Tiger Girl by May-lee Chai Read Free Book Online

shirts, and a couple of blazers hung in his closet.
    I wondered if he had a second house somewhere, a place he really lived that he wasn’t willing to show me. As I went through his medicine cabinet, I found prescriptions, butnothing exciting. Meds for hypertension, headaches, arthritis. Sudafed. Nicotine gum. Sensitive-gum toothpaste. One toothbrush. A comb with a gray hair winding through the teeth. Tweezers, nail clippers. Something for corns and heavy-duty foot cream. A bottle of Suave two-in-one shampoo and conditioner in the shower, along with a bar of white soap. A towel on the towel bar.
    I looked through the trash can under the sink—empty tube of Cankaid, some Kleenex, paper towels used to clean something. I looked through the fridge—a bag of salad greens, Chinese takeout in Styrofoam containers, apples, an orange, soda pop, and a carton of soy milk. The cabinets were almost bare: ramen, rice, Nescafé, tea, bouillon cubes, Campbell’s soup, powdered non-dairy creamer, soy sauce, but no fish sauce or even Sriracha. Maybe he had stomach trouble? Maybe he had a secret second family that I didn’t know about and he was going to their house? He hadn’t told me because he didn’t want Ma or Sourdi and Mr. Chhay to find out?
    Was he punishing himself for having survived after Auntie died?
    I went through the drawers in the kitchen—a cleaver, a couple of butter knives, forks, spoons, a package of disposable chopsticks, a can opener, more Sudafed, matchbooks, emergency candles, a potholder (burned on one edge), plastic wrap, twist ties, sandwich bags, loose rubber bands, a small ball of twine. Under the sink—another garbage can (empty), a box of bargain-brand trash bags, lots of pink plastic bags saved from the Asian grocery store near the donut shop, Comet, Ivory Liquid, a sponge, Mr. Fantastic spray, Lysol, Pinesol, and an unopened bag of sponges. At least he had plenty of cleaning supplies.
    I looked in the hall closet by the front door and stood on tiptoe and felt around on the top shelf and pulled down a greenplastic bag of Pampers, half-empty. I wondered whose baby needed these diapers.
    I wondered if I should look under the mattress, feel if it had been carved out, see if something could be hidden within? Should I use the tool kit and pry open the electric sockets, see if anything was hidden in the walls? All Ma’s usual hiding places. But what would be hidden? Uncle’s savings? I didn’t want money. Our family photo from long, long ago?
    Something of Auntie’s?
    Something of mine?
    I sat on the sofa, the light from the ceiling lamp in the kitchen glowing like the reflection of the moon in a puddle, and wondered what I had gotten myself into.
    Late that night, I finally unfolded the sofa and made the bed with the sheets Uncle had left folded on the armrest. I wasn’t particularly sleepy, but I thought it was the polite thing to do.
    I lay in the dark, listening to a mixtape on my Walkman and watching the streetlamps cast shadows of tree limbs and the iron bars of the patio’s guardrail across the ceiling.
    The air still smelled of sugar and flour, and I realized groggily before I drifted off into a dream that I should have taken a shower while I had the apartment to myself.
    I woke to the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes and saw a shadowy figure standing in the middle of the room. My heart jerked before I realized it was Uncle. He turned, and I closed my eyes quickly, my first reaction, and then waited for him to say something or move or do
something
. But he seemed to be standing still in the middle of the room, doing nothing. Or perhaps he was watching me.
    Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I fluttered my eyes open as though I were just awakening from a deep slumber, but the room was empty. No one was standing over me. Uncle wasnowhere I could see. I sat up slowly and looked around myself at the dark shapes of the furniture, but I was the