Bao started shaping the fruit before her. We used to hold contests about how many shapes and miniature sculptures we could make out of the fig and nut combinations. I had lots of practice molding clay, but my experience backfired. The sticky fruit would not yield to the push of my fingers in the same way. Bao always beat me, and she insisted on flaunting her talent, configuring the most complex and creative designs. As she was placing a finishing touch to the lotus flower she’d just created, I saw one of the managers step beside her.
His name was Rich, and the girls whispered behind his back because his appearance never quite matched the associated wealth of his name. He wore crumpled clothing, sometimes the same ones day after day. His teeth were stained, and dandruff tumbled down onto his shoulders whenever he moved his head. He continued to approach the ladies with extreme confidence, though, hoping his authority would be a beacon to one of the lost girls. He talked with his lips parted, like he wanted to bestow a kiss, and gave off a knowing wink after every third sentence.
“Bao,” he said. “How are you?”
“Okay, keeping busy.”
Rich fingered the half-completed box before her. “You’re not as fast as you used to be. Not after Topaz die—”
Bao waved a fig at his face, right up to his eyeball. Startled, he stepped back, causing several white flakes to fall on the fruit. Bao pulled the fig back and stuffed it into the box. “Do you have something to say to me?”
Rich clasped his fingers. “Upper management is concerned about your weak pace. And your recent dark moods. Our building is getting crowded with more workers than ever.” The room was stuffed full of women. Despite the windows being flung open, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume clogged up the air. “Who knows when we’ll have to let one go?”
Bao made a half-choking noise. At the same time, I saw a misty black fog cover her body—it was the hazy shadow I’d spotted before when I’d first visited the factory, but the mass seemed clearer now. I could pinpoint the tendrils of each smoky wisp.
Rich opened his hands, like he had a gift in his palms to show Bao. “I could help you out.”
Bao’s eyes narrowed. Then I saw the flash of gold swimming in the air. It looked like a thin string floating next to her left ear. I had seen that color before—near my own mother before she had destroyed the red egg and ginger party. The gold moved smoothly, but slowly, into her ear. I knew I had to stop it, but how? Maybe if I stepped into the space, like I’d done with Jas’ white glow, I could touch it and block it somehow.
I walked into the black fog that surrounded Bao. It settled like jelly onto my skin and gave off the pungent odor of rotten eggs. My stomach almost heaved, but couldn’t—good thing I didn’t eat solid food anymore. I imagined my hand like a clamp, and my fingers reached for the gold string. It was already halfway inside Bao’s head before I made contact. It had a cold metallic feel, and I yanked hard. It took three times to get even a centimeter of that slippery thread out. Up close, the end I’d gripped looked segmented, like a thinner version of an earthworm.
“Ouch!” Bao said, placing her hand against her left ear.
“Let me see that,” Rich said.
Blood trickled out of her earlobe. I had hurt my friend. I let go of the golden worm in horror. It slithered back into the comfort of Bao’s head.
“I’ll take you to the private room where the medical supplies are kept,” Rich said. He placed his skinny arm around her waist and guided her away through the throngs of working women. Focused on their job and in making a dollar, none of them looked up as he passed by.
I didn’t follow the pair. I was afraid to see the blood again, and I could still hear Bao’s cry of pain in my head. Instead, I fled to where I knew there would be peace. I wanted to see my daughter’s beautiful, calm face again.
CHAPTER 7
Bathtime Blues
SHE WAS WAILING when I arrived. Stella had pinned her in a bucket of water. Soap suds flew across the floor as Jas protested her bath. Her newfound fear of water had apparently manifested itself in the necessary daily activity.
Stella attempted to block the splashes with one hand while scrubbing Jas with the other. “If I only had more help,” my mother-in-law said. She decided to let the spilling continue and focused on cleaning the child.
“Maybe your granddaddy could hold you down in the water,” Stella said.
Jas flicked some water over the side of the bucket.
