Chapter 2
Hua Mingyue
Tang dynasty. The first in the family to get a dental filling of tin and silver, after her mother was concerned about Mingyue’s toothache.
Heart note // Reduce timidity
Base note // Musk
I’ve been in Vancouver for twenty-three hours and seven minutes—I know because I’m counting every second—and it’s become clear that if there was a national championship for “most awful person,” I would be a worthy contender. Forget regional or national; I could make the grade on the global stage.
The competition would start with Selfish and Neglectful Daughter. I can hear the commentators now:
Commentator 1: Lucy Hua has been a strong fan favorite in this event, ever since she deserted her family to live her own life without considering the impact this would have on anyone else.
Commentator 2: You know, Jennifer, we thought Lucy—and I’ll add here that her mother hates that she doesn’t use her given name of Luling—
Jennifer: That’s a few more points on the board, Martin.
Martin: Absolutely. Going back to what I was saying, we thought Lucy had her title sewn up during the Lunar New Year visit from several years ago.
Jennifer: That’s right, when she stomped out of a crowded dim sum restaurant because her mother had the nerve to ask what her plans were. Note the strategic use of a public setting to maximize impact.
Martin: Her brother, Eric, was not impressed, although the judges were mesmerized—especially when she kicked over her grandmother’s cane on the way out.
Jennifer: Apparently an “accident,” but the entire meal was classic Lucy. This is something we’ve come to expect from a competitor of this caliber.
Martin: It’s all the more impressive since Hua Meilin was a devoted daughter to her own mother. Not a lot of role-modeling was available for Lucy, who was forced to go out and learn to be an absolute ass all on her own.
Jennifer: Now, with the death of her mother, Meilin is clearly worried about the family legacy.
Martin: Yet Lucy’s expertly setting her up for a Big Disappointment, one of the compulsory elements in this competition, of course, along with Taking Everything Personally and Avoiding Hard Conversations.
Jennifer: Where Lucy has a major advantage is in our current event, Horrible Granddaughter.
Martin: I agree. Lucy had a disappointing performance at the actual funeral ceremony, where she made the unusual error of showing affection to her mother.
Jennifer: Only nonverbally, however, and through a stiff one-armed hug, thus limiting the damage.
Martin: The judges will hopefully take that into consideration. She’ll have a chance to make up ground here at the reception.
Jennifer: Oh, look! This is it, Martin, the Lucy we know and despise.
Here she is, at her own grandmother’s funeral, and she’s not thinking about her waipo at all.
Not sparing a single thought for all the times Hua Yulan brushed her hair and dressed it in the same braids she herself wore as a child.
She’s forgetting those happy moments as a little girl when Yulan let her sit to calm herself by watching her work.
Martin: She’s not sparing a single regret for the heartbreak she caused her grandmother when she left.
Jennifer: Not contemplating the fragility of life and the preciousness of family.
Martin: Or noticing the lines on her mother’s face and wondering how much more time they’ll have together. Instead, she’s thinking about…
Jennifer: A man. There we have it, Martin! Lucy is back in fighting fashion. Watch out, competitors!
***
I’m on my third circuit of the room, black pants dragging on the industrial carpet since I brought flats instead of heels, when I realize, to my absolute disgust, that my heart leaps every time I glimpse a tall man.
It infuriates me that I’m thinking about Rafe.
But the grief for my grandmother burned fast and bright before settling into an emptiness I’m not sure how to deal with and am doing my best to ignore.
My mother comes up to halt my progress, tidy in her black suit, her short salt-and-pepper hair tucked behind her ears.
Her eyes are clear, because if she cries, it’s never in front of me.
We both smell of lemon, Waipo’s favored scent.
Mom’s is mixed with vanilla for a comforting, warm aura, while mine is sharp and spiky thanks to black peppercorn.
I know without asking that, like me, Mom formulated her perfume specifically for today, and neither of us will wear them again.
She glances at my too-long pants. She already asked twice why I didn’t bring appropriate shoes to my own grandmother’s funeral.
Before I can say anything, she moves aside to reveal the woman behind her.
“Luling, I’m sure you remember Ms. Kang.”
In a blink, I’m twenty years old again because I remember Ms. Kang perfectly. She was my first client and witness to my immediate failure as a Hua perfumer.
