Lovely Flawed Read online

  We’re making out and he feels warm and amazing. He pulls up my dress and I can’t stop laughing. He tries to pull off my underwear but can’t get it down very far. Every time he tries to pull it off, I stumble and can’t get out of my own way. Tequila Boy unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants and underwear. I look at him and then down at his erection. Having sex with him wasn’t in my plans, but this should be fun. By the look on his face, he really wants my underwear off. I look down at his hand as he tugs on it and it’s like I’m watching a movie. Some guy in some universe is ripping off a girl’s underwear. Tequila Boy pulls hard and rips them off.

  “Whoops!” he says holding them in his hand like a prize. He stuffs them in his pocket and we both start laughing hysterically. I grab his shoulders to steady myself so I don’t lose my balance. For a split-second, I think about what’s happening.

  “Please wear a... wear a...” I laugh uncontrollably and almost fall down. I hope you don’t have any SDTs, STDs,” I slur.

  “I don’t like condoms and I don’t have anything. Turn around.”

  He bends me over the toilet and he shoves his erection inside me. I grab on to the porcelain tank, but I’m not present. I’m far away. He thrusts into me a few times and finishes inside me. He turns me around, lifts my face into his hands, and kisses me.

  “You’re a dirty whore,” he says laughing. “I hope I don’t get any diseases from you!”

  “That’s not very nice,” I tell him with a serious face. “Don’t talk to me like that.” I tap his nose with my finger then start laughing again and lose my balance.

  Tequila Boy produces some coke from a vial and taps out a line on his hand, from his index finger to his thumb. He moves the line to my nose and I inhale deeply. I wipe my nose, then start laughing again. I have no idea how long I’ve been in here.

  “Hey, I have a friend that wants to meet you,” Tequila Boy tells me.

  “You have a friend!?” I slur. “I love friends. I need more people that care about me,” I tell him.

  “I’ll have him come in to see you. Wait right here.”

  • • •

  Mingmei’s right. A night of dancing will do me good. After I got fired, she texted me nonstop. She said we needed to go out. To have some fun. That we needed girl time—Taiwan girl time, she said. Mingmei’s such a dyed-in-the-wool Taiwan girl. Every time we talk or text, she uses Taiwan slang. “Formosa!” she’ll say, using the Portuguese word for “beautiful island.” Formosa is synonymous with Taiwan, even though the phrase refers to a nineteenth century republic that predates our nation.

  Other times, she’ll send me texts that end with “I love Taiwan!” Or, she’ll add “R.O.C.” to her emails. R.O.C. refers to the fact that Taiwan is a Republic of China and not part of the People’s Republic of China (or P.R.C.).

  And when she really wants to get political, she’ll say “Remember 2-2-8,” referring to the 1947 massacre of nearly 30,000 Taiwanese by the Nanking government on February 27, 1947. The date itself is a painful reminder of the weeks of bloody battles, murders, protests, and executions of Taiwanese nationals. “2-2-8” is a rallying cry among the Taiwanese because the date embodies our hard-fought battle for sovereignty and self-determination. I’m constantly amazed by Mingmei’s national pride. Her zeal reminds me of Father.

  The red velvet ropes on 24th Street are strung out in front of every club. I note how the beautiful people have already queued up outside. It’s nearly 11 P.M. and things are just starting to get going. I see a bevy of twenty-somethings and start feeling insecure. I’m older than 95% of the girls here, I think. But then I remember my rights. I have the right to have fun, too. I notice how most of the young girls outside the clubs huddle together in the cold, teetering on their high heels.

  I’m wearing a simple red dress tonight. It comes down to my mid-thigh and looks good. It’s not too sexy and not too dowdy. I’m wearing it with my favorite pair of comfy black heels and a tiny purse slung over my shoulder. And I’ve put my long hair back into a pony tail so it doesn’t get in the way. It’s chilly out and I realize that the only thing standing between me and the cold night air is my light sweater. I’ve been keeping up with my jogging, so I think I look pretty good.

