Michelle

Up in the Air

The shrill of the incoming train forces pedestrians, crowding at the edge to step back from the platform. I stand alone under grey clouds.

Wind blows from the wheels. My red scarf flutters. I slowly raise my shoulders. Two thin backpack straps dig deep into my skin. I close my eyes, and drop my shoulders in a flash. Nothing is holding me down. I could fly away like a cut-loose kite…

Dead weight crashes down hard on my hips. The straps double down on their red imprints. The train has pulled to a stop at the far end of the station.

I slide through the side of the doors. People from within push out. I cross my arms and exhale as I lean on the glass panel.

I flex my shoulders. I need a proper shoulder massage. Carrying the computer to school, to the shop and back home every day, is taking a toll. Working by myself at the shop is making it worse.

A man in his mid-thirties is circling the pole, his left hand on the pole, his upper body leaning backwards. He grins occasionally. His wrinkled nose at times stops his glasses from sliding further. It is seven at night. People try to steer clear. Glances shadow him behind tablets and phones. A young woman in a blue lace blouse and grey pencil skirt appears to film him in pretence of taking a selfie.

“Next station, Shatin. Doors will open on the left.” The man abandons his game. His nose presses into the black rubber between the red doors. Ding dong, and he propels himself out of the carriage. I adjust to the full weight of the backpack once again on my back.

The man is on the bench right next to the pillar on platform 4.1, in front of the escalators. His legs cross underneath and his head turns left to right. It’s the bench, my bench.

I was sitting there, like him. I was waiting for my father to come home. My ears hurt from the shrill of a train. Then, when my hair was still in pigtails, I would lean back and grab my father’s hand when the train whistled past. Skirts would fly, and I would stumble two steps back. My fingertips would flush red in a grip.

“Hold tight,” Father always said, “or else you would become a cut-loose kite in the sky.”

I see it. I was there on tiptoes. My neck craned, eyes searching for a hue of blue, my father’s favourite coat. Strands of fine hair whipped around my face.

My father was sturdy, with broad shoulders hammered out from his construction work. Long after he became a store owner and his income changed, he still spent half an hour every day to clean his watch, his briefcase and his oxfords. His coat took an extra twelve strokes that I counted. “So that they will have a longer life,” he said.

When he arrived home, he put his golden watch in a black porcelain accessory bowl, the one that my mum insisted on buying because it complimented the watch. He fetched a thick white towel to wipe his watch. It shone almost blue under the harsh white light from the ceiling. His coat hung on the coat hanger stand that no one used anymore. He once told me it was the little dent that the stand made on the back of his coat that showed the world meticulousness. I thought he was right—–his eye for detail was what boosted his bric-a-brac business. He could spot out small pieces buried in flea markets and second-hand shops. He stayed in his shop 12 to 9, unless he was flying to Canada for his friends’ finds. On 3rd December, 2010, my twelfth birthday, his flight was supposed to land in Terminal 1 of the Hong Kong International Airport at 3:45 pm.

I waited for my father in the train station that day on the connection. I planned to surprise him on his way home. His eyes, three inches above my head, never missed my bright orange coat. I would run up and bury myself under his blue coat, my fingers struggling to meet each other halfway across his waist. I would look up with a smile. His wrinkles would deepen around his mouth in a pair of parentheses.

The shrilling hoot sounded. I jumped and covered my ears. A whoosh of air—–the train, with glimmering red paint on the doors, loomed over me. Hundreds of people poured out. The doors slid open, motor-like feet gliding towards escalators and exits. I waited on our bench, hands clasped, my skirt smoothed out and my ankles crossed. Trains came and went five minutes apart. The sun settled behind the hill, not after the silver lining diminished.

I went to and fro the station for three months. The incoming trains blended with the hustle and bustle. My mother didn’t stop me. She worked in my father’s store. She wiped down all the counters with Dettol when there were no customers in the shop. The clock twice moved past dinner when she got back home. The hallway was covered in black. The door to my room closed. We barely saw each other. My father never came back. Three years ago she passed away.

I did not celebrate my birthday, not since that December. I take the train home from my father’s store every day. At first, my feet dragged me to a stop past the bench. People went by. All a blur in fast-forward.

Now, I glance at the bench. I go up the escalators on the right, myself static against the moving current on the right, and walk home.

I still press on the doorbell before taking out my keys. My dad told me this can warn off “things”—burglars or ghosts. The door opens to a dark corridor. The air is stale. I put my backpack on the sofa and switch on the light. It’s time for dinner.

