Claire Zhang
It was a Tuesday afternoon when Ellen Wong decided to try the newly opened massage parlor five minutes’ drive from home. She heard it was cheap. Daughter at school, husband at work, colors in the dryer, whites in the washer. Honey barking at passing dogs three times her size from behind the glass screen, as usual. Claire Zhang
Ellen was familiar with the plaza where the massage parlor was. It had taken over the old Chinese takeout place that used to serve kung pao chicken with too many peanuts. Her husband used to joke that it was “more kung pao than chicken” and thought himself so funny. Ellen never corrected him—that kung pao was not peanut—for she didn’t know what kung pao stood for either. Both kung pao chicken and Ellen were fake Chinese, her father used to tease. He was the last Wong to speak fluent Chinese.
She pushed open the door, hearing the wind bell chime. The counter was empty. She pondered if she should walk straight behind the curtains that divided the space, but before she had to decide, a middle-aged Chinese woman rushed out, her face in a hurry. And Ellen had a feeling she had always looked that way. This must be the owner.
Nihao, the owner said, gazing at Ellen, slightly confused. Anmo?
Hello, Ellen replied. Claire Zhang
Everyone knew what Nihao meant. Ellen had repeated the word to many relatives. And she understood the second word, too—massage—but she didn’t want to risk the awkwardness of not being able to carry the conversation forward in the same language. She was better at listening than speaking.
I’d like a one-hour massage, Ellen explained. Claire Zhang
Sorry! the owner said. I thought—sorry. Let me get you someone. Follow me.
Interesting process, Ellen thought. Could be a bit more streamlined.
Ellen followed the woman into a maze of curtains. The private spaces were not behind walls or closed doors, just fabric strung from the ceiling. Hardly private. But it was too late to turn back. Besides, the price.
Ellen was led to the last “room” and told to undress, everything but panties. It wasn’t her first massage, so she followed suit. Jacket. Sweatshirt. Jeans. Bras. Fitbit. They couldn’t all fit the coat hooks on the wall at first, but Ellen made it work.
The heat could have been turned higher, she thought as she broke into the face hole in the paper sheet-covered massage table. Her arms parked on the edges like airplane wings.
This was how one could feel both sinking and flying at the same time. In a massage bed.
A masseuse entered, setting a blanket over her. Strong, medium, or light? she asked, her voice as thick as her hands.
Medium. Claire Zhang
The masseuse’s warm, coarse fingers pressed into Ellen’s back, thumb and index pinching the lobe at the base of her neck before gliding down her spine. A snake with two paws. The image almost made Ellen laugh, but she was too comfortable.
The thumbs continued to travel downward, finally to the waist, and stopped at the dimples of her lower back. Pressed down. A pause. Ellen’s face was still sunk under the sea level of bed, but she heard the sound of essential oil being rubbed between palms—persistent friction, like water bubbles forming and bursting.
The masseuse’s whole palms pressed down this time, slightly burning at first. Then dissolving into warmth. The sensation rippled through her web of blood vessels, diving into an omniscience of the whole body.
What’s your name? Ellen decided to lock this masseuse down.
Linda, the woman replied. Boss gave me name. Said…easier for customer. Linda searched for the right words in her English vocabulary but gave up. Wo Xing Lin, she said.
Your family name is Lin. Ellen understood. Linda Lin, she repeated. What a fun name on the tongue.
My…worker, Linda said, arduously. Ellen wondered if she meant co-worker.
Worker, boss gave name Lily, the masseuse introduced. Xing Li. So, Lily Li.
They both burst into laughter. Ellen wanted to stop, but her shoulder blades were shaking uncontrollably. Linda’s hands had to iron them back into place.
Ellen wished the room temperature were a bit warmer so she could melt further as she turned face up.
She cleared her throat. Claire Zhang
Cold? Linda asked, wrapping Ellen’s fingers in hers so they softened with warmth. As if confirmed, she left the room and returned with more blankets. Sitting on a swivel stool, Linda placed her thumbs on Ellen’s temples, knuckles sweeping over her eyebrows. Ellen felt them drop, finally giving up on meeting in the middle every time she tried to think. She didn’t need to think. Not now.
Linda’s hands were those of a mother. Not Ellen’s mother, but some mother.
After the massage, Ellen was led to the front desk and instructed to pay in cash. It was indeed a dream price.
Tip? She waved a separate twenty at the owner. The latter nodded and shouted for Linda.
Under the daylight piercing through the shop windows, Ellen finally saw Linda Lin. She was older than she had imagined, stocky, with healthy, red cheeks of someone who worked with her hands. Linda smiled, accepting the twenty with both hands, bowing slightly.
Ellen felt almost shy. Linda deserved much more than that.
And maybe Ellen didn’t want to see Linda outside those curtains, under such bright daylight. Maybe it was the shabby setup of this place. She felt like a john.
Still, she felt lighter like never before. Were muscles supposed to be this tender? She took a loyalty card from the counter and had the owner stamp it for her first visit. Atop the red stamp the owner wrote: LL. Ellen turned it over once, then pocketed it. How would they differentiate between Linda Lin and Lily Li? Maybe three Ls for the latter.
She sat in her car for a moment, the massage still lingering in her muscles. Her back tingled where Linda had pressed, but already, the feeling was fading. She sighed, bracing herself, and turned the ignition.
At home, Ellen replaced the colors in the dryer with the whites from the washer before taking Honey out for a quick walk. Daughter’s school bus wouldn’t be back for another half an hour.
A walk. Then dinner. Husband loved the garlic butter shrimp she had made last Friday. She should have defrosted the shrimp earlier. Too late now. She opened the freezer, knocked the bag against the counter to break the ice. The orzo was somewhere in the pantry. While the shrimp sat in cold water, she could vacuum.
Ellen begrudgingly compared her massage to the emptying of a dust box in her head. Now the dust had started gathering again.
How was your day? Husband asked at dinner.
I found this great massage place. People there were very nice.
Oh Good! Where is it? Claire Zhang
Right where Golden Dragon used to be.
The place that served more kung pao than chicken?
Ellen rolled her shoulders. Something cracked.
Sure. Claire Zhang
Didn’t know you liked massages.
I didn’t either.
Did you get one of those? He poked Ellen with an elbow, blinking his eyes.
What’s one of those? Ellen glanced at their daughter. The first-grader was working diligently on her tomato orzo.
You know. The extra service.
Ellen didn’t answer.
He smirked. Come on, it’s a joke.
She picked up her water glass and took a sip.
I’m just messing around. You’re no fun, he grumbled. Then, quieter, like an afterthought—Maybe you could give me one later? He peeked at daughter, now stacking all the tomato pieces she wouldn’t eat into a pyramid with her fork.
Ellen put down her glass. She looked at her husband’s face, his oily mouth chewing a half shelled shrimp, the tail hanging from the lips. What was once a sharp jawline had collapsed into his neck.
There was no way to explain it. The longer she looked, the more it resembled the half-washed dishes in the sink.
No, she said.
No.
Isn’t a massage supposed to relax you? He sounded disappointed.
The table fell into silence. Ellen peeled one last shrimp tail for herself. The oil slicked her fingers. Her hands felt cold. She wiped them clean and pushed her plate away.
Didn’t see that coming, he said, deadpan. Then he laughed. It’s a massage joke. Did you not get it? He shook his head, still chuckling. Never mind.