  I didn’t go crazy with my make-up. Just a little eye shadow, glitter, and lipstick. But looking at these younger girls, I realize that some of them are really put together. I have to remember that I’m not twenty-five any more. I do a quick make-up check by taking a selfie, then examine the photo for any errant lipstick on my teeth. I know I’m not here for a hookup, but it’s nice getting a little male attention from the guys nearby. It’s shameful to admit, but I like it when a man walks by and gives me a second glance.

  I look up and see Mingmei wending her way down the block. She struts down the sidewalk, moving her hips like a fertile feline minx. She smiles and waves at me, then smiles more brightly as she nears. She’s wearing a frighteningly tight silver lamé mini-dress and sexy black heels. Her long hair has been fashioned into a sweeping up-do and I notice how a few tendrils of hair have fallen down to frame her pretty face. Of course she wears her signature fluorescent green hair clip. Her subtle red lipstick, rouge, and glitter eye shadow really draw attention to her face. The men nearby take note as she slinks up to me.

  “Hi, sis!” Mingmei says. She wraps her arms around my neck and air kisses me. “I told you this was what you needed!”

  “Damn, girl!” I say, putting my hands on my hips and looking her up and down. “You look hot!” I lower my voice and look at her seriously. “You know, you’re not old enough to get in any of these places.”

  “Awww. Thanks, sister!” She leans in to me and whispers conspiratorially. “I borrowed my roommate’s ID. I can get in anywhere.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Don’t you know? All Asians look the same!” she says.

  “That’s racist.”

  “Come on. I know a place.”

  She takes me by the hand and leads me halfway down the block. We arrive at the front of the line at the 24.5 Club. Mingmei whispers something to the bouncer and there’s a quick hand gesture as something is exchanged. I catch a quick flash of silver paper and we’re in.

  The throbbing bass and light show are instantly hypnotic. My hips move to the music the second we’re in the door. I look over to the dance floor and imagine myself dancing, lost in the music. After we check our stuff, Mingmei takes my hand and pulls me on to the floor. Bodies are everywhere and we’re crushed among the sweaty throngs. A half-dozen girls next to us are hollering like it’s the end of days, jumping and gyrating to the beat. Colored spotlights paint us in rainbow hues as a white strobe pulses to the downbeat.

  Mingmei leans over to me and yells. “Taiwan girls forever! R.O.C. I love Taiwan!” She pumps her fist in the air like a black power salute. She wraps her hands around my waist and we dance together, our bodies intertwined. This is sisterhood.

  We head to the bar and I buy us a round of tequila. In my mind, Mingmei is a beginner—a newbie. I’m ready to school her in the ritual of sucking limes, licking salt, and downing 100% agave tequila. But when the shots arrive, I’m the one in for a lesson. She expertly lifts her shot, squeezes a lime, licks the salt and downs her shot like a pro. Not a single drop wasted. Schooled.

  I’ve never had a problem with alcohol. I don’t have a drinking problem. I feel the same way about non-drinkers that Frank Sinatra did. He used to say he felt sorry for people who didn’t drink. He said that when these people wake up in the morning, that’s the best they’re going to feel all day. That’s how I see it. If you don’t drink, you don’t know what you’re missing. A few drinks makes the world better. It softens life’s hard edges. It adds laughter and bliss.

  I try getting the bartender’s attention to order another round. While I wait, Mingmei wraps her arms around my waist from behind. I order for us and feel her cuddling into my back, holding me close. The affection is platonic, but it feels so beaut
iful. Genuine. I turn around and hand her a shot. We look at each other and scream “I love Taiwan!” then slam our shots. She drags me back to the dance floor.

  “I love this song!” Mingmei shouts. She tries out some fancy footwork and spins in a circle, then takes my hands in hers and pulls me close. She wraps her arms around my waist and we dance in a circle to the pulsing synthesizers and staccato horns. She lifts her hand up and pulls the fluorescent green hair clip from her hair. Her mane falls to her shoulders and she whips her head around, hair flying in every direction. Next, she crisscrosses her hands, then reaches for mine. She twirls me around and around in a hyperkinetic game of Ring Around The Rosie. After a few rotations, she lets me go, then takes her hair in her hands, tossing it in the air as she swings her hips from side to side, lost in the beat. Finally, the song ends, and she nearly doubles over, catching her breath.

