Chapter Forty-One
Berkeley
On Sundays we closed Three Flowers at noon and drove into the city for dinner with Francis.
My brother-in-law had recently been promoted to senior cook at Orchid Lounge, a new Hong Kong–style restaurant, and though he rarely ate with us, he’d send us a lobster on the house and join us for a sweet bowl of tong sui at the end.
The girls loved Francis. Whereas Philip and I were painfully frugal, Francis spoiled his nieces. He’d surprise them with flower-shaped barrettes and paper dolls, then take them into the kitchen, where he’d let them roll dough and pour mango pudding mix into carp-shaped molds.
Their favorite, however, was going to the bar and mixing their own Shirley Temples. For a whole twenty minutes, the girls could entertain themselves swirling the grenadine in the ice and soda and munching through a bowl of maraschino cherries.
I never failed to take away Marigold’s glass before she stole a sip.
“Ma!” she cried.
“I’ve told you before,” I said, “you can play, but no drinking. The cold isn’t good for you.”
“Let her have a sip,” Philip said. Peony and Rosie chimed in, taking Marigold’s side. Francis was wise enough to keep quiet.
“The doctor says she can’t have anything cold. It’ll make her sick.”
I sent her drink away with a waiter. Philip muttered that I was being unreasonable, and Peony and Rosie consoled her with their paper cocktail umbrellas while she sat, deflated, in her chair.
I pretended not to see. Or rather, not to care. I had to be firm, because Philip certainly wouldn’t be.
Francis offered her a treat. “Our best tong sui in the house are hot. We’ve got red-bean soup tonight, and I’ll give you a big chunk of rock sugar to melt into it, how’s that?”
Marigold mustered a smile. “Thank you, Uncle. That’s very nice, but only if Mom says it’s okay.”
I folded my napkin over my lap, wishing I hadn’t heard.
“Well, Helen,” said my brother-in-law extra loudly. “What do you say? Marigold’s such a good girl.”
Francis was Marigold’s favorite adult, and she his favorite child. They’d shared a bond since that long night when she was born.
“Not a big chunk of sugar,” I allowed. “A small one will do.”
“That’s the spirit!” Francis grinned and decided to push his luck. “You see, Marigold? It’s all about compromises.” He nudged me. “How about this? If she does well in school, you treat her to ice cream.”
Francis was shameless, I’d give him that. He was lucky he was family.
“It’s not good for her lungs.”
“Just once won’t kill her. I can buy it for her if you don’t want—”
“Straight A’s,” I interrupted then.
Philip cast me a surprised look. He hadn’t expected me to give in.
I didn’t think of it as giving in. Neither Philip nor I were academic, and despite our dreams to study hard, we both had lacked discipline. I expected Marigold to be the same.
“Straight A’s,” Francis repeated, giving the table a jolly slap. “My Marigold can do that, can’t she?”
Marigold exhaled. “Yes.”
Her mood lifted, she pulled out a book while her sisters finished their drinks. I wanted to tell her not to read in such dim lighting, that it was rude to ignore everyone at the dinner table—but Philip passed me the menu.
Let her be, he mouthed.
I ordered fish even though Marigold didn’t like it. It was good for her asthma, and I watched her finish her entire plate, spitting out the bones as they poked the inside of her mouth.
Come spring, Marigold proudly showed me her report card. Straight A’s.
“Can I have ice cream tonight?” she asked, waving at me through the steam coming from my pot of soup. The cardstock was bright yellow like her name, a vertical line of A’s scrolling from top to bottom.
She looked so much like Lily, I thought, holding myself back from straightening the spectacles on her nose.
“Your glasses are crooked,” I said. “Do you need to get a new pair?” I couldn’t stop my voice from going higher. We couldn’t afford new glasses.
“No, no,” Marigold replied briskly. “One of the screws is loose. I’ll just fix it with the end of a paperclip.
” She rifled into her backpack for one, then took off her glasses and tightened the screw.
With her face bare, I noticed the old scar by her eye, red and slightly raised—like mine. Seeing it chilled me.
“Is that better?” Marigold put on her spectacles again, unaware I was staring.
Yes, it was better. But I didn’t say so aloud.
She was clever, like Lily. Eager to please, too, just as Lily had been with Sai Ma.
Strong and brilliant in the way I had never been, soon she’d crave a future that I couldn’t give her. I could see it, with every report card and praise from her teachers she’d drift further across the vast wide sea that already divided us.
I wanted to tell her how proud I was, to give her the words of assurance I’d longed for when I was her age—yet every time I took a step forward, I took three back. Marigold had seen my demons. She was the only one of my daughters who’d witnessed me vanish, who knew I had no shadow.
Who knew I was a liar.
I bit my cheek, immobilized by my long-lingering fears. Curses weren’t contagious like flus and fevers, but demons—demons had their temptations. Maybe if I kept my distance they wouldn’t touch her. I didn’t want her to suffer, to be burdened as Mama and I were. Her future was too bright.
“Mama?” asked Marigold. Worry showed on her face.
“Yes, yes.” My ear rang as I picked up her report card, pretending to read it.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing at the comments. The only word I recognized was friend.
Marigold made a sheepish face. “Mrs. Sheldon says I don’t have enough friends.”
Secretly I agreed with her teacher, but I said nothing.
“Can we go please? The truck’s just down the block.”
“Truck?”
“The ice cream truck. It parks right by the yellow plum trees in front of the elementary school, then it comes down to Channing Way. Listen, they’re playing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’—” Marigold stopped short, realizing that the truck was too far away for me to hear.
“Your sisters went with your father to buy supplies. If we leave, there’ll be no one to watch over the bakery,” I heard myself say. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
Marigold’s face fell. “Okay, Mom. Tomorrow.”
The ice cream truck drove past the bakery in a feeble wash of tinkly piano. Marigold left the report card on the table. The perfect line of A’s stared back at me.
The Yut Ying who was twelve years old wouldn’t recognize the woman she’d become, who wore her unhappiness like armor. It came at a cost, and that cost was Marigold.
I flipped the report card over so I wouldn’t have to face my guilt.
We both knew there would be no tomorrow.