I switch on my computer while I reheat the leftovers from last night. The kid upstairs is running around again. His footfalls resonate in the ceiling. An overhead lamp casts quivering shadows. I open my mailbox and take out the dish. A woman shouting, and now a boy wailing. No need to switch on the television for some noise in my apartment. I rotate my shoulders clockwise, then back. I tilt my head to the right, then left, pressing down on my shoulders. I squeeze the shoulder muscles with my hands crossed. Once. Twice. I let my hands drop to the side. It hurts too much to try.

One new email since this morning. I fork a piece of char siu into my mouth.

“Dear Miss Wong,

It is of our utmost regret to inform you that, after ten years of search and rescue missions for AC001 with help from over 25 countries, our company, along with the Chinese, Hong Kong SAR and Canadian governments, have decided to call off the 5th search mission. Over the decade, we have identified the site of crash to be around Midway Island in North Pacific Ocean, and found nine pieces of debris, three of them confirmed to be from AC001. Sadly, although we have exhausted every means, we were not able to locate the bulk of the aircraft, nor any of the passengers aboard.

In the tenth year anniversary of this shared day of mourning, we will be hosting a wake on 3rd December for our passengers and crew in our headquarters at Montreal. We would like to offer you a complimentary return ticket between Hong Kong and Montreal to attend the activity. We would also provide you with accommodation and visa expenses. Please reply to this email if you would be attending the event and claiming the ticket.

Once again, we extend our condolences and would wish to see you on the important day to commemorate the people we have lost in this accident a decade ago.

Yours sincerely,

Penelope Reynolds

President and CEO of Air Canada”

The char siu is cold in my mouth. I look up at the calendar on my desktop. 25th November today. My birthday is in less than 10 days. Ten years. My father’s breath lives in mine, though I can’t see it in this home.

Should I go? Going means shutting the store for a few days. That is around ten thousand or more dollars less for this month. Going means I miss the study period and a final test for a compulsory course in my last year. God knows what that means for my graduation.

No, going means seeing my father off, saying goodbye. Closure, my school counsellor called it once.

“Connection and closure,” she told me in our first session in Year One, “you both need to move on.”

I reply Air Canada and write to my teacher with the tasteless char siu in my mouth. I wash the dishes. I have myself a week in Canada, the last piece of land my father stepped foot on.

I get to the airport three hours early. Check-in and immigration go quickly. It is my first plane ride since the last family trip to Thailand, and the first time I fly alone. A nod at the air hostess who checks my passport, and a nod at the air hostess who points me to my seat. I am on a plane, watching in-flight safety demonstrations.

People around me scroll through their phones, messaging their friends and family. The crew members are pointing to the exits. I grip my arm rests as the plane starts to move. Maybe they are right—–listening won’t make you any safer when the plane can disappear mid-air. Texting your family and friends your last words might be a good use of time.

The plane lurches forward. I shut my eyes and clench my back teeth. My hands slip. “Breathe,” Father puts his massive hand on mine. The calluses and heat tickle the back of my hand. My heart falls to my stomach, sinking close to the end of my spine. I exhale. I’m up in the air.

People start walking up and down the aisle an hour in. The food carts are rolled out. A murmur, then chatter, breaks out. Phones and tablets appear as WiFi becomes available. The girl beside me, her shoes off, legs crossed and her Beats over her hoodie, is texting, her thumbs dancing across the tiny keyboard.

I scroll through my contacts. Almost every name in my contact list is in “first name + course code”. My WhatsApp is occupied by presentation groups.

When my father left, my life was reduced to two locations—–school and home. I was to focus on studying, my mother said. After my mother was gone I took over the shop. Now my life is three stops in a loop—–home to school to shop, then back to home. I eat at Tsui Wah, Sam Gor and Café de Coral. I take the train home at 7:18 pm. Every day is the same.

I open the window screen and look out the window. It’s in complete darkness. 35 thousand feet below me is the North Pacific Ocean. This is what Father felt when he was here. Not much different from how I’ve always felt. I fall asleep with my face on the glass.

Goosebumps protrude from my skin when I step out of the airport. Strands of my hair get into my face. I pull my coat tighter around me.

How I miss my father’s arms and his coat. When Father put his coat on me, my entire body disappeared. I ducked my head behind the collar and breathed in Father’s scent. Father teased me about my size, laughing with his head thrown back, the collar of his shirt exposed in the front, his Adam’s apple going up and down.

I shake my head and flag down a taxi. A black-clad crowd has circled the area before the Air Canada headquarters as I get off. Bouquets circling the base of a statue are the only colours alive. AC001 is now erected in bronze atop of a marble block. Names are etched around the block in gold. Amos Keith Kumail, Anthonia Ting Yiu Chan… I circle the block, back hunched. Tanya Ka Sin Lam, Terry Yin Li… Tim Shing Wu.

