Pluto Retrograde

The bowl of low-fat cereal sits untouched before Dad while he stretches out his hairy arm, waving around a piece of chicken jerky with as much grace as a grown man in a bathrobe can muster.

If he clucks, or worse, makes kissy noises, I am going to scream.
It is late in the morning. The puppy still hasn’t had his first meal of the day. With his ears pressed flat against his head, his docked tail tucked so tightly it has all but disappeared into the fur on his behind, he inches, step by fearful step, towards my dad.

“Sometimes you have to bribe an animal to get it to like you,” Dad says to me.

“Pluto. He’s called Pluto,” I mutter. I gave him that name because he is grey and very small. The clock strikes eleven. “Dad, it’s time to get ready for work.”

He clenches his jaw, sniffs, pauses, then says, “The only reason I started my own business was so nobody could tell me what to do,” and chucks the piece of jerky onto the floor. Still, he digs into his cereal, and once he is done, slams the spoon onto the table. At the blow of metal on hard wood, Pluto dashes out of the dining room.

Fung Tse, the maid, then enters with a towel and a broom to clean up after Dad’s mess. When he has gone into the bathroom, she turns to me and asks, “You doing alright after last night, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.” Underneath the breakfast table, I crack my knuckles one by one. Instead of the sandwich, I chew at my bottom lip until I taste blood.

Stretched out with my feet dangling off the edge of the sofa, I text Sanhei, “Dad’s left.”

“What a coincidence,” she texts back almost immediately. “I just got here.”

I sit up. And indeed, through the window and behind the gate, Sanhei waves at me with her phone in one hand. In the other, she holds a pink mini fan up to her face.

“You didn’t run into him on your way here, have you?” I ask.

Her gaze drops back onto her phone, her thumb flies across the screen. “So what if I did? Just let me in!!!!!”

The moment I let her in, she kicks off her sneakers, scans the room, and checks beneath the sofa. “Where’s Pluto?” she asks.

“Probably right there.” I point behind me, at the corner next to my piano.

“Oh, there he is!” she exclaims, diving in to ruffle his head. He is scared stiff. “Poor little puppy.”

“Hush, Fung Tse’s still in the kitchen.”

“Right. When do we leave?”

“Just give me a moment. I’ll go grab my things.”

I really should have begun packing last night. My hands shake as I pull my folders and planner, scraps of paper and stationary from my schoolbag, and replace them with a week’s worth of clothing. Five thousand dollars from the stash behind my textbooks goes into my wallet—enough to last me for a few days, maybe. I take out a blue duffel bag from my closet. Pluto will have to travel in it. He’ll probably be able to breathe if I don’t zip the bag all the way through.

I sigh. There is a stillness that comes with early summer, a kind of drowsiness that follows the awakening of spring. This should be the time of year to be reading in bed with the rain pelting against your window. Or sunbathe on the roof, listening to your friends complain about their part-time jobs while Jay Chou croons from your phone. I am sixteen. I shouldn’t have to be dealing with any of this.

I trot lightly past the kitchen, but keen-eared as ever, Fung Tse still manages to catch me.

“Where are you going?” she asks, pouring oil into an already very hot pan. She has her back against me. The roots of her hair, where she has not touched up with box-dyes, look greyer than ever.

“Just to the gym with a few friends.”

“Are you coming back for dinner?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “Sure, of course.”

“Don’t stay out too late! I’m making your favourite, clay pot wonton chicken soup.”

In the living room, Sanhei sits cross-legged on the sofa with Pluto curled up on her lap. “You ready?” she asks.

“Yup.” I gently lift the dog off her and place him in the duffel bag. He stares up at me, dark eyes wide and pleading. I stroke behind his ear, even though the touch offers him little comfort. “You’re sure you can’t just keep him?”

She sighs. “My parents would freak the instant they find out he’s stolen.”
“Can’t you say you found him in a dumpster?”

“You don’t find four-month-old purebreds in a dumpster.”

I press my palm against my forehead.

