Page 111 of The Pucking Date
LEAKING QI
JESSICA
We creep onto Pell Street and smack into the madness head-on. It’s peak lunchtime and the block is a sensory ambush—honking cars nose-to-bumper, delivery scooters slicing through the gridlock, and vendors yelling prices with the urgency of a fire sale. Dumplings, tiger balm, fortune cats, everything’s on the table and going fast.
The air’s a living thing—garlic, grease, and what I’m pretty sure is boiled lizard. Cantonese and Mandarin bounce off brick walls, layered with Mahjong cackles and the clatter of carts bulldozing over sidewalk cracks.
Mom, Sophie, and I unfold ourselves from the car, elbows and bags jostling for space. Mom adjusts her bag with the same determination she uses before a deposition. Sophie gives me a playful hip-check. “Back in the gauntlet.” Sophie giggles. “Two blocks to Wai Po’s, and I bet that chili oil ambush hasn’t moved since last week.”“
Mom doesn’t flinch. “We don’t dodge. We commit. Hit Canal and don’t stop.”
We plunge into the crowd—tourists gawking atdumpling stacks, old women slapping dead fish onto scales, nurses running takeout back to ER shifts. The street vibrates with motion and steam and urgency. This isn’t a stroll. It’s a tactical operation.
Mom’s eyes sweep over both of us, pausing at my middle, then Sophie’s shoes. “Good. You dressed for the battlefield.”
I glance down—jeans, flats, silk tank, sweater tied at the waist to cover the slight shift I’m pretending isn’t real yet. “Went with ‘functional chic.’ While I can still zip my pants.”
Sophie bumps her shoulder into mine, casual affection and silent backup. “You showed up. That’s the hard part.”
I nod, jaw tight. Because showing up? Costs more than the subway fare. But I came.
We turn onto Mapleglen, where the buildings lean close. Mom points to a familiar brick facade with a carved wood plaque: Chen Family Clinic.
The sight lands soft but deep.
We used to come here on weekends, dropped off with overnight bags while Mom and Dad had their ‘grown-up time.’ We’d spend days barefoot on cool tile floors, sipping soup from mismatched bowls, hair still damp from herbal rinses that made us ‘shine with luck.’ Now we don’t stay over as much, but we still come when we’re in the city. Birthdays. Moon Festival. Whenever she texts Mom a cryptic emoji that means one of us needs a tune-up.
Inside smells of ginger, lilies, and whatever root-based miracle Wai Po’s been steeping since dawn. The world outside—spicy, screechy, relentless—cuts off at the threshold. Here, everything hushes. Light filters through paper screens. Steam curls off copper pots perched on hot plates. A teacup hums somewhere.
Wai Po stands by the entrance, wrapped in a pearl-graysilk blouse, her face smooth but her stare surgical. Calm, but nothing gets past her.
Mom steps forward first. “Mama.”
They exchange a few low words in Mandarin—quiet, familiar, fond. Wai Po reaches to squeeze Mom’s hand, then turns to us. She opens her arms briefly. “Come. Let me look at you.”
We step forward. Sophie gets a quick embrace. I get one too—brisk, but warm, her hands firm at my back before she pulls away and studies my face. She nods once, a queen taking stock. “Sophie. Jessica.”
Then her eyes fix on me, sharp enough to draw blood. “So. This is the one with the runaway heart and the stubborn uterus.”
I blink. “Wow. Coming in hot.”
“Speak Chinese, girl,” she says, already switching. “Your tones are sloppy, but your ears still work.”
“Didn’t expect a diagnosis on the doorstep,” I reply in Mandarin.
Sophie glances between us like she’s watching tennis. “Wait, can you guys speak a little slower? I’m getting whiplash.”
Wai Po waves her off without looking, continuing in Mandarin. “No one’s talking to you. You’re healthy. Jittery. Too much caffeine. Fix it.”
She turns back to me, gaze narrowing. “You haven’t been here in weeks.”
“I—”
“Don’t bother.” Her voice is crisp. “You ran off to Park City, then vanished. You think I wouldn’t notice? Even Adam came by. Brought pastries, too, and that boy’s been on his nutritionist’s leash since the playoffs.”
My mouth dries. “I was going to?—”
“You didn’t.” She tsks. “Because you knew what I’d see.”
