by Jackie Lee Morrison, art by Aileen Sandoval

Mei recorded everything. She bundled cassette tapes and photos she printed at the pharmacy by the dozen, and couriered them back home to Hong Kong for her family to experience her life. It was so expensive to send; it was more expensive to call.

Here was Bo, being weighed by the nurse, a pink tangle of arms and legs. Here he was again, wide-eyed in his first bath, slick as a seal. He’d dangled in her grasp, fragile, threatening to slip through her fingers. Everything here was new, from this country to her husband, to her baby. Everything except Mei. 

The first time she’d turned on the television, she’d stared, white noise in her ears. 

“I can’t understand anything they’re saying,” she’d said, on the phone to her brother, the line crackling. “This isn’t English—it sounds like gibberish!”

“It’s just the accent, you’ll get used to it.”

“How?” Mei had clutched the handset tightly, her knuckles white.

“You’ll find a way. It’s your home now.”

The words were a paper cut: sharp and unexpected. Mei missed home. She missed the busy, noisy streets; black-haired heads bobbing in a sea of people who looked just like her. She missed the loud bickering of her younger brothers as they fought for the last piece of siu juk on the table. She missed afternoon tea with her friends in a ca caan teng, sharing stuffed french toast oozing with peanut butter, thick globules of maple syrup, and melted butter dripping down its sides. Most of all, though, she missed her mother.

•

Mei didn’t know why her mother had been so eager to marry her off and ship her to a foreign country. Had it been purely because she’d been of age? She had two younger brothers, separated only by eighteen months, and a father long buried. Maybe her mother hadn’t wanted the extra mouth to feed. Maybe she’d just grown tired of her. Despite Mei’s misgivings, she hadn’t questioned it—it would’ve been useless to argue. Her mother commanded respect, simply through the act of having birthed three children.

As a child, every experience had been a teaching opportunity. Once, Mei had slipped away while her mother had been shopping in Sogo. She’d rounded the clothes rack and found herself lost. She’d even reversed direction, as if that could somehow take her back to a time when she hadn’t been lost. But when she’d re-emerged, her mother had still been nowhere to be seen.

“If you get lost, you go to an adult and tell them your name.” That had been the instruction she’d grown up with. So, standing in the busy mall, tugging on a loose thread at the hem of her pastel-yellow Chickeeduck cardigan, she’d looked for an adult. There had been plenty around, but had any of them looked like someone who’d help her? She’d been paralyzed.

Thankfully, a woman had approached her first.

“Mui Mui, are you okay? Where’s your mami?”

Mei had blinked rapidly, the sting in her eyes and throat building. “My name is Mei,” she’d said. “I’m lost.”

The woman had taken Mei’s paw in hers, leading her to the information desk. She’d hooked her hands under Mei’s armpits and lifted her like a baby doll, placing her on the desk.

“What’s your mami’s name?” the information girl had asked.

Mei had stared. There had been a stiffness in her jaw, invisible wires binding it shut.

“Mui Mui? Do you know your mami’s name?”

Mei had shook her head. She’d pulled at the thread on her cardigan, her scalp tingling. The woman who’d brought her over had said something to the information girl—something Mei couldn’t hear—and they’d both laughed. They’d been laughing at her, she’d been sure. They’d probably thought she was such a stupid, little girl: she hadn’t even known her mami’s name.

“Mei!”

She’d turned her head sharply to see her mother striding towards her. Mei hadn’t been able to stop the tears as she’d reached out for her. Her mother’s hands had pinched the flesh of Mei’s armpits as she’d pulled her off the counter. Though Mei had tried to nuzzle into her neck, the familiar smell of perfume and mothballs in her lungs, her mother had held her at an arm’s length and then put her down.

“Why did you wander off like that?”

“Wah, lucky your mami found you,” the information girl had said. “Hou dak ji—such a cutie.”

Her mother had apologized on Mei’s behalf and marched her away. 

“I watched you,” she’d said. “I watched to see what you’d do. I told you, if you ever get lost, you go to an adult. What if that girl had kidnapped you and given you to the laap saap gung to live in his rubbish cart? Would you like to live in a rubbish cart for the rest of your life?” She’d pulled wet wipes from her bag, tugged one from the plastic. “Wipe your hands—they’re sticky.”

Mei had understood she’d failed a test she hadn’t realized she was taking, but that was her relationship with her mother: a constant push and pull, all the while being evaluated for reasons not quite clear to her. Her brothers had never had to endure these sorts of trials. Was it because they were boys? Or was it something else, something Mei could never quite put her finger on?