I had done my best to not think about who was in this room to honor my grandmother. Among her remaining friends and our business contacts are trusted patrons who know the Huas as more than just the family who run Yixiang Parfums. These are people whose ancestral memories include our glory days.
They remember that we’re witches.
That’s not a direct English translation for what we are, but it’s close enough.
For a thousand years, Hua women have been able to control emotions with our magical moli fragrances.
My mother, for instance, has the power to lift moods.
Not much, but enough to make the days of those who wear her perfumes about 10 percent happier.
It’s a nice little boost, like catching the bus when it’s about to pull away in the rain or receiving an unexpected compliment.
My grandmother’s moli perfume kept bad tempers in check.
Mid-century women clamored for it to use on their husbands.
My great-grandmother’s gift stopped heartache. Everyone desired that.
Our most guarded secret, the one known only to the top echelon of our most select clients, like Ms. Kang, is that the eldest daughter of every fifth generation has the power to summon one’s true love.
It’s no small pressure to have the ability to create a perfume that will lure in the love of someone’s life, ostensibly the reason for their greatest happiness.
I am the fifth daughter.
That’s my gift.
Or it should have been.
I don’t know if it was my older brother’s silent but palpable gloating, my grandmother’s unreserved disbelief, or Mom’s grim-faced encouragement that hurt the most when Ms. Kang remained stubbornly single week after week.
At least I didn’t have to worry about Dad’s reaction, because he insists the entire moli thing is superstitious bull.
That stung in a different way, but it was one I was used to.
“I’m very sorry,” Ms. Kang says now. “Your grandmother was an exceptional person.”
She leans in with no more than a light hand on my shoulder to graze our cheeks together, but I stiffen despite the gentle touch.
I know the scent that rises from her skin—a delicate, contradictory thing of cold incense smoke with a base of warm tonka bean.
Twelve years ago, my mother had approved it with a single nod, causing the fireworks that went off in my chest to puff it out with pride.
Ms. Kang is wearing the failed moli perfume I gave her. I close my eyes, overcome by a brief dizziness.
“Luling.” My mother’s voice is sharp.
“That perfume,” I say.
Ms. Kang beams at me over her sober navy dress. “I thought you might recognize it. I only wear it on my most special occasions. It smells just as good now as the first day I put it on.”
“Like for a wedding?” I blurt out. I have to know. I need to know. Is it possible that my perfume worked, even after all these years? That she found true love? Surely Mom would have told me if she’d known. I force myself back to the floor because I’ve risen onto my toes.
Ms. Kang laughs. “Oh, no. No weddings for me. But I had it on when I met my daughter for the first time. I wore it the day I moved into my dream house and when I signed the incorporation papers for my business. Beautiful, lucky times.”
My heart deflates. No…that would be a slow and steady action.
My chest has been stomped on. My perfume is nothing but a celebratory scent, no different from Plage or thousands of others Ms. Kang could have selected off the shelf.
There’s no magic to it. There never has been.
I remain a flop, although it’s a good thing to have created a scent for Ms. Kang that she found meaningful.
She’s kind to linger on the positives and must have found ways to enjoy life despite my inability to deliver her true love.
Mom gives me a piercing look that communicates her desire for me to get it together instead of shaming her by breaking down in front of strangers. “Scent is the strongest emotional trigger,” she says.
Ms. Kang nods. “Even in the midst of our grief, I’m connected to all of those other, more joyous moments. I should thank you, Luling. You made the olfactory accompaniment to every peak in my life.”
Except love, which is what it was meant to do. That was my purpose and my duty, and sometimes I think it’s the only reason my mother had me.
“Her grandmother expected more,” Mom says. I can feel my lips tighten. Only Mom can fit in a dig about my failure at a funeral. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response, and the two women move on.
I turn toward the food, grateful for a break.
Instead of a long sit-down meal, my mother opted for an open buffet to cater to the mix of guests.
Crustless funeral sandwiches share space with steamed dumplings plump with shrimp and dotted with bright-green chives.
Candies sit in bowls. The scent of the food covers the faint smell of incense and smoke from the joss papers burned during the ceremony.
“Hello, Luling.”