by Ellen Oh
She was drowning. Two weeks of rain a year, and this was how she’d die. When she came back as a ghost, would her lungs be full of water forever?
Olivia reached out blindly, and someone grabbed her arm. The ghost hauled her out of the water. When she rubbed Olivia’s back as Olivia coughed, her hand was solid and warm, all the way down to her broken fingers. Her cotton work-clothing was soaked through.
Olivia’s head was bright with pain.
Mei Ling lifted her and held her close to her chest. The ghost had no heartbeat. And then they were running, splashing through the rising water, headed back to the town square. The last thing Olivia saw were the stuccoed walls of the Grand Silver and the hordes of ghosts descending upon her mother’s banquet table, their swarming, newly substantial bodies rippling in the moonlight.
Olivia woke too early, her heart pounding loud in her ears. The roof rattled like someone was upending stones on it. The muted roar of torrential rain surrounded her, and when she pushed back the curtains, she saw that the street was full of rushing water, just as it had been all those years ago. No living people were out and about, not even the actors from yesterday. But ghosts—so many of them, almost too many to count—huddled under porch roofs and awnings, their bodies all clumped together, away from the rain.
Overhead, the sobbing had stopped. Last night, through the haze of half-swallowed dreams, the woman’s voice had sounded familiar. Olivia listened carefully, but she could hear nothing but the storm.
She checked her phone for missed calls and found that there were none. No phone service. Right. But there was internet, so she emailed her dad: I made it to Bisden safely. Cooking all today. I’ll be home soon. Love you. Don’t forget to eat.
Too late, she remembered that her mom used to sign off all her texts and emails the same way. But she’d already hit Send. She bit her lip, then turned away to pull on her jeans.
Despite the early hour and pouring rain, the ghosts on the street were already out in full force. She walked past them, and their heads followed her on skinny, starved necks, rotating like owls’. The full moon was a brief imprint in the sky, barely visible through a gap in the darkened clouds. As Olivia headed for her car, the boy who’d helped her move her supplies into the kitchen ran after her. “Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Mom asked me to help you if you needed anything.”
Olivia looked at him. He looked about her age, maybe seventeen at most. She couldn’t remember his name. “I’m just going grocery shopping,” she said.
“I’ll help you carry things if you want. I don’t mind.” He grinned. “I’m Carlos.”
He did look strong, Olivia conceded. His arms and back were well muscled. When he smiled, he had cute dimples. If she had been interested in men, she might have found him attractive. “I’m Olivia,” she said. “I’m going to buy a lot of stuff, though.”
“I figured. I didn’t think ghosts would eat a lot, but apparently they do.” He didn’t seem bothered by the rain or by the ghosts who watched them from the awnings. But then, he didn’t seem to see the ghosts at all.
The best thing about the Bisden supermarket, Olivia decided, was that it was cheap. She headed straight for the back counter and bought two dozen fresh fish. These were dead—not as fresh as the live ones swimming in tanks at the Chinese market back home—but they would do. She loaded her cart up with fresh produce: green onions, carrots, garlic, herbs. Four crates of oranges. It was too bad that Bisden didn’t have a Costco.
Carlos talked a lot, but he did hold up his end of the bargain. He carried all her groceries and helped load them into her car. He told her all about his schooling (he was a junior, one year younger than her), his aspirations (to go to Arizona State and study mechanical engineering), and his boyfriend (Sean, beautiful and geeky, also an aspiring engineer). “What about you?” he said as they drove through the pouring rain. “Do you have someone you like?”
“I did,” said Olivia. “But we broke up a while ago.” It had been a year and a half ago, in the spring. Priya was a year ahead of Olivia in school, and when she found out she was going to an East Coast college, she was ecstatic.
Olivia hadn’t wanted to keep Priya tied down. With Priya going east and Olivia staying in Arizona, it made sense to break things off. But Priya hadn’t agreed, and when she’d cried and Olivia didn’t, she’d accused Olivia of not caring enough to be there for her.
But you’re going out of state, Olivia had said. I can’t just move to Boston for you.
