Chapter Forty-Four
Berkeley
Helen
“Did you flip the duck?” I asked Peony.
Peony gave me a thumbs-up. “Uncle Francis called. He’s bringing cranberry sauce and mantou. Eugene’s bringing his signature pumpkin pie.”
Which meant all that was left was for me to fry the cabbage. I was good at that.
After two decades in America, Philip and I had mastered our Thanksgiving tradition, which meant roast duck instead of turkey, steamed mantou instead of buttered dinner rolls, and stir-fried cabbage with little scrolls of pork belly instead of green bean casserole.
It was Francis and Philip’s favorite project together, and usually we hosted at Three Flowers, inviting friends and neighbors to celebrate with us.
This year, though, dinner would be for family only.
This year, my mother would be joining us.
Thirty years I’d been waiting to see Mama again—thirty years! And of course we were stuck in traffic.
It had been over two years since the first letter from South Church—thirty-one months of red tape and headaches.
I’d thought it would be as easy as flying to Shenzhen and fetching Mama the way I picked up my daughters from school when they were little.
I couldn’t have been more mistaken. No one was permitted to leave the mainland.
For months I despaired. Peony had to take over the baking because I’d forget ingredients in my pastries, I’d oversalt the char siu, or my tarts would come out flavorless and burnt. Then one night Philip came to our bed and handed me a cigarette box stuffed with cash.
I jolted. “Where did you—”
“I played with my savings, not yours,” he said. “Use it to hire someone to bring your mother into Hong Kong. It’ll be easier for us to sponsor her from there.”
I should have been angry that he’d been gambling, but I simply stared at him. “She’s an old woman, you want her to cross illegally? What if she gets caught?”
“At least let her make the decision herself.”
I stared at the money, unable to stop from counting it in my head. Much as I didn’t want to agree, Philip was right. Mama would know what to do.
I closed the box. One good bet couldn’t reverse all my husband’s bad ones, but it helped. “Thank you.”
Finally, a date was confirmed and Mama’s flight to America was booked. I cried myself to sleep out of exhaustion and relief.
We arrived at San Francisco Airport half an hour after Mama’s plane landed. I ran from our station wagon. My daughters shouted, “Slow down!” but I barely heard them. In this moment I was a child again, racing up an escalator instead of the hills to look for my mother.
And there she was.
Two airport employees were escorting her out of customs. She sat in a wheelchair, her age-spotted hands resting on the leather knapsack on her lap, its straps curled over her knees like a cat’s tail.
I was out of breath. Mama.
“Ying Ying,” she said, as though it’d been days since we last saw each other, not decades. “Didn’t I tell you to cover your neck from the wind?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hold back my tears. “Hello, Mama.”
Forgetting her age, she nearly sprang out of her wheelchair. I helped her up, clasping both her hands. Together we stood, oblivious to the crowd of travelers surging around us.
War had robbed me of a lifetime with my mother.
In my memory she was frozen at thirty-five years old, her body firm and strong as an ox, her black braid tied with a single navy ribbon.
The woman before me was utterly changed.
Her gray hair was cropped chin-length and tucked behind her ears.
Her ears were longer than I remembered, her skin waxy.
But when she touched my cheek, her fingers carried the same warmth I’d known when I was a girl.
And her eyes, ever dark and melancholy, were still the most beautiful I had ever seen.
“You’ve gained weight,” Mama said. “You look prosperous.”
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was hold her.
Mama’s gaze slid down to the bracelet she’d given me. It had stretched out over the years, and the little peanut had lost some of its perforated freckles, becoming smooth and satiny.
Will I ever see you again? I had asked what felt a lifetime ago. I’d sent Mama a photo of my family, a corner of which peeked out from her vest pocket. Her clothes were wrinkled from wear, and her shoes, though clean, had holes.
Had she known we’d have to wait a generation before we met again?
“Can you walk?” I mustered, getting up. “The car might be a little far away.”
“I am here already,” said Mama, who was crying too. “I am in no rush.”
I’d forgotten how serene she was.
“Those must be your girls,” she said, looking over my shoulder.
Peony, Marigold, and Rosie were waiting eagerly by the baggage claim carousel. I motioned them over.
Mama grasped Peony’s hands. “You must be Mei Yee. You look so much like your mother.” She gathered in Marigold and Rosie. “And you, Mei Yoong, Mei Mun. So beautiful.”
Rosie took her bag. I clung to Mama’s arm, guiding her through the crowds to the exit.
Philip was at the curb. He’d opened the trunk in expectation of Mama’s luggage, but at the sight of her empty hands, he closed it and introduced himself.
“Fu Keong,” Mama said. Her eyes shone. “I know.”
We got into the car. Mama asked to be in the back away from the fan, so I sat in the front, wedged between Philip and Rosie.
Within minutes, it was as though Mama had lived with us for years.
Rosie was chattering about a band she loved, Peony was describing her fiancé, even Marigold chimed in with details about her life at college.
For the most part, Mama was quiet. Content to listen, as she always had been. Then, in the middle of our journey, she spoke out, “Why isn’t the radio on? Yut Ying, you don’t need to leave it off on my behalf.”
“Mom doesn’t like the radio on,” said Rosie.
My mother frowned as though Rosie had spoken Russian, not Cantonese. “Your mother doesn’t like the radio on?”
“I had an accident with my ear,” I explained. “Sometimes it hurts when I listen to music.”
“So you didn’t become a singer,” said Mama.
Rosie twisted to face her grandmother. “A singer?”
“What, you didn’t know? Your mother used to fall asleep singing to the radio. What a voice she had. She’d sing to the crows and they’d listen.”
“That was a long time ago,” I mumbled. “I don’t sound the same anymore.”
“I’ve never heard her sing,” said Rosie.
“Neither have I,” Peony said. “Except ‘Happy Birthday.’ ”
“I’ve heard her,” said Marigold. “She used to sing when I was sick, to help me sleep.”
I was surprised Marigold remembered. I observed her in the rearview mirror. Since starting college, she seemed happier. Closer to her sisters, like they’d been when they were young.
“Will you sing, Mom?” Peony was asking. “Please?”
“Just this once.”
I parted my lips, singing “Mut Lei Fa,” a classic song about the jasmine flower. The vibrations from the song stung my left ear while at the same time loosening some of the emotion from my throat. I sang it twice, and by the end, Mama was leaning against Peony’s shoulder, her eyelids closing.
An hour ago I was cursing these roads, shaking my fists at the narrow lanes rife with traffic.
Now this country had never looked more beautiful.
The meandering green hills, the steel bridges with their spread-out wings, the crooked lampposts and the cerulean bay.
Even the highway was my friend now, a loom of black threads weaving in and out, taking every passenger where they were destined to go.
At the stop light, Philip reached over to squeeze my hand. “Happy?” he asked.
Yes, I was happy.
Welcome to America, Mama, I thought. It’s my turn to take care of you now.