Yin Yang Love Song

Chapter 24 Chryssy

Chapter 24

CHRYSSY

I’ m not waiting in a back alley alone. I don’t care what time of day it is or how cheery it looks.” Mom casts a glance at the colorful lanterns dangling overhead. “Why is this place accessible only through a sketchy back door?” she asks.

“This place isn’t for the public,” I say, having noticed the locked front door and its lack of signage. “The store owner prefers it that way. She doesn’t want to attract tourists, I guess.”

When Vin, Leo, and I returned from Nashville a few days ago, the Plotting Shed looked as though my aunties had been busy solving a murder case. String led from one printed-out photo of a person to another. The zigzagging of the points of contact was dizzying.

The aunties did have success, though, when one introduction became a solid lead. Through their vast connections from their former lives, they learned of Melody Chan. She’s an East Asian Studies instructor at the University of Washington and the owner of a rare bookstore in the heart of Seattle’s Chinatown-International District.

At that point, Vin and I wanted a break from this so-called adventure to give ourselves some time to think and process everything that had just happened. But once you get a Hua woman started, there’s no stopping her. We’re seeing our mission through.

Or, at the very least, Auntie Violet, Auntie Rose, and I are meeting with Melody Chan and making a game plan based on what we learn. If she can’t help translate the remaining ingredients, then maybe this is the end of the road. We’ll never know what the heart herbal blend’s full recipe is.

Unfortunately for us, the store hours are even rarer than Ms. Chan’s books, and they seem to be determined by her whims and her teaching schedule. This is the second time we’ve attempted to catch her in the store.

When Mom learned we were visiting the Chinatown-International District, she insisted on coming with. Apparently, Auntie Violet had promised to treat her to bubble tea and lunch months ago. After pulling a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, Mom wants her boba and Peking duck.

“I’m tired and don’t have my wits about me,” Mom says. “Why can’t I come in with you?”

My gaze bounces from a parked car to a dumpster to the high stacks of cardboard boxes filled with leafy greens and bags of rice, and finally lands on the door Auntie Violet and Auntie Rose just walked through, leaving me behind to make excuses to Mom.

“We’re… working on something,” I tell her. “For your birthday.”

Mom eyes me suspiciously as she sips her matcha bubble tea. “I can’t imagine what you’d be getting me from somewhere that makes customers enter through a back door.” She furrows her eyebrows. “And it’s June. My birthday isn’t until December.”

“We’re very proactive?”

Mom straightens. “You’re lying to me.”

I swirl my jasmine milk tea around before taking a drink, pulling up boba through the wide straw. “I’m not.” I’m protecting you. I huff out a breath. “We’ll be fast. Do you want to go hang out at the bakery across the street? You can stock up on bolo buns and milk bread.”

What happens inside the rare bookstore needs to stay between Auntie Rose, Auntie Violet, me, and Melody Chan. And Auntie Daisy, who’s taking over today’s sessions at the inn, once we catch her up.

“I don’t have enough freezer space,” Mom says, though she considers this. She eyes me up and down. “What’s with you today? You seem… distracted. Is it because of whatever all of this is?” Mom waves her hand toward the alley. “We shouldn’t even be back here.”

I look at the ground, my chest tightening at being observed. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of hiding my irritability. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing the Curse Box to my aunties and asking them for help. It was too dangerous unearthing what belongs buried deep down.

When I look back up at Mom, all I find is a brick wall. She’s headed toward the door, clearly deciding to take matters into her own hands.

Her general pace is set to power walking, a skill she developed working in hospitals to get from Point A to Point B as swiftly as possible. Here, too, she wastes no time.

Before I can catch up and stop her, we’re in Ms. Chan’s bookstore. We lift our shoulders to make ourselves as narrow as possible so we can get through the back storage area, which is stuffed with stacks of boxes.

The front of the store is more organized and presentable to potential customers willing to spend hundreds, if not thousands, on old books. Curtains are drawn, covering the storefront’s windows and shrouding the entire place in mystery. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line every wall, each one filled with leather-bound books protected behind glass. Though rugs cover every square inch of floor and mute our footsteps, the creaky wood underneath announces our presence.

Auntie Rose and Auntie Violet, who are at the front of the shop, turn to us. They’re all set up with the letters and journals spread across the counter.

“What are you doing—” Auntie Rose starts before a third voice cuts her off.

“Here we go,” says a woman around my aunties’ age. She has a serious, angular face and forceful yet kind eyes. She sets down a large bound book.

