In heaven there is the smart and resilient nine-headed mythical phoenix; and on earth, there are the people of Hubei
JANUARY 28, 2020, EARLY MORNING
“Hello, Mrs. Fong! Did you get all the food we ordered?” A woman’s high-pitched voice cuts through my window.
“I didn’t get any meat, but I got your eggs.” I recognize Mrs. Fong’s husky voice.
With my eyes still shut, I try to go back to my dream. I was enjoying hot dry noodles, which were generously coated with black sesame sauce and flavored with pickled vegetables and chives, while Mother stood behind me, combing my hair.
“Thanks, Mrs. Fong. Here comes our basket,” the same voice calls out.
“Okay. I will put the eggs on top of your vegetables,” says Mrs. Fong.
I open my eyes, still feeling the warmth of Mother’s hand on my head. Will Aunty find a way to get inside today? For the last four days, she has been bringing me food, but I want more than just talking to her through a fence.
“Slowly, slowly. Next time, attach the rope to both sides of your basket so it will be more stable,” says Mrs. Fong.
“I don’t have any more rope. Can you get me some?” asks the woman.
I look at the time on my phone—7:30 AM. I take a deep breath and kick off my cover, fighting the temptation to snuggle underneath the warm comforter again. Shivering, I quickly put on a sweater, slip on a pair of under-leggings and jeans, and run out to the balcony.
I cast my eyes downward at the makeshift gate set up at the right corner of the courtyard, between Buildings Two and Ten. Two tall, skinny men wearing blue masks and black uniforms guard the entrance. One has a blue cap on, while the other exposes his bald head. They stand side by side like a pair of chopsticks with one missing its top. How long are they going to lock us in?
Thunder rumbles in the distance. A line of black-headed seagulls drifts toward the Yangtze River, where rays of sunlight are visible. Is the one leading at the front the father bird? How lucky they are that their father doesn’t have to go to work. Even though Father still calls and texts me every day, I haven’t seen him for five days. When I ask when he will come home, he says he isn’t sure but hopefully soon.
If it weren’t for the virus, the courtyard would be filled with old people practicing Tai Chi, parents dragging their kids to school, and delivery people weaving through the crowd, carrying big bags of rice and packages. Now only two ladies are there, wrapped in disposable yellow raincoats, homemade plastic face shields, and surgical masks. I immediately recognize Mrs. Li’s signature pink scarf and Mrs. Fong’s one-of-a-kind embroidered dragon loafers, which I’ve only seen at the night market.
They are filling a bamboo basket with green onions, cabbage, and carrots from the boxes stacked around the rainbow bench right outside the playground. How did they get ahold of all this food when the stores are empty? The last time I looked at the neighborhood WeChat group, it was flooded with messages about ordering food, and I logged off right away.
A bamboo basket floats up past our balcony. I stick my head out and see that other neighbors are also watching the wobbling basket in the air.
“Be careful!” shouts Mrs. Fong.
“Where are my noodles and soy sauce?” a hoarse voice demands.
Without looking, I know it’s Mr. Chen, who lives on the top third floor. Some neighbors call him Grumpy Chen behind his back. One time, I saw him confront Piano Girl’s mother on the stairs.
“When your daughter plays piano, I can feel my bed shaking. What bad luck I have to live above you.”
Piano Girl’s mother acted as though she didn’t hear him and kept walking. I bet that wasn’t the first time he had complained to her. Now that I think about it, I haven’t heard Piano Girl playing since the start of quarantine.
“Mr. Chen, I put your order in the basket. Let me know if you need anything else,” Mrs. Fong says in her cheerful voice.
“Fine, but I want to pick up my own food. When can I shop for myself?”
“I don’t know, but it’s for everyone’s safety that you stay at home,” says Mrs. Fong. “Just let me know what you need.”
Mr. Chen grumbles in response. I can’t make out what he said, but I’m sure it was nothing pleasant.
Mrs. Fong now squints at a piece of paper and reads it aloud. “Mr. Wong, Building Five, Unit Three: one pound of daikon, two pounds of lotus roots, one dozen eggs, one package of noodles . . .”
“Yes, yes.” The old couple who lives in the apartment next to us lowers a blue plastic basket from their balcony.
“I will lift it up and you can start pulling.” Mrs. Fong puts a stuffed plastic bag in their basket and extends her hands above her head.
Slowly, the basket lifts from her hands, passes the garage door, and swims in the air. Suddenly, it tilts. Daikon, lotus roots, and potatoes rain down. Mrs. Fong sidesteps to avoid the falling produce, but stumbles to the ground. Gasps and mutterings break out.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Fong?”
“Are you hurt, Mrs. Fong?”
“Did the rope slip?”
I run back inside, grab my N95 mask and coat, and hurry down the stairs. When I get to the courtyard, Mrs. Fong is leaning on a stack of boxes, massaging her back with both hands. Mrs. Li is dusting her off.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Fong?” I ask.
Mrs. Fong’s eyes widen when she sees me. “Oye, Mei! What are you doing here? Do you need any food?” She grabs a bag of instant noodles from one of the boxes.
“No, I don’t need any food. I came to help.”
“It’s dangerous outside. Go home!”
“Don’t worry. I have a good mask on!”
