Dearest Mama,
There are some ugly people in this world, aren’t there? People who will kick a person when she is down or throw her out on the street or wring out her dignity, her spirit, till there’s nothing left. How do people get to be like this? So damn rotten inside. Did they learn to be this way? Were they born this way?
Every day I look at two mothers who have been beaten down like they were no good at all to the world. They’ve been told that they’re useless. Hopeless. Lashed with a tongue or a fist. The very same women who are working so hard I can barely get them to leave at the end of the day. And it’s not just that. They’re trying so hard to be good mothers, in the only way they know how. It’s like they’re swimming and swimming just to keep from drowning and never reaching a shore.
This is what you were doing, isn’t it, Mama? Swimming and swimming, just to keep from drowning? I wish I could tell you to your face—I know how hard you tried. I see it now. I forgive everything else. Will you forgive me?
Your loving daughter,
Grace
Le Retour—Going Home
Tart Mango with Buttercream Filling
I pad through the house as quietly as I can, but the floorboards squeak in the cold. In the kitchen I drop two pieces of bread in the toaster and put the kettle on for tea. I don’t want to wake Jocelyn, who is still sleeping. I notice she has dried and put away the dishes I left in the rack. As much as I beg her not to, tidying seems to be her nervous habit; she is always restlessly folding tea towels or organizing cupboards, her gaze falling into the spaces between objects. It’s as if she hopes that by keeping her hands busy she will keep her mind from straying into dark memories. The kinds of memories I don’t like to imagine. Only Rilla seems to know how to really comfort her. She is full of small kindnesses, as if Jocelyn is a younger sister. She brings her packed lunches with boiled eggs, smiling faces drawn on the shells, or puts little bouquets of wild daisies next to Jocelyn’s sandwiches. At Lillian’s she pats Jocelyn’s back, whispers in Tagalog, and guides her to the bathroom to cry when she needs to.
My toast bounces on the springs, brown and hot. I reach to turn off the jug before it whistles, steam curling out of the spout. Behind me I hear a lazy yawn.
“You don’t need to be up,” I say softly.
Pete runs his hand through his hair. He is striped from head to toe in blue and red and green pajamas. His left cheek is lined with the creases of his pillow. He smiles lopsidedly.
“Thought I’d have an early breakfast with you,” he whispers, glancing at Jocelyn’s closed door.
“It’s okay, she is still asleep.”
I put two more pieces of bread in the toaster and offer him a slice of my toast, swiped with butter that has pooled in the pores of bread. He accepts it, and we eat leaning against the stovetop. I take a sip of my green tea, the liquid finding the corners of my body and warming them. I let out a yawn in symphony to his.
“I forgot to tell you,” he says, swallowing a mouthful of toast. “They’re closing some of the restaurants …”
There’s an awkward pause.
“You’re going to tell me it’s Aurora, aren’t you?”
He nods and slides an arm behind my back, giving my waist a squeeze. I let out a breath. It’s been so long since I have thought of Léon, helped by the fact that he has stopped coming to Lillian’s so regularly. Thinking of my old feelings for him makes me feel so ashamed. It’s like he was some delirious fever that shivered over me and then subsided, leaving me stripped bare and embarrassed. I bite into my toast. Feeling Pete’s warm arm around me calms me. His eyes shine green and gold in the early-morning light.
I lift my chin. “What will happen to Léon?”
Pete looks at me, into me, as if searching behind my eyes for something. I know what he is looking for, but he does not find it. His gaze softens, and he shakes his head, brushing crumbs from his fingers on the leg of his pajamas. Reaching for the kettle, he pours a cup of tea for himself.
“I don’t know. I’m going to call him, find out what’s going on. It’s not my area, but … well, I probably owe him a phone call anyway.” There is embarrassment in his voice too.
“Poor Celine,” I say. Then I think of their girls.
“Yeah. I think they can move him on to another project somewhere else if he wants, but I don’t know, the rumors are that he’ll stay. He likes it here in Macau apparently. The casinos, the lifestyle.”
