"Speaking of which," Ruth went on, "I was wondering whatever happened to those people you and Mom knew in China. Mom didnt say anything about her life after she left Hong Kong. What happened to that guy you were married to, Fu Nan, and his father? Did they keep the ink shop?"
She laughed nervously. "Thats what I edit for others, that intimate-soul stuff. I can describe how to find happiness in ten chapters, but I still dont know what it is."
GaoLing tried to laugh, but she also looked evasive. "I always wanted to be honest. But your mommy was afraid of so many things—oh, she said the authorities would send her back to China if they knew she wasnt my real sister. And maybe Edwin wouldnt marry her, because she was too old. Then later you might be ashamed if you knew who your real grandmother was, unmarried, her face ruined, treated like a servant. Me? Over the years, Ive become more modern-thinking. Old secrets? Here nobody cares! Mother not married? Oh, just like Madonna. But still your mommy said, No, dont tell, promise."
Ruth shook her head. This was already too much. "Tell me later." Instead of feeling excited about the money, Ruth was hurt to know that her mother had denied herself pleasure and happiness. Out of love, she had stayed behind in Hong Kong, so GaoLing could have a chance at freedom first. Yet she would not take love back from people. How did she become that way? Was it because of Precious Aunties suicide?
The waiter stood before them again, ready to take orders. "The lady and I would like to begin with oysters," Art said. "This is our first date, so we 11 need the ones that have the best aphrodisiac effects. Which do you recommend?"
"Ive been thinking one day I might write a book. The title is this, Culinary Road to China —what do you think, good? Easy recipes. Maybe if youre not too busy, you can help me write it. I dont mean for free, though. Course, most of the words are already in my head, right here. I just need someone to write them down. Still, Id pay you, doesnt matter that Im your auntie."
"By the way," Ruth now thought to ask, "what was Precious Aunties real name?"
"I also know both you and Mom are five years older than what we always thought. And that your real birthday is what, four months earlier?"
Ruth left her mother at Auntie Gals and spent the next day at her house sorting out what should be moved to Mira Mar Manor. On the take list she included most of her mothers bedroom furniture, and the linens and towels LuLing had never used. But what about her scroll paintings, the ink and brushes? Her mother might feel frustrated looking at these emblems of her more agile self. One thing was for certain: Ruth was not moving the vinyl La-Z-Boy. That was destined for the dump. She would buy her mother a new recliner, a much nicer one, with supple burgundy leather. Just thinking about this gave Ruth pleasure. She could already envision her mothers eyes aglow with wonder and gratitude, testing the squishiness of the cushion, murmuring, "Oh, so soft, so good."
That night, they did not make love right away. They lay in bed, Art cuddling her, the bedroom window open so they could listen to the foghorns. "In all these years weve been together," he said, "I dont think I know an important part of you. You keep secrets inside you. You hide. Its as though Ive never seen you naked, and Ive had to imagine what you look like behind the drapes."
"Not lying," GaoLing corrected. "It was a secret."
The ma?tre d seated them in a booth that had recently been redone in clubby leather. Everything in the restaurant had managed to stay as though nothing had changed for fifty years, except the prices and the inclusion of uni and octopus appetizers. As they looked over the menu, the waiter came with a bottle of champagne.
GaoLing frowned. "How can you put your mommy in a nursing home? No, this is not right." She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head.
GaoLing nodded. "Too bad Uncle Edmund didnt listen to her advice. He was always running after this IPO, that IPO."
"Whats the difference, Bao Bomu and Bao Mu?"
"Bao can mean precious, or it can mean protect. Both are third tone, baaaaooo. And the mu part, that stands for mother, but when its written in bao mu, the mu has an extra piece in front, so that the meaning is more of a female servant. Bao mu is like saying baby-sitter, nursemaid. And bomu, thats auntie. I think her mother taught her to say and write it this way. More special."
GaoLing clucked her tongue. "Ah, so she told you. Good, Im glad. Better to tell the truth."