I run around to collect the spilled vegetables from the ground. When I turn to put them into the basket, I almost bump into someone.
“Hello, Mei.” It’s Piano Girl, holding an armful of fallen vegetables.
“Hello—” My mind blanks. She has always been Piano Girl in my head.
“Juan, my name is Juan,” she says behind her N95 mask, blinking her big, round eyes.
“Hi, Juan,” I mumble, embarrassed I couldn’t greet her by name.
“I thought you could use some help here.” She bends down and picks a bruised potato off the ground. Her long blunt-cut hair swings behind her yellow knee-length puffer jacket.
Mrs. Fong brings over a few fresh daikon and lotus roots to replace the bruised ones in the old couple’s basket.
“It’s okay! It’s okay! We don’t mind,” the old lady calls down.
“Don’t worry, I will take the damaged ones home and cook them today,” says Mrs. Fong.
I look at the lotus root in Mrs. Fong’s arms. It has broken into three pieces and is coated with dust. Can she really eat that? Not wanting her to risk another injury, I grab the basket and try to lift it up. It’s heavy.
“Mei, wait a minute!” says Juan.
I rest the basket on my hip and give her a surprised look. Juan knots the top of the plastic bag and then ties it onto the basket’s handles.
“Even if the basket tilts again, the food won’t spill out,” she says, and her eyes crinkle into a smile. Was she always so smart? Why didn’t I think of that?
Juan helps me lift the basket. We watch intently until the old couple pulls it over their balcony.
“Mei!” Mrs. Fong calls, still squinting at the list.
“Yes?” I walk over.
“I left in a hurry this morning and forgot my reading glasses!”
“I can read it for you.”
“Thank you!” Mrs. Fong hands me the wrinkled handwritten list.
I read aloud while they divide the groceries into plastic bags.
“Building Six, Unit Two: one dozen eggs, two pounds of cabbage, one packet of instant noodles . . .”
After the mishap, the deliveries run smoothly. We are almost finished when a lady wrapped in a red raincoat runs toward us. Her mask, made from a big water bottle, bounces up and down despite her grasping it with both hands. I’ve seen this lady walk around with Mrs. Fong in the neighborhood before, carrying a little white dog in her arms. She must be another neighborhood committee member.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Fong.” She sounds like a little kid who has done something wrong. “My husband said it’s dangerous and didn’t want me to come. We fought for hours. I finally got a chance to leave when he took a nap.”
“Hello, Mrs. Wang,” says Mrs. Fong. “Don’t worry. My daughter says as long as we wear a mask and don’t get too close to each other, we should be safe.”
Mrs. Li chimes in, “We are almost done here today. Quarantine only started five days ago. People still have food at home, but we will get a lot of orders soon. We’ll need your help.”
“Can we count on you, Mrs. Wang?” asks Mrs. Fong.
“I came here to tell you that I want to help, but my husband won’t allow it. I am so sorry . . .” Mrs. Wang strides away with her shoulders sunk.
I always thought the best part of being a grown-up is that you can do whatever you want. Why would Mrs. Wang let her husband tell her what to do?
“I can help!” I cut in.
“Me too. Mei and I can set up a WeChat shopping group,” Juan offers. “It’ll help manage the increased orders.”
“Thank you, girls!” says Mrs. Fong. “We could really use the help, especially since we just lost a member.”
Mrs. Li turns to Juan. “Have you heard from your father yet?”
Juan shakes her head. “Not yet.”
For a brief second, I spot sadness in her eyes. I remember the sobbing and door slamming on the first day of lockdown.
“Is your mother still working at the mayor’s office?” Mrs. Li asks.
“Yes, she is very busy.”
Mrs. Fong turns toward us, holding two bags of food. “You girls take this.”
Juan takes a step back. “No, thank you. I still have shrimp crackers at home.”
Shrimp crackers? Is that what she likes to eat? Mother discouraged me from eating packaged foods since I was little. She said they were loaded with unhealthy fat and high in sodium.
I wave goodbye and say, “No thank you. My father brought me a lot of food.”
The minute I get home, I search online for how to set up a shopping group on WeChat. Juan may be smart, but I can figure it out too. It surprises me how much discussion there is about getting food and setting up shopping groups. People have posted videos of empty stores all over the city. Where is the neighborhood committee getting groceries from? Is the city going to supply the food?
To my delight, it’s easy to set up a WeChat shopping group. I even figure out how to set it up so members can send electronic payments directly to the neighborhood committee’s account.
Afterward, I log in to Chop Chop and select single-player mode to advance my ranking. It took me months to earn five hundred rank points and become a one-star chef. I had to master the basic knife skills and learn how to properly wash and chop vegetables. When I let the boys use my hard-earned special cooking equipment, they bicker with me less.
To gain another star, I have to precisely julienne vegetables by cutting them into perfect matchstick size. To do so, my hands have to click the mouse, Control + C, and space bar at the same time. My fingers become so twisted, it feels like I’m playing a piano piece that I can’t master.
I dream that one day I’ll join the small group of five-star elite players. It might take me years, but I’ll keep trying like Juan has done with piano.
“Food, food, Chinese food! Wok, wok, iron wok. Stir, stir, stir-fry!”
I look at the screen on my phone. My heart skips a beat.
“Ming!” I shout into the phone. “Where have you been? How is Grandma?”