Chapter Fifty-One
Marigold
“We should phone the police,” Peony said worriedly. “It’s been over an hour since they called about the accident, and Mom still isn’t back.”
“There’s nothing they can do,” said Marigold. “We have to wait twenty-four hours before we can file a missing persons report.”
“What if . . . what if—” Rosie hiccupped. She was crying too hard to speak.
“Hey,” said Peony. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I didn’t mean to tell them about Kenji.”
It wasn’t until they’d gotten home from the restaurant that they found out Philip was in the ICU. Marigold and her sisters had driven straight to the hospital only to be told that visitors weren’t allowed until morning. No one knew where Helen was, not even Marigold’s grandmother.
Moonlight sieved through the part in the curtains. It was past midnight, but with Philip in the hospital and Helen missing, none of the Yuen sisters could sleep.
“I’m going back to the hospital,” Marigold said.
“I’ll come with you,” said Peony.
“Kenji will take me. Someone needs to be home in case the police call.”
“What about me?” said Rosie. “Can’t I come?”
“Stay with Peony—I’ll feel better if she and Po Po aren’t alone.” Her sisters didn’t argue.
It was a quiet ride to the hospital. Marigold leaned against the window, lost in her thoughts, until Kenji pulled up to the visitor’s entrance. She unclipped her seatbelt. “I’m going to stay awhile. The police found the station wagon two blocks from here—Mom can’t be far.”
“Wait,” said Kenji. He knew her. “Are you okay?”
No. “I’ve . . . I’ve got a feeling she vanished.”
His eyes widened. “Let me park, I’ll stay with you.”
“It’ll be better if I’m by myself.”
Her tone was firm. She could tell Kenji didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue. He’d heard everything Philip had said about him on the phone.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small tote bag. “An emergency kit for you.”
Inside were snacks, a spiral notepad and a pencil, along with two books she’d never read. “There’s paperclips in the Altoids tin for your glasses—and coins, in case you need to call.”
She threw her arms around Kenji’s neck, her way of saying I love you.
He kissed her. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Alone in the waiting room, her confidence faltered. Just this morning she’d told Kenji she wanted to try using her power to understand her mother. Now this had happened.
She’d always been good at fixing things. The wobbly tables in the bakery, the creak in her father’s back. But how did you find someone who could vanish the way the moon hid behind its own shadow?
You didn’t.
You waited until she reappeared.
. . .
In the morning, Marigold followed the nurse down the hospital corridor toward the inpatient rooms, passing a procession of stretchers and doctors carrying clipboards.
In four years, when she’d return to this same floor, she’d no longer notice the smell of bleach, the oatmeal walls, or the orange linoleum tiles, no longer feel out of step with the bustling rhythm of a seven A.M. workday. This life would be second nature.
But right now she was a college student visiting her critically ill father.
They turned the last corner, and a gust of cold grazed Marigold’s cheeks.
She took off her gloves and followed the chill into Philip’s room.
The nurse was opening the curtains, saying something about her dad waking up, but Marigold didn’t register a word. The chill was now emanating from the bathroom, its door ajar. In the mirror she saw a reflection of the air inside swirling, coming together in the shape of—
Helen Yuen. The door pushed open. There was her mom, holding the door handle with a paper towel.
The nurse was startled. “Oh, honey! I didn’t know anyone else was here. Did you sign in at the front?”
“She’s my mom,” Marigold said quickly, knowing full well her mother hadn’t signed in anywhere. “She doesn’t speak much English.”
“Tell her everything’s going to be okay.” The nurse patted Helen on the shoulder.
The door shut with a click, leaving Marigold alone with her mother and father.
Helen stood to the side of the bed, which was raised to a forty-five-degree angle. The steady electronic beep of Philip’s heartbeat filled the tense silence.
Marigold sat on the doctor’s stool next to her mother. “Why didn’t you call?” she asked.
“I didn’t have any coins.” Helen sounded far away. “I didn’t know how to ask the staff in the front.”
“So you stayed here all night?” Concerned, Marigold reached for her mother’s arm, but Helen jerked away.
Philip was stirring. His eyelid twitched, and he struggled to gather focus as his eyes opened.
Confusion was a common symptom after suffering a stroke, Marigold reminded herself. She strove to sound bright. “Good morning, Baba.”
Philip didn’t move his head. With great effort he drew a rough breath, his speech coming slowly. His eyes gained clarity as he spoke. “Don’t call me Baba.”
It was a good sign, Marigold told herself, that her father remembered he was furious with her. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” she mustered.
Philip looked at her mother. “Ask,” he wheezed, “if she’s still seeing that boy.”
Marigold gripped the side of the hospital bed.
Throughout her life, her father had dedicated himself to work, tirelessly baking every night, then delivering surplus pastries to restaurants in Oakland and San Francisco for extra profit.
Yes, his gambling had often created hardships for their family, yet he’d still been the parent who’d praised Marigold’s good grades, who’d taken her side when she fought with Helen, who’d told her not to worry about how much it cost to go to medical school and finally quit his habit for her sake.
It stung to realize this was the first time they were hurting each other.
“Mom doesn’t need to ask me anything,” she said. “I’m right here. And with respect, this isn’t the time for that discussion.”
Philip’s eyelid twitched more violently than before. “You listen to me. You break things off or else—”
“Or else what?” Marigold said. She spoke calmly not to upset him, but she was his daughter and the same anger was mounting inside her. “You’ll kick me out of the house? You’ll disown me?”
“Mei Yoong!” Helen cried.
“Po Po and Uncle have met him. They both agree he’s a good man. And he loves me.”
The beep of the heart-rate monitor accelerated, punctuating the escalating tension between them as Philip turned his head to view her. In his lowest, gravest voice, he said, “You listen to me, Marigold. I will take my life if a daughter of mine marries Japanese.”
Marigold balked. “Are you threatening me?”
“If you think your father is the type of man who only makes threats . . .” Philip’s gaze was dark. “Then be prepared for the consequences.” He closed his eyes. “Helen, get her out of here.”
Marigold didn’t need to be told. Angrily, she stalked to the bathroom, and Helen followed her in before she could shut the door.
“Breathe,” said Helen.
Marigold couldn’t breathe. She was convulsing, her lungs pinching.
“Breathe,” her mother said again, this time a command.
Marigold turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over her face. She sucked in air. “I’m sorry I upset Baba,” she said. “I’m prepared to wait until he feels better—”
“He won’t change his mind.”
“If you talk to him he might. He listens to you—”
“Your father nearly died last night. Don’t be selfish, he rarely asks anything of you.”
Heat smoldered in Marigold’s throat. How was she being selfish?
“Haven’t you been in love?”
Helen gave her a hard look. “Love is not enough.” She reached for the chocolate kisses she kept in her purse. “The boy will forget you. Give it a month, you’ll see.”
“Not this boy.”
“He will,” said Helen, unwrapping a chocolate. Her mouth puckered as she ate. “They always do.”