"I just dont know what else to do," Ruth said, her voice full of the despair she had kept pent up. "This disease, its awful, its progressing more quickly than I thought. She cant be left alone. She wanders away. And she doesnt know if shes eaten ten minutes ago or ten hours ago. She wont bathe by herself. Shes afraid of the faucets—"
"Im sorry. I shouldnt have said that. I dont want to make you tense. Im just trying to get to know you. When I told the waiter this was our first date, I meant it, in a way. I want to pretend Ive just met you, love at first sight, and I want to know who you are. I love you, Ruth, but I dont know you. And I want to know who this person is, this woman I love. Thats all."
The Young clan was gathered at GaoLing and Edmunds ranch-style house in Saratoga. Auntie Gal was wearing a silk-flower lei and a hibiscus-patterned muumuu, in keeping with the luau theme of the party. Uncle Edmund had on an aloha shirt printed with ukuleles. They had just returned from their twelfth cruise to the Hawaiian Islands. LuLing, Art, Ruth, and various cousins were sitting poolside in the backyard—or lanai, as Auntie Gal referred to it—where Uncle Edmund had fired up a grill to barbecue enough slabs of spare ribs to give everyone indigestion. The outdoor gas-fueled tiki torches were wafting warmth, making the outdoors seem balmy. The kids werent fooled. They decided the pool was too cold and improvised a game of soccer on the lawn. Every few minutes they had to use the long-handled net to fish the ball out of the water. "Too much splash," LuLing complained.
The truth was, Ruth had feared her mother might have written unflattering remarks about GaoLing. And it occurred to her now that GaoLing might have also censored the parts that dealt with her own secrets, her marriage to the opium addict, for instance. "I didnt want to bother you," Ruth said.
"This she didnt tell you? Her half of the money from your grandparents when they died."
"I ordered it," Art whispered, "for our anniversary. . . . Dont you remember? Nude yoga? Your gay buddy? We met ten years ago."
Dory flew into the kitchen. "Ruth! Ruth! Come quick! Waipo fell in the pool. She almost drowned."
"Did you know your mommy also gave up her chance to come to America so I could come first?"
"Now put these cooked eggs in the pot with the tea leaves, a half-cup soy sauce for twenty eggs, and six star anise," GaoLing continued. She sprinkled the mixture with liberal amounts of salt. Her longevity was obviously a tribute to her genetics and not her diet. "Cook for one hour," she said, and set the pot on the stove to simmer. "When you were a little girl, you loved to eat these. Lucky eggs, we called them. Thats why your mommy and I made them. All the kids liked them better than anything else. One time, though, you ate five and got very sick. Big mess all over my sofa. After that, you said no eggs, no more eggs. You wouldnt eat them the next year either, not you. But the year after that, eggs were okay again, yum-yum."
"She wrote this down—about her age?"
"The people also confiscated his house, made his wife sweep the streets, and all his sons were sent to work outdoors in Wuhan, where its so hot most people would rather bathe in a vat of boiling oil than go there. My father and mother were glad they were already poor and didnt have to suffer that kind of punishment."
When they were alone, Art lifted his flute. "Heres to ten years, most of it amazing, with a few questionable parts, and the hope that well get back to where we should be." He pressed his hand on her thigh and said, "We should try it some time."
Ruth nodded. How many times she had had to suffer listening to her mother complain about that.
"Am I?" She was instantly embarrassed. Lately, Wendy, Gideon, and others had been telling her what she appeared to be feeling, that she seemed bothered or upset, puzzled or surprised. And each time, Ruth had been unaware of any feelings in particular. Obviously she was showing something on her face. Yet how could she not know what she was feeling?
GaoLing paused before she answered. Ruth was sure she was editing a bad memory. "Things were different then. . . . You see, not everyone could afford a cemetery or funeral. Funerals, those cost ten times more than weddings. But it wasnt just cost. Sometimes you couldnt bury someone for other reasons. So to put a body down there, well, this was bad, but not the same way you think, not as though we didnt care about who died."
"Dont do this! If you cant take care of your mommy, let her come live here with me."