Sanhei is lacing up her shoes too tightly. She always does, because she skates. On the ice, if your skates are loose, you can twist your ankles. But walking around like that at all times, it’s a wonder her feet haven’t turned blue and fallen off. Or stayed the size they were when she was seven, when she began to skate—the way wealthy women in ancient times had feet as petite as three inches because their moms bound them up in cloth since they were little.

“You’re spacing out,” says Sanhei. “What’s on your mind?”

“Not much. We better get going,” I say, shouldering the two bags. “But don’t you have practice today?”

Sanhei shrugs. “I don’t stand a chance to win this year’s championships anyway.”

I know better than to press the topic.

Shutting the front door behind me, I tell her, “I sent my mom a message last night. She still hasn’t replied.”

“Yanyi, she hasn’t been there for you for years. It’s not like you can trust her to be of any help now.”

“She’s not—” I let out a deep breath. “Fine, plan B it is then?”

At these words, Sanhei’s brows knit together. She nods. “Plan B it is.”

My shoulder is cramping badly by the time I settle onto the backseat of a taxi. Sanhei has offered to carry the bags for me. But it is enough that she has agreed to come along.

She tells the driver to drop us off at the Ap Lei Chau Station.

Jasmine petals are strewn across the dashboard. Thankful that our driver, a grandfatherly man, does not use the kind of air fresheners that smell like a gas leak, I look out the window and watch as the greenery of the suburbs slowly morphs into the grey masses of granites and concretes in the city.

“You girls aren’t skipping class, are you?”

“No, summer holiday started two weeks ago,” says Sanhei.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. My son graduated last year. He’s interning at a big tech company now.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you!” the driver says, soft eyes crinkling with a grin. “Can’t believe it’s so hot out already.”

“I know right.” Sanhei sinks lower into her seat.

“You girls aren’t taking the dog to the shelter, are you?”

She glances over at me with a look of concern. I nod.

“I can drop you off there instead,” he says as the traffic light turns red. “You know, my wife and I used to have a golden retriever. The jolliest thing ever! He kept us going while our son was studying abroad on a full-ride scholarship. But the landlord didn’t like that he barked so much, so we had to give him away. That had to be the saddest day of my life. Is that what it is? Your landlord doesn’t let you keep dogs?”

“No,” I say. “My dad… he beats my dog. I told him to stop but he wouldn’t listen.”

The driver shakes his head. “Dads are like that. The older they are, the more stubborn they get.”

Leaning back, I run my thumb over the side of my brow. I do not say a word.

The shelter is far smaller than I thought it would be. Pushing the door triggers a jingle. Dogs of all shapes and sizes scream-bark their welcome at us. A baby gate is all that prevents these dogs from burying alive us under a mountain of wagging tails.

A pair of hands savagely parts two Labradors in a fight. In the gulf emerges a man that strangely resembles Andy Lau with a beard.

“How can I help you ladies?” he asks.

I am close to tears and at a loss for words. Sanhei kneels down to unzip the duffel bag and speaks in my stead. “We would like to put a puppy up for adoption.”

“Can you give me its details?”

“His name is Pluto. Four months old, male, Schnauzer.”

“Has he been vaccinated?”

Sanhei does not know.

“He’s only gotten one shot,” I say. “He’s going to get the other one next week.”

“Oh.” He puts down his pen to scratch his beard. “Um, we don’t take unvaccinated dogs.”

“Please. We couldn’t housetrain him and my dad started beating him. I don’t know what else I can do.”

“God,” he says, and scratches the other side of his beard. “Look, we can take him now if you can provide us with a vaccination card by tomorrow.”

“Is there another way?”

“I’m truly sorry but that’s for the safety of the other dogs here.” He softens at the sight of the blue duffel bag. “You know, Pluto is a cute dog. If you ask for help online, I’m sure you’d be able to find him a new home real quick.”

I nod. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”

“Wow, off-brand Andy Lau sure is helpful,” Sanhei says, hoisting Pluto onto her shoulder. “So… what now? Do we go home?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I can’t go home,” I repeat. “I can’t lie. Dad’s going to find out what I was trying to do, and God knows what he’d do to me.”

