Chapter Thirty-One
thirty-one
AUGUST 1990
SOPHIE wore the only black dress she owned to the funeral. It wasn’t really even black; in the sunlight it was dark blue. She wore Mā’s cardigan over it and pulled it tight around herself.
She pressed a palm to her chest to calm her erratic heartbeat. She had the sensation of constantly falling. She tried to suck in small gasps of air in the heat, but ended up hunched over, trying to suppress the sharp, monstrous pangs that cut through her stomach. Elaine, who’d taken the train down for this, looked at her like she was crazy. Bà, who’d come home days earlier, now sat at the end of the row in his worn suit. He held Mā’s hand.
Sophie held a fistful of her dress in her hands and her fingers gripped it so tightly that her nail snagged and tore a hole in the pantyhose. She was sure she was going to pass out. The pastor was speaking, but the words drifted right through her. She could only focus, deliriously, on the figures in front of her. Vivian in the front row. Rennie leaned against her, sobbing to the point that she was hiccupping. Lucille sat stiff and unmoving. And Ada—Sophie could see her trembling.
Their dad was dead. Only hours had passed between waking up to Vivian’s screams echoing from the foyer and when the first cameras arrived. Sophie grasped what had happened through hushed whispers. Mr. Lowell had been found in his hotel room in New York the morning after a party. There was an open bottle of liquor and empty bottles of sleeping pills and painkillers. His heart had stopped. That was it.
She’d barely seen him that last weekend he was home. And now they were in the cemetery under a cloudless sky in the late summer heat. Sophie’s dress clung to her back with sweat. Groups of people dressed in immaculate black suits poured in. A slow panic dripped through her.
“He was a loving husband and a devoted father of three daughters. He was the gifted son of the late Mark and Cecilia Lowell. He was a prolific actor, Oscar nominee, emerging producer, and one of the most beloved and influential members of the film community. He will be dearly missed.” The pastor spread his arms out. “Now, we will hear a eulogy from his wife, Vivian.”
Vivian rose. Gently she untangled Rennie from her. A sharp pain stabbed through Sophie’s stomach, and she lurched forward again. Her fingernails dug into her thigh. Vivian spoke, but Sophie couldn’t grasp her words. At one point, Vivian’s eyes settled on her, but she couldn’t meet them. She doubled over and squeezed her eyes shut.
She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t even think it.
Vivian had finished speaking and everyone was standing up now. The coffin was being lowered into the ground. Sophie stood unsteadily with her family. She followed as they walked up to be near Vivian, who was talking with a dignified woman whose face was partially obscured by a wide hat brim. They stood there for a moment in silence, on the grassy slope. Bà reached out and held Vivian by the arm. The woman came over and folded Rennie into a hug, kissing the top of her head. Lucille faced away, her face contorted as if she were trying not to cry. Elaine stood staring at the ground. And Ada looked at Sophie, glassy-eyed. Ada reached out and clutched Sophie’s hand. Sophie squeezed back another wave of nausea.
The families took separate cars home. On the way back, Sophie met her mother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Her mouth was dry and she knew there was sweat on her forehead. They had barely walked into the foyer when she raced for the bathroom on the first floor and vomited. She sat back, trembling with effort.
On the cold tile, it was finally quiet enough to consider the question that had prodded at her ever since she learned what happened. The question that was consuming her from the inside out. There were hints: ā Yí’s sudden interest in gardening. The upended dirt next to the roses the day before Mr. Lowell came home. Hearing ā Yí on the phone, requesting no further autopsy in a low, firm voice.
And then the final piece that made everything clear: The next morning, when bouquets poured into the house from every corner of Hollywood, Sophie saw Vivian alone, looking at the cards calmly. But the moment Vivian saw Rennie, Sophie watched as her expression crumbled and her shoulders began to shake. An actress, through and through.
Sophie snuck out of the house later that day with one of the flowers from her nightstand tucked in an envelope her pocket. At the library, she scoured the catalog cards for a book in the gardening section and tore through the pages, comparing photos to the plant in her hand until she saw something that made her blood run cold.
Bouquets piled up on every surface in the house. The sweet smell made Sophie feel even worse. She stole a bottle of aspirin from her mother, took two, and then another two. The pain in her stomach dulled momentarily as she climbed the stairs to Vivian’s room.
She knocked on the door. “It’s Sophie.”
Vivian’s hair was loose, and she wore her silk robe. “What is it?”
Sophie leveled her gaze. “ā Yí. I need to talk to you.”
Vivian looked at her, then at the book in her hand, and wordlessly she gestured her in. Vivian went to her vanity and picked up her wooden comb, brushing it through her long hair. Sophie sat on the armchair in the corner. “What is it?” Vivian asked, looking at herself in the mirror.
Sophie held out the book. Mansfield Park . She flipped to page 241. The violet petals were perfectly preserved, so thin and bright. “I looked up what this flower was. Every part of it is poison. The roots most of all.”
Vivian’s eyes snapped up and saw Sophie looking at her reflection.
“Sophie.” Vivian turned to her slowly. “I told you not to keep these in books.”
Sophie tried to keep her voice level. “What did you do?”