Priya had blown her wavy black hair away from her face and stared her down. You know that’s not what I’m talking about. Even when we’re together, having dinner, watching movies or whatever, you’re always so detached. It feels like you’re somewhere else, not with me. Her mouth tightened. Is there someone else?
There was the memory of a girl in dark cotton trousers, her hair hanging down her shoulders, pulling her from the water. There was also Mom, lying alone in the hospital, watching dramas until she fell asleep. She’d never told Priya about either, because they felt too private to talk about. No, said Olivia.
By the time Priya left for college, they had fallen apart.
Olivia and Carlos drove the rest of the way back in silence. As they were unloading the car, Carlos stopped in his tracks. Olivia glanced at him. “What is it?”
“I thought—” he broke off, frowning. He looked pale. “I thought I saw something. Over there, to your left. But it’s gone now.”
Olivia looked. The ghost of an old man, his body wracked with disease, looked back at her. His sunken eyes glittered. “I don’t see anything,” she said.
“Let’s get the rest of these inside,” said Carlos, hurrying past her.
Olivia cast one last look at the ghost and followed. If Carlos was starting to see them, she’d have to cook fast. The moon was rising; the Ghost Festival was coming. Her palms began to sweat. She wiped them on her jeans and strode inside, past the tourists beginning to mill about in the lobby with pamphlets about the Ghost Festival.
Olivia sorted her ingredients on the counters, arranging them by dish. Duck, pork, shrimp, fish. Winter melon, out of season, but bought from one of the Chinese markets back home. Spices, marinades. Red beans, sesame oil, sugar, salt. Bok choy, green beans, lotus root, sauces that she’d spent the past two days making.
Carlos hung back by the door. “Don’t you have work to do?” she said to him, and then winced. Too blunt. The words are wrong. Always wrong, when they came out of her.
“I do,” he said. He seemed unfazed, and the tight knot in Olivia’s chest loosened. “But I want to help if I can. You need someone to help you chop and prep, right? I cook meals in this kitchen all the time.”
A surge of relief flooded through her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. She indicated the vegetables lying in their neat rows. “I need these chopped. Garlic minced, green onions left long, but not longer than a finger. Carrots thinly sliced. Winter melon cubed.”
“Do you have a recipe?”
“Only in my head,” she said. That was how Mom had done it, too.
Carlos sighed and picked up a knife. “All right. Let’s get to work.”
They worked for hours, and soon they began to learn each other’s rhythm. The clock over the sink ticked, and sunlight passed across the windows and grew dark. Olivia didn’t have to look outside to know that people were locking themselves in their houses, pulling the curtains shut. Only the curious tourists kept watch, peering through the large glass windows of every hotel lining the street. All the hotels would have bolted their front doors shut except for the Grand Silver. Not the Grand Silver, because Olivia still had to hurry in and out with her food. Its thresholds were already lined with paper talismans to ward off any ghosts bent on mischief, or worse.
Time flew by, and Olivia sweated and braised and fried and steamed. Her muscles ached, but adrenaline and fear kept her body and mind singing. The rising spirit energy from outside grew to a tight, intense buzz in her head. She could hear t
he ghosts through the walls—whispering, waiting—and by the expression that Carlos wore, so could he. And then there was a wet, whining sound coming from inside the hotel, and the drag of broken feet in high heels in the ceiling above, somewhere in the air vents.
The moon rose, and Olivia began to plate.
After Olivia’s mom got sick, she became too weak to move around much. She was supposed to stay still, to conserve her energy. Moving made her nauseated. But the one place that Olivia’s dad couldn’t chase her out of was the kitchen. Even when she had trouble standing, she still insisted on cooking dinner for the family. Olivia helped her into a chair by the stove, and she sat there for hours, making sure all of the meal’s components were cooking properly. Olivia did what she could to ease the burden, measuring liquids, cooking the rice, making sure all the ingredients were chopped so that her mom didn’t have to worry about it.
One afternoon, her mother smiled up at her. “You’re getting so good at this. I’m glad. You’ll have to do this when I’m gone.”
A lump rose in Olivia’s throat. “That’s not going to happen.” I can’t fill your shoes, she thought. “You’re going to get better.”