“Then again, he’d probably drown you.” Stella lifted Jas out of the bucket, soap still clinging to my daughter’s hair. “I give up.”
Stella dried Jas off and cleaned up the mess. She carried my daughter into the bedroom area and reached into the drawer of her nightstand. She took out a glass atomizer and tapped its side. “I guess I’ll be using this instead of soap and water in the future. Here’s a little sniff for you.” She spritzed the fragrance into the air, and the sharp smell of cinnamon hit my nose. It reminded me of soy sauce chicken, my mom’s secret combination of anise, brown sugar, and cinnamon, which enhanced the sweet and salty meat dish.
The fragrance seemed to bond Stella and Jas as well. The two of them had collapsed onto the bed, both exhausted by their previous efforts. They lay cuddled together, and I envied Stella, her ability to touch my child. I saw the rise and fall of their chests as they snuggled on the mattress. Jas’ little breaths, with her soft grunts, made a gentle, drum-like beating. They hypnotized me like an ancient chant until I, too, felt my eyes close.
***
Fillmore’s voice thundered in the room. “What is that smell?”
I arrived at almost the same domestic scene that I had left before, with grandmother and granddaughter curled up tight on the bed. Except they were wearing different clothes, and there was a musty odor pervading the space.
“I swear I’ve been smelling it for days now. Where’s the source?” Fillmore peered in the corners and shoved the furniture around.
Stella clutched Jas close to her chest, placing her body as a barrier against Fillmore. To her credit, my daughter didn’t even make a yelp. She just watched in surprise as her granddaddy started tearing up the bedroom area.
“Stop, Fillmore,” Stella said. “You’ll break everything.”
“I will not, woman. Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.” He thumped at his chest. “Remember my name? The strong name of a president.”
“Yes, I know. One you gave yourself.”
“Are you mocking me?” With his arm, Fillmore seemed to brush Stella and Jas off the bed and onto the floor. He picked up the mattress they had been lying on and flung it aside. “Wait a minute. What are these?”
In his hand he held some embroidered cloth handkerchiefs. “Why are you hiding these under the bed?” He fluttered a delicate piece in the air. “I’ve seen this at the knickknack store in Chinatown. Did you buy them without asking my permission?”
Stella jutted her chin out, and her dark eyes narrowed at him. “No, I’ve been selling them.”
“You what? Who told you to do that?”
“Carol, a friend, told me to make money doing the things I like.”
“Forget her advice. We don’t need the extra income. I can pay for anything you might need.” Fillmore spun in a circle, in an almost comical gesture, if not for the frown on his face. “I can house you, clothe you, feed you. What more could you want?”
“I need an outlet for myself, especially with the child around. I’m not as young as I used to be… and I also wanted to teach her the needlework.”
Fillmore looked at Stella and patted her on the head, like he would have one of his horses. Maybe that was how they had always connected. “You can’t have a sharp needle around a baby, Stella.”
“I’m real careful, Fillmore.”
“When did you start this foolishness?”
Stella blinked at him. “I’ve always done it. Even before you found me. All the women in my family have skill with a needle, and we passed the embroidery knowledge down to
every female in the next generation. Since you and I had sons…”
“Sons are the best,” Fillmore said. “I can’t believe you wasted your time making those frilly things. I forbid you from pursuing this hobby anymore. You’re as useless as my dead daughter-in-law, always creating junk from mud.”
“Clay,” Stella said.
“What’s the difference?” He took the pieces of cloth and started shredding them with his bare hands. He threw the tattered remains at her head. “There’s only one provider in this household.”
I didn’t feel the cold sliminess again or see a hint of black mist around Stella. No wisps of gold tried to enter her head, but nevertheless, I could see danger lurking in her eyes. I knew what it was like to craft something out of clay, to bake it, and then have it shatter in your hands by accident. Each broken shard cuts out a piece of your soul. It must be a hundred times worse when somebody else destroys your creations.
