into a bag.
Finally, the plane begins its descent into Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airfield. Small islands jut up out of the sea, fishing boats glide on the waves, and palm trees bend in the wind. Then we fly right into the city, between apartment buildings, so close I can see through the windows men wearing undershirts and drinking tea, laundry hanging on the backs of chairs, and women cooking. We land, and a group of bare-chested men roll a set of stairs to the plane. I gather my belongings and follow the other passengers to the exit. The scents of coal smoke, roast duck, and ginger mixed into the heavy, humid air fill my lungs. I’m only in Hong Kong, a British colony, but it smells like China to me.
An immigration official asks for my final destination. As a Dragon, I want to dash straight into China, slash my way across the country, and pry open doors with my long claws to find my daughter, but I have things to do first. To do them, I need to go into the city.
“Hong Kong,” I answer.
The airport is on the Kowloon side of Hong Kong. As darkness falls, my taxi weaves through the crowded streets toward the Star Ferry Terminal. Garish neon lights edge upturned eaves, scrawl out the names of restaurants in English and Chinese, and advertise everything from free drinks and dancing girls for American sailors to herbs and tonics to bring robust and healthy baby sons. I’m awash in memories. Twenty years ago, this city was a gateway between May’s and my escape out of China and getting on the boat to go to America. Again, it’s a British colony, but I’m overwhelmed by how Chinese it is. The border with China is about twenty miles away, with Canton about eighty miles beyond that.
I board the Star Ferry and take it across the bay to the Hong Kong side, where tall white buildings grow on the verdant hills. I make my way to the same cheap hotel where May and I stayed twenty years ago. After checking in, I go to my room and shut the door behind me. It’s as if all the grief I should have been feeling as a widow suddenly hits me, while the terror I feel for Joy is overpowering. I’ve experienced many terrible things in my life, but my daughter’s running away is the worst. I’m afraid I won’t be the strong mother I need to be. Maybe I never was a strong mother. Maybe I’ve never been good enough to be Joy’s mother. Because, of course, I’m not Joy’s mother.
My mind goes to one terrible place after another before spinning uncontrollably to an even worse one. The shame I feel for failing my husband and daughter burns my skin. I have no one. Not
“You’re very brave,” the woman sitting next to me says as the plane bumps through the air. She’s white with fear and her hands grip the armrests. “You must have done this before.”
“This is my first time on a plane,” I say after a long moment. I’m so paralyzed by grief for my husband and terror for my daughter that I wasn’t afraid when the plane took off and have barely noticed the turbulence that started after we refueled in Tokyo. I turn back to the window and stare into the darkness. Later, I hear the woman throw up into a bag.
Finally, the plane begins its descent into Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airfield. Small islands jut up out of the sea, fishing boats glide on the waves, and palm trees bend in the wind. Then we fly right into the city, between apartment buildings, so close I can see through the windows men wearing undershirts and drinking tea, laundry hanging on the backs of chairs, and women cooking. We land, and a group of bare-chested men roll a set of stairs to the plane. I gather my belongings and follow the other passengers to the exit. The scents of coal smoke, roast duck, and ginger mixed into the heavy, humid air fill my lungs. I’m only in Hong Kong, a British colony, but it smells like China to me.
An immigration official asks for my final destination. As a Dragon, I want to dash straight into China, slash my way across the country, and pry open doors with my long claws to find my daughter, but I have things to do first. To do them, I need to go into the city.
“Hong Kong,” I answer.
The airport is on the Kowloon side of Hong Kong. As darkness falls, my taxi weaves through the crowded streets toward the Star Ferry Terminal. Garish neon lights edge upturned eaves, scrawl out the names of restaurants in English and Chinese, and advertise everything from free drinks and dancing girls for American sailors to herbs and tonics to bring robust and healthy baby sons. I’m awash in memories. Twenty years ago, this city was a gateway between May’s and my escape out of China and getting on the boat to go to America. Again, it’s a British colony, but I’m overwhelmed by how Chinese it is. The border with China is about twenty miles away, with Canton about eighty miles beyond that.
I board the Star Ferry and take it across the bay to the Hong Kong side, where tall white buildings grow on the verdant hills. I make my way to the same cheap hotel where May and I stayed twenty years ago. After checking in, I go to my room and shut the door behind me. It’s as if all the grief I should have been feeling as a widow suddenly hits me, while the terror I feel for Joy is overpowering. I’ve experienced many terrible things in my life, but my daughter’s running away is the worst. I’m afraid I won’t be the strong mother I need to be. Maybe I never was a strong mother. Maybe I’ve never been good enough to be Joy’s mother. Because, of course, I’m not Joy’s mother.
My mind goes to one terrible place after another before spinning uncontrollably to an even worse one. The shame I feel for failing my husband and daughter burns my skin. I have no one. Not
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