“Don’t let the sesame seeds burn,” said Mom, and Olivia swooped in automatically, rescuing the frying pan of toasted seeds. “Good, good. Let them cool somewhere safe.”
Olivia set them aside in a small bowl. Her hands were trembling. “I can’t lose you. Dad can’t lose you. You’re going to get better. I know it.”
Mom reached out. Her fingers felt so delicate, so thin. “If you honor everything I’ve taught you, then I promise that I will never leave you.” She held Olivia’s hand and squeezed it. “I love you, Xi Yi.”
Olivia hadn’t heard that name in years, not since her grandma had passed away. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Mom—”
The kitchen timer went off. Her mom moved to take the ging do pai gwut off the heat and transferred it into a waiting ceramic dish. “Remember,” she said to Olivia. “Now take this to the table.”
The banquet table waited on the Grand Silver’s porch, safe from the rainstorm and the rushing water below. An outline of talismans marked a boundary around it, leading to the hotel doors. All along its edges, ghosts clustered and crowded, whispering among themselves. They were substantial, all flesh and bone, just for this one night. Just to feast until the sun came up. Above, in a gap in the heavy clouds, the full moon hovered like a malevolent eye.
Olivia came out with a cart laden with giant pots and stacked with metal dishes, clattering past the tourists gathered in the lobby, ignoring their questions. She refused to let Carlos follow her out onto the porch, and she felt his eyes on her back as she crossed the Grand Silver’s threshold. She laid platter after platter of Peking duck in the center of the table, forming a line of meat and soft, pale, steamed buns. She removed the lids of the pots and the scent of winter-melon soup rose through the thick air. As quickly as she could, she began to fill bowls.
The ghosts whispered and pushed their hands up against the barrier, hissing when copper-scented magic sparked against their skin. Cold sweat rose on Olivia’s back. But her hands were steady as she continued to ladle soup into bowls. Finally, there was no more room on the tabletop. Olivia stepped back, laying down another line of talismans so that there was a narrow, unobstructed passage from the door to the table.
She raised her voice. “Welcome, honored guests. My name is Olivia Chang, and I have prepared you a banquet, so that you may take and eat and find peace in your souls.” Her mom had given this speech many times, and Olivia did not stumble. “Please come. You are welcome at this table.”
With that, she broke the talisman barrier around the table. The ghosts fell upon the food. They shoved at each other, grabbing bowls, seizing chopsticks. Some used their hands and pushed food into their mouths as fast as they could. Many of them barely looked human in their hunger. They tore into the meat with ferocity, pushed their faces into the bowls of soup and snarled at their neighbors to get at the dishes they wanted. The food seemed to evaporate as the ghosts fought and bit and ate, ate, ate.
I didn’t make enough, Olivia thought wildly. Dread built in her stomach. All these people came to my table, and I can’t serve them all.
Breathe.
She breathed. Grabbing the cart, she doubled back for more food. Shrimp in clear, sweet sauce; crab with ginger and scallions. Fish after fish, all steamed, with sharp, salty sauce. Tender, marinated beef, still sizzling on metal plates. Bak cheet gai, with all of the sauces; hot-pepper pork chops. Her mother’s ging do pai gwut, sweet and glazed in bright red sauce, sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds. (Olivia’s heart ached.) And then, finally, platter after platter of sliced oranges and bowls of sweet red-bean soup. They vanished almost as soon as she put it out, but Olivia kept up her pace, her legs burning, her hands steady.
The night wore on, and more spirits flocked to the table, replacing those who had filled their bellies and wandered away. The moon drifted. In the lulls between waves, Olivia kept watch, burning incense and joss paper over a small fire. Embers wafted up into the air like wishes, and one by one, they winked out. The rain poured down relentlessly.
Mei Ling did not appear. Olivia watched the table, chewing on her lip so hard that it began to taste raw. Ghosts came, some eating quietly, some ravenously. The wildness in their eyes, their grief, their fear and rage, all ebbed as they ate. Take and eat, she’d said. The Chinese-American ghosts were the ones who wept the most, laughing and reveling in familiar foods. “Thank you,” they told her, one after another. “I never thought I would taste this again.” And one after another, they vanished, fading away to rest at last.
