Beyond the tiny house lay a large area of dirt. By now, the wheat would have been planted, fodder for the animals when the seeds sprouted in the summer. My father-in-law was really proud of growing his own grain to feed his animals. “Those Southerners couldn’t get it right, but I did,” he had said, beaming at the green shoots on his land. The typical Fresno summers, with their hundred degree plus heat, usually killed the plants, as the first growers soon discovered; in fact, the old Alabama Colony had never survived the setback. Their place near Cottonwood Creek had been abandoned for five years and counting. I peeked farther down the road of my in-laws’ property and saw the familiar red-roofed stables. I could imagine the horses inside, their breath steaming the cool air.
Dark rain clouds gathered as Mill started kicking the ground at his feet. In the wake of his shoes’ rhythm, he had created a pile of rich chocolate earth. He settled my photo in the mound. I recognized my own large forehead and pointed chin. My narrow eyes looked back at me. The fuzziness of the picture, probably from a slight movement of the photographer’s hands, made my cobbled-together features seem somewhat beautiful. A mishmash of oddities that created a lovely and innocent eighteen-year-old face.
Out of the packet, Mill pulled out a slender powdered stick. Incense. He also set out flint and steel. The fire he created soon lit the incense, resulting in a heady scent that overpowered me. It smelled like an unveiled secret of the ages.
As Mill attempted to place the burning stick near the photo, our daughter started bawling. She flailed her arms and kicked her tiny legs. To hold her still, Mill ended up dropping the incense. It kept burning, and our daughter kept shrieking. “Calm down, little girl,” Mill said. “Come and honor your mom.”
He tried swaying from side to side to calm her down. Then he sang a Chinese lullaby so soft into her ear that I could only make out the rising and falling tones. Nothing could stop the flooding of our baby’s tears. She kept rubbing at her nose, which grew redder by the moment. Finally, Mill looked down and crushed the smoldering stick under his heel. Thunder sounded in the sky, and our daughter’s crying intensified. He had to bring her back into the house, away from the lingering scent and the promise of a rain storm.
I followed them, but couldn’t do anything. She didn’t seem to want to calm down. Mill tried to feed her, but my baby wouldn’t take any of the extracted milk from the wet nurse. (“I don’t want to see my baby at the breast of strange women,” Mill had said. “Remember, my wife just died.” For once, Fillmore had backed down, asking that the woman leave bottles of milk for him rather than actually residing in the home.) My daughter continued a steady stream of wailing until they turned to snuffles as she cried herself to sleep in her father’s arms. Mill slumped against a wall, with the baby wedged near his chin, so she could feel the lulling rise and fall of his Adam’s apple and hear the soothing bass of his voice. It was an awkward position to hold her in, but she had found peace, and Mill didn’t want to disturb the equilibrium.
I saw water drops splash the window and crept outside. My photo was being attacked by the slashing rain. Soon it would be a puddle of paper, and the bits of ink would bleed into the ground. I went inside back to my husband and child. Mill smiled down at our daughter and said, “Oh, sweet Jasmine.”
I knew I had lost then. He had given up fighting for the name I had longed for, Jasper. I had to concede defeat, too. I had asked for her refusal to worship her ancestors. I had been thinking about past generations, not myself, when I had made the request. Soon, I would be a distant memory in my daughter’s mind, without even a photo for her to remember me by. I decided to compromise on the name, too. I bent over her tiny baby’s ear and whispered into it: “Sleep well, Jas.”
I wanted to sob, too, like Jas had moments before. I longed to weep for my future, in great heaving cries, but I couldn’t. No tears would flow down my ephemeral face. Instead, I forced my mind to blankness. I wanted to taste the oblivion of sleep and erase the pain.
When I woke again to the world, my baby was gone—in her chubby place stood the makings of a little girl. Jas’ hair poked up like weeds, a haphazard array of black wisps that no brush had tamed. She stood gripping with reed-like fingers (my own hands miniaturized) onto the chair in the bedroom. I couldn’t believe I had slept through her growing: the milestones of rolling, sitting up, and crawling. I watched, fascinated with her feet, her stance a solid triangle pattern that held her sweet body up.