She sounded out more Chinese syllables to herself, and laughed. "Thats right, we called it that when we were kids. End of the World. Thats because we heard our parents saying that the closer the edge came to our house, the faster we d reach the end of this world. Meaning, our luck would be gone, that was it. And they were right! Anyway, we had many nicknames for that place. Some people called it End of the Land, just like where your mommy lives in San Francisco, Lands End. And sometimes my uncles joked and called that cliff edge momo meiyou, meaning rub sink gone. But most people in the village just called it the garbage dump. In those days, no one came by once a week to take away your garbage, your recycling, no such thing. Course, people then didnt throw away too much. Bones and rotten food, the pigs and dogs ate that. Old clothes we mended and gave to younger children. Even when the clothes were so bad they couldnt be repaired, we tore them into strips and weaved them into liners for winter jackets. Shoes, the same thing. You fixed the holes, patched up the bottoms. So you see, only the worst things were thrown away, the most useless. And when we were little and bad, our parents made us behave by threatening to throw us in the ravine—as if we too were the most useless things! When we were older and wanted to play down there, then it was a different story. Down there, they said, was everything we were afraid of—"
Art was sitting in the bar at Brunos, a retro expanse of fifties glamour. "Youre looking happy," he said.
"Thats what I meant. And I wouldnt have known her age until I read what she wrote."
"Thats true."
"Were bodies really thrown in there?"
"Whats that—end of what?"
Ruth didnt remember any of this, and wondered whether GaoLing was confusing her with her daughter. Was her aunt also showing signs of dementia?
"Ai-ya. Your mommy wrote everything! Yes, that was very bad what my mother did. She was crazy when she did that, afraid that Bao Mu put a curse on our whole family. After she threw the body in there, a cloud of black birds came. Their wings were big, like umbrellas. They nearly blocked out the sun, there were so many. They flapped above, waiting for the wild dogs to finish with the body. And one of our servants—"
"Better than S and P, better than Uncle Edmund—shes like a Wall Street genius! Every year its grown and grown. She hasnt touched one penny. She could have gone on lots of cruises, bought a fancy house, nice furniture, big car. But no. I think she has been saving it all for you. . . . Dont you want to know how much?"
"Wah." Her shoulders slumped as she pondered this fact. "Eighty-two. Its like less money in the bank than I thought."
"Many times Ive thanked her, and always she said, No, dont talk about this or Ill be mad at you. Ive tried to repay her many times, but she always refused. Each year we invite her to go to Hawaii. Each year she tells me she doesnt have the money."
"Does anyone else know? Uncle Edmund, Sally, Billy?"
Ruth knew that GaoLing was barely able to handle LuLing for a couple of days at a time. "Nearly gave me a heart attack," was how she had described LuLings last visit. Still, Ruth was ashamed that her aunt saw her as neglectful, uncaring. All the doubts she had about the Mira Mar bobbed to the surface, and she felt unsteady about her intentions. Was this really the best solution for her mothers safety and health? Or was she abandoning her mother for convenience sake? She wondered whether she was simply going along with Arts rationale, as she had with so many aspects of their relationship. It seemed she was always living her life through others, for others.
TWO
LuLing looked at Ruth as though she were the one being chastised. "Ai-ya, so stupid."
"Im not consciously hiding anything." After Ruth said that, she wondered whether it was true. Then again, who revealed everything—the irritations, the fears? How tiresome that would be. What did he mean by secrets?
Ruth bristled. She didnt like it when Art acted as if he knew her better than she knew herself. She felt him shaking her arm.
"So the stocks did well?" Ruth asked with a pounding heart.
She went to the refrigerator and took out a bowl of scalded celery, cut into strips. Without measuring, she doused the celery with sesame oil and soy sauce, chatting as if she were on a talk show for cooks.
"She was only ten feet away from us," Billy said. "Just walked in and sank before we knew it. Art dove in, beer and all, as soon as it happened."
A chill ran down Ruths arms. "Did some of those stocks she mentioned include IBM, U.S. Steel, AT T, Intel?"
"Bodies, ghosts, demons, animal spirits, Japanese soldiers, whatever scared us."