“Let’s not talk in the middle of the road.” She tugs at my arm and starts walking. “What on earth do you mean, you’re not going home? So you’re going to run away now? Wait ‘til Mommy rescues you?”

“I don’t exactly have another option, do I?”

“You can always just apologise. I’m sure he’d understand.”

“Have you been paying attention at all? The whole problem is that he does not listen!”

“Whoa, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.”

“So what’s next? What if your mom doesn’t show up?”

We stop before the MTR station, and next to it, stands an off-white, no-nonsense structure. I squint against the midday glare to make out the words on the sign: “Bridal House Hotel.”

“Well, there’s our answer.”

The motel has single rooms with no windows. For one of those, I can afford one week, if I budget in food and miscellaneous items as well. I have prepared a whole speech about having left my ID at home, but the receptionist never asks for it. She leads us to the lift, which then rumbles as it scales to the eleventh floor.

It’s quiet at this hour. The ceiling lights are all off, or malfunctioning, the hallway illuminated only by a square window at one end. The soles of my boots crunch with chips of white paint that litter the floor.

We arrive at Room 1108, and it does have a window, framed by orange, gauzy curtains and facing nothing but a red brick wall. On the windowsill, there are even some plastic daisies, lit up by a single lamp above. Two single beds lie on either side of the room. A pervasive smell of must lingers in the air.

The door clicks shut, and the whole world falls away behind us.

Sanhei unzips the duffel bag in the bathroom and lets Pluto do his business in there. Neither of us knows how to do anything about the powerful A/C that is putting our room in arctic conditions, but the cold feels wonderful compared to the weather outside. While tea boils in the electric kettle, we slide under the covers in our respective beds, dim the lights, and listen to Welcome to Night Vale on my laptop. Pluto comes out of the bathroom, and I let him rest beside me on the bed.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s fine.”

“If you leave now, you can still make practice, I think.”

Sanhei pulls out her phone and checks. The room glows white, and goes dark again.

“You’re right, but I can stay here for a bit.”

“Thanks.”

“For staying? I just need to take a quick nap.”

“For being here today.”

“You’ve already thanked me this morning.”

“No, I have not.”

“Fine. You’re welcome.”

There is a tap on my shoulder.

“Five more minutes,” I mumble.

“I have to go now. You need to call me if anything comes up.”

I lift the pillow off my face. “How’s calling you going to help? We’re both just dumb teenagers.”

“Just promise me. I’ll figure something out.”

“Alright, I promise.” It’s close to four o’clock now, and my phone battery is down to fifteen percent. “Now go! You can’t be late for practice.”

She picks up Pluto and plants kisses all over his snout. “‘Kay, bye.”

On my laptop, Cecil Palmer speaks of glow clouds and faceless old women on his radio show. There is no day, or night, or time. No horrible dads, no absentee moms. Just me and Pluto and fake daisies over a fake windowsill.

A woman from Italy has arrived in Night Vale when Pluto climbs onto my tummy, and with a yawn, rests his fluffy head just on the crook of my arm. I rub behind his ear, and he stares at me with eyes that seem to know more than he lets on, until sleep wins out. I tuck him in with only one maneuverable hand, then nuzzle deeper into the duvet myself.

My phone pings. And pings. And pings five times over.

I sit up and unlock my phone. It’s only now found the smallest of internet signal.

The first message is from Sanhei. An unsettlingly close-up photo of her face, captioned with: “toe cramps!”

Two messages from Dad: “Where are you and Pluto?” and “If you don’t come home by morning, I’m calling the cops.”

Several messages from Fung Tse.

“Come home, we have wonton and soup.”

Then, “Please come home. We’re all very worried about you.”

A few hours later, “Look. Dad built this. We can train Pluto, it’ll be easy.” She attached with the message a photo of a makeshift playpen laid with pee pads.

I fling my phone onto the bed and scream into the pillow.

