Chapter 27
Hua Ninghong
Ming dynasty. Gave birth to a girl instead of a boy. Was forced to hide her baby from her husband and say the child was born dead so she could keep her safe.
Heart note // Reduce frustration
Base note // Peppermint
The next day, Saturday, I wake up with a fever. Mom takes one look at me and says, “You’re not going to work.”
“It’s my busiest day.” I wipe the sweat off my face. I hate being sick. I’ll have to get dressed and drag myself down to the corner store to get some ginger ale.
“I’ll go.”
I curl up on the couch, grateful to be prone. “You can’t work my perfume shop. Don’t be ridiculous. Ana can handle it.”
The fire from her gaze is hot enough to spike my fever. “Do you know who you’re talking to? I was selling perfumes before you were born.”
I pull the covers over my head. “Sorry.” At least my sickness has given us something to wrangle over that isn’t my behavior from last night.
“Get into the bed,” she says, pointing to the bedroom. “I’ll be back.”
I stumble in, relaxing into sheets permeated with my mother’s light almond-scented hand lotion. I text Ana to tell her about Mom standing in for me.
Ana: Can I bring you anything?
The instinctive no rises, but this time it’s justified.
Me: Mom’s getting some stuff from the store.
Ana: Did your dad ever take care of you when you were sick as a kid? I don’t think mine did.
Me: Once. I had a sore throat and he brought me a bag of chips.
Ana: Yikes. Well, don’t worry, I can give your mom a hand if she needs. I’m going in a couple hours early, so tell her to knock. I’ll let her in and lock up after her tonight.
Mom comes back and a few minutes later brings me a glass of Canada Dry ginger ale, a tangerine nestled in the peel like a flower, and honey-lemon ginger tea. She hands me two Tylenol and a glass of water. Having so many hydration options makes me feel rich. “Ana will be at the store to let you in.”
She nods. “There’s more fruit in the kitchen and I bought some white bread.”
I close my eyes. “You hate white bread. You think it’s tasteless pap.”
“That’s true, but you’re sick.”
Mom puts her hand on my forehead and it’s nice and cool. “Go to sleep, Luling.”
I guess I listen to her, because when I wake up it’s a few hours later and the apartment is empty. There are texts from Ana.
Ana: Your mom is here. All good! She brought me tea with a big-ass flower in it. It was super pretty but tasted like hay. Don’t tell her that because I told her it was yummy.
Ana: Holy shit your mom is a selling machine.
Ana: Jayne came over and took her to the bar for lunch.
Ana: Your mom is working in your lab space. Also she put a sign for Ile de Grasse in the window. Looks good.
Ana: She went for a walk and Jayne told me she came in, said the bar smelled, and I quote, “like poor people,” and gave her a bottle of diffuser oil, which Jayne says and I quote again “Is the best fucking thing I’ve smelled in my life.”
Ana: Oh my God, that blogger from BlogToronto came in and your mom sold her so much of your stock, then told her to go to Jayne’s to check out the diffuser. I told Jayne so she’s ready. Your mom is something else.
I let the phone drop.
***
A sharp knock on the door wakes me up again, but I ignore it. Then my phone buzzes. It’s Rafe, asking me to let him in.
I stumble to the door, the sticky taste of ginger ale filling my mouth, and open it.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“How did you know I was sick?” I run my fingers through my greasy hair to tidy it. I look like a mess, but Rafe has seen me look worse.
He comes in. “Your mom told me and suggested I come by.”
That spiky feeling rises with this further evidence of Mom’s meddling. “She didn’t need to do that.”
“I wanted to, once I knew.” He raises a white bag. “I thought you’d like some congee. You always liked that when you were sick.”
I brush my teeth and do some basic grooming as Rafe sets out a bowl. Only one, so when I come back, I ask, “Aren’t you eating?”
He makes a face. “I ate so much of this and ramen in university, I can’t stand it anymore.”
I sniffle and drink the glass of water he’s put out. “I did the same with hot dogs.”
He laughs and I eat about half the bowl before I risk a look up.
Rafe is sitting on the other side of the counter with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, gazing at the wall, chewing on his cheek.
Then he smiles at me and my heart gives a running jump.
