Chapter Eleven
On my twelfth birthday, Gu Ma held a dinner party at the house that included the family physician Dr. Wong and his wife, as well as Sai Ma’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Leung.
Sai Ma was dressed up, wearing carmine lipstick and multiple bangles around her wrists.
While the maids prepared the dining room, she sat between her parents on a rosewood bench.
Sai Ma would age well, I predicted—her father had fewer grays in his hair than Baba, and her mother’s skin was as smooth as soap, her voice still high and animated.
Seeing them reminded me how young Sai Ma was.
Far too young to have a twelve-year-old daughter and fifteen-year-old son.
Yi Gor and I hung back by the staircase landing, our faces pressed to the wooden spindles, waiting to be called down as Lily had been.
“You must try these,” Sai Ma said to the doctor and his wife as Tingting brought a tray of dried fruit. “They’re from my family’s garden—my father brought the seeds over from Shandong himself.”
“You grow your own persimmons?” asked Dr. Wong.
“They’re Seet Ling’s favorite,” Sai Ma’s father replied.
Sai Ma smiled. “My parents used to make me drink many bitter soups, so I’d bite into one for a sweet treat. But they’re only ripe in the winter, so I dried them for the rest of the year.”
“They’re the only thing she can make that tastes good,” Gu Ma added dryly.
While everyone laughed, Mrs. Wong motioned to Yi Gor and me. “Come, children. You ought to enjoy your”—she faltered briefly, not knowing who we were—“your aunt’s persimmons too.”
I saw Sai Ma tense. Silently she tugged Baba’s sleeve, wearing a pout.
I didn’t know what she was trying to tell him, but Baba gestured for us to come down. “This is my son Syun Kit and my daughter, Yut Ying,” he said.
“I didn’t know you had grown children.” Dr. Wong was startled. “From your first wife?”
Sai Ma pressed her lips into a thin line.
“His first wife is still in China,” Gu Ma supplied. “She’s built like an ox. Nothing like our fragile Seet Ling here.”
“Yut Ying is so pretty,” remarked Mrs. Wong. She smiled at me. “We say your stepmother is the prettiest woman in Happy Valley. In a few years she’ll have competition from you!”
Maybe it was the light flickering, but Sai Ma’s smile seemed to cinch the slightest bit tighter.
“You should have told me Pok Mun’s older children would be here.” Dr. Wong reached into his pocket. “Luckily I always carry extra red envelopes.”
“Thank you.” I peeled open the envelope. A five-dollar coin!
“Yut Ying,” said Mrs. Leung. Her brows knotted together, a bowstring ready to fire. “It’s rude to open your lai see in front of your elders.”
I didn’t know what I’d done to merit her dislike. “Sorry.”
“Let children be children,” said Sai Ma, coming to my defense. She offered me a dried persimmon slice. “Here, you haven’t tried one.”
Back in Tunglam, it was tradition for Mama to give me first pick of our persimmon tree on my birthday. She’d say, half seriously, that if the fruit was sweet, so too would be my year ahead.
I accepted the dried fruit, wondering if Sai Ma knew it was my birthday.
“Don’t get addicted,” she teased. “I only have one box left until I make more.”
“Will you show me how to make them?” I asked. “Persimmons are my favorite fruit.”
“One day. You have good taste, they’re my favorite, too.” Sai Ma tossed my ponytail, a smile affixed to her face. “Lily, stop reading.”
When my sister didn’t reply, Sai Ma plucked the book from her hand. “Will you stop reading? You’re going to wear even thicker glasses at this rate, and you’re only eight years old. Have a slice of persimmon, it’s sweet. Good for your yeet hay, too—look at all these new rashes on your skin.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Eat the peel, then. It’s the most nutritious part.”
“Persimmons make me feel ill.”
“Your mother worked hard to grow these fruits for you,” said Baba. “You should at least take a bite.”
“Tingting grew them,” Lily corrected. “Mama only told her what to do. And I’ve read that eating too many persimmons is bad for your stomach. Perhaps that’s why Baba and Gu Ma have runny stools so often.”
My aunt gasped, and Sai Ma’s smile grew strained. If there was one thing that irked her, it was losing face in front of her friends.
“My weak stomach’s given me the opportunity to get to know Dr. Wong better,” said Baba with a ghost of his old charm. “That po chai yuen you recommended last time has done wonders. Even my sister takes it now.”
“Did I tell you, I know the family that produces it?” said Dr. Wong. “They’re considering moving production to Hong Kong.”
“Everyone wants to move to Hong Kong these days.”
“Must we talk about politics?” asked Sai Ma. “It gives me a headache.”
“You heard our little Seet Ling,” said Gu Ma, ushering her guests into the dining room. “No politics, but plenty of eating!”
Sai Ma stayed behind, waiting until Dr. Wong and his wife were out of earshot before she rebuked Lily, “Did you have to open your mouth like that? Look at Yut Ying. She’s such a demure and obedient girl, why can’t you be more like her?”
Lily stared at her feet. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Next, Sai Ma turned to my brother and me. “It was generous of Dr. Wong to give you lai see. Why don’t you give them to me for safekeeping?”
Yi Gor blocked me with his arm before I obeyed. “It’s our money.”
“I know that.” We were testing her patience. “I’m going to put it in the bank for you. It’ll grow that way. Isn’t it better to have six dollars next year than five right now?” She held out her arm to me. “Yut Ying, what do you think?”
I was sore at her for pitting Lily against me. “I’d like to keep mine.”
“I see.” Sai Ma’s hand fell to her side. “Very well. Spend it wisely.”
She left us without another word.
Dinner was served. We children—Lily, Yi Gor, and I—sat at a table adjacent to the adults. While they laughed and chattered, we ate in silence. Then, in the middle of the meal, Mrs. Leung came over and, with her chopsticks, plucked the chicken drumstick I’d been saving for last off my plate.
“You shouldn’t eat too much.” She waved to Susu. “From now on, give Yut Ying half her usual portion.”
I was confused. “But I’ll be hungry.”
“Listen to my mother,” Sai Ma said. “She raised me. She knows what’s best for your future.”
No, I thought. My mother knows what’s best. But I stayed quiet.
After dinner, the women retreated to the parlor for mahjong while Baba and Dr. Wong indulged in a smoke.
My brother went up to his room, while I lingered as long as I could downstairs, listening for music over the clicks and clangs of the shuffling mahjong tiles.
“Night over the Suzhou River” was playing on the phonograph.
I sang along, dancing my arms as I looped around the living room and mimicked the singer I’d seen at Bastion’s. I had no audience, but I didn’t care. I was content to hear my voice resonate against the empty walls.
As the song ended, I started for the stairs. That was when I spotted the persimmon that Lily hadn’t wanted, still in the corner of her chair. I picked it up and rolled it on my palm.
No one in my family had remembered my birthday. Not even Yi Gor.
There was no use being disappointed. I was twelve now, older than I’d expected to live. I still thanked the gods every day.
Sweet or bitter? I wondered, bringing the persimmon to my teeth. What would my twelfth year hold?
I took a big, big bite.