Eason Chan blares from my phone. I have no recollection of setting that ringtone. Sanhei probably did that when I was not looking.

“Who the f—”

It’s Mom.

“Hello?”

“Yanyi, is that you?” The familiar, soothing voice, still retaining a hint of an accent, strikes me in a way I have not anticipated.

Maybe it’s the crying spell that I have been plagued by in the past few days, or maybe it’s hearing my mother’s voice, outside of the occasional email, for the first time in years. I am choking back tears as I answer, “It’s me, I’m here. I’m here.”

Well, it’s over now. Pluto and I are both famished, him in the duffel bag, and me on a stool at a restaurant downstairs. The ramen takes ages to arrive. I have given Mom my address, and she will arrive with Dad, and they will both be mad and disappointed. Why am I always so impulsive? I have been so caught up in this idea that I am some storybook hero, and my dad a big bad villain, and look where that has gotten me. I am at a restaurant with greasy chopsticks, and my mom, who doesn’t even want anything to do with me, is now coming over to personally tell me what a failure I am. I kind of hate myself sometimes.

Mom saunters in, glowering. Dad isn’t there with her. She looks way less tense than I remembered. It is the way that she carries herself. This is not a woman that has to pay attention to her husband’s mood when he comes home every evening, to know how she should behave around him. She is wearing jeans and a shirt with incomprehensible English scrawled across it, and she has her hair up in a braid. She never used to have her hair up.

Her eyes well up as they settle on mine. She holds me close, and smells of roses.

“Honey, I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. Now, what on earth have you gotten yourself into?”

Mom lives in So Uk Estate. I did not know that. Neither of us says anything on the taxi. Mom sighs a lot. Pluto is carsick midway through the ride, and we have to walk the last few blocks there. She doesn’t protest when I insist on paying for the trip.

Her apartment is about the size of my bedroom. Above the couch is a mural of crayon and watercolour doodles that both her boys have done. The place is quaint in a way that would in fact look quite nice if anyone had bothered to tidy it up. Against another wall is a baby grand piano. She used to say that I could play the piano before I could talk. Her kids probably play the piano better than I. Both of them and the dad are at a summer camp in Wu Kai Sha. She would have been there too, had I not messed everything up.

Since their births, she had mentioned them in every single one of her emails. I had spaced out my responses until we hardly talked anymore. Now, looking at the photos on the walls and shelves, the genuine joy that emanates from every frame, part of me wishes I had not gotten out of touch with Mom at all.

She tells me that Pluto could roam around the living room, so I let him out, but he stays in the duffel bag with ears pinned back against his head. She pours me a cup of Ovaltine mixed with Horlicks—the drink that used to calm me down from my worst tantrums—and we sit on the couch.

Between sips of the hot drink, I tell her everything that happened over the past week, since Dad has bought me Pluto as a birthday present. When I am done, she does not say anything, but wraps both my hands in her own. Her landline rings. Dad’s number is on the caller display.

“Please don’t tell him to come,” I say.

“I won’t. But I have to let him know you’re safe here.”

She picks up the phone and goes into the kitchen. I put Pluto on my lap and let him lick the back of my hand.

“I just—” she begins, and places the phone back on the dock. “I did not expect your dad to be such an incompetent father.”

“No, I mean, he is, but Dad loves me very much, in his own way. He’s just misguided.”

“It should never be up to the kid to make up excuses for their parents’ failings. And I admit I haven’t been there for you as much as I should. I… God, I never thought you’d need me, when he could give you everything you could ever ask for with that kind of money.” She pats my knee, and rests her hand there. “Anyways, if you don’t mind, your dad agreed that I should keep the dog, since, in his words, it was the dog that’s making everyone so upset. You can stay in the kids’ room until they return from camp. I have heated up the water. Wash up whenever you’re ready.”

Later that night, Mom tucks me in bed, and I ask if I could live here too, with Pluto. She says she hopes so, but we will figure out the rest tomorrow. She stays with me until I fall asleep, her rosy scent a reminder and a promise of simpler times.