  “Thank you, sister! Oh my god. So fun!” she says, excusing herself to the bathroom.

  I notice a handsome guy standing alone who looks like he’s eyeing me. I walk over to him and grab him by the tie and pull him on to the dance floor. We dance a song together and he leans in and asks me if I like tequila. “Of course!” I tell him. He tells me his name, but I can’t hear it above the music. I’ll call him Tequila Boy.

  • • •

  Mingmei bursts into the men’s room with a bouncer. They find me slumped on the toilet in a stall, my purse by my side.

  “Miss, are you okay?” the bouncer says, helping me up to my feet.

  “Me? Ummm...fine. I just lost my balance,” I say.

  “Sister, come with me,” Mingmei says. “I’ll get you a cab, sister,” she says wrapping an arm around my waist. The two of them support me on the way to the coat check, where we retrieve our belongings. We finally get out to the street and the cold air snaps me out of my haze. But I don’t feel well. I don’t feel well at all. I’m leaning on Mingmei, since I can’t walk without aid.

  “Oh no. Oh god. I don’t feel good,” I say queasily. I stagger over to the gutter and vomit. Mingmei holds my hair as I throw up again.

  “Sister, it’s okay. Let me take you home,” she says.

  HE POUNDING HEADACHE AND NAUSEA ARE BRUTAL, BUT MORE OF A DISTRACTION. I can’t move any of my limbs without excruciating pain, but that’s no big deal. My wastebasket is half-full of vomit, but I don’t give it a second thought. I roll to and fro on my couch, clutching my stomach, and dry heave into the trash. I wish I had enough energy to get to the bathroom for a wet washcloth. I’d kill for a cool washcloth right now. But, none of this matters. These things are minor. Minor compared to everything else.

  I think I know what happened last night. I know some of the facts but they don’t compute. Why would I do that? That’s not me. I’m shocked and humiliated at the thought of what I did. Thank god Mingmei and the bouncer showed up before Tequila Boy’s friend did. I had unprotected sex with a stranger in a club bathroom! I’m sickened just thinking about it. I have to get to the pharmacy and get some Plan B just in case. To call myself stupid right would be a grand understatement. I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near alcohol, now or in the future.

  My hangover and my emergency contraceptive needs are manageable problems. What’s not manageable is my fear and worry. I’m afraid I got exposed to HIV last night. And now I have to wait three months before I can get a valid HIV test to find out my results. I’m sick with misery just thinking about all of this.

  I think about what my life would be like if I had HIV. I think about how I’d be spending my days popping pills and how I’d have to go to all of those shameful doctor appointments. I think about the side effects of the drugs and how I’d get that “fat face” look. Maybe I’d be one of those HIV-positive people who got that emaciated, rail-thin look. And I can forget having sex with anyone again. Can you imagine telling anyone your “status” without them freaking out? I doubt anyone would stay in their chair long enough to hear the end of a sentence that began “I’m HIV positive and...” Goodbye dating life. If I was positive, I’d want to die.

  I wish there was a way to stop being stupid.

  DON’T REMEMBER THE OIL LAMP, BUT FATHER DOES. HE LIT IT THE NIGHT SHE DIED. In Taiwanese culture, an oil lamp is lit shortly after the death of a family member. It’s placed near the body because we believe it lights the path to the afterlife. But I learned all of this later. I didn’t even know Mother had died until we got to Sweden.

  We arrived in Stockholm in 1986. I was eight years old and Yu was thirteen. This was our new home and everything about it was strange. The faces around me were like the ones I’d seen on American TV, on the channels my father would flip past during TV nights in our living room. We were in a world of pale-faced white people and, even stranger, blondes. For months after we arrived, I searched in vain for an Asian face like mine. Besides Father and Yu, I never found one.

  Where were my friends and classmates? I wondered where my toys, clothes, and the room I shared with Yu had gone. And Mother. Where was she? I had my violin, but Father seldom gave it to me. Instead, he was busy and distracted. Each night, we slept in strangers’ empty beds in different homes throughout the city. I don’t think I slept in the same place for more than a week at a time.