My mind wanders back to the brunch we had in Aurora, the tables laden with food, the honey dripping and bread fresh and hot. I shake my head. Time feels strange and elastic, as if we were there just yesterday and also years ago. Back then there was no Lillian’s; no Marjory, no Rilla, no Gigi, no Yok Lan in our lives. I assemble these people in my mind like pieces of a quilt. Sewn close so their edges line up beside one another. Memories duck and weave between the pieces, stitching them together. Gigi looking for Yok Lan after the earthquake, Rilla and Gigi humming and singing and laughing at Lil’s.
Pete puts down his cup and stands in front of me. He takes both my hands in his and looks into my face. It is such a solemn gesture, and it feels like the room just got dimmer. I inhale quickly and hold my breath in my chest until it aches with the effort. His smile is a grim line across his face; he seems a little nervous.
“Grace, I’m not sure how long …”
I break away from his gaze to look down at the floor. My feet are cold, toes pale against the bright red polish on the nails. He looks down at them too, lining his own toes against the ends of mine and then pressing his forehead gently against my own.
“Grace …” he whispers but doesn’t finish his sentence. His breath is warm against my face, and sweet from the smells of toast and sleep. He leans into me and then rocks back on his heels. He plants a soft kiss above my right eyebrow and frowns. “I know how much this place means to you now.”
My throat feels like I have swallowed a handful of pebbles. “When will we have to leave?” I say, in a voice so quiet I can barely hear myself.
* * *
The end of the year rushes by us in a strange blur as we prepare for Jocelyn’s departure to the Philippines. She might have to come back to Macau if there is a trial, but the lawyer friend of Don’s has warned us that often these kinds of cases fall apart at the seams. He’s not convinced a Filipino maid is going to be believed in court. It’s her word against her employers’, and they will paint a picture of her as a lying, untrustworthy immigrant. It hurts to realize how easily that story could be swallowed. If I could come to doubt Rilla so easily, then who will believe Jocelyn? It makes us all furious that the employers may not be held accountable, but we try to focus on what is really important right now, which is getting Jocelyn home safe to her children.
Marjory says she has to be ready to leave at any time, so there is always a packed shoulder bag by the foot of her perfectly made bed. Christmas is upon us, but it is hard to have a normal kind of festive season when we all jump at the sound of a knock at the door or a ringing phone. I give Rilla, Marjory, Gigi, and Jocelyn little silver ornaments with their names engraved at the bottom; for Faith I have bought a soft, stuffed gold and white angel. On Christmas Day we have a bottle of champagne at Lil’s with some truffle-centered chocolates I have made, and later Pete, Jocelyn, and I have a roast chicken dinner, but it is a quiet affair. One minute it is Christmas and the next minute it isn’t, that is what it seems like. Jocelyn puts her ornament carefully into the side pocket of her bag, and I catch her checking it is still there every so often.
Finally, on the morning of New Year’s Eve, Marjory arrives. She has Jocelyn’s new passport and an envelope with plane tickets and cash inside. Rilla rushes over from her apartment to see her friend off.
“Have you got everything?” I ask, like a nervous mother.
Jocelyn nods and smiles, pats the side pocket of her bag. Rilla looks her in the eyes and gives her advice in Tagalog. She holds on to both her shoulders as she speaks. I
imagine her advice: Don’t talk to strangers, get straight on the bus when you get to Manila, keep your bag close, have you been to the toilet? Jocelyn smiles; we must look so concerned. Even Pete seems melancholy.
“I’m going to miss her,” he mumbles to me, putting his arm around my waist.
“I know, me too.”
We have seen photos of her children and heard stories about them. A little boy called Matthew and a girl named Teresa. Saints’ names, as if she has known right from the beginning that they would need the extra protection. In the pictures they have her dark eyes and small face. Teresa likes drawing and stories about fairies. Matthew likes to climb trees. Jocelyn doesn’t talk about their father and I don’t ask, but he is not in any of the precious photos, edges worn and colors faded from rubbing.
“You’ll be seeing those babies of yours soon,” Marjory says, as if she can read my mind.
