Yet the way I remember it is the way I have always felt – that I betrayed her and that’s what made her insane. The shock treatments, I believed, were my fault as well. They released all her ghosts.
That was more than thirty years ago, and Kwan still mourns, ‘My hair sooo bea-you-tiful, shiny-smooth like waterfall, slippery-cool like swimming eel. Now look. All that shock treatment, like got me bad home permanent, leave on cheap stuff too long. All my rich color – burnt out. All my softness – crinkle up. My hairs now just stiff wires, pierce message to my brain: No more yin-talking! They do this to me, hah, still I don’t change. See? I stay strong.’
Kwan was right. When her hair grew back, it was bristly, wiry as a terrier’s. And when she brushed it, whole strands would crackle and rise with angry static, popping like the filaments of light bulbs burning out. Kwan explained, ‘All that electricity doctor force into my brain, now run through my body like horse go ’round racetrack.’ She claims that’s the reason she now can’t stand within three feet of a television set without its hissing back. She doesn’t use the Walkman her husband, George, gave her; she has to ground the radio by placing it against her thigh, otherwise no matter what station she tunes it to, all she hears is ‘awful music, boom-pah-pah, boom-pah-pah.’ She can’t wear any kind of watch. She received a digital one as a bingo prize, and after she strapped it on, the numbers started mutating like the fruits on a casino slot machine. Two hours later the watch stopped. ‘I gotta jackpot,’ she reported. ‘Eight-eight-eight-eight-eight. Lucky numbers, bad watch.’
Although Kwan is not technically trained, she can pinpoint in a second the source of a fault in a circuit, whether it’s in a wall outlet or a photo strobe. She’s done that with some of my equipment. Here I am, the commercial photographer, and she can barely operate a point-and-shoot. Yet she’s been able to find the specific part of the camera or cable or battery pack that was defective, and later, when I ship the camera to Cal Precision in Sacramento for troubleshooting, I’ll find she was exactly right. I’ve also seen her temporarily activate a dead cordless phone just by pressing her fingers on the back recharger nodes. She can’t explain any of this, and neither can I. All I can say is, I’ve seen her do these things.
The weirdest of her abilities, I think, has to do with diagnosing ailments. She can tell when she shakes hands with strangers whether they’ve ever suffered a broken bone, even if it healed many years before. She knows in an instant whether a person has arthritis, tendinitis, bursitis, sciatica – she’s really good with all the musculoskeletal stuff – maladies that she calls ‘burning bones,’ ‘fever arms,’ ‘sour joints,’ ‘snaky leg,’ and all of which, she says, are caused by eating hot and cold things together, counting disappointments on your fingers, shaking your head too often with regret, or storing worries between your jaw and your fists. She can’t cure anybody on the spot; she’s no walking Grotto of Lourdes. But a lot of people say she has the healing touch. Like her customers at Spencer’s, the drugstore in the Castro neighborhood where she works. Most of the people who pick up their prescriptions there are gay men – ‘bachelors,’ she calls them. And because she’s worked there for more than twenty years, she’s seen some of her longtime customers grow sick with AIDS. When they come in, she gives them quickie shoulder rubs, while offering medical advice: ‘You still drink beer, eat spicy food? Together, same time? Wah! What I tell you? Tst! How you get well do this? Ah?’ – as if they were little kids fussing to be spoiled. Some of her customers drop by every day, even though they can receive home delivery free. I know why. When she puts her hands on the place where you hurt, you feel a tingling sensation, a thousand fairies dancing up and down, and then it’s like warm water rolling through your veins. You’re not cured, but you feel released from worry, becalmed, floating on a tranquil sea.
Kwan once told me, ‘After they die, the yin bachelors still come visit me. They call me Doctor Kwan. Joking, of course.’ And then she added shyly in English: ‘Maybe also for respect. What you think, Libby-ah?’ She always asks me that: ‘What you think?’
No one in our family talks about Kwan’s unusual abilities. That would call attention to what we already know, that Kwan is wacky, even by Chinese standards – even by San Francisco standards. A lot of the stuff she says and does would strain the credulity of most people who are not on antipsychotic drugs or living on cult farms.
But I no longer think my sister is crazy. Or if she is, she’s fairly harmless, that is, if people don’t take her seriously. She doesn’t chant on the sidewalk like that guy on Market Street who screams that California is doomed to slide into the ocean like a plate of clams. And she’s not into New Age profiteering; you don’t have to pay her a hundred fifty an hour just to hear her reveal what’s wrong with your past life. She’ll tell you for free, even if you don’t ask.
Most of the time, Kwan is like anyone else, standing in line, shopping for bargains, counting success in small change: ‘Libby-ah,’ she said during this morning’s phone call, ‘yesterday, I buy two-for-one shoes on sale, Emporium Capwell. Guess how much I don’t pay. You guess.’
But Kwan is odd, no getting around that. Occasionally it amuses me. Sometimes it irritates me. More often I become upset, even angry – not with Kwan but with how things never turn out the way you hope. Why did I get Kwan for a sister? Why did she get me?
Every once in a while, I wonder how things might have been between Kwan and me if she’d been more normal. Then again, who’s to say what’s normal? Maybe in another country Kwan would be considered ordinary. Maybe in some parts of China, Hong Kong, or Taiwan she’d be revered. Maybe there’s a place in the world where everyone has a sister with yin eyes.
Kwan’s now nearly fifty, whereas I’m a whole twelve years younger, a point she proudly mentions whenever anyone politely asks which of us is older. In front of other people, she likes to pinch my cheek and remind me that my skin is getting ‘wrinkle up’ because I smoke cigarettes and drink too much wine and coffee – bad habits she does not have. ‘Don’t hook on, don’t need stop,’ she’s fond of saying. Kwan is neither deep nor subtle; everything’s right on the surface, for anybody to see. The point is, no one would ever guess we are sisters.
Kevin once joked that maybe the Communists sent us the wrong kid, figuring we Americans thought all Chinese people looked alike anyway. After hearing that, I fantasized that one day we’d get a letter from China saying, ‘Sorry, folks. We made a mistake.’ In so many ways, Kwan never fit into our family. Our annual Christmas photo looked like those children’s puzzles, ‘What’s Wrong with This Picture?’ Each year, front and center, there was Kwan – wearing brightly colored summer clothes, plastic bow-tie barrettes on both sides of her head, and a loony grin big enough to burst her cheeks. Eventually, Mom found her a job as a bus-girl at a Chinese-American restaurant. It took Kwan a month to realize that the food they served there was supposed to be Chinese. Time did nothing to either Americanize her or bring out her resemblance to our father.
On the other hand, people tell me I’m the one who takes after him most, in both appearance and personality. ‘Look how much Olivia can eat without gaining an ounce,’ Aunt Betty is forever saying. ‘Just like Jack.’ My mother once said, ‘Olivia analyzes every single detail to death. She has her father’s accountant mentality. No wonder she became a photographer.’ Those kinds of comments make me wonder what else has been passed along to me through my father’s genes. Did I inherit from him my dark moods, my fondness for putting salt on my fruit, my phobia about germs?
Kwan, in contrast, is a tiny dynamo, barely five feet tall, a miniature bull in a china shop. Everything about her is loud and clashing. She’ll wear a purple checked jacket over turquoise pants. She whispers loudly in a husky voice, sounding as if she had chronic laryngitis, when in fact she’s never sick. She dispenses