***
After their confrontation, I started to wonder about my own clay figurines. What had happened to them? My curiosity transported me to my parents’ home. It was a neat and tidy shack, but sagging in the middle. The other houses nearby also seemed bent over with age, but the inside of ours smelled like comfort and home. The sweet burst of fresh bubbling rice made me run through the doors. Unlike my in-laws’ place, our house consisted of one messy room for everything. Things jostled against each other on the dirt floor: pots mingled with shoes. We didn’t organize much in our family, but somehow, we found everything we were looking for.
I saw my parents seated at the rickety wooden table in the center of the house. One leg was shorter than the rest, and a mud brick had been jammed underneath to make up the missing height. My parents sat with their bowls on the table and their chopsticks in the air. The platter in between them held a heap of steaming white rice and a few precious green vegetables.
“How was your day, Mung?” my father asked.
“Hard, as usual.” My mother pinched a dried-up leaf with her chopsticks. “Find any work yet?”
“I expect there’ll be a steady job soon with the railroad company.”
My mother chewed on her tiny piece of vegetable, trying to capture its juices by biting it thoroughly. “Is that wishful thinking? What about that shootout that happened last year?”
“A tiny land dispute between the settlers and the Southern Pacific Railroad. They’ll figure it out,” my father said.
My mother eyed the last green fleck on the rice, picked it up, and then deposited it in my father’s bowl. “I worry about you. Get lonely much here by yourself?”
My father turned his head to the side, but didn’t respond.
“Kong, are you okay?”
He got out of his chair and walked over to a shelf, the only one in our room. It was built at his eye-level, constructed bit by bit with his good left arm. It tilted slightly. He went over to touch the clay pieces on display.
They’d kept all my work. I’d created replicas of nature, and my first piece had been an ash tree. At age five, I’d created that iconic plant, which the town was named for. Fresno was Spanish for “ash.” I’d tried to capture the mass of green, each branch wielding five to eleven leaflets, but they turned out to be blobs and streaks in my kiddie hands. The feature I’d been most proud of was the distinct diamond pattern that I’d stuck on the bark. “Treasure,” I’d said. Nature’s jewels, and somehow I’d associated those gems with the hopeful promise of life in Fresno. That was when I had believed in dreams, that somehow I’d continue on in school (although none of the other girls did past a certain age), marry my prince (Mill was pretty on target for that), and raise lovely children (I didn’t see myself dying at childbirth). Things hadn’t turned out like I’d wanted them to.
In the ups and downs, though, I had my clay work. I’d kept with the plant and animal theme even as I grew older, because I didn’t trust myself to mold a detailed human face. I had wanted to make a statue of Mill for our wedding, but I had been too frightened that I couldn’t do it right. Then I had promised myself to make one of the baby once it was born…
My father picked up my last piece, a dragon. I made it while pregnant, between the bouts of nausea. I knew Jas would be born in the year of the dragon, with metal as her element. My father touched each scale on its flowing spine. “There’s nothing left of our daughter except this brittle clay.”
“She got married,” my mother said. “We would have lost her anyway. At least Mill loved her for a while.”
“Not his parents, though. The Woos took our girl. Then they had the nerve to take baby Jasper, too—she’s our flesh and blood as well.”
My mother moved in close to my father and gave him a tight hug. As she squeezed him, I saw a dark blueness spread around them. I walked into the deep color and felt the sudden chill. It didn’t cling like jelly to my skin like the blackness had, but I still balked at the icy temperature.
I tried to put my arms around my parents, too, in a group hug. They didn’t feel my presence.
“I’m here,” I said. Maybe they could hear me, like Jas had, if I shouted it louder. I yelled out the words, but their sad expressions didn’t change.
I kept screaming until my voice grew hoarse. Before it gave out, I said, “I’ll make it right. You’ll see. I’ll reunite you again with your granddaughter.” Neither of my parents turned their head my way, but I could hear my father take a deep breath in and blow it out, his muscles relaxing. The color of the fog surrounding us changed from navy to a deep sea green. The atmosphere grew a bit toastier, and my father doled out a tiny, tense smile.
