Marigold
Hong Kong
Edison arrived in a Puma Polo with aviator glasses, straight out of Hong Kong Vogue. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Long line to pick up my first passenger.”
He gestured at the passenger seat, where two plastic bags sat. “Wonton mein, claypot rice, and roast goose. The official welcome home to Hong Kong.”
“Aiya,” Helen cried, “this is too much. We ate on the plane.”
“Aunty, it’s been thirty years since you’ve come. My mum made it clear I had one job: to make sure you don’t want to leave. She’ll beat me if I fail.”
Helen laughed. “For you and your brothers,” she said, passing Edison three red envelopes.
“Aunty!”
“Just say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Edison turned to Marigold next. “You must be the genius. Mum used to dream my brothers and I’d end up like you. She’s still dreaming.” He gestured at himself self-deprecatingly. “Come quickly into the car. I’ve got the aircon on.”
“You sit in front,” Helen told Marigold.
Marigold gave a tight smile, too tired to battle any half-hearted attempts at matchmaking.
To her relief, Edison didn’t seem interested.
He turned on the radio and focused on charming her mother.
Helen was in a talkative mood and peppered Edison with questions about his mother, his brothers, and their jobs.
“Does everyone call her Winnie now?” she asked. “I still can’t get used to it.”
“Old friends still call her Sui Chan, but fewer and fewer. Everyone likes the sound of Winnie, says it’s luckier.”
The car smelled of stale cigarettes and fresh barbequed meats.
Marigold opened the window a crack for air and looked at the city.
Half a day ago, they’d been in Berkeley.
There, it was dark at night save for College Avenue, and even then only the Rialto Theatre really dazzled with its pink lights.
Here in Hong Kong, there were more lights than stars in the sky.
Bright signs flashed from every high-rise, advertising Sony, Hitachi, piano shops, cafés, even lawyers.
The neon characters cast a ruby glow upon the sidewalks and streets below.
“You’ve come at a good time,” Edison was saying. “We had rain earlier this week and it was muggy as hell—but this month’s been drier than usual. There were even a few hill fires right after Qingming from too many people burning offerings at the cemetery.”
“The Happy Valley Cemetery?” Marigold asked, suddenly listening.
“I didn’t read where,” Edison admitted. He pulled up to the hotel. “This is it. Go get settled and give me a ring if you want to see the city.”
Edison wrote his number on the edge of a paper bag and handed it to Marigold. “Call if you want to go anywhere. Don’t get a taxi, they’ll take you the long way and overcharge you for it.”
“Thank you, Edison gor gor, but we wouldn’t want to trouble you—”
“Your mum’s my mum’s best friend. It’s no trouble. Besides, I’ve taken the whole week off work for the wedding.”
Marigold took his number, thanked him again, and closed the car door.
“He’s nice,” remarked Helen once they were inside the hotel. “A real Hong Kong boy like you asked for. You should go out with him.”
She and Edison had about as much chemistry as a burnt-up joss stick. He knew it, she knew it. Nonetheless, she conceded it could be nice to make a friend. “I’ll sit next to him at dim sum.”
After they checked into their room and ate the delicious food Edison had brought, the jetlag kicked in, at least for Helen. While her mother slept, Marigold dialed home. It was early in California, but Peony would already be up making custard and pastry for the egg tarts.
“We made it to the hotel,” Marigold said as soon as Peony picked up. “Room 316.”
“Mom okay?”
It was good to hear her sister’s voice. “Asleep. Jetlag hit once she took a shower. How are you, twins letting you keep your food down yet?”
“No, but they started kicking! Just last night.”
“That’s it, they’re real,” Marigold whispered in awe. “I’m going to spoil them so much.”
“Don’t you dare.”
They laughed together, a precious sound that Marigold had missed.
Their minute was almost up. Long-distance calls were exorbitant, and they’d agreed beforehand to keep them short. Marigold asked one last question. “How’s Dad?”
“Same as before.”
Her chest drew tight. “Tell him I say hi.”
She hung up and peeled off her gloves. Her fingers were moist with sweat, and it felt good to wash them in cool, clean water.
When she returned to the bedroom, her mother was shivering in bed. Helen’s hands were glass-clear, the lines on her knuckles like fine cracks that might shatter at any touch. Her face was watery, her cheeks rippling whenever she breathed.
Med school didn’t teach students what to do when their patients started vanishing into thin air, but Marigold knew. She turned up the heat, and ever so carefully, she tucked an extra pillow under Helen’s head to elevate it, and turned her mother to the side so she could breathe more easily.
Then, when the impossible minutes between Helen’s breaths shrank into seconds, Marigold covered her mother’s shoulders with the blanket and wondered, When did it get so bad?