Jumping like ants in a hot wok
JANUARY 23, 2020, EARLY MORNING
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzz!
My body lurches forward. Are ambulances coming? I open my eyes. Outside, it’s still dark and gloomy. The wind roars and raindrops pitter-patter on the balcony. Pellets hit the window ledge and strike the panes.
I was dreaming of ambulances charging into our courtyard.
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzz!
I feel around my nightstand until my hand lands on my fried egg alarm clock, a gift from Aunty.
Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzzzz!
I press the snooze button in the middle, but the buzzing sound continues. It’s coming from my phone. Is Ming finally calling me back? I squint at the blinding screen to let my eyes adjust to its brightness. It’s not a call. It’s an . . . alert?
Public Safety Alert!
In response to the outbreak of the new coronavirus, Wuhan Municipal Epidemic Prevention and Control Headquarters has officially decided to close the city. At 10:00 AM, the city will suspend its buses, subways, ferries, and all long-distance transportation systems. At 2:00 PM, all highways, airports, and railway stations will be temporarily closed. Unless under special circumstances, nobody will be allowed to travel in or out of Wuhan.
All schools, offices, and shops will be closed. All residents should stay at home. Masks are required for going outside, and spitting is prohibited.
The Center for Disease Control and Prevention
I rub my groggy eyes and read it again. What does “close the city” mean? How many people have gotten the virus? Do all those patients in Father’s hospital have it? Is that why he hasn’t been able to come home? Will a mask and hazmat suit be enough to protect him? I slip back underneath the warm comforter and text Father.
Mei:
Dad, did you see the alert? When are you coming home? I’m worried.
I read the alert a third time. How long are they going to shut down the city? Father always says Wuhan, as the capital of the province, is like a human heart—all the blood travels through it. If the heart stops, what will happen to the rest of the Hubei province? How I wish Mother were here to answer my questions. Should I call Aunty? She would know what to do. I look at the time on my phone—2:02 AM.
I sigh. Aunty hates being woken up, and besides, she silences her phone at night. There’s nothing I can do now. I just have to wait for her to come tomorrow.
I wake up to a blast of car horns, shouting, doors slamming, and suitcase wheels rolling. I jump out of bed and run to the window. People rush in and out of the buildings that surround the courtyard, dragging suitcases and large bags with them. A torn red Chinese New Year couplet dances in the wind along with yellow hand-shaped leaves. A plastic take-out bag with a Double Happy logo flaps on a branch of the camphor tree next to the playground.
Thoughts race through my mind. Why hasn’t Father gotten back to me? I send him another text. Will Aunty still be able to come today? She and Mother always had their ways of putting me at ease—Mother by listening and comforting me, Aunty by giving me a solution. I need to tidy up the apartment. Aunty hates mess. Maybe I should cook something for her. That always makes her happy.
CRASH!
My head jerks upward. It sounds like something shattered upstairs. A woman’s screams and a man’s shouts echo loudly.
BANG!
A door slams shut.
All is quiet and then—a woman sobs. Is Piano Girl fighting with her parents? It can’t be. Whenever we pass each other on the stairs, she looks so perfect and composed that I avoid making eye contact with her. It has to be her parents arguing. Maybe her life isn’t so sunny after all. The thought oddly pleases me, but guilt quickly sets in. She has never done anything to hurt me besides being perfect. The sobbing upstairs stops and all is quiet again.
I go to the kitchen and plan what to cook for Aunty. The safety alert says to stay home, which is fine by me, so long as I have food and can play Chop Chop. I remember the packet of calcium sulfate I bought a while ago to make tofu out of soy milk. I bet she will be impressed that I can make tofu from scratch. I open the refrigerator and pull out the carton of soy milk, but it’s almost empty.
I decide to run to the neighborhood store near Double Happy, even though it’s more expensive than the big grocery stores. Hopefully Mrs. Fong won’t see me and tell Father.
I slip my down jacket on, put on my N95 mask, and dash out the door. As I walk through the courtyard, I look at all the closed windows and empty balconies, wondering how many people are fighting like Piano Girl’s parents.
A big mushroom cloud hangs over the hospital as if it might swallow the buildings at any moment. The rain has stopped. I carefully step over puddles gathered in the lower depths of the street. Overnight, the city has transformed into a different world. Men in green uniforms and red armbands direct cars, bicycles, and people who are weighed down by heavy bags and suitcases. The large buses that usually dominate the middle of the street are absent. Has the government already suspended them? Are all these people trying to get out before the city closes down? If Mother were here, would we also try to leave? But where would we go? I bet Mother would have had a plan.
I push my way through the sea of people blocking the sidewalk outside the stores. People rush around in homemade face and body coverings. One woman has tied an orange peel around her face with shoelaces. The man next to her wears a plastic water gallon jug over his head like a scuba diving helmet. The strangest masks are the ones made from underwear, bras, and Halloween masks.
I feel safe with my N95 mask, even though it’s harder to breathe through than those paper-thin ones. I should ask Father if wearing a fruit peel will give me the same protection. If so, I will make one with my favorite fruit, watermelon.