Jocelyn looks up. “I will be so happy to be with them.” Her eyes are shining as she gazes around at us.
“You take care of them, Jocelyn. Don’t let them out of your sight,” Rilla warns.
“I won’t.”
“Give them hugs from all of us here. Squeeze them tight,” Pete adds.
“Well …” Marjory catches my eye. I am trying not to cry. “We’d better get going, I guess.”
“Shall we come to the airport with you?” Pete asks.
Marjory shakes her head. “The fewer people the better. I’ll just nip in to make sure she’s all right. We don’t want to draw attention to her.”
We all troop down to the street together. As Jocelyn climbs into the passenger seat of Marjory’s car, her long hair falls down over her shoulder. I remember seeing that sheet of hair and the horrible black bruise. Now when she lifts her face, it is clear and shining, as if lit up from the inside. She is safe. She is going home. She mouths “Thank you” to us with one hand pressed against the car window. Rilla, Pete, and I stand together, waving.
Marjory starts the engine and toots the horn a couple of times before pulling away from the curb. We watch the car until we can no longer see it.
* * *
Rilla receives a text message from Jocelyn the next day. She is back home with her sister and her children, in her little town by the sea. Everyone is healthy. Matthew and Teresa look taller. They had fish and rice for dinner. Her sister took photos of everyone, and she is going to post us some copies. She ends her message with a smiley face. We all breathe a sigh of relief.
“I could kill the people that did that stuff to her,” Gigi says with menace.
“We all could,” I agree.
“God, the world is full of assholes,” she adds.
Rilla looks at me as she enters the kitchen with a tray of dirty cups, but I don’t scold Gigi for swearing. She is right. The world is full of assholes.
“Is anyone out front?”
“Just Linda and the book club,” Rilla replies.
“Are they almost finished?”
“I think so. School’s out in ten minutes.”
“I’ll go do up their bill.”
Rilla looks at me, and I think she looks a bit relieved but I can’t tell. She starts to sing along to a song on the transistor radio on the kitchen windowsill. She’s recently began listening to country music, and somehow her voice sounds a little better crooning along to the lilting lyrics of heartbreak and the dog on the porch and the pickup truck that got a flat tire. Gigi doesn’t love it—she rolls her eyes at me.
I print the receipt from the till as Linda heads to the counter. Her blond hair is unusually long, over her shoulders.
“Thanks, Gracie, the macarons were lovely today,” she coos.
“My pleasure. Just yours or are you paying for everyone?”
“I’ll get the lot. We’re celebrating.”
She pauses and waits for me to ask. I have a mind to just let the silence sit between us, but it seems rude.
“What are you celebrating?”
Her face brightens. “Paul got a job in Singapore. The new development there. It’s a pretty big role.”
“Oh, well, that’s great.”
“We’ll be leaving in a few months.”
“I’m very happy for you.” I smile as I put her notes into the till and hand her some coins.
“It’s going to be a big change from here.” She raises her eyebrows. “Singapore is so different, you know?”
“I’ve never been,” I admit.
“Oh, you have to go, Grace! It’s marvelous. No rubbish on the streets. Great restaurants. No one spitting.” She gives me a look of wonder. “It’s so civilized. It’s so clean.”
“Right,” I say bluntly. The door chimes, and over Linda’s shoulder I see Marjory come in. She is wearing white trousers and a black shirt that hugs her body beautifully. Following her is the contrary version of her style—a nun in a brown-and-white habit, face free from makeup, eyes sparkling fresh and blue. This must be Sister Julietta. They both smile broadly at me.
Linda hasn’t noticed my gaze sliding away from her. “You’ll have to visit, Grace. It’s marvelous,” she repeats.
“Yes, I should go someday,” I say, distracted.
Linda closes her bag and sighs, leans in a little. “I’ve been meaning to say, I’m glad to see you got rid of that other one. They can be trouble.”
My attention snaps back to her. “Pardon?”
“The other girl, the one who’s gone.”
“Jocelyn?” My voice sounds tight.