A voice spoke next to my ear. “Be careful what you promise.” I turned around and saw that Sage had snuck up on me.
I pointed a shaking finger at Sage. “Yes, like making this deal with you. All that’s resulted from staying on is watching my family divide themselves. Look how heartbroken my parents are.”
I wondered if it was worth it to continue in this floating state. Was I really helping those I loved? Perhaps I could change the deal and quit early.
“At least you get to see your daughter,” Sage said. “What you wanted above all.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I longed to stay close to Jas, even if it meant causing me and others some pain. “Go on then. What’s the next rule?”
CHAPTER 8
Never Say “God,” Rule 3
“YOU SHALL NOT MISUSE the name of the Lord your God,” Sage said.
“Make it so that she can never say the name of God. Then she won’t mess up this commandment.”
“So be it.” Sage took a deep breath and blew it out at me. I felt myself tumbling down into a vast expanse of green.
***
I fell toward the ground, pushed by the force of Sage’s exhalation. I was fast approaching two tiny figures, one standing still and one dancing in the grass. Stella and Jas. I tried to pivot away from them as I hurtled toward the ground—at least, I couldn’t do any damage to my spirit body. With my head mere inches from the dirt, I took a breath in, ready to let it out as a scream, even though no one would hear me. But as my lungs took in the air, I felt control return to my body. I remembered that I could adjust my hovering, as I had on my first visit to the fig packing factory to take a closer look at Bao. I used little breaths to lower myself gently down into the grass.
I was behind my in-laws’ house, farther in distance than the wheat field that skirted the back door. I felt like I could have been set down in a private garden, except for the occasional snorts from the horses in the nearby stables. They must have redone the yard to provide a special area for Jas to play in. Before, it had been clumps of dried weeds. Nobody had had the energy to make it pretty in the past. We were all too busy working, even Stella, whose job was to run the household, feeding and clothing the men.
Now, spring had dressed up the new grassy area with bold colors; the petals grew in huge clumps, ready for Jas to gather up. Indeed, her little hands were filled with all sorts of plant
material. They held a random array of leaves, flowers, and stems. She hopped over to Stella to show her the armload’s worth of natural treasure.
“I love your bouquet,” Stella said. “Now, take a look at the vegetable garden we planted. See the sprouts poking up?”
“Pretty,” Jas said. Her stubby toddler legs did a fumble of a curtsey.
Stella peered at Jas from beneath her floppy straw hat. Her skin still looked milk-white despite their apparent recent gardening adventures. “You’re really picking up words fast now. I guess that’s what happens when you turn two.”
“Me. Two.” Jas jumped up and down, wisps of her hair bouncing against her cheeks. Her eyes suddenly opened wider, and she began chasing a white flying insect. It fluttered away, and she returned to her grandma. “What that?”
“Butterfly.” I wanted to correct Stella; it was a moth. And it might ruin your future garden, but I had to agree with Jas. As it twirled in the sunlight, it seemed a beautiful and free creature.
Jas stared hard as it did acrobatics across the blue sky. She could only say the first part of the Cantonese word—wu.
Stella clapped her hands. “Excellent, you’re so smart.”
“You make?” Jas asked.
“Call me A-mah, not you.”
Jas kept her lips sealed tight.
“Say A-mah.”
“Ma?” Jas shook her head and backed away from Stella with scuttling steps.
“Fine. Nana then,” Stella said.
Jas returned and pointed to the circling moth. “Nana make?”
“No, I didn’t.” Stella looked around her. She peered into the darkness of the stables and then returned her attention to Jas. “This is a secret, okay?”
Jas nodded, her eyes fixed onto Stella. “Don’t tell YehYeh. There’s a great Maker who made everything, like flowers.” Stella touched the riotous display of plants in Jas’ hands. “God,” she said. What? Where had she learned that? Plus, unlike her previous sentences, Stella had spoken in English.
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