She parked around the corner a block away, and when she looked at her watch, she saw she was fifteenminutes early. She did not want to appear too eager. In front of her was the Modern Times bookstore. She went in. As she often did in bookstores, she headed to the remainder table, the bargains marked down to three ninety-eight with the lime-green stickers that were the literary equivalent of toe tags on corpses. There were the usual art books, biographies, and tell-alls of the Famous for Fifteen Minutes. And then her eyes fell on The Nirvana Wide Web: Connections to a Higher Consciousness. Ted, the Internet Spirituality author, had been right. His was a time-sensitive topic. It was already over. She felt the thrill of guilty glee. On the fiction table were an assortment of novels, most of them contemporary literary fiction by authors not well known by the masses. She picked up a slim book that lay obligingly in her hands, inviting her to cradle it in bed under a soft light. She picked up another, held it, skimmed its pages, her eye and imagination plucking a line here and there. She was drawn to them all, these prisms of other lives and times. And she felt sympathetic, as if they were dogs at the animal shelter, abandoned without reason, hopeful that they would be loved still. She left the store carrying a bag with five books.
"About a lot of things, a stack of pages this thick. Its like her life story, all the things she didnt want to forget. The things she couldnt talk about. Her mother, the orphanage, her first husband, yours."
She was thrilled at the prospect.
"Uncle Edmund knows about him?"
A rush of warmth flooded her. The months of living with her mother had left her feeling like a virgin.
"Bao Bomu."
"You mean that Precious Auntie was her mother."
"Eighty-two."
"That would be the Kumamotos," the waiter said without a change of expression.
In the evening, she drove to Brunos supper club to meet Art. Years before, they often went there as prelude to a romantic night. The restaurant had booths that allowed them to sit close and fondle each other.
"My brother did—you know, Jiu Jiu in Beijing. He said Sister Yu was promoted many times, until she was a high-position Communist Party leader. I dont know her title, something to do with good attitude and reforms. But during the Cultural Revolution, everything got turned around, and she became an example of bad attitude because of her background with the missionaries. The revolutionaries put her in jail for a long time and treated her pretty hard. But when she came out, she was still happy to be a Communist. Later, I think she died of old age."
"Sort of." She dreaded the day GaoLing would read the pages describing how she had wangled her way to the States.
"What about Precious Aunties body?"
As Ruth glanced where her mother gestured, she saw Auntie Gal, her face stricken with new understanding.
"I know, I know. Very hard, very sad. Thats why Im saying, you cant take it anymore, you just bring her here. Part-time my place, part-time your place. Easier that way."
"We all called her Bao Mu," GaoLing went on, "also lots of bad nicknames because of her face. Burnt Wood, Fried Mouth, that sort of thing. People werent being mean, the nicknames were a joke. . . . Well, now that I think of this, they were mean, very mean. That was wrong."
Ruth sank against his chest. "I dont know, I dont know," she said softly. "Sometimes I feel like Im a pair of eyes and ears, and Im just trying to stay safe and make sense of whats happening. I know what to avoid, what to worry about. Im like those kids who live with gunfire going off around them. I dont want pain. I dont want to die. I dont want to see other people around me die. But I dont have anything left inside me to figure out where I fit in or what I want. If I want anything, its to know whats possible to want."
GaoLing gave a doubting sniff.
"Were okay," Art told LuLing in a calming voice. "Just a little whoopsie-daisy. No harm done."
"Yes, that was wrong of them to do. Very old-fashioned. Made your mommy so angry. Thats why she wouldnt take the money, even after your Uncle Edmund and I said we could divide it in half anyway. Long time ago, we put her half in T-bills. Your mommy always pretended she didnt know about it. But then shed say something like, I hear you can make more money investing in the stock market. So we opened a stock market account. Then she said, I hear this stock is good, this one is bad. So we knew to tell the stockbroker what to buy and sell. Then she said, I hear its better to invest yourself, low fees. So we opened a Charles Schwab account."
"And Sister Yu, Teacher Pan. Did you hear from them?"
"You call me anytime, you know this. You want Chinese food, I cook for you. Translate Chinese writing, I can do this too. You need me to watch your mommy, no need to ask, just drop her off."
"And Teacher Pan?"
Ruth laughed. She had not remembered. As the waiter poured, she whispered back, "I thought you had nice feet for a pervert."
"And now?"
"So the house is now lying in the End of the World?"