What, Mei wondered, was the life lesson this time? Was this arranged marriage another test? Should she turn it down to show loyalty to her family? Or would that bring shame upon them? As usual, there were more questions around what would make her mother happy than answers.

•

Mei’s future mother-in-law came to inspect her a month prior to the wedding. Mei scrubbed herself until her skin smarted, squeezed into a stiff-necked coeng saam, and had her hair brushed, and pulled, and pinned until her eyes welled with tears.

“Don’t cry,” her mother said, her hand cupped over Mei’s eyes. She shook the hairspray and sprayed it in a thick cloud. “It’ll make your eyes puffy.”

Don’t speak unless spoken to, sit nicely—cross your ankles, not your legs. The instructions rolled over, and over, in her head as her two mothers exchanged pleasantries, barbs hidden within their words. Mei refilled teacup after teacup, gaze lowered and tongue still. The meeting was to finalize her dowry and wedding details. After some negotiation, it was decided to marry there in Hong Kong, honeymoon in Hawaii, and then fly Mei to her new home in London. Mei’s stomach twisted at the mention of her “new home”. It had all happened so fast.

At the conclusion of their negotiations, her new mother gifted her a necklace with a single large pearl. She clasped it around Mei’s neck. “From the South China Sea. Just a small token.”

“My sister, you are too kind. This is too generous a gift.”

“It’s nothing,” her new mother said, flicking her wrist.

“What do you say, Mei?”

Her mother’s fingers pinched the back of Mei’s thigh. She bent forward quickly, biting her inner cheek. “Thank you, Liu-tai.”

“Of course, we’ll have to send her to a Western cooking school. My son is very important, you know. She needs to learn how to entertain and be a proper wife.”

Mei frowned. What did that mean—“a proper wife”?

“Of course.” Her mother’s smile was affable, accommodating. She pinched Mei again, and Mei dropped into another bow, the giant pearl pulling her into its orbit.

The night after her future mother-in-law’s visit, Mei crept to the lounge where her mother’s porcelain statue of the many-handed Goddess of Mercy lived. As a child, Mei had often counted the Goddess’ hands, spread across her back like peacock feathers, touching each minute finger, the glaze cool against her skin. The Goddess’ name meant, “she who hears the suffering of the world.” Mei always thought the statue looked a little like her mother. 

She placed an orange in front of the Goddess and knelt. Her knees pressed into the hard floor through her pajamas. She clasped her hands together and looked into its painted eyes. I don’t want to get married, she prayed. I don’t want to leave home. Please, Guan Yin—don’t let them send me away. Let the marriage fail.

She stood, bowed, and tiptoed back to bed; yet by the time she finally fell asleep, the Myna birds were already screaming in the banyan trees.

•

The wedding had been in the Catholic church in Kowloon. Mei’s white dress had been the color of the layer of fat that sat at the top of a milk bottle. The lace had bound her in place from throat to toe, and to her new husband. The pearl necklace had bounced against her chest every time she knelt or stood. After the ceremony, stinking of incense, she and her new husband had posed at the top of the steps. They’d stood stiffly next to each other, only moving closer at the photographer’s behest.

“Put your arm around your lovely wife,” he’d called, lens to his eye.

Past his shoulder, Mei had seen her mother: she was waiting to be photographed, too, and was watching Mei with a look she couldn’t place. Her mother had tapped the bottom of her chin and tilted it up, like a turtle sunbathing. Mei had raised her own chin, straightening her back. Her husband’s arm had held her around her waist, pulling her closer. She’d turned her head towards him, spotting flecks of dandruff on his shoulders.

Later, when she got the wedding photos back, she peered closely to see if you could see the white dots on his suit. But the photo had been too grainy, and the photographer too far away. In the photos with her family, her mother wasn’t smiling, the same blank look in every picture. Mei put all the photos in a shoebox and hid them at the back of a wardrobe.

•

Early on in her marriage Mei learned she needed to fit in better.

“You should wear more make-up,” Mei’s husband said.

“I’m sorry?” 

Mei paused, fork to her mouth. She’d made roast leg of lamb, just like she’d been taught at the cooking school her mother-in-law sent her to. Her husband had told her to ask the butcher for the uphill leg, as it would be more tender, but the butcher had just looked at her like she’d had two heads and picked the closest leg of lamb in the cabinet.

“Make-up. You’ll fit in more with the other work wives.” He extracted his credit card from his wallet.

“I wasn’t aware my appearance displeased you.”

