Page 6 of Well, That Was Unexpected

“This is kidnapping,” I say for the millionth time.

Mama snorts. “Oh, Sharlot, you so funny.”

Usually, I’m not bothered by her broken English—it’s so mildly broken it’s more like a crack here and there. But now, I’m in the mood to be annoyed by everything Mama does, so I snap, “Sharlot, youareso funny. Not ‘you so funny.’ ”

Her lips close and thin, and my chest squeezes guiltily. That was a low blow. Mama had immigrated to the States from Indonesia when she was seventeen and taught herself how to speaklike an American by taping and rewatchingAlly McBealandThe X Files.It’s a marvel how good her English is. I doubt I could do the same if I were plopped into a foreign country as a teenager. Which is exactly what she’s doing to me now, I remind myself. She’s completely ruining my life and she deserves all the petty jabs I have to give.

Still, I grit my teeth and grind out a small “Sorry.”

Mama doesn’t say anything, but her chest falls slightly as she releases the breath she’s been holding.

“But, Ma, surely you see how craz—how you’re overreacting? I mean, what about your job? Didn’t you say you just landed that huge client at the firm?”

“I spoke with the partners. I can do most of the work online, and what I can’t do in person will be handled by Gregory.”

“Oh god, Gregory? You’ve been bitching for years about him and how he’s always coming after your position.”

“Yes, and this should show you how much I’m sacrificing for your sake, Sharlot,” she hisses.

“But you don’t have to sacrifice anything for me! I swear, nothing was about to happen with Bradley. I was just—” Tears sting my eyes at the memory of my catastrophic foray into sex. How terrible it was and how much worse getting caught by my mother made it. I was so incredibly humiliated that I preemptively broke up with Bradley. He was confused, and who can blame him? He asked me what he did wrong, which made it even worse because of course he’d done nothing wrong. It was all me. But when I said those words: “It’s not you, it’s me,” they felt like a stupid cliché.

And now, three days after the most humiliating event of my life, Mama has completely lost her shit and is whisking me off to Indo-freaking-nesia. I pointed out to her that I should take malaria medicine for days before the trip, and she smugly told me I’m up-to-date with my vaccinations. Argh, of course I am. Ever since I was a kid, Mama has been insistent on making sure she and I have every vaccination we need to travel to Indonesia. Malaria, hepatitis A and B, typhoid fever, and rabies. I used to think it was just paranoia on her part, but now I’m wondering if she meant to spring this trip on me all along.

What even is there inIndonesia? It’s not like Singapore, land of Crazy Rich Asians, all glitz and glamour. I mean, no offense to my own mother’s culture, but when I think of Indonesia, I think of, like—well, this is going to sound completely awful, but I think of, um,National Geographic–style huts. Which I know is probably not what it’s actually like. I hope. I don’t know. Everything I hurriedly looked up sounds bad. BBC has a bunch of articles on Indonesia, mostly about how its capital, Jakarta, is sinking. It’s also got photos of really sad-looking slums and flood after flood. What a miserable place. And I know how ignorant it makes me sound, but case in point: In all of my seventeen years of living, Mama has never taken me back to Jakarta. And now, she’s taking me back as punishment. Even my own mother, who was born and raised in Jakarta, sees the place as purgatory.

“We are not going to discuss anymore,” Mama says. “We spend summer in Jakarta, that’s it.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

Mama’s gaze hits me like a hot laser beam.

“This is exactly why we need to go back,” she says. “You become too Americanized. Too loose with everything. Your words. Your body.”

The way she says “your body” makes it almost shameful, like I wasn’t supposed to have one. “Wow, here we go with the slut-shaming.”

“I not slut—” Mama catches herself and takes a sharp inhale. She lowers her voice a notch. “I not saying you cannot ever have sex, Sharlot. You can. But not yet. Not now. You still so young! You’re only seventeen!”

Is it my imagination, or did her voice quaver then, just a little?

But when she next speaks, it’s turned back to steel. “My job as your mother is keep you safe, show you how to—how to jadi orang.”

Jadi orang.Those two words have plagued me ever since I can remember. I think they’re supposed to mean “make it,” but the direct translation is “become a person,” which I hate. As though kids aren’t people. As though we need to jump through hoops and cater to the whims of our elders in order to become a legit human being.

“I know you hate to be reminded of it, but I am actually a person in my own right already.”

Mama huffs with impatience. “Aduh, Sharlot, why you must be so difficult? Of course I’m not saying you are not a person. I’m saying…” She gestures with frustration, trying to pluck the right words out of her head, and I take some pleasure in watching her struggle. “I’m saying you need to learn how to bean adult. Sudah. No more discussion.” And she yanks her sleep mask down over her eyes and leans back in her seat, pretending to fall asleep. She’s so committed to acting like she’s sleeping that she doesn’t stir even when an air attendant starts serving us snacks and drinks. The attendant places a cup of iced water on Mama’s tray, and I sit there fuming, watching the ice melt, each minute a reminder that I’m being carried far, far away from the only home I’ve ever known.

Okay, so as it turns out, Jakarta has a really nice, modern airport. Who would’ve thunk it? In fact, the Jakarta airport is so shiny and modern that it kind of makes LAX look like a dump. I mean, more of a dump than it already is.

Of course, I can’t let Mama see how impressed I am with the stupid airport, so I’m careful to keep my expression a curated mix of bored/unimpressed/pissed off. All the way through the long lines at customs and waiting around for our luggage, Mama and I don’t say anything. Silent treatment it is. Only thing is, I can’t tell which of us is giving the silent treatment and which one is receiving it, and it’s not like I can ask. Mama’s passive aggression is of legendary level. If I were to come out and ask her point-blank whether she’s giving me the silent treatment, she’d give me a surprised, innocent look and be like “What you talking about? I thought we were being quiet because we both meditating.” And then somehow, I’d be the petty one of the two of us. Story of my life.

Finally, our bags arrive and Mama and I drag them toward the exit, where huge throngs of people are waiting. Though we’re still inside the airport, the constantly open gates allow the humid heat to waft in, and suddenly, I’m sweating like crazy in my light cardigan. I start to take it off, but I’m aware of how revealing my tank top is compared with everyone else’s outfits, and how my skin is practically neon white in contrast with that of most people around me. I get the overwhelming sense, again, of being very far from home. I wrap an arm around myself and wheel my luggage silently, keeping my head down and following Mama very, very closely.

As we’re about to reach the exit, Mama whips around and says, “Listen, Shar, people here might not be accepting of—” She hesitates, and for a moment, I sense a crack in her usual armor. My mom seems small and young and uncertain. I can practically see her asking herself if bringing me here was the right thing to do. “Just don’t…just…Never mind.”

“Pei! Qing Pei!” Someone from the crowd is calling Mama’s Chinese name, and from the sea of people, a tall, thin man appears. I’m dying to know what Mama was about to tell me, but when I glance over at her, her walls are back in place. I look back at the man. I recognize him vaguely as one of Mama’s many brothers. Despite everything, I find my heart rate rising. This will be the first time I’m meeting a relative in the flesh. I don’t know what happened seventeen years ago, but suffice to say, none of Mama’s relatives have visited us, though not from lack of trying. I’ve overheard phone calls from them asking when’s a good time to visit, and Mama always says, “Oh, not now, I’m so busy at theoffice you know,sobusy. But yes, you must come for a visit when things less hectic, ya?” Problem is, things are never “less hectic,” not when Mama’s involved.

“Qing Li!” Mama rushes over to him and they give each other a really awkward Asian half-hug, then stand there grinning at each other for a few seconds. “Aiya, you shouldn’t have come. I could have taken a Grab.”

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