"Jiu Jiu said the country one year held a big ceremony for the Chinese workers who helped discover Peking Man. The newspaper article he sent me said Pan Kai Jing—the one your mother married—died as a martyr protecting the whereabouts of the Communist Party, and his father, Teacher Pan, was presentto receive his honorable-mention award. After that, I dont know what happened to Teacher Pan. By now, he must be dead. So sad. We once were like family. We sacrificed for each other. Sister Yu could have come to America, but she let your mommy and me have this chance. Thats why your mommy named you after Sister Yu."
Ruth was amazed and gratified that her mother had put so much heart into naming her. For most of her childhood, she had hated both her American and her Chinese names, the old-fashioned sound of "Ruth," which her mother could not even pronounce, and the way "Luyi" sounded like the name of a boy, a boxer, or a bully.
GaoLing looked momentarily taken aback, realizing that LuLing had been thorough in her account. "This is true," she conceded. "Later he died, maybe in 1960, though no one is sure-for-sure. But that was when he stopped writing and calling different people, threatening this and that to get them to send money."
Auntie Gal looked increasingly uncomfortable. "When did she write this?"
GaoLing huffed. "How could I tell him that I was still married? Your uncle would then question if we are really married, if I am a bigamist, if our children are—well, like your mother. Later, I forgot to tell him, and when I heard my first husband was probably dead, it was too late to go back and explain what should be forgotten anyway. You understand."
"I dont remember either. . . . I dont know."
By the timeRuth reached the backyard, Art was carrying her mother up the steps of the shallow end. LuLing was coughing and shivering. Sally ran from the house with a pile of towels. "Wasnt anyone watching her?" Ruth cried, too upset to be more tactful.
"Why didnt you ask me?" GaoLing pretended to be insulted. "Im your auntie, shes my sister. We are still blood-related, even though we dont have the same mother."
"Immortal Heart? . . . Oh, you mean our village—I only know the Chinese name." She sounded out the syllables. "Xian Xin. Yes, I guess thats how it might translate. The immortals heart, something like that. Anyway, the house is gone. My brother told me. After a few drought years, a big rainstorm came. Dirt washed down the mountain, flooded the ravine, and crumbled the sides. The earth holding up our house broke apart and fell, bit by bit. It took with it the back rooms, then the well, until only half the house was left. It stood like that for several more years, then in 1972, all at once, it sank and the earth folded on top of it. My brother said thats what killed our mother, even though she had not lived in that house for many years."
That got GaoLings interest.
Ruth now recalled the many times her mother had asked Precious Auntie for stock tips via the sand tray. It never occurred to her that the answers mattered that much, since her mother didnt have any real money to gamble with. She thought LuLing followed the stock market the way some people followed soap operas. And so when her mother presented her with a choice of stocks, Ruth chose whichever was the shortest to spell out. That was how she decided. Or had she? Had she also received nudges and notions from someone else?
Ruth wanted her aunts approval. She also sensed that GaoLing wanted her to ask for it. She and her mother had taken turns protecting each other. Ruth met GaoLings eyes. "I wont make any decision until you think its the right thing. But I would like you to look at the place. And when you do, I can give you a copy of what Mom wrote."
"I thought they just left her a little bit."
"Hey, baby, want to come back to my place afterward?"
"What?"
"Each time I tell her, Im inviting you, what money do you need? Then she says she cant let me pay. Forget it! So I tell her, Use the money in the Charles Schwab account. No, she doesnt want that money. She still wont use it."
It pained Ruth to hear this. She felt a lump growing in her throat. She wished she could tell this woman from the past, her grandmother, that her granddaughter cared, that she, like her mother, wanted to know where her bones were. "The house in Immortal Heart," Ruth asked, "is it still there?"
Ruth ducked her head. "Mom already went for a tour of the Mira Mar. She thought it was nice, like a cruise ship."
"Precious Auntie?"
GaoLing was quiet for a long time. "Now I think Bao Mu left a lot of sadness behind. Her death was like that ravine. Whatever we didnt want, whatever scared us, thats where we put the blame."
Ruth nodded. "He was hooked on opium."
