Drawn Up From Deep Places

Snatches glimpsed through the Hell house’s windows, fragments of sorrowful revelry: the Po family’s getai, already at its halfway point. Jin caught flashes of light and moving color, a community centre banquet hall full of neighbours, relatives, tourists all clustered around tables set with lazy Susans, stuffing themselves with Taoist Association food offerings the ghosts had supposedly already “fed” on. Earlier in the evening, there would have been an auction of auspicious items—more feng shui stuff, some donated by Ah-Ma, some by other Gods Material shopkeepers—with all the proceeds collected in one common public purse, to cover next Hungry Ghost Month’s expenses.

Ghosts like a party, Ah-Ma told Jin, this time last year. So we use that, to bribe them to stay out of our affairs—we get to eat and dance, they get to watch. Not such a good bargain, on their part. But—

(better than Hell)

The red silk hangings flapped, as Mingshi pulled her ever-further into his warm, strong, inescapable embrace; apparently, it was opera time now, the classic aria from Bawang Bie Ji rising and falling in mournful ecstasy, as Yu Ji expressed her fatal loyalty to the king of the state of Chu . . . and yet this too was already dying away, somehow, time skipping a beat to admit a steady stream of ringing gongs, droning scripture, Mrs. Po’s weeping. Even clutched to Mingshi’s chest, his heart pounding quick in her ear, Jin could hear the Taoist master praying out loud as he waved a fistful of lit joss, his other hand simultaneously touching an open flame to the sheaves of Hell money which fringed the Hell house’s roof and walls: May this house be a home for Po Ching-hsia, her life continue uninterrupted, may she live there happily, with her new friend, and never again be lonely . . .

(She took her own life, that girl, you know, Ah-Ma whispered, in Jin’s brain. Ai-yaaah, the shame—such a pity, for one so young, so rich, so full of promise. Her poor family! She was only just your own age, Jin-ah . . . )

But: “Don’t listen, Jin-ah,” Mingshi said, at the same time—a sudden catch in his too-beautiful voice, like he’d been crying. “Don’t look, not at them. They don’t have anything you need. Look only at me, at me . . . ”

The smoke filled her nose, her throat, her eyes, making her cough and weep. Had the Hell house always been so small? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t think.

Look away, mei mei, Mrs. Yau’s tiny buzzing voice said then, quiet, yet loud enough to drown out everything else. Look back outside, no matter how he begs you. See how things really are.

Jin listened; she couldn’t help it. She looked—

(only at ME, oh no)

—and saw the whole first row of chairs, seating strictly reserved for ghosts, occupied by the same people her eyes had

scudded over all day, along with many more she’d never seen before: the little girl with her plushie, the crazy man—a woman her Ah-Ma’s age, in a flowered dress with yellow sweat-stains down both sides from armpit to waist, who scowled hatefully at Jin as she hugged a double load of tattered plastic shopping bags crammed with rags to her breasts, balancing them on her ample lap. A perfect anime-character teenager in private school uniform and Japanese loose socks, violet-streaked hair in two bouncy pigtails, who held up her spectral cellphone to snap a photo of the Hell house as it brightened, blackened, began to crisp and fold. All sat there staring, rapt and ravenous, waiting to see her burn.

They want me dead, like them, Jin thought, horrified. Then looked Mingshi straight in the eyes, equally appalled by what she’d finally caught looking back at her, and blurted out loud—

“You want me dead, too. Don’t you?”

Mingshi shook his head. “No, never. I love you, flower.”

“But . . . you’re not even real. You’re . . . ”

(His perfect teeth shifting askew in that kissable mouth, even as she watched; perfect hair already fire-touched, sending up sparks. His face, far too gorgeous to be true, a mere compilation of every Clearasil ad, every music video, every doll Jin’d ever owned, or coveted.)

“ . . . made of paper.”

His face crumpled, literally. He knew she knew, and she knew it. Pleading with her shamelessly, in that dreadful, broken voice—

“Oh no, oh please . . . stay with me, Jin . . . come with me. I don’t know that girl, Po Chin-hsia. She’s nothing to me; we’re nothing to each other. Hell is such a dreadful place—I don’t want to go there alone, not after having met you. I’m afraid . . . ”

Which was good to hear, Jin supposed, given everything he’d put her through, but not quite good enough. Not nearly.

So: “I’m sorry,” was all Jin could find to say, as she stood up—

—only to find herself abruptly full-size again, bigger than the Hell house itself, ripping back out of it in one not-so-smooth move: a shattered plaster cast, a husk, a shell—a burning birthday cake, and her some soot-covered stripper. The pain was immediate, all over, fifty torn Band-Aids at once; she could see half of her own hair already hanging chunk-charred, one arm of her shirt still smoldering, as she stumbled off the stage, cleared the front row (ghosts melting back from her on every side in a wave of angry regret, hissing like rainy night arson) and ran straight into her shell-shocked parents’ open arms.

Weirdly, Ah-Ma was the only one who thought to grab a pitcher from the nearest table and soak her with it. Ma just hugged Jin tight, holding on for dear life, while Ba just stood there, mouth open.

“Wo cao!” he blurted, finally. Ah-Ma immediately rapped him hard on the side of the head, snapping—

“Waaah, on gau, filthy-mouth man! Look at the house, ruined, totally useless—the Po family will run us out of town.” She turned to Jin, voice full of a mixture of worry and anger. “And you, what were you doing in there? Playing a silly trick in the middle of Ghost Month? Mahn chun yoh yeuk yee! You think we’re made of money? Who’s going to pay for all this?”

“I think we should probably go, while they’re still distracted,” said Ma. Adding, pointedly, to Ah-Ma: “Unless you want it to be you.”

Ah-Ma looked at Ba, who nodded; Ah-Ma snorted, and rolled her eyes.

“You are all against me,” she said, with great, despairing dignity. And suddenly hugged Jin as well, without any warning—so hard, so fiercely, Jin almost thought both their arms were going to break.

***