Chapter 1 #2
The girl turned around, slowly. A gust of wind flipped her skirt, and Gigi saw that the pale green was actually faded, that the fabric underneath was a bright emerald still, the colour the dress must have been before it was washed too many times, before it had been bleached by years of handling and sunshine.
When Gigi looked up again, she inhaled sharply and grasped her own throat, as if trying to stifle the scream that threatened to emerge.
Gigi could see, plain as day, that where the girl’s face should have been there was only smooth black waves falling to her shoulders.
No ripples that might suggest the contours of a face hidden by hair.
No eyes peering through the strands. No bump for a nose.
No mouth exhaling breath that might sway the hair even a little bit.
But Gigi could feel that the girl was looking straight at her, was assessing her height, the left knee sock that had fallen down around her ankle, even the wrinkle in her school tie that never disappeared no matter how many times her mother pressed the iron into it.
Gigi moaned quietly, an accidental release that surprised her for the way it sounded like a stray cat in pain.
None of this made any sense. The girl would need eyes to see.
And Gigi was sure there were no eyes, nothing at all.
She looked up at the sky, hoping that the vomit she could feel rising in her throat would settle if she just turned her face upward, stretched her neck as tall as possible.
Ghosts , she thought. The ghosts are real . And then she felt even sicker.
When one of the Japanese soldiers turned to look at the street, Gigi picked up the hem of her knee-length skirt and ran all the rest of the way to school, as fast as she could, trying to shake off the feeling that the faceless girl was watching her still.
for a month, she avoided Nam Koo altogether, adding fifteen minutes to her walk, often arriving at school out of breath.
It didn’t matter though. At home, in class, trudging to the market stalls with her mother—the faceless girl never left her mind, turning and turning toward her, her hair never moving, her hair so black and opaque.
Was it possible that Gigi had seen the ghost of the silk merchant’s daughter?
Or had she seen the ghost of someone else?
What Gigi did know was that she never wanted to see her again.
But then, on a grey and rainy afternoon, Gigi was running late.
Her drama teacher had asked her to stay after class so they could finish up the costumes for the school play, a melodrama about a soldier returning home with a war injury and the virtuous sweetheart who tries to nurse him back to health.
Gigi bent her head over the sewing machine, feeding yards of cheap fabric under the needle, using her sharp eyes and steady hands to make the seams tight and straight.
By the time she looked up, the clock hanging on the wall said it was almost five.
“I have to leave,” she said, standing up and pulling on her jacket. “I have to get the rice on before my mother comes home.”
As she hurried down the sidewalk, her small umbrella held uselessly over her already soaking head, she knew she could not take the long way around.
Her mother’s moods, always volatile, had grown gloomier and angrier ever since her brother had left.
If Gigi did not get the rice cooked, her mother might rage, might throw the pot out the window, or she might sink into a deep sadness and refuse to eat at all.
Gigi didn’t know which she feared most, and so she turned to walk right past Nam Koo Terrace.
In the driving rain, there was no way of knowing if anyone was inside. Maybe the lights were on. But the branches on the trees were so heavy and thick with water, who could see past the leaves?
“Don’t look,” she muttered to herself, as she broke into a run. “If I don’t see anything, I will never know.”
As she passed the entrance to the driveway, she lowered her head and closed her eyes.
So she saw nothing as an arm wrapped roughly around her waist and another hand pinned her own hands behind her back.
Her umbrella fell from her grip, and cold puddle water splashed her ankles when it hit the pavement.
Water seeped into her shoes. Her feet were wet. She felt it.
She saw nothing.
Years ago, when her mother had watched their neighbour’s baby for extra money, she had taught Gigi how to swaddle him, and she tucked and folded until the baby was wrapped tight.
In Gigi’s arms, the baby’s face quickly grew redder and redder, until his cheeks were burning hot to the touch.
He screamed, and Gigi, panicked, dropped him onto the sofa.
This was how she felt, being dragged up the driveway toward Nam Koo with so many arms wrapped around her she couldn’t tell if there were two people or twelve.
She wanted to scream, flail her arms, feel air on her skin, but she couldn’t; she could only allow her body to be pulled up the steps, every sharp edge digging into her muddy, rain-soaked calves.
Later, when she was given her own room inside Nam Koo—a room with a bed, a dressing table, and long thick velvet curtains suffused with the smell of hot sweat and cold fear—she would reflect on this moment, how she kept her eyes shut tight, how her whole life changed so swiftly, but she could not tell you how.
This would be the last time Gigi wilfully chose not to face all the things that were happening to her, even if they were ugly or hurtful, the consequences of war or bad men or her own bad choices.
After that, during all those years she was locked inside the famous house, she promised herself that she would never turn away again. Her survival meant seeing it all.