This must be Ms. Chan. She’s slightly shorter than Auntie Violet and way more intimidating than Auntie Rose. Her long hair is darkened by the low light from the Art Deco lamps, which simultaneously create ominous shadows and a cozy glow in the windowless space.

“I’ve pulled a reference for the two characters you’re inquiring about,” she continues. “I believe this will solve your mystery.”

Ms. Chan looks up at me and Mom and, without missing a beat says, “Your tea can go here.” She taps a tray already holding Auntie Violet’s and Auntie Rose’s bubble teas.

To keep her as far back as I can, I grab Mom’s drink and set both next to the others. I too-sharply angle my body in front of Mom to block her view, and bump into a wood table covered in a leather desk pad and a magnifying glass. The Curse Box is sitting on top, my movement making it rattle.

Mom covers her gasp. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks.

I watch her regard the box. “I don’t know… what do you think it is?” I carefully ask.

Mom turns from me, knowing how stingy I’ve been with information. I may feel out of it, but at least I’m still a vault. “Wasn’t Daisy supposed to destroy this? What’s going on?” she asks her sisters.

To Auntie Violet, Auntie Rose gives a little shrug. “We’re trying to understand the curse,” she says as casually as she would tell someone what was for dinner. Auntie Rose directs her attention back to Ms. Chan. “What did you find out?”

Ms. Chan runs her fingers down the page. “This one was trickier because half of it has been smeared off. I was able to piece it back together, and it looks too close to this character to be anything else,” she says, pointing to a character that looks like a little drawing. “Oolong black tea. There used to be different words for the meaning of ‘tea.’ See how this character was modified to become ‘cha’? This is the version of ‘tea’ we use today.”

Auntie Violet nods. “Thank goodness we found you,” she says, writing these nuggets of information down in her purple notebook. “What’s the other one?”

Ms. Chan flips to a different part of the book. “This one was much simpler. You see how this component turns into this and the line comes down underneath?” She drags her finger over to the drawing next to it. “Your final ingredient translates to ‘flower.’”

“‘Flower’?” Auntie Violet repeats. “This is how our last name used to be spelled.” She smiles. “That’s fun.”

“Yes, very fun. Now what’s the flower?” Auntie Rose asks. “I can see it being rose, though honeysuckle will help clear toxins and move stagnant Qi. Safflower wouldn’t surprise me, either.” She leans forward on the counter. “So?”

Ms. Chan adjusts her blouse. “That’s all it says. Just… ‘flower.’”

“That can’t be—” Auntie Violet starts.

“It has to be something,” Auntie Rose says at the same time. She reaches for the book but is stopped by Ms. Chan placing her hand on Auntie Rose’s. They both pull their arms back quickly.

Auntie Rose clears her throat. “I thought you could read Old Chinese.”

“And I thought this was going to be a peaceful afternoon in the store,” Ms. Chan tells Auntie Rose with a smirk.

Auntie Rose and Auntie Violet once again talk over each other, trying to squeeze more information out of Ms. Chan. While they’re distracted, Mom takes me by the elbow and drags me to a quieter corner of the bookshop.

“Is this for real?” Mom asks. “You’ve all been trying to break the curse?”

“Understand the curse,” I correct, avoiding Mom’s eye contact by zeroing in on a framed Chinese wood-block print hanging over her head.

“Were those letters and journals? With a recipe?” Mom asks, rubbing her temples. “Wait.” She puts one hand up. “Don’t tell me.”

“That’s what I was trying to do in the first place,” I say, starting to turn away.

Mom reaches for my arm. “You really think opening the box and doing this,” she says, gesturing back toward Ms. Chan, “will help?”

I don’t have a great answer for this. But after everything that happened with Vin’s parents, what I learned from Dad, and how hopeless it all feels, I might as well be honest.

“Last week, yes, I held out hope,” I admit. “Now? I feel a bit silly chasing down ingredients and translations for a long-lost blend. You must think we’re—I’m—ridiculous.”

The groove between Mom’s furrowed brows deepens. “Tell me about it.”

I pretzel my arms across my chest in defense. “Wow, thanks.”

“No,” Mom corrects, her voice softening. “Tell me about what you found. I want to understand, too.”

I should ask if she means it. If she’s sure she really wants to know. I should warn her that there’s no going back. You can’t stuff knowledge back into a box of any size.

Instead, this moment feels like something I’ve wanted—no, longed for—for years. Mom’s listening, waiting for information. When it comes down to it, I want her to hear me for a change. And in this rare bookshop with Auntie Rose, Auntie Violet, and Ms. Chan standing twenty feet away, I have evidence. And backup.

And so, I spill my guts, sharing every detail about the letters, the journals, and how we still don’t have answers but we’re trying. I’m breathless when I finish talking. This time, Mom avoids eye contact with me.

