Chapter 30
Hua Liling
Qing dynasty. Saw the regime change to the Qing dynasty of the Manchu, and her brothers were forced to cut their hair into the queue.
Heart note // Boost eloquence
Base note // Nutmeg
“When are you leaving for work?” Mom asks as I stretch on the couch. It’s snug enough for sleep, but there’s a break between the two cushions that I end up partially wedged into each night.
“It’s Monday,” I remind her. “Store’s closed.” We should do something so I don’t spend the day worrying about dodging questions about my moli, but I can’t think of what.
Mom walks past to look out the window. “Your neighbors are doing their spring planting,” she says. “A bit late, but I suppose it’s the right time for Toronto.”
Like that, it hits me—the perfect way to spend the day. “Do you want to help me plant?” I ask.
“Plant what? Where?” She glances around my apartment.
I fold my legs under me. “I was thinking about putting in a little herb garden in the front of the store, where the broken patio stones are.”
My mother purses her lips, considering. “You get a lot of sun, so it’s a good place. Do you have ideas?”
“Some lavender? Rosemary? Mint?” I don’t know. I’ve never been in a place long enough to plant a garden.
“Mint has to be in containers or it overruns everything.” Mom is already on her phone. “Get ready. I’ll decide the plants.”
I don’t mind her taking control, and by the time I come out dressed in a pair of jeans downgraded to cleaning clothes because of a stain I couldn’t remove, she’s listed out the herbs we can get, alongside a quick sketch of an appealing ornamental design.
Luckily, it’s spring, so we can pick the plants up at almost any corner store.
I text Ana our plan and she replies with plant emojis, so I figure she’s on board.
Mom goes to change as I drink the tea she left me. A message from Eric appears on her phone as I sit at the kitchen counter, and I read it without thinking.
Eric: You missed Owen’s birthday. He had a great time with his grandparents.
I don’t need to download the photo to know it will be Owen smiling with Kelsey’s parents, probably all of them at the cabin.
Eric: By the way, GramGram saw the art set you sent last week and liked it. She bought the same one to give him so we’re going to return yours.
Eric: Kelsey says to tell Lucy thanks, by the way. After all of those wedding orders were canceled, they took away the promotion they promised her at work.
A noise comes from the bedroom, and I scramble to make it look like I’m not an eavesdropper. Or is that term only for overhearing? Mom picks up her phone and skims through the messages, her face telling me nothing.
Why bother pretending? “I didn’t mean to look, but I saw the texts from Eric,” I say. “He said the ghost scent led to cancelations for the weddings Kelsey told us about.”
“I saw. That makes sense.”
“It does? They’re in love.”
“We gave them a dampener,” Mom says. “If it caused them to feel a little less in love, they might be reconsidering the speed of their relationship.”
“At least they still have their true love,” I say, glad we haven’t destroyed those hearts. They had their true loves in their lives, and that remained a gift. “That’s something.”
I wait for her to get on my case about understanding how my moli works, but once again, she doesn’t. This freaks me out a bit.
“I’m sorry you have to be with me instead of back home,” I say. “For Owen’s birthday.”
She gives me a dry look. “Do you think Kelsey would have welcomed me at the party?”
“I guess not. Is Eric just trying to guilt-trip you?”
Mom collects her purse and heads to the door. “One of the women in the register said trying to determine motivations is futile. I find that’s as good a philosophy now as it was two hundred years ago.”
“He’s a dick.”
Her head snaps back to me. “Luling. He is your brother.”
“So?”
“So. Enough.”
I know that tone. I wait until she’s out the door to mumble a few choice names for my brother when she can’t hear, then join her at the elevator. She’s frowning at the buttons. “Mom?”
“I liked that art set.”
That’s all she says. We leave my building, and her mood slowly improves with the warm sun.
We collect the plants and soil from the corner store, and when we get to Auntie’s Closet, I find the shovel belonging to the previous owner, who for some reason left it when she sold to Ana, along with three circular saws and a welding mask.
Mom has gone back to her own imperturbable self.
She runs her hands over the lavender and I do the same with the rosemary, for the pleasure of releasing their oils.
The first hour is all heavy labor, as we need to pull fragments of broken patio stone from in front of the store to make the space. Mom goes to get cold drinks as I break up the dirt and turn it over. It’s compacted like concrete.