This was why she was here, as Exorcist Chang. It was only an exorcism in the loosest sense. Her work wasn’t an act of expulsion; her role was to soothe lonely souls, offering them freedom.
Olivia thought about the footsteps overhead, the sobbing at night. She sent up her piece of joss paper and headed back inside, through the clump of tourists in the lobby. They tried to speak to her, but she didn’t hear them. She stopped by the reception desk, staring up at the portrait of the Wailing Lady.
Yesterday, Renee had leaned over the counter and smiled at her. Our Wailing Lady is getting . . . unruly. Could you look into fixing that up, or finding a replacement?
The longer a ghost stayed in one place without release, the more restless it became. Bisden lived and died on its haunted attraction tourism. And when a ghost acted up, it lent legitimacy to the stories. But ghosts that were trapped for too long began to go mad, and that was when people got hurt.
Olivia stared at the painting, at the white veil covering the Wailing Lady’s face. In the ten years of Ghost Festivals since that first one at the Grand Silver, Olivia hadn’t seen Mei Ling once.
Beneath that veil, the Wailing Lady could be anyone.
She turned and ran for the kitchen. There was still some rice, just enough for one bowl. Everything else was gone, presented and eaten on the table outside. Olivia hoped the rice would do. She took the stairs up to the third floor and headed back to her room. As she ascended, the familiar sound of sobbing drifted down toward her, and she climbed faster. When Olivia opened the door, she saw a woman standing inside by the window, gazing out at the feast below. She wore a white wedding gown, stained with dirt at the hem, and a long white veil. She turned to face Olivia.
Olivia peeled the talisman necklace from her neck and laid it on the floor beside her. Slowly, she approached, holding out the rice. “I brought you something to eat,” she said. This time, her voice didn’t sound too loud in her ears. “It’s not much. But you seem hungry. Please, honored guest, take and eat.”
The Wailing Lady didn’t move, but she let Olivia approach. Steam wafted gently from the rice into the air. Rain battered down outside, beating at the window, demanding to be let in. Olivia reached out, offering up the bowl.
The ghost reached back, taking it. The hands around hers were warm and solid.
Gently, Olivia pushed back the veil.
When Olivia’s mom had died, she didn’t come back as a ghost. Olivia half expected her to. But she didn’t materialize in the hospital room when Dad chose to take her off life support, or on any of the nights when Olivia heard her dad crying alone in his bedroom. At the funeral, there had only been the silent Mom-shaped body nestled in her casket.
People became ghosts when they were restless, or had unfinished business, or held too much regret to pass on. They became ghosts when the ones they loved forgot them or didn’t pay them respects. Olivia burned incense despite the fire warnings on especially dry days, and some days, she set aside a small dish of whatever she was cooking to put on Mom’s altar later. But she kept the small shrine in her room, away from Dad. Whenever he saw it, his mouth would crumple and he’d leave abruptly, his grief chasing him somewhere else.
Olivia started staying late at school, just to be somewhere else. She withdrew from her friends, hiding in the library. Her grades suffered and improved. Slowly, it dawned on her that her mom was gone. Not just dead-and-a-ghost gone, but gone-gone.
People only became ghosts when they had something tying them to this place. Olivia’s mom, it seemed, had nothing to keep her here.
Olivia didn’t apply to college. Every time she reached the Family section on the applications—Parents’ Names? Level of Education? Relationship? Living? Deceased?—her head filled with static. The essay questions were inane: “What did you do last summer and how did it impact you?” just made her think of the ugly, ultraclean stink of the hospital and how she would never forget it, as much as she wanted to. Besides, someone had to take care of Dad. She couldn’t leave him, too.
Her relationship with Priya crumbled, and Olivia let it.
Her friends packed and left for college, and Olivia cooked, and paid bills, and cooked. She made sure all of her mom’s emails were forwarded to her own email address, and that the small dish in front of her altar was never empty. When she opened the email from the Grand Silver asking Exorcist Chang to prepare her banquet for the Ghost Festival that year, Olivia’s heartbeat jumped.