Behind us, Ms. Chan flips through more pages as Auntie Violet and Auntie Rose insist that there must be a specific flower referenced somewhere in the notebooks or letters or in one of the character’s components.

“No one’s leaving here without answers,” Auntie Rose demands, the firm yet desperate tone of her voice finding its way over to us from across the room.

Mom looks over my shoulder at her sisters, maybe realizing how this affects more than just me. “If you’re running around forests and getting Old Chinese characters deciphered, then Vin must really mean a lot to you,” she says, nodding a little.

On instinct, I brace myself. “I know, he’ll never like me enough to stay,” I echo her words from decades ago. “We were doomed from the start.”

“What?” Mom asks, her head snapping back to refocus on me.

“It’s what you said,” I clarify. “When I liked any guy. When you and Dad split up.”

Mom pulls out the chair in front of a desk featuring a textured globe. “I said those things?” she asks as she takes a seat.

I blink, confused. “Well, yeah. Anytime I liked someone.”

Mom’s eyebrows rise in what I hope is recollection so that I can stop feeling like I’m making it all up in my head. “Oh.” She rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s been a while. Even longer since you’ve told me about any of your crushes.”

I resist the urge to make a sarcastic comment about the curse. There’s already been too much hurt. Normally, I’d absorb the feelings rising in me and contain them in garden beds, like Vin had pointed out.

I drop my pointer finger on Antarctica and give the globe a spin, as though I might be able to redirect the attention. As the continents morph into one and then slowly separate as the planet slows down, I’m reminded of a flower time lapse. I don’t always have to bloom last.

“I wish I could’ve,” I finally admit, no longer holding back. “The constant curse reminders… they affected me. I felt—feel—so lost.”

Mom’s mouth drops open in silent protest. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

I spin the globe again, giving myself somewhere else to focus.

Mom clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Chryssy. Maybe I was trying to warn you, or… I didn’t know how to deal with my own pain around heartbreak. Either way, it was wrong.” She remains in her seat, giving me space. Mom watches, mesmerized, as the countries whirl into a blur of colors. “The fish was cold,” she says suddenly.

“What?” I ask, looking over at her.

“The night I met your father,” Mom says. “The fish was cold. He had to apologize to me about it.”

“No… Dad thinks he had sent out an undercooked fish,” I say, replaying the story I’ve been told. “It wasn’t raw?”

“It was cooked, all right. But then it must’ve sat too long until it got to me.” The frown pulling Mom’s face down reverses, and she lets out a quiet laugh. “Either way, trout brought your father and me together. You might think you’re lost, but the fact that you’re hunting down answers also tells me that you feel strongly about this guy.” The globe slows to a standstill as Mom’s words hang between us. “Whether it’s strong like or something even stronger than that, I hope you hang on to it.”

Something flickers through me. Hope? Surprise? Shock?

“Seriously?” I ask.

Mom pulls her cardigan tighter around herself and crosses her arms. “A while back, a patient came in with severe chest pain and shortness of breath. He was convinced he had takotsubo cardiomyopathy.”

“Broken-heart syndrome,” I state.

She nods. “It’s rare and sometimes overlooked, and females are more likely to have it. I was skeptical, but this patient believed it enough that it felt true. He went so far as to print out research and bring medical textbooks in.” Mom inhales and sits up straight. “He was persistent. I did an exam, analyzed his health history, and ran all the tests and then some.”

“Was he right?”

Mom shakes her head. “No, he’d had a silent heart attack. After all the tests came back, he told me that he had recently gone through a painful breakup. It might as well have been broken-heart syndrome,” she says. “Our hearts go through so much. Stress, heartbreak, love.” She sighs deeply. “And still, they keep us alive.”

“It breaks. It heals. It perseveres,” I say. “No wonder it’s where our spirit lives.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I was like this patient to your father, wearing him down with the curse. I was so convinced. I didn’t see it at the time, but looking back, I must’ve exhausted him.” The corners of her eyes have taken on a glossy sheen. She wipes at them, preemptively blocking any tears from falling. “Sorry. This is too much.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I reassure her, kneeling in front of her. It dawns on me that Mom’s pain has always been masked with blame. It’s easier to explain something away when it’s happening to you. “I think, more than anything, Dad saw the curse as exhausting. Not you.”

Mom holds a hand against my cheek. “I want you to have a better life than I did. I want things to be different for you.”

I hold my hand against hers, the pressure smushing my cheek up. “A few days ago, I might’ve believed that. Like things could’ve been different for me, for real this time,” I say, hearing the words and how they sound exactly like what I said about Chris. “With the discovery of the blend, I thought maybe things could’ve been different for all of us.”