Tim Shing Wu.

Air hitches in my throat. My feet take two steps back, dragging. Noise comes at me all at once. Names are called out in English, French, Cantonese, Mandarin and other languages.

I blink hard for a few times and look up.

A woman, her snowy hair falling out of her bun, leans onto her crutch. 「仔呀，翻嚟啦！」(“My son! Come back!”) she says in Cantonese. Her crutch clatters when she falls.「我一早就應該跟埋你去！冇人掛住你㗎啦… … 你老婆要跟佬走，你個仔要跟人姓喇！」 (“I should’ve followed you long ago! No one cares about you anymore… Your wife is leaving for another man! Your son is changing his surname!”)

A few people rush over and pull her back up. There are noticeably fewer people here than the first meeting one week after the flight’s disappearance. My mum would not let me go, but I have seen footages on TV. Now there are around fifty people here. There were 276 people on board.

Have they all moved on? Did the spouses remarry? Did kids get a new parent? Did they grow accustomed?

The old woman is taken aside. Security guards run out from the building with a first-aid kit. Her arms have stopped flailing. Her cries have ceased. The small crowd around her disperse and return to their own families. One security guard pats the woman on the shoulder, another on the phone. She opens her eyes with a moan. She props her elbows up and pushes herself up, inch by inch. Her back on the wall of the building, she stares out into air. Tears slide down the wrinkles of her face and disappear into her black blouse.

Will I end up like her? Will a hand hold me or a shoulder give itself to lean on?

A tap on my shoulder. I turn around. An Asian man in his sixties pushes the bridge of his glasses up. “Hello,” his cheeks seem frozen in a tight smile, “is there any chance your name is Wu Ying Sum?”

I take a step back. “May I ask who you are?”

“Chris. Chris Leung. I am your father’s friend. He came to find me for the bric-a-bracs I got from the flea market here.” He rubs his hands on his slacks and extends his right hand. “I thought I might find you here.”

I slowly pull my hand out of the coat pocket and put my hand in his. He clasps both hands on mine for a few firm shakes. My fingers tingle with the sudden warmth.

“My wife and I have tried to find you, but we only have your father’s phone number. We tried calling our common friends but they have either lost contact with you or changed their numbers…” He turns around, “I’m sorry. We saw the event and just wanted to try our luck. We wanted to see you so much.” He thrust his hands into his pockets. “Would you like to come and meet my wife, too? She is just around the corner. We are having brunch at the café.”

I pull a tight-lipped smile. I follow him, one step behind.

The cafe is on the main street. Its door opens to a narrow hallway that is mostly taken up by the counter, and leads to a quaint area that houses seven to eight tables. The walls are bright yellow. Childlike pictures of the cosmos and cacti are painted onto the table. They glint under the sunlight that shines in through the glass panels, which go from the waist up.

A woman by the window turns around. The man slides into his seat, and pulls out the chair next to him. “This is my wife Annie,” he says, “Annie, this is Tim Shing’s daughter.” The woman’s eyes widen, and her face morphs into a grin.

“You did it!” she says to her husband. She takes my hand and clutches it in hers. Her hand is soft and smooth, as is her face. Her shoulder-length hair is in dark brown waves, the occasional silver strands glowing. A single long hairpin clips up her hair on one side from her ears up. A turquoise gem rests on one end, while copper strands twist into two flowers beneath.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” her eyes search around my face.

“Liena,” I say, “Hello auntie.”

“Oh no, Annie is fine,” she lets go of me. “Order anything. This shop has the biggest breakfast. This is our favourite brunch spot.”

I order the first thing I see on the menu. The waiter returns with a coffee.

“How have you been all these years? It must be difficult for you. We were hoping we would see you here. Is your mum staying in Hong Kong for the shop?” Like her husband, Annie does not need to breathe between sentences.

“I am okay. My mum passed away three years ago.” I stir the coffee in slow circles.

“I am so sorry.” Chris and Annie both stop what they are doing. My eyes are on the black coffee. Theirs must land on the top of my head.

The waiter sets down a large plate and a glass of orange juice. A half slice of orange adorns the glass. I dig into the French toast, omelette, fried potato, sausages, crepe and fruits.

The sound of chewing, swallowing and fork clanging on the plate echo in the small booth. Annie says, “We have always imagined what you looked like. Your father told us you are the cutest girl in the world. You were only as tall as his chest.” She looks at me. “He is right. You are the cutest girl in the world. Only you are much taller now. You must be at his eyebrows.”

