Chapter Fifty-Five
Marigold
“There’s no Harbourage Road,” the taxi driver told Marigold.
“That’s impossible.” She unfolded her map. “Look here—”
“Your map’s old, lo,” he said, his cigarette bobbing as he looked her up and down. In spite of her near-perfect Cantonese, he could probably smell that she was American. “Okay, I’ll take you. Two hundred dollars, yeah?”
“Two hundred dollars!”
“No one goes up those roads anymore. Hard picking up passengers on the way back.”
It was highway robbery. Marigold knew it, the cabbie knew it. But she was desperate. “I only have one hundred.”
“Ai,” he said, muttering a curse. “Fine, get in, get in.”
Just as she was about to get into the cab, there was a loud honking from behind.
“Didn’t I tell you not to take a taxi?”
It was Edison, shouting from his car. She’d forgotten about him.
“Sorry, traffic in Central was bad,” he said when she jumped into his passenger seat. Behind, the taxi driver was cursing at her. “Where’s Aunty?”
“I need to go to this address,” said Marigold with neither explanation nor greeting. She pointed at her map. “Twelve Harbourage Road.”
“That’s in Happy Valley, the opposite direction from lunch.” Edison lifted an eyebrow. “Does that mean no yum cha?”
“It’s an emergency.” What was she thinking? They were supposed to get dim sum with Edison’s mom—of course he couldn’t take her. “You know what, I’ll just call another—”
“Don’t you dare. Mum’ll kill me if I leave you stranded.” Edison slipped on his sunglasses. “Buckle up, you’re giving directions.”
Twenty minutes later, they were speeding down Wong Nai Chung Road into Happy Valley.
“Make a left here,” said Marigold, tracing their route with her finger. “We’ll stay on this street until you see the temple.”
They were trailing a double-decker bus past a school.
Shops and restaurants spread across the long blocks, sandwiching sky-high apartment complexes.
To the left, below a dense park of evergreen trees, was the empty racecourse they’d passed earlier.
It vanished behind them as they ascended into the hills.
Marigold rolled down the window just enough to feel the wind against her temples. Mom, she called out silently, where are you?
“You need more aircon?” asked Edison. “It’s too hot to be wearing jumpers in this weather.”
Marigold glanced down at her turtleneck. “I’m used to it.” She closed the window. “I just wanted some fresh air. You’re sure we can get to Harbourage Road?”
“Your map’s out of date. I wouldn’t be surprised if the road just got cut off.”
“What do you mean, cut off?”
He pointed with his chin at the circled area on her map.
“That’s a famous neighborhood, very old money.
My brother works in construction. He said plenty of the mansions get torn down; it’s more profitable to turn them into flats, and some of the roads change to accommodate. What number did you say the house was?”
“Twelve.” Marigold reached into her backpack and unfolded the sketch she’d torn out of her notebook. “It looks like this.”
“You’re a doctor and an artist?”
“No. My . . . my ex-boyfriend drew it for me.”
“Mm, the Japanese boy. Mum told me your parents made you break up.”
Marigold set down the sketch. “Yeah.”
“Chinese parents.” Edison honked at the bus ahead. “My brother’s wedding almost didn’t happen—his fiancée’s Filipina, and he and our parents didn’t speak for a month because Ba kept calling her a gold-digging maid. As if my family has any gold.” Edison rolled his eyes.
Marigold managed a polite laugh before swallowing hard and reaching into her backpack for the Altoids tin.
She used to hold it to remember what it was like being with Kenji, but the memories had faded into a faint and distant warmth.
There were no more coins inside, only a couple of bent paperclips, one last stick of Wrigley’s gum—and the small wooden comb Kenji had returned to her via post.
She opened the box to make sure the comb was still inside.
She’d touched it months ago, selfishly hoping for a memory of him. The spark had been one of the most harrowing shocks she’d experienced. Sharp and electric, it had knocked the wind out of her for a good minute. But she’d found a clue to Helen’s past:
“I steal things from people I don’t like,” said Lily. “Nothing worth much, just small things that’ll annoy them when they go missing.”
Helen held up the comb. “So you don’t like me.”
“I don’t like anyone who adores my mother. But you don’t know any better, so I can’t blame you too much. Also, you didn’t have much to take.”
Marigold closed the tin. Somewhere, in 12 Harbourage, Helen’s shadow was with Lily.
If I find it, Marigold wondered, will I find you too, Mom?
An ache rose in her chest. She zipped her backpack shut, and as she tucked the tin into her pocket, her fingers brushed against Helen’s gold bracelet.
Marigold brought it out to the sunlight. She’d held it before, that time she’d helped her mother reattach the clasp, but she’d had her gloves on, and under Helen’s watchful gaze, she hadn’t really looked at it.
It was slender—and maybe it was the medical student in her, but its V-shaped links reminded her of a column of vertebrae.
From one of the links hung a delicate charm; Helen had called it a peanut, while Marigold secretly thought it a surfboard.
Up close, Marigold changed her mind. It looked more like . . . a fish? No. A shoe?
There was one way to be sure. She tugged off her gloves. So often she needed to ferret for answers, but here with this bracelet, she could already feel the sparks brimming with a story waiting to be told. She brushed her thumb across the chain.
In a flash, Marigold saw a comely young woman in traditional Manchu dress. Gold slippers sparkled on her crudely bound feet. She must have lived more than a century ago, Marigold surmised, yet something about her was familiar.
As she grasped the charm, the trail of cars outside blurring into an old and muddy river, Marigold learned why.
“Hey,” said Edison, practically shouting. “Don’t fall asleep, we’re almost there.”
She straightened in her seat. Minutes had passed without her realizing, and traffic had cleared. They were approaching Harbourage Road.
The house sat on a hill, its gate obscured by a thicket of overgrown trees and dense yellowing shrubs. She could hardly see the house itself, only a winding path of decrepit steps, weeds growing high between each stone.
This house was where it all would end, Yuk Fong had told her.
“No wonder they didn’t tear it down for a new construction,” Edison was saying. “The place looks haunted. Something really bad must have happened here, like a suicide or a murder. Or both. Terrible feng shui.”
Marigold shivered, noticing the barbed wire atop the gate and the spikes on top of each pineapple finial. Those hadn’t been in her vision.
“My mother lived in this house,” she murmured. “She left something inside that she needs.”
“Are you sure this is it?” Edison protested. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s still living here.”
“I’m sure.” That was all she’d divulge. She got out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. Please send your mom my apologies for missing lunch.”
She didn’t wait for him to offer to accompany her. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she headed up to the gate.