  At night, we were often on the go. We shuttled about in cars and buses with our heads held low. It was during these times that Father whispered. And if we talked, he would shush us. When we were scared or hungry, Father would grow stern. If we cried, he’d tell us to shut up—or else.

  We were no longer a foursome in Taitung City surrounded by friends and family. We were a threesome in a strange country, the family dynamic irrevocably changed. Mother was gone and Father worked hard to explain her absence.

  “We’re playing a game,” Father told me. “We’re on an adventure for Mother. She wants us to travel and tell her about what we see. We’ll sleep a thousand nights in a thousand different places. When we’re done, we’ll go back to see her and tell her about our travels,” he said.

  “Why isn’t she here?” I would ask.

  “We’ll go back home soon, pear blossom,” he would say. “Mother really misses you.”

  “You know she’s dead,” Yu would say to me when we were alone. “Father is lying. Mother died back home. Don’t be such a dumb-dumb,” she said, condescendingly.

  Each night, Father and Yu took their turns. They’d sequester me and give me their version of events. Each would try to fill me with their narrative. Father’s version was always hopeful and full of promise.

  In time, I learned the truth about Mother. I cried every night thinking that I’d never eat yóutiáo or see her or my friends again. We never did go back to Taiwan.

  • • •

  Mother had been in and out of the hospital for several months. Air pollution is a big problem in China, Taiwan included. The cars and factories are a big source of illness in our country, not to mention smoking. Mother never smoked, but her symptoms were consistent with respiratory disease.

  Her coughing started slowly, Father said. It was a nuisance, but she managed it. For several months, she didn’t complain. But the cough quickly grew worse. It got so bad that she coughed constantly, hacking into her shirtsleeves or the handkerchief she carried in her purse. She lost weight and grew lethargic.

  The doctors diagnosed her with garden-variety respiratory irritation due to pollution. They said she had a vitamin deficiency. The clinic told her to wear a surgical mask during the day to protect her lungs and to take anti-cough medicine and vitamins. She needed more rest, they said. But Mother couldn’t rest, because the coughing kept her up all day and night. And the medicine did little to alleviate her symptoms.

  Mother lost more weight and my father took her back to the clinic. Each time they went, the diagnosis changed. She had inflammation of the liver, they said. She was diabetic, they told him. It didn’t matter what the diagnosis was. My mother was in constant pain. Father thought it was lung cancer and asked them to prescribe somethi
ng stronger. They eventually prescribed morphine to keep her comfortable. But Father knew what that meant. Mother grew more emaciated and couldn’t get out of bed. My father slept fitfully those nights and tried his best to comfort her. At least the painkillers helped her rest. He cared for her until the end.

  • • •

  After the Second World War, the Chinese Communists were eager to assert their control. They wanted to bring Taiwan into the fold, unifying it under Communist rule. But Taiwan wouldn’t go quietly. The Communists tried muscling the Nationalists with their military. Soldiers were brought to bear and the armed conflicts produced death and destruction on massive scale. But all of that violence and death only brought about a stronger Taiwanese unity and resolve. Instead of squelching dissent, Communist aggression emboldened it. We became unified against the mainland.

  Father was a newspaper journalist in Taiwan. In the seventies and eighties, he wrote stories critical of the Taiwanese Nationalist party. He wanted political reform for Taiwan and independence from mainland China. These were not popular ideas back then. His newspaper’s stories stoked a social and intellectual fire that marked him as a dissident. The government responded swiftly, seizing his newspaper’s assets and putting him and other journalists under house arrest.

  In time, there came a groundswell of popular support. The public came to see Taiwanese intellectuals and reformers as agents of change. These journalists popularized ideas that were held by many, but few were brave enough to voice. The idea that independence from mainland China might be good for Taiwan gained traction in the populace, but not among the Nationalist government.

  All the while, Father continued reporting and writing. His house arrest meant that he was literally unable to leave the house. So, he did his reporting from our kitchen table. As far as our government was concerned, he was a rabble-rouser. And to the Communists in Beijing, he was the enemy. His work sealed our fate.