“Go to one of the department stores. Harrods or something. Get someone to doll you up a bit.” He pushed the credit card over and got up.

“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?”

He’d barely touched it. At some point, a pea had rolled off his plate onto the table and hid between the salt and pepper shakers. Mei didn’t look up at her husband, instead focusing on the one lonely pea.

“You overcooked it.” 

He left the room. 

After a moment, she picked up the card.

•

Mei allowed a young, gum-chewing make-up girl to plaster her face with cosmetics.

“It’s all the rage these days. You’re going to love it.” The girl held a mirror up.

The foundation was completely wrong, both far too pink and far too orange. The blue eyeshadow didn’t suit at all, and the entire finished product reminded Mei of the cheap dolls you could buy at the Ladies’ Market on Tung Choi Street.

She chose her words carefully. “I’m not sure the colour suits me?”

There was a long pause. The girl lowered her mirror. “That’s just the lighting on your skin tone because you’re so…exotic. Look again when you get home—you’ll see. It looks great.”

Don’t cry. It’ll make your eyes puffy. Mei blinked rapidly.

“So…?” the girl said. “Did you want…?”

“Yes,” said Mei.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

The girl grinned, all yellow teeth and pink Hubba Bubba. “I’ll ring you up. Cash or card, Miss…?”

She pushed her husband’s credit card across the counter. “Mrs. Liu.”

At home, she shoved the make-up to the back of the bathroom cabinet—too expensive to throw away—and scrubbed her face with a bar of Lux soap until it was red and raw, foundation-orange soap suds dripping down her arms. It took another week before she ventured to a different department store, this time selecting carefully. She still looked like Mei. Only now she looked a little more like the Mei her husband wanted her to be.

•

Mei called home once every few weeks to talk to her family, and her mother always reacted first with, “What’s wrong? Who died?” then scolded her for wasting money on long-distance calls.

“Your accent is weird now,” her middle brother, Feng, had said once.

She’d been spending more time at the tennis club with the other work wives, learning how to rally, and having “proper” afternoon tea. There was no stuffed french toast here, just floppy cucumber sandwiches on crustless white bread, and dry miniature scones.

“I can drive now, you know.”

“Really?”

“I can even parallel park.”

“Wah.”

There had been a scuffle as the receiver had switched hands. “You’ve been on the phone for five whole minutes. Do you know how much that costs?” her mother had yelled. Despite the fact that Mei had been in London for over a year now, her mother still hadn’t quite got the hang of long-distance calls. “And why aren’t you pregnant yet?” She’d tutted. “If you need herbal medicine, go to a good doctor in Chinatown. Ask your husband’s mother. Okay, I’m going so you don’t waste any more money.”

There had been a click, and the dial tone had rung in Mei’s ear.

Mei had prayed again to Guan Yin again that night, but with no statue of the deity to kneel in front of, she’d instead pictured her in her mind, thousand hands waving, fingers wiggling like a field of worms standing upright in the dirt. Guan Yin’s face had looked more and more like her mother’s. Mei’s husband had rolled over in his sleep, pulling the covers with him.

•

Mei’s mother-in-law had given her a piece of hefty gold jewelry following Bo’s birth. She’d felt like the prize cow at the fair.

“Well done,” her husband had said, patting her shoulder. 

Mei had wondered if she was, in fact, a piece of meat.

She knew her family wouldn’t be able to come see her, so after a few months, she flew home with Bo. Her husband stayed in London. He was far too busy to travel to Hong Kong, he’d said. Besides, he barely knew her family. Better that she go with the baby, spend a few weeks out there. Come home whenever he’d said, handing her his credit card again.

•

Mei’s mother wouldn’t hold Bo at first. 

“He’s so small,” said Feng, Bo’s tiny fist clutching his finger. 

Mei played with the pearl around her neck, watching her family play Pass the Baby.

“He looks healthy,” said her mother. “Does he sleep well?”

“Getting better. I only get up five or six times in the night.”

“You should hire a wet nurse.”

“I don’t…I don’t think they do that in London.”

Her mother fiddled with her jade bracelet. “Western life seems to suit you. You look—” she cast around for the right word “—rounder.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

Mei had never seen her mother like this, so twitchy and unsure. Feng passed Bo over, arms and legs akimbo, face pressed into her mother’s chest. He squirmed and mewed against her. Mei wondered how her mother had raised three children. She helped adjust him in her arms.

“Brian.” Mei’s mother tested the name. She frowned. “Brian.”

Her youngest brother, Pong Pong, snorted. “That’s a weird name.”

“I call him Bo. My little treasure.”