“Oh, a garden!” Krystal stops on the sidewalk. “That’s going to be pretty.”
We chat for a minute before she tells me to hold on, she’ll be right back. When she returns, it’s with a few shiny rocks. “Plant them in the corners for good luck,” she says.
“Thanks, Krystal.”
She winks. “I know you think it’s woo-woo shit, but do it anyway.”
I’ve never had much of a community in the other places I’ve lived. In fact, I’ve been much like a bird, ready to fly at the slightest sound. Here, I’m building a nest, and I like it.
Mom comes back. “Put your hat on.”
I do and we take a break, blinking in the sun. It’s nice to be outside, looking at nothing much in particular. Mondays are always slow in the market; they’re one of the times it becomes a place you can see as an actual neighborhood, rather than simply a destination.
“Why did you pick here?” Mom gazes at the slightly dilapidated storefronts across the street, with their tattered Tibetan prayer flags. “I would have thought your perfumes would sell better if they were stocked in higher-end locations.”
I hiccup from the root beer. “I don’t like those stores. They’re intimidating.”
“Luling, I’ve told you that you need to be braver and fight for what you want.”
“Not that,” I say. “For customers. Everyone deserves to feel they have a scent that makes them feel like themselves, or brave or attractive or seductive or handsome. The people who shop at those stores already belong to that environment; they already know perfumes have power.”
“You sound like Aiai.” Mom puts her can of sparkling water to the side. “She was such an egalitarian, but the money is with those other people.”
“I make enough,” I say.
“You could do both,” Mom says. “Sell wholesale to the bigger stores and do your customizations here.”
“I could, but I’m only one person.”
“There’s always Yixiang.”
I push myself up from the creaky bench and grab my shovel without answering.
By the time the garden is ready for the plants, my hands are blistering inside the cheap gloves, and my shoulders have developed a tightness that will morph into pain by tomorrow, if not tonight.
Not to mention my lower back. I stand and stretch, dirt shaking off me as I move.
We decide to break for a late lunch, and by the time I return with sandwiches, Mom has set out the plants in a pattern I pause to admire.
Thin rows of tarragon form a cross in the middle.
In each quadrant is a little circle of lavender, rosemary, and sage.
Thyme sits in each corner as a groundcover.
Mom is nowhere to be found, so she must be in the store to get out of the sun, which has come out with a vengeance that I welcome after the long winter.
I send a photo to Rafe, who has been asking for updates.
He offered to come help, but I wanted the day with my mother, and he understood.
Rafe: Will you meet me for drinks tomorrow, though? There’s a place I think you’ll love.
Me: Yes but I might need a straw. My hands are getting too sore to lift anything.
Rafe: I’ll hold it for you.
The bells seem to be broken since they don’t ring when I open the door.
I can hear Mom arguing with someone, and my greeting dies as my hand tightens on the bag of food dangling at my side.
She has the phone on speaker, as usual, and I can hear my father’s voice clearly from where she is in the back of the store.
“I hope you’re happy,” Dad says.
“This has nothing to do with me.” Mom’s voice is quiet.
“You’re delusional. Your own son says it’s your fault.”
“You were the one to bring up our moli at dinner.”
“Go ahead, blame it on me. I’m the worst. All my fault, as usual.”
“Kevin, enough. It’s not my fault Eric and his wife are separating. I only found out when you told me.”
Whoa, I didn’t know that. You’d think that would have been one of the texts he sent this morning.
Dad has been talking over her. “That’s right, it is enough. You’ve never been able to compromise, Meilin. Not with your children, not with your husband.”
“Because all the compromise you wanted involved my dreams,” she snaps.
“Never yours. You’re only upset because you think everything I want steals something from you.
If I want to work, it steals time from you.
If I want to create, it steals attention from you.
Cleaning my store was time I could have spent cleaning the house. ”
“You owe it to your family to be there for them,” he says. “You never were.”
She laughs. “Never? Tell me, Kevin. Eric was upset I wasn’t at Owen’s birthday.
What did you get your grandson for a gift?
For that matter, when have you bought any of the children gifts?
Where were you in Owen’s party photos? How about all those school plays and sports tournaments?
How many after-school lessons did you sign the kids up for? Who stayed home when they were sick?”