I was so enamored with this new girl, who didn’t just lie in a crib, who could move her limbs at will, that I didn’t realize my in-laws were in the room until Stella’s voice squeaked an octave higher. It was very unusual for my mother-in-law’s voice to rise in volume, so my head swiveled toward her.
“This is not healthy for him,” she said. “They were only married a year, for goodness’ sake.”
“Stop your hen clucking,” Fillmore said. “Mill’s focused on his work, which is fine by me.”
“He’s not going to find a woman working with horses. Half of the rides are for carrying goods, anyway—”
“I do have the fastest stagecoach.” Fillmore puffed out his chest. “Only twenty-three hours to travel from Snelling to Visalia on my horses,” he said.
“That’s not my point,” Stella said. “The female passengers that do ride the stagecoaches are already married women. How else could they afford the transportation?”
Fillmore’s nostrils flared. “That’s fine by me. It’s how we make our money, wife. Don’t forget it. And you don’t need to worry—Mill is still young.”
Stella shook her head, her tiny mouse eyes shrinking even more as her brow furrowed. “Grief ages a person. He already looks thirty now. Maybe you should find him some young woman using your connections.”
Fillmore pushed back his shoulders and stood at his full height. Even without his typical platform shoes that added an extra two inches, he seemed regal-looking. “I know everyone in this town, but I don’t think I should be making introductions. He can find a woman on his own.” Fillmore patted his wife’s shoulder. “Besides, Mill could always mail order a bride.”
Stella angled away from her husband, and her voice dropped in volume. “You don’t know what that does to someone.”
“What? I can’t hear you.” Fillmore pivoted his tiny five-foot, one-hundred pound wife around with his hand. “Were you complaining? Didn’t I save you from that godforsaken rural town in China?”
Stella’s eyes lowered, her usual gesture of submission, but I saw the tension in her shoulders. It was so strange for me to witness an argument between my in-laws, where Fillmore reigned as boss and Stella accepted everything with a servant’s attitude, that I didn’t see Jas moving until it was too late.
Her feet had inched along the wooden floor until she stood upright by herself without the support of the chair. A huge grin spread across her face; her little pinpricks of teeth arranged into a wide smile. Then she crumpled.
Time felt so slow that I could see the projected angle of her fall. Her face would smash right into the chair. I wanted to run over and grab her, but I knew my insubstantial arms couldn’t buffer her. As she stumbled, I saw her eyes widen—but they didn’t have any fear in them.
Instead, I saw a bright white reflected in her irises. As she went down, her body tilted a little ways. She landed on the floor with a soft thud, almost as if she had been cushioned.
I realized that I had been holding my breath the entire time, and a sudden darkness reached out to embrace me. Even while I fainted, I knew that the time would fly before me; while I slept, moments with Jas would be stolen from me. As I hurtled into the darkness, though, I felt only relief because I knew that Jas had been stunned and not harmed.
CHAPTER 5
The Birthday Grab
MY EYES OPENED to the sight of Fillmore and Mill standing in the main room. Sometimes I found it hard to even see how they could be related. Mill stood silent, brooding, away from his father. Fillmore was bent over little Jas
, a piece of brown sugar candy in his hand. I could smell the intense crystallized sweetness even as I was reorienting to the scene. Fillmore’s hand, despite the strength of his muscles underneath, retained the flex of a scholar’s palm. He seemed almost to be holding a calligraphy brush again, as he bribed my child with the treat. Years of reining in horses hadn’t erased his classical arts upbringing, the route Fillmore’s own parents had urged him on and that he’d rebelled against.
Mill, hanging back from his father, with his broad arms crossed and his roughened hands clasped, seemed more like a rugged cowboy. Only the tense set of their jaws showed the father-son resemblance. Mill seemed almost like he’d trapped his body against the wall, his arms restraining himself from flying out at his father.