The baby gurgled.

---

“Hong Kong is small,” her mother said. Her gaze flicked to the baby in Mei’s arms, then back again. “You needed a bigger life.”

---

“Bo.” Her mother stared at him for a long time.

“Mami?” 

Mei’s mother looked up. Her expression was odd, and Mei didn’t know how to read her. Her mother  handed the baby back. “We should eat. Feng, Pong Pong, go get the table ready.” She brushed her hands down her trousers. 

Mei had one foot out of the room as her mother said, “Mei?”

She’d turned to see her mother looking at her, still with that strange expression. 

Her mother opened her mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. “Never mind,” she said. “Come. Let’s eat.”

Mei paused. “I’ve always wondered,” she said. “Why were you so eager for me to marry?” Her mouth was dry. She swallowed in the silence. “Why did you want to send me away?”

Her mother didn’t say anything for a moment. 

Bo gurgled again, and Mei shifted and bounced him lightly. “It’s okay if—”

“Hong Kong is small,” her mother said. Her gaze flicked to the baby in Mei’s arms, then back again. “You needed a bigger life.”

Bo reached towards Mei’s face, tapping chubby little fingers against her chin.

“Come,” her mother said. “Let’s eat.”

•

When Mei returned to London, she bought a modest tape recorder. She recorded herself telling Bo stories, his gurgles and first words. When her husband gifted her a Casio camera for Christmas, she took pictures of the growing baby. That had been when she began to collect the details of her life in earnest, sending them home in bulging monthly envelopes lined with bubble wrap and bound with brown parcel tape. A small ember burned in her heart. Maybe Bo would finally be the missing link between herself and her mother. But, though Mei’s mother acknowledged receipt of the parcels, she said nothing of their contents.

Bo turned one. Two. Three. Four. Mei’s English became more clipped. She spent every Sunday playing doubles at the tennis club. Her husband took up golf. She dressed in cashmere twin sets, her South China pearl necklace paired with every outfit. They went on holiday to Marseille. Venice. Mallorca. Mei promised to take her brothers to Paris next year.

Then, one night, there was a phone call. There had been a car accident. It was instant. Her mother was gone. There was so much left unsaid. Her husband pried the phone from her fingers and listened to her brothers’ pleas on the other end. Mei closed her eyes. She hadn’t prayed for a long time. She saw Guan Yin, palms outstretched towards her. Her face was unmistakably her mother’s, the same unsmiling face from Mei’s wedding photographs. 

She reached for her husband’s hand. He looked down at her. “Tell them I’m coming home.”

•

While clearing out her things, Mei would’ve missed the box under her mother’s bed if not for the bottle of herbal pills, knocked off the bedside table and out of reach. Crouching, Mei found a large container filled with all the photos and cassettes she’d sent over the years. They were bundled together with rubber bands, labelled in her mother’s precise handwriting. The photos held her mother’s fingerprints at the edges, some of the cassettes hadn’t been rewound.

There had still been a tape in the radio-cassette player her mother kept next to her bed. Mei sat on the bed, rewound it, pressed play, and closed her eyes. 

Her own voice came back to her through the speakers. “Say hello to Po Po, Bo.”

“Hello to Po Po,” her little boy’s voice chanted, like a rhyme.

“Silly boy!”

Static on the tape, then laughter and a four-year-old’s high-pitched giggle shrieks.

“Okay, now, say it properly, like I taught you.”

“Zou san, Po Po.”

“Well done, Bo.”

Mei reached over and clicked the recording off. She hugged her mother’s pillow, smelling mothballs and her perfume. Mei could see a cardboard box by the door, her mother’s porcelain statue of the Goddess of Mercy sticking out, a thousand hands reaching towards her.

---

Jackie Lee Morrison is a British-HK-Chinese freelance writer and editor, now based in Wellington, New Zealand, who writes stories and essays about identity and belonging, a number of which have been published in literary journals and magazines across the globe. When not writing, you’ll find her petting all the animals and eating all the noods. Jackie is currently working on her debut novel and is represented by Naomi Eisenbeiss at InkWell Management, NYC.

Aileen Sandoval works at Monterey Peninsula College as a Human Resources Specialist and is involved in initiatives to hire diverse, equitable and inclusive faculty to better serve the educational experiences of underrepresented groups. Following the completion of her undergraduate studies at California State University Monterey Bay, she has dedicated her time in refining her painting skills so that she can one day teach entry-level drawing classes at the community college level. She was born in Los Angeles, California and currently lives in Monterey, California with her partner.