“Was that her name? Well, if you ever want a spare pair of hands, I’m sure one of us girls could lend you a few hours. If you were ever in a jam, you know.”
“Us girls?” My tone is caustic.
Linda’s mouth hangs open for a second. Then she lowers her voice. “One of us expat girls, Gracie. I mean, we’re very busy with kids and husbands and what have you, but we could always rustle up someone for a few hours if you got into a pickle.”
I try to imagine Linda with her manicured hands in soapy water. She probably doesn’t do her own dishes at home, let alone have the stamina to stand for hours over my tacky baking trays.
“Jocelyn was a wonder, actually, Linda. We miss her terribly. And we’re fine. No need for help; Gigi and Rilla and I have it all under control.”
Linda takes a step back, and her lips come together. Her eyes narrow a little, but she quickly forces a smile.
“Well …” she says.
“Linda George!” Marjory exclaims; her voice both icy and sweet.
Linda wheels around.
“Haven’t seen you for ages. Don’t you look great. Hair extensions?”
Linda stares at Marjory for a moment, taking in the white trousers, the superb dancer’s body underneath that tight black top.
“Were you just leaving?” Marjory asks with a cool smile.
“Ah, yes …” Linda looks from Marjory to the nun and back again. It’s like an equation she cannot figure out. Marjory, the nun, back to Marjory. They both blink back at her with no explanation or introduction.
“Just leaving, yes?” Marjory says again.
Linda nods dumbly. When she is halfway across the floor, she turns back to me and lifts her head. As if to show we are the best of friends, she raises her fingers and waggles them, gives me a big white-toothed smile. “See you, Gracie dear.”
I take great pleasure in replying slowly and loudly so that everyone can hear: “Piss off, Linda.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Marjory’s face break into a huge grin.
La Môme Piaf—The Little Sparrow
Pear and Chestnut with Poire Williams–Spiked Buttercream
Early, when the sky is still dark, I am yanked from sleep. The cool January air wraps around me as I take a few deep breaths, figuring out where I am and waiting for my drumming heart to slow. In my dreams Faith was lying in our bed, her small, sweet weight curled between us. She was clutching Pete’s finger. I sit up and place my hand against the cool sheets, but of cours
e she is not there. Her face slips into my mind. Tufts of hair, sweet skin, dark oolong eyes filled with fresh tears. She has been in Lillian’s every day for weeks now. I find myself looking out for her in the mornings, desperate for her to arrive with Gigi, to hold her and kiss her and smell the baby scent of her. Now she is in my dreams.
Pete has told me the Melbourne team needs him to come back to Australia. There is a hotel to be built there, and the construction in Macau is struggling to remain funded. It’s an easy career decision for him, but he knows it is breaking my heart. He’s given me more time than he can afford to, the job offer pending while he puts off giving a firm answer. But I know they won’t wait long. As much as I love my work, it doesn’t provide for us like Pete’s does, and I guess the argument is that I could make a café anywhere. But could I? Pete’s going to need my support, we’re in a marriage after all, and soon I will have to decide what to do with Lillian’s. That is the hardest part. That and knowing that soon I won’t have these faces to keep me company every day. Marjory. Rilla. Gigi. Faith.
As I lie down again, I let out a sigh, which turns into a sob that catches in my throat. Pete sleeps on, unaware. His face is soft and beautiful when he is sleeping. Tears fill my eyes and spill down my cheeks. I put the side of my hand into my mouth and bite. The tears slowly stop, stray drops finding their way down my neck and onto the collar of my pajamas. I wish for Faith to be with us, the feeling making my chest ache.
I imagine Mama lying in bed, blankets up to her chin, wondering where I was, whether I was safe. Could she tell I was being looked after? Did she trust that I knew how to look after myself, that I was old enough to survive on my own? Without her? Maybe I reasoned that she was too selfish and needy and wrapped up in herself to worry about me. But I have been wrong about this. She would have worried. I know that beyond all doubt now. Mama would have worried about me the way I do about Faith, her sweet face always interrupting my thoughts.
The Colour of Tea Page 26