I set down my glass of orange juice. I lower my hands under the table. My fingers start pulling on the stray strands on the hem of my sweater sleeves.

“Your father could not stop talking about you,” Chris starts. His baritone is slower, almost quieter. “He said you have your mother’s looks and brains. He said you were lucky you did not get his.” A smile flips on his upper lips. “But he said you have his eye for detail.”

My father took it upon himself to train my “professional” eye since I was a toddler. Like all children, I was stubborn and rebellious. I defied my father on small things. He told me to walk with my head held high to observe people and pick out classy hats, antique hairpins, leather box briefcases and tortoise-rimmed glasses. I insisted on hanging my head low. I stared at the ground. I discovered pennies on the side of pavements and in tufts of grass in tree plots. I looked for anything shiny on the ground. I still walk with my head low.

“He thought too highly of me,” I say, my eyes fixed on the spines of the huge cactus drawn on the table. “I wasn’t a very obedient child.”

“But your father loved you all the same,” Annie pats the back of my hand.

“I truly had not seen your father prouder,” Chris says, “not even when he first opened his shop, or when he talked about his business.”

“We don’t have any children. He made us so jealous that we almost tried to have one.”

I can’t help but smile. I have never heard Father talking to anyone else about me.

“Have you taken over the business now? You must be good at what you do,” Annie said.

I tell them that I am in my last year of university and am still holding up the business. I have been toying around the idea of selling the shop and getting a job in the government. The shop is not doing very well.

“Do you have time to go out with your friends though? I mean you are always at school, at work or at home,” Chris says.

“I don’t have a lot of friends I need to make time for.” I don’t have any friends I need to make time for.

The couple look at each other.

“Do you know how we become friends with your father?” Chris asks.

“I thought you met through work?”

“Well, yes. Your father was always on his own. We started talking once I went over and sat with him for lunch.”

The father I know was always chatting—–with Mrs. Lee from the knitting shop next door, Mr. Chan the security guard, our old neighbour the Yeung’s.

“He was very much an introvert. It takes having lunch together for a whole month for us to become friends. Only then did I realise he never shut up once he started talking!” Chris says.

“It took just as long for me to become his friend,” Annie says, “I was working as an accountant at the office on the construction site. Chris introduced us.”

“We got your father to start talking to others. We forced him to approach other workers for lunch,” Annie says, “Conversations always start and flow with a good meal.”

I look down at my empty plate, and laugh a little.

“You are more like your father’s daughter then you think,” Chris says.

We leave the restaurant three refills later. The crowd in front of the AC001 statue has subsided.

“You sure you don’t want to stay at our place?” Annie says.

“Thank you so much but I’ve already booked a hotel nearby,” I pull at the hem of my coat as I adjust my heavy backpack.

“Go eat at the places that I’ve just told you. The smoke-meat sandwich at Schwartz’s Deli is a must-try, but go at five if you want to avoid the line,” Chris says.

“Well, call us if there’s anything you need,” Annie puts her hands on my shoulders. “You have grown up so well. Both your father and your mother would be so proud of you.” She tilts her head up and blinks in the sun.

“Thank you so much. Not just for the meal, but for thinking of me for the last decade,” I say. “I will stay in touch.”

The couple turns around.

“Annie!” I take a few steps forward. Annie turns. The turquoise gem emanates a faint halo under the 3:30 pm light.

“Your hairpin,” I say, “it’s a really beautiful piece.”

A smile grows on her face, from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks. Her hands go up to her hair and she pulls the pin off slowly.

“Oh no I don’t mean it like that—–” my hands move frantically before me.

“You truly do have your father’s eye and taste.” Her voice rises at the end of her sentence. She combs my hair with her hands and clip up my hair. I feel the weight of the pin residing on the right of my skull. Warmth spreads from my head to my sole, tingling all the way.

“This is from your father when he last visited,” she pats my head, “Now this is yours.”

The couple turns around once more and disappears around the corner.

I walk towards the AC001 statue once more. My woollen socks scratch against the back of my feet. The short leather boots feels heavier. The earth is firmly at my feet.

The flowers are still here, surrounding the statue in a bright ring. The old lady is gone.

I stop in front of “Tim Shing Wu”.

My hand goes up to the hairpin. The intricate design tickles my fingertips, just like my father’s calluses.

“I love you, Father,” I say. I will study hard for the finals. I will fight to keep your shop open as long as I can. I will try to open up to others.

I take out my phone and open the WhatsApp group at the top. “Free for lunch before presentation next Friday? XD” I type. I double-check for typos before I hit send.

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