Fillmore’s set jaw came from his intense concentration on my daughter. Never had I seen him so involved with her before. Maybe he’d changed his ways.
“Come on,” my father-in-law said. “Just follow the candy.” He moved the sugar bit by bit.
“She’s not a horse,” Mill said. “You can’t bribe her where you want her to go.” Mill pointed with a dirt-encrusted finger to the end of the room. He must have just come in from working with the stagecoaches to have palms that brown.
I looked over to where he had gestured and saw three items displayed, like prizes at the end of a race course: an abacus, a silver coin, and a book. I also saw a discarded horse collar, the metallic curved hame which connected the ring to the harness, nestled next to it. It must have been dropped there when Mill came in.
“Her first year party is just a week away,” Fillmore said. At that event, my daughter’s fortune would be predicted by her choosing one of the items—the abacus for business, the coin for wealth, and the book for teaching. My father-in-law stood above the silver coin.
“Come on, girl.” Jas didn’t come any closer, and Fillmore scooped up the coin into his hand with the candy.
“You can’t force it,” Mill said.
“I raised you and Andrew, and you two turned out all right.”
Mill dropped his shoulders. He seemed spent in the fading evening light. “Sure, but with a lot of help from Ma.”
Fillmore dropped the coin back onto the floor. He held his hands behind his back. “My granddaughter has good sense. She’ll pick the right thing.” He took several steps away from the items and even closed his eyes. “See, I’m not cheating now.”
“Go, Jas,” Mill said.
At the sound of her father’s voice, Jas looked up, with wonder, at his face. “Walk over there and pick up a toy,” he said.
She waddled along on her little legs, a slight shuffle in her steps. Her hands hovered over all the items in the area. Then she picked something up. “She chose, Baba,” Mill said.
Fillmore glanced over at Jas. The object poking forth from her fist seemed tiny and metallic. My father-in-law gave a shout of glee, but I rushed over to Jas from my spot. He had not seen the curved end of the metal; it was a hook from the hame.
Jas opened her mouth, and I saw a white light before she attempted to chew on the shiny object. I shouldered my way right into the brightness—and felt the itch of feathers on my skin. Jas’ eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a pinprick of silver reflected in her irises. It was the gleam of the slender line that had connected me to my body the day I’d died. Could she see me?
Jas, her fisted hand halfway up to her mouth, waited. I yelled, “It’s me, your Mama!” I shouted it over and over again, although I knew she couldn’t hear me. She had a puzzled look on her face, and Jas tilted her head left and right. She leaned forward, ears alert. My voice gave out after I made my loudest shout.
“What’s wrong?” Mill asked. “Why are you moving your head like that, Jas?” He came over, and I was again comforted by the sound of his heavy, familiar steps.
Fillmore followed him. “Did you swallow that coin?” he asked Jas.
Mill held Jas’ face with gentle hands and pried her mouth open. “Nothing there.”
Fillmore made a choking noise. “The coin’s still on the floor. What do you have in your hand, Jasmine?”
Jas gazed up at her father, her eyes round and innocent. “Mama,” she said. She’d heard me!
“What?” Mill staggered back.
“Mama,” she said again. Then she dropped the hame near her grandfather’s feet.
Mill got his breath back. “Oh,” he said. “I forgot to put my things away.” He grabbed it, found the matching hook, and also lifted up the harness from the ground.
“Mah. Mah.” Fillmore extended the sound. “That’s right, Jas. Your first word. It means horse in Chinese, you smart one.”
I watched Mill’s face as he heard Fillmore’s explanation. His arms relaxed down at his sides. He liked the logical, non-ghost explanation given to him.
“That’s a start, little girl,” Fillmore said. “We’re in the horse business. That’s how we make our money.” Fillmore fed my daughter the chunk of rock sugar, piece by piece. She seemed delighted with the treat. She sucked on it, slowly, but she kept her eyes focused on me.