When GaoLing went to the kitchen to prepare the last side dishes, Ruth followed. She had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to her aunt privately. "Heres how you make tea eggs," Auntie Gal said, as Ruth shelled the hard-boiled eggs. "Use two big pinches black tea leaves. It must be black, not Japanese green, and not the herbal kind all you kids like to drink for health purposes. Put the leaves in the cheesecloth, tie it tight.
"Oh, it must have been seven, eight years ago, probably when she first started worrying that something was wrong with her memory. She gave me some of the pages a while back. But it was all in Chinese, so I never got around to reading them. A few months ago, I found someone to translate."
GaoLing looked to the side to make sure no one was close enough to hear. "Those people were awful." She made a face. "So bad you cant even imagine how bad. The son had many problems. Did your mother write about this?"
Ruths heart sank. Now she would never know. No one would ever know the name of her grandmother. She had existed, and yet without a name, a large part of her existence was missing, could not be attached to a face, anchored to a family.
"You believed that?"
"Why do you keep pushing me away?"
"I saw her down there," LuLing moaned in Chinese between more coughs. "She asked me to help her get out from under the rocks. Then the ground became sky and I fell through a rain cloud, down, down, down." She turned to point to where she saw the phantom.
"Her too. But your Chinese name comes from Sister Yu. Yu Luyi. Luyi, it means all that you wish."
Ruth did not want to encourage this line of thinking. "Did you make those same eggs when you lived in the orphanage with Mom?"
"I want us to be more intimate. I want to know what you want. Not just with us, but from life. What makes you happiest? Are you doing what you want to do?"
"Oh, oh, oh, Bao Bomu! You know, only your mother called her that. Everyone else called her Bao Mu."
Ruth swaddled her mother in towels, rubbing her to stimulate her circulation.
"What Charles Schwab account?"
"The ravine."
"I thought I was named after Ruth Grutoff."
"You still look twenty years younger. Mom does too. And dont worry, I wont tell anyone, not even Uncle Edmund. Funny thing is, last year when she told the doctor she was eighty-two, I thought that was a sure sign something was wrong with her mind. And then it turned out she did have Alzheimers, but she was right all along about her age. She just forgot to lie—"
Her aunt sniffed. "What are relatives for if you cant bother them?"
"Old Cook."
They were celebrating Auntie Gals seventy-seventh birthday—her eighty-second if the truth be known, but only she, LuLing, and Ruth knew that.
Ruth pictured this. She was against the death penalty in principle, but felt a secret satisfaction that the man who had caused her grandmother and mother so much misery had met a fitting end.
"Yes, Old Cook, he was the one who put the body there. He thought that the birds were Bao Mus spirit and her army of ghosts and that she was going to pick him up with her claws and snatch him up if he did not bury her properly. So he took a large stick and chased the wild dogs away, and the birds stayed there above him, watching as he piled rocks on top of her body. But even after he did all that, our household was still cursed."
GaoLing stopped stirring. She looked up. "Ah, your mother told you about that place." She tasted a piece of celery and added more soy sauce. "Before, she never wanted to tell anyone why she went to the orphan school." GaoLing paused and pursed her lips, as if she had already divulged too much.
GaoLing stopped to think. "I must have. Back then I believed whatever my family believed. I didnt question it. Also, Old Cook died only two years later."
"Like your age."
"No, no, no one at all. I promised your mother. . . . Of course Uncle Edmund knows. We dont keep secrets. I tell him everything. . . . Well, the age part, he doesnt know. But I wasnt lying. I forgot. Its true! I dont even feel like Im seventy-seven. In my mind, the most is sixty. But now you remind me, Im even older—how old?"
"Bodies?"
"Exactly. As for the Chang father, well, in 1950, the Communists cracked down on all the landlords. They put the Chang father in jail and beat a confession from him for owning many businesses, cheating people, and trading in opium. Guilty, they said, and shot him, public execution."
"So what was her real name? Mom cant remember, and it really bothers her."
"Nude yoga."
"Its not what you think—"
"Actually, remember how we talked about Moms future needs? Well, Art and I looked at a place, Mira Mar Manor, its assisted living, really nice. They have staff twenty-four hours a day, activities, a nurse who helps with medication—"
