On the weekends, she takes a job as a Floor Bunny at the downtown Playboy Club. She is weighed in each evening (an extra pound allowed during her period) by a Mother Bunny, who has taught her to Bunny Perch when serving men their drinks. Breasts forward, in their face. Left knee tucked behind right. Remember, they own you. Remember to be pretty.
You must move forward, Tao says. You’ve got a whole story after this.
But their mother and father have separated; my mother’s baby is gone. Her life feels pau, over before it ever started.
My mother moves back to Honolulu for one year. She moves into Tūtū’s sewing room, where flying roaches buzz against the walls. Although this is her island, it has changed since she was a girl—she feels malihini, new again, like a tourist—and her tūtū tries to bring back her old music, the accent on her tongue, the slow-cooked meats and body language.
During the day, my mother takes a bus to the Ala Moana shopping center, where she will try on whatever clothes she is given, climb up into a window, and pose. She is told to suck in, stretch her neck into a C, stand up straight, smile. She is good at this; I can imagine her as if I were there. I imagine her poised, eyes following each person walking by, legs buckled at the knees. I imagine my mother waiting for somebody, anybody, to stop.
FALL, 2015
NEW YORK, NY; ATLANTIC BEACH, NY
If I have the flu, I can’t be around you, I say into the phone.
Get one of those nerd masks, says my father. The ones you Asians wear on the planes.
Tell Mom thanks for passing this on; I was up all night sweating off a fever.
Mom’s making me chicken soup today, he says. I also feel lousy.
Good. It’s her turn.
You took care of me last week; that bean stew helped. It’s my turn.
I can’t get out of bed, I say. And I really can’t come, with your immune system how it is.
Have a driver get you out here—I’ll pay.
I just want to sleep. I need to be home.
You sound terrible, really.
I sound like you.
You sound like me.
Well I guess we’re both stuck, I say. At least we’ve got the phone.
I guess that’s safe.
Drink water, Daddy.
Take care of yourself, baby.
I love you. Feel better.
Okay, now. You, too.
Later that night, when I arrive alone to my parents’ dark house, the pot of water on the stove has gone cold. The chicken thighs, still pink in their Styrofoam casing. The vegetables are peeled, lined up in a row, a knife dropped with a carrot still clinging to the blade of it.
1980
MIAMI, FLORIDA
My mother responds to an ad and takes a job as a secretary. She wears an outfit that says she knows what she’s doing, that she is more than an island girl, or a Playboy Bunny, or a window and hotel model, no, she is serious here—twenty years old, a woman—with her hair pinned back, a pencil skirt hugging her knees. She will be sophisticated, yes; she is going to make something of her life.
On her first day, a man walks through the door, combing his hair. He’s wearing sunglasses, his jacket swung over his shoulder, hooked on a finger. His cologne—a velvet spice that she’ll go chasing for the rest of her life. He passes right by her at first, pauses, then walks backward to her desk.
I don’t believe we’ve met, he says. You must be my new girl.
Your secretary, yes, says my mother.
The man reaches for her hand and bows to her. He kisses her between the pointer and middle knuckles, peering up above his glasses. My mother crosses and uncrosses her legs beneath her desk. She does not know how to use her body in this moment, with this man. He is older, bejeweled. His hands, so certain.
I’m John Madden, he says.
See my parents, the moment they meet.
SPRING, 2016
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
She calls me first. It’s one fifty-nine P.M. on a Thursday, and I’m at my desk when the phone rings. Hello, my name is Marjorie, she says, from the DNA site. It is my mother’s voice, exactly, but it is not my mother on the phone. The name—Marjorie—is not my mother’s name.
Hello, I say, to the voice of my mother. I’m at work; let me step out for a moment.
I exit the building and stand on the sidewalk of Twenty-Sixth Street, next to a Holiday Inn. It’s an overcast day. Still a chill in the air. Men with briefcases walk in a cluster and bump around my body to get by.
Thanks for getting back to me, I say. Like I said, I’ve been working on this family tree.
Oh, of course, she says. I hope I can help.
So who are you? A secret cousin of mine? Or an aunt? I know it says 1706 centimorgans on the site, but I’m not sure what that means. And your picture—it’s so small. I can only see your hair, really. Who are your parents?
Why did you take the test? she wants to know. This woman.
My father died six months ago, I say. The tree—I’m just trying to fill in the blanks, I guess. There’s a lot in my family—just, a lot.
I see. I’m so sorry to hear that.
The test was a gift. A Christmas gift.
Okay, she says. We are both breathing heavily into the phone. I’m not sure why that is.
Why did you take it? I ask.
Well, she says, I was adopted at birth.
I watch a slouching man push a hotdog cart around the corner. I watch a woman exit the ceramic shop with a brown paper bag strangling her wrist. I scuff the sidewalk with the toe of my loafer. I’m not sure what to say to this woman.
Maybe we can both help each other?
I think we can, yes, she says.
Well, I think you may be my cousin, or aunt, I say. I’m pretty sure. My family, there’s a lot no one talks about.
I do not want to be the one to tell her this. She must be my grandfather’s—he had women on the side. I do not want to tell her that he never mentioned another child. He never went to look. I don’t have a clue who the mother might be. Mostly, I do not want to tell her that my grandfather has been dead for almost twenty years.
I’ve seen a picture of you, she says. On the Internet. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror.
Everyone in my family looks alike, I say. Island genes—they’re strong.
But it’s like looking directly into a mirror, she says. Do you understand what I’m saying?
I think you may be my aunt, I say.
Please, help me, she says. I’ve been looking all my life. Please.
The hotdog man is gone. A girl smokes outside the Holiday Inn. She’s on a bench, talking on the phone. She sips soda out of a green bottle. On her knee, half a sandwich in plastic wrap.
I’ll try to help you, I say. Tell me what you know.
I know that for every birthday of my entire life, I’ve woken up wondering if my mother remembers the day. If she’s thinking of me. If she looks like me. If she knows.
Let’s start from the beginning, I say. Where were you born?
Hollywood, Florida, she says. That’s somewhere between Miami and Boca Raton.
I know it, I say. I was born around there, too. When?
July 11, 1976, she says. 7-11. It’s one of the few things I know.
My sister and I speak to each other every morning and every night. We check in all day. I can’t focus on anything but her. The pictures of her face, the way her voice sounds like my mother, the words that she uses to describe the moon, the descriptions of her house, her favorite movies. She leaves me voice mails singing Joni Mitchell songs—we both love Joni, we have all the same favorites—and I play them and replay them, my sister, my sister can sing, my sister. We send each other photos all day long, and I zoom in to see her face more clearly. I want to see every beauty mark. Every angle of her teeth.
At night, we go through the lists: What is your favorite meal? What is your favorite memory? Do you like mustard? Can you drink or do you get Asia Glow? Who was your first kiss? What is your husband like? What is your girlfriend like? Did you always know you were gay? What are my nieces like? What was your childhood like? What is our mother like?
My mom is kind, I say. She always smells good. She writes a beautiful letter. You’re going to love her. I constantly correct myself: Our mom. Ours.
Marjorie Brooke Gelbwaks, Contestant #2, Miss Florida Pageant, 1999