CHAPTER 6
The Fear of Water, Rule 2
SAGE INTERRUPTED ME in my moment of mother and daughter connection, by touching my shoulder. I received a quick electric shock, but also felt a pillowed softness at the same time. I wanted to curl into the siren touch of her feathers and relax there. So familiar, I thought. I recognized that entrancing texture.
“You were there,” I said. “You protected my daughter those times.”
Sage shook her head. “There are lots of us. You need to open your eyes more.” The tips of her feathers brushed against my eyelids. I felt something fall down; they were pieces of cold dark metal that disappeared to ash as they hit the floor.
“What are those?”
“Blinders. That’s a horse analogy you should understand.”
I could see Sage’s eyes looking at me and realized the variation of colors found in them. They spanned from the lightest spider gossamer hue to the deepest shade of black hole.
“Can you tell me something, Sage?”
All the eyes swiveled to me, attentive.
“Whenever I fall asleep, I lose time with my daughter. I don’t understand how I can sleep so long that months go by.”
“Time works differently in this realm,” Sage said. “I told you that before.”
“Can I stop my eyes from closing?”
“You need to learn how to use your new body.”
I thought about my hunger pangs, assuaged by the scent of earthly food. The same, but different. Maybe I could distract my eyes in the same way. I could keep them focused using solid willpower. I stared at Sage as she spoke, my eyes forced wide open. I couldn’t keep the bulging fish look for long.
“It’s time for the second commandment,” she said. “You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below.”
I debated in my mind for a couple of minutes. Could I just pick one of those three settings? Sage had said I could interpret and set boundaries however I wished. I would try to manipulate the rule then.
I didn’t want to focus on heaven. After all, my girl had just seen me. Perhaps I would interact with her more, and I didn’t want to build any barriers against us communicating again. As for earth, I wanted her to listen to Mill and his advice, to hold her grandparents in respect. Water seemed the safest bet. Surely, she didn’t need to worship anything in the oceans or such.
Besides, there was no water here. Fresno had been an expanse of desert; a wide, dry space for a very long time. Hopeful farmers had planted miles of wild oats that had blossomed in the spring but shriveled up under the beating summer sun. Only when Moses J. Church had tapped into the water supply, creating Fresno Canal and Irrigation Company, had any plants thrived. What trouble could Jas get into for eschewing water in this land, which had origins in those dusty plains?
“She will stay away from any bod
ies of water,” I said. “She will not idolize anything there.”
“It will be so,” Sage said, leaving with a flutter of wings, the harsh sound like a thousand galloping hoof beats thumping in the air.
***
Water. I remembered it glistening off the leaves of the rows of fig trees, the plants that gave me a way to contribute to my family’s finances. Thank goodness Gabriel Moore and his family had planted the first apple and fig orchards back in the 1850’s. They had provided me with an honest job; I knew that girls who had been born before me, especially in the large cities, had needed to scrape money through more sordid means.
I kept thinking about work and soon, my ephemeral body transported to the fig factory. I saw Bao again as she stuffed figs into boxes, her hands so used to the motions that her eyes could be riveted to the neighbor beside her while handling the fruit. A new girl in my old spot.
The stranger was a few inches taller than Bao, with wavy brown hair and piercing black eyes. Her petite fingers fumbled as she tried to stuff the nuts into the fruit without creating a mess.
“Did you just come to Fresno?” Bao asked.
The new girl kept watching her fingers, as though willing them to cooperate with her gaze.
Bao tried again. “How long have you been in town?”
The girl bit her lip and concentrated on grabbing a walnut with her thumb and forefinger.
“Do you like working?” Bao asked.
“Work.” The girl gave a thumbs up to Bao. Then she shifted her body away, hunching over the box in front of her.
Bao frowned. We used to gossip about our lives, swapping our family stories. It must be a huge change for her to have a quiet companion all of a sudden.
Dragonfly Dreams Page 3