As shocked and nervous as I am, I break out in laughter when I walk by a man who has covered his body with a trash bag and his head with cabbage leaves. He cut two holes for his eyes and one for his mouth, from which a long cigarette sticks out.
I pause to watch two women walk side by side under a large plastic tablecloth draped over an umbrella. They muscle their way through a small bakery door but are pushed out by an old man wearing a mask made from a pink sanitary napkin, juggling armloads of bags out of the store.
Outside Double Happy, Executive Chef Ma is bowing over a big, round table that blocks the sidewalk. It’s piled high with cooking utensils, spices, and bags of noodles. I walk around it and see he is wrapping a familiar-looking blue clay pot with sheets of newspaper. I muster up some cheeriness and greet him.
“Hello, Chef Ma.”
He looks up and stares at me blankly.
A mask made of half a green grapefruit peel is secured around his protruding ears with shoelaces. Does the peel smell as sour as the fruit tastes?
“It’s me, Mei Li, Dr. Wong’s daughter.” Does he not remember me? I feel embarrassed.
“Oh, hello, Mei! Where are you going? Do you need any food? Here, take . . .”
He stops midsentence and turns to three young men who have identical lemon-peel masks on. Two of them are wheeling out trays of dumplings, scallion pancakes, deep-fried meatballs, tofu, and vegetables. The third one is pushing a portable stove.
“Dong, take the fresh produce to the school and put it in the refrigerator right away.” His voice jumps a few octaves. “Tao, leave the stove here. We will move them with the table when the truck gets here.”
He turns back toward me and tilts his chin at the line of people waiting outside the grocery store across the street.
“It may be hard to get food for a while.” He sets the pot down and grabs a bag of scallion pancakes from the table and thrusts it at me. “Take this!”
“No thank you!” I take a step back. “We have a lot of food at home. Are you moving?”
“Not exactly. The city is shutting down all restaurants. We are temporarily moving to Yangtze Middle School.” His eyes squeeze into two triangles and he points in the direction of the market. “We are setting up an emergency kitchen to cook for frontline medical workers.”
“Oh, that’s my school!” I say excitedly. “Can I join you? I can cook . . .”
Chef Ma pulls me aside to make room for a truck pulling up next to us.
“Hurry! It’s illegal for me to park here,” a man shouts, sticking his head out from the driver’s side. “I don’t want to get another ticket!” He pushes up his mask—made from half a black lace bra—and rests his arm on the windowsill.
Chef Ma calls out toward the restaurant, “Everyone, come out to help!”
Someone yells back from inside the restaurant. Chef Ma mutters something under his breath and says to me, “Please take some food. I’ve got to go!” He hurries inside.
“I am fine. Thank you!” I call after him and continue walking.
I recall the unforgettable dish he cooked for us in that clay pot. About two years ago, one night after dinner, he came to our home with a fancy gift bag. He said to Mother, “I took my daughter to so many doctors and spent most of my savings, but no one could help her except you!”
“I’m glad I could help, but I can’t accept your gift,” Mother said softly.
“Oh, please accept our gratitude!” Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
I was surprised that such a short and skinny person could talk so loudly. He sounded like he was about to cry. Father came out from his study holding a medical journal and said, “She is just doing her job. The best reward for our doctors is healing patients.”
I felt sorry for Chef Ma and wished they would make an exception and accept his gift. In the end, Mother made him keep the gift, but agreed to go to Double Happy to taste some of his signature dishes.
The following weekend, we went to the restaurant. Chef Ma came out and greeted us warmly, setting a big clay pot in the middle of the table. Two waiters followed closely behind him, each carrying a big tray loaded with local delicacies. I took in each dish as they placed them before us.
Doupi—sticky rice cooked with roasted beef, dry mushrooms, and pickled vegetables wrapped in a soft skin made of a mixture of green bean powder, flour, and eggs, then pan-fried to crispy golden; steamed Wuchang fish—a local fish steamed with ham, bamboo shoots, and mushrooms, garnished with shredded scallions and ginger; pearl meatballs—steamed meatballs coated with sticky rice; dry-cooked string beans stir-fried with garlic and minced pork. The other diners shot us envious looks.
Finally, Chef Ma removed the cover of the clay pot. The soup was still bubbling and a flowery aroma rose up like a hot spring. I picked up a small piece of lotus root. It tasted tender and starchy, bursting with flavor.
“So good, try it, Mom!” I put a piece into Mother’s bowl.
Mother and I loved the lotus root rib soup so much, we even bought a clay pot to make it ourselves, but ours tasted nothing like Chef Ma’s. After Mother’s death, that dinner frequently appeared in my dreams.
“Watch it, kid!”
My thoughts are interrupted by a woman wearing a large plastic water jug over her head. She almost runs me over with her bicycle. I mutter an apology and push my way through the busy street. Anxious customers cluster outside overcrowded stores while other shop owners are boarding their windows and doors.
Finally, I arrive at my destination. From outside the store, I hear a commotion.