“What did I do? My husband overdosed.” Vivian’s eyes bored into Sophie’s with a bloodless stare. She knew, beyond certainty, that her worst fears were true. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
The book clattered to the floor.
“ā Yí,” Sophie pleaded. “Why would you do this?”
Vivian looked at the floor. Finally, she spoke quietly in Mandarin. “If I told you he hurt me, would you believe me? If I told you he tore my hair out until I bled and choked me until I thought I would die, would you believe me?”
She had heard her parents talking about it, once. Her mother had seen a bruise on ā Yí. Sophie heard the fights. Heard the plates shatter. So her mother’s suspicions were right. He had been abusing her. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, ā Yí.”
“He was going to kill me,” Vivian said. There was a tremor in her voice. “That much I was certain of. And then he was going to hurt my daughters. But if I left him, he would have ruined us all. Your family and mine.” She set her jaw. “Now he can never hurt us again.” She lowered her voice. “And now we will never speak of this.”
How could they not? “But—”
“Besides, you were the one that grew this,” Vivian said, glancing down at the book. “You’re as responsible as I am. But we shouldn’t think about it, should we? What’s done is done.”
Sophie jerked back. She remembered kneeling in the garden, her palms buried in the soil. Tending the plant gently. Wanting to please Vivian, who had been so much more accepting of her feelings for Ada than she had ever thought possible. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t know.” She was crying now. “I had no idea.”
Vivian stood up and moved toward her. “You and I have been protecting each other. And we’re going to keep doing it. It’s better for us—for everyone—if we keep each other’s secrets. Didn’t we already agree to that?”
Sophie stared, horrified, into the eyes of a woman she no longer recognized.
“You understand why I had to do this, right?” Vivian tilted her head. “I’ve kept up my end of the bargain, haven’t I? I could have told your parents about you and Ada. And I didn’t.”
Sophie was falling again, her heart stuttering in her chest.
“Sophie?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “You have.”
“Good. So we understand each other. That won’t change.” Vivian reached out and cupped Sophie’s face. “We will survive this. It will be hard. But our families will be whole again. Together. I’ll take care of all of us.” She turned back to the vanity and set down her comb.
Sophie sat in her room and looked out the window that night. The house had quieted, but she had barely moved since returning from Vivian’s room. Pain pulsed through her. She needed water. She reached for the painkillers on the side of her bed and swallowed two more dry.
This couldn’t be from the flower, could it? Wouldn’t it have killed her already? How much did it take to kill Mr. Lowell? She’d touched the flowers with her bare hands. She’d fallen asleep holding it, tucked under her chin. Could she have absorbed the poison through her skin?
Why would it only be affecting her now? The flowers were taken out a week ago. But she couldn’t eat. She felt feverish. She was never religious like her parents were, but she knew without a doubt that she was being punished right now. She deserved this, whatever it was. She had to endure it.
A small knock sounded at the door and Sophie jumped. Ada slipped in. “Hi.” Sophie rose to her feet. Ada came forward and reached for her.
Wordlessly Sophie held her and stroked her hair. She ached everywhere, but she forced herself to stay standing. It was the least she could do. I did this to her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against Ada’s hair. Ada’s shoulders trembled. “I’m so sorry.”
Ada looked up and their eyes met. Then Ada kissed her. On instinct, Sophie kissed her back. Ada’s tongue was warm, but Sophie’s lips were numb. No. Ada slipped her fingers under the hem of Sophie’s shirt, and Sophie gently pushed her away. She swallowed. “I can’t.”
Ada’s expression shifted in the lamplight. “Okay. Not tonight.”
“No,” Sophie said. She looked at the girl in front of her and her heartbeat surged. She was so beautiful and in so much pain. It hurt Sophie to look at her. She desperately wanted to fully love her and comfort her. She wanted to kiss her again.
All this time Sophie thought she had been safe confiding in Ada’s mother. But Vivian had been using her. She asked about Ada every night because she wanted something to hold over Sophie. Now Richard had died because of what Sophie had done; because of her wild and reckless emotions. “I can’t do this.”
Ada stepped back, looking as shocked and hurt as if Sophie had kicked her. “You don’t want this anymore?”
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not good. I’m not good, Ada.”
“No. That’s not true. You know how I feel about you.”
“We can’t be doing this. It isn’t right.”
“Why are you saying this?” Ada pleaded. “Did someone find out about us?”
Sophie felt faint. “I—”
“Who found out? Was it one of my sisters? Is it Rennie? My mother?” Ada probed. “Mā found out about us, didn’t she? Was that why I saw you talking to her the other day? What did she say to you?”
“I can’t— It’s not—”
“What did she say?”
“I can’t tell you!” Sophie’s burst out. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Stop asking. Just—stop. This needs to end. Trust me. Please.”
“Needs to? Or do you want it to?”
Sophie said nothing.
Ada whispered, “Tell me that you don’t care about me. I won’t believe you until you say it. As long as you care about me, I still want this.”
Sophie’s throat constricted. She couldn’t look at Ada at all. She took a shuddering breath and stared at the floor. A moment passed, and then two. The door closed and Sophie crumpled to the bed in relief.