I wondered if being alone so long had made me susceptible to any attention that came my way, but no.
It’s Rafe. I want him in my life, smiling at me just like this.
I want to care for him the same way he’s caring for me.
I spoon up more congee and Rafe chats about his day, making me laugh.
He pours me ginger ale and tidies the kitchen while I have a shower.
Returning in clean sweats, with my hair damp, I accept the tea Rafe hands over, taking pleasure in him being there.
Rafe is the only one I can be silent with as well as chatty.
The door opens and my mother calls a greeting. Rafe stops talking and stands as Mom comes in the room. “I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he says.
He and my mother exchange pleasantries before he leaves and my mother pulls out a pan. “You ate?”
“Rafe brought congee. He said you asked him to.”
“I only said you were sick and he might want to drop by on the way home.”
“Mom, don’t do that.” I don’t need her shoving us together.
“Why? He’s an old friend. He lives down the hall. It’s not like he traveled to the moon.”
I need distraction so I don’t make this a fight.
I go to lie on the couch as she moves around the kitchen.
I pull out the register and drape my blanket over my head like a cowl and keep reading.
There aren’t many mentions of the men in my ancestors’ lives, I notice.
Some didn’t tell their husbands at all, and others told and regretted it because the men tried to take over the business, telling their wives they knew how to do it better.
Some were flat-out exploitative or resentful.
I hesitate over Mom’s chapter and then avoid it like I usually do.
I don’t need to read about Dad’s attitude; I heard it enough growing up.
Surely there has to be one truly supportive man in our history, but even the ones who loved their wives begrudged the time the women spent on their moli or were unhappy moving into the Hua compound instead of bringing their wife home to their own family. I give up after another half hour.
I don’t understand why. Wouldn’t the men in the lives of my ancestors have appreciated the money and power?
The register seemed to indicate some husbands resented this too.
But if they could take their wealth from their fathers and think it was their right to have it flow between generations, how was it that different from receiving it from their wives? They still didn’t have to work for it.
Mom drops something, and I suddenly remember the question I can’t believe I never asked.
I throw back my blanket wimple. “Mom.”
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
“No.” It doesn’t matter what I say, because a bowl of light-yellow Asian pear slices appears on the coffee table. “How did you tell Dad about your moli?”
She doesn’t look up. “I didn’t until we were married.”
“What? I thought it would have been before that. Like a condition of marriage.”
Mom shakes her head. “He planned to go back to China after school, so there didn’t seem to be a point in telling him while we were dating. Then he got a job here, a good one, and after a while, his family told him to stay. It was more than he could make back in Shanghai.”
“You told him then?”
She sits down and crosses her legs at the ankle, a ladylike posture she tried in vain to have me adopt. “I was going to, but our engagement was short. He could be in the country because of his work, but it would be better if he was married.”
“Wait, were you in love?”
Mom avoids my eyes. “Of course. We had similar goals.”
That does not sound like a ringing endorsement, and Mom gives me a look.
“Love comes in many ways,” she says.
“He doesn’t believe in our moli,” I say.
Mom’s work-worn hands are flat on the armrests. “He didn’t need to. All I asked was that he let me do my work.”
I’m actually shocked at this. I would have thought Mom would have insisted on more than simple noninterference. “Then when did you tell him?”
“After our honeymoon. We went to Shanghai so I could meet his family, and I told him when we got back.”
“Wow.” That would be a shocking bit of information to lay on a new husband. Poor Dad.
“I didn’t get a chance to do it earlier.”
“Really?”
She stands up. “God, Luling, how can I remember from so long ago? I told him when I told him, he understood, end of story. Ancient history. Now, do you want more pear? An orange? You need vitamin C if you’re sick.”
Part of me wants to push further, but the bright-red spots high on her cheeks tell me her patience is running thin. “No, thanks,” I say.
It’s not until later, when she’s gone to bed after changing the sheets and I’m lying on the couch staring at the ceiling, that I realize being sick has some benefits.
She hasn’t mentioned working on my moli all day.
Nor has she referred to our fight, and I’ve been too ashamed to bring it up because I know I owe her an apology I can’t give.
I shouldn’t have to apologize for telling the truth.
I shouldn’t.