“Oh, Chryssy.”

“Somehow I’m always proven right, even when I want to be wrong,” I say, my voice cracking. “I really want to be wrong.”

Mom grabs my hands and stands, lifting me up with her. I anticipate her telling me that this is just the way things are for us and that it’s time to come to terms with it. That there’s no use pretending we’ll ever break the cycle. That there’s no point in hoping that our fate could be anything other than what it has been.

But then she holds her arms out. They hang there, suspended, until I step into them and return her hug.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my hair.

I don’t know what she’s sorry for, exactly. I wonder if it’s for scaring me off from middle school crushes, or for the reminders that I’m doomed. Perhaps it’s rhetorical, and she’s sorry that we’re all cursed to begin with, against our own wills. Maybe it’s for all of it.

I squeeze her back, sniffling into her shoulder. I haven’t denied my feelings for Vin, and she hasn’t spoken her words of warning. Maybe there is hope, after all.

“So you do think I’m ridiculous,” I say, cough-laughing through my tears. “You haven’t said otherwise.”

Mom smiles. “Maybe you’re ridiculous. But you know what you also are?” she asks, shaking my upper arms. “Brave.”

The word lands squarely in my chest, like a soft arrow that doesn’t pierce. Vin’s use of the same word surfaces in my mind.

“I don’t think of myself like that,” I say. “I have a lot of fears. I’m scared of more heartbreak.”

“And yet here you are in a back-alley bookstore trying to translate an old recipe to understand a generational curse so you can be with someone you love,” Mom states. “Who can say what will last and what won’t? If you ask Auntie Rose, she’ll tell you nothing lasts forever, and to never sign a contract that binds you to it. You have fears, Chryssy, and you’re still giving love another chance.”

“That’s the thing with chances. They don’t always have the best odds,” I say.

“But it is something you can calculate,” Mom says. “I think about this for my patients. What are the desired outcomes? Is the risk worth it? Sometimes the odds aren’t great, but we have to try anyway.”

“Maybe you’re braver than you think, too,” I tell her.

“At work, yes,” Mom says with a humorless laugh. “In life, not even close.”

The thwack of a book closing behind us draws our focus.

“All of this has worn me down,” Ms. Chan says. “I’m closing for the day. Everyone out.”

Auntie Violet sighs dramatically.

“You didn’t give us the name of the flower,” Auntie Rose says, standing firm.

“There isn’t one,” Ms. Chan says, holding up the tray of bubble tea for us to claim. “I’ve done all I can.”

Auntie Rose’s shoulders slump.

I can feel her defeat from across the shop. “We’ll figure it out,” I say loudly. After my conversation with Mom, I’m surprised to find that I sound hopeful again.

“Did someone spin this?” Ms. Chan asks, walking up to the globe and twisting it just so. “I had China facing that shelf.” She angles a stiff hand toward the far wall and rotates it a touch more.

Mom and I shrug, playing innocent and keeping this harmless secret between us.

We exit Ms. Chan’s shop. The Curse Box is nestled inside Auntie Rose’s oversize cloth bag.

“That woman. She frustrates me,” Auntie Rose says, shaking her head. “Now what?”

Mom straightens her sweater and squints up at the bright, cloudless sky. “We now know the word means ‘flower.’ If this is the last ingredient standing between us and this blend, then we have to figure out which flower it is.”

Auntie Rose and Auntie Daisy stare at Mom as though she’s just offered them a fake prescription.

“‘We’?” Auntie Rose asks Mom with enough suspicion for three detectives. “You work with beta-blockers and blood thinners, not bee balm. Do you know anything about flowers?”

Mom levels her sister with one glare. “I know that roses are prickly,” she retorts.

“It’s a natural defense,” Auntie Rose grumbles.

Auntie Violet waves Auntie Rose off. “This is great news! We could use a fresh mind on this. Peony was always the best in her classes. She might spot something in the letters.”

Auntie Rose shrugs—in agreement or disagreement, who’s to say—and walks past us toward the street. Auntie Violet fast-walks behind her, sharing more ways Mom could help.

Mom and I watch on, amused.

“Dad really sent out cold fish?” I ask. Mom’s story clearly caught on one of the corners of my brain.

“Lukewarm, at best,” Mom says.

I drain the rest of my bubble tea, giving up on the remaining tapioca lodged between ice cubes. “Good thing he opened a raw oyster bar then,” I joke.

Mom wraps her arm around me. “Let’s go. I was promised Peking duck.”