by Amy Tan
As quickly as it takes to snap a twig—that’s how fast the mind can turn against what is familiar and dear. There I was, about to arrive at my old home, and I was not filled with sentimental fondness for all I had grown up with. Instead I noticed the ripe stench of a pig pasture, the pockmarked land dug up by dragon-bone dream-seekers, the holes in the walls, the mud by the wells, the dustiness of the unpaved roads. I saw how all the women we passed, young and old, had the same bland face, sleepy eyes that were mirrors of their sleepy minds. Each person’s life was the same as the next person’s. Each family was as important as the next, which was to say, not very important. They were country people, both naive and practical, slow to change but quick to think that a disturbance of ants on the ground was a sign of bad luck from the gods high above. Even Precious Auntie had become this way in my mind, a sleepy-headed greasy-hat from the country.
I remembered a funny saying about life in a slow village: When you have nothing else to do, you can always busy yourself picking maggots out of rice. Once I had laughed at that saying. Now I saw that it was true.
Mr. Wei was still singing his loud folk songs as we rode into the town square. And then we came to Pig’s Head Lane. I passed all the familiar faces and listened to their harsh, dust-choked greetings. As we came closer to the bend of the neck where our house stood, my heart began to drum in my ears. I saw the family gateway, the arch with its peeling timber, the fading red couplet banners that hung on the pillars.
But just as I pushed open the gate, my heart flew back into my chest, and I was filled with a longing to see Precious Auntie. She would be glad to see me. She had cried when I left. I dashed into the front courtyard: “I’m home! I’m home already!” I went into the ink studio, where I saw Mother and GaoLing. “Ah, back so soon?” Mother said, not bothering to stop her work. “Cousin Lau sent me a note that the meeting went well, and the Changs will probably take you.”
I was bursting to tell them about my adventures, the pleasures I had enjoyed. But Mother stopped me: “Hurry and clean up, so you can help your little sister and me grind this up.” And GaoLing wrinkled her nose and said, “Choi You smell like the hind end of a donkey.”
I went to the room I shared with Precious Auntie. Everything was in its usual place, the quilt folded just so at the bottom of the k’ang. But she was not there. I wandered from room to room, from little courtyard to little courtyard. With each passing moment, I felt more anxious to see her.
And then I heard a pot banging. She was in the root cellar, eager that I should know she was there. I peered down the steep ladder and into the tunnel. She waved, and as she climbed up from the shadows, I saw that she still had the figure of a girl. In the brief moment of seeing only half of her face lit by the sun, she was again as beautiful as she had seemed to me when I was a small child. When she emerged from the hole, she put the pot down and stroked my face, then said with her hands, Have you really come back to me, my Doggie? She pulled my tangled braid and snorted. Didn’t take your comb? No one to remind you? Now you know why you need me. You have no brains! She jabbed the side of my head, and this made me irritable. With spit on her finger, she rubbed dirt from my cheek, then felt my forehead. Are you sick? You seem feverish.
“I’m not sick,” I said. “I’m hot.” She went back to unraveling the mats of my hair. I glanced at her ropy scars, her twisted mouth.
I pulled away. “I can clean myself,” I said.
She began to make hissing sounds. Gone one week and now you ‘re so grown-up?
I snapped back: “Of course. After all, I’m about to be a married woman.”
I heard. And not as a concubine but as a wife. That’s good. I raised you well, and everyone can see that.
I knew then that Mother had not told her the name of the family. She had to hear it sooner or later. “The family is the Changs,” I said, watching the words cut her in two. “That’s right, Chang the coffinmaker.”
She sounded as if she were drowning. She rocked her head like a clanging bell. And then she told me with slashing hands, You cannot. I forbid you.
“It’s not for you to decide!” I shouted back.
She slapped me, then pushed me against the wall. Again and again, she beat me on my shoulders, around my head, and at first I whimpered and cowered, trying to protect myself. But then I became angry. I pushed her back and stood tall. I drained all expression out of my face and this surprised her. We stared at each other, breathing hard and fast, until we no longer recognized each other. She dropped onto her knees, pounding her chest over and over, her sign for useless.
“I need to go help Mother and GaoLing,” I said, then turned from her and walked away.
GHOST
Just as expected, the Changs asked our family if I could join theirs as a daughter-in-law. If I went there right away, Old Widow Lau added, my family would receive a money gift and I would immediately be known as a daughter-in-law during all the family and town ceremonies, including the special one that would happen during the Moon Festival, honoring Mr. Chang for his scientific achievements.
“She should go now,” Big Aunt and Little Aunt advised Mother. “Otherwise, they might later change their minds. What if they discover something wrong with her background and want to end the marriage contract?” I thought they were talking about my poor sewing skills or some naughtiness I had forgotten but they had not. But of course, they were talking about my birth. They knew whose daughter I really was. The Changs and I did not.
Mother decided I would join the Chang family in a few weeks, before the town ceremony at the Moon Festival. She assured me that would give her and my aunts enough time to sew together quilts and clothes suitable for my new life. After Mother announced this news, she cried for joy. “I’ve done well by you,” she said proudly. “No one can complain.” Gao-Ling cried as well. And though I shed some tears, not all of them were for joy. I would leave my family, my familiar house. I would change from a girl to a wife, a daughter to a daughter-in-law. And no matter how happy I was sure to be, I would still be sad to say good-bye to my old self.
Precious Auntie and I continued to share the same room, the same bed. But she no longer drew my bath or brought me sweet water from the well. She did not help me with my hair or worry over my daily health and the cleanliness of my fingernails. She gave no warnings, no advice. She did not talk to me with her hands.
We slept at the farthest ends of the k’ang away from each other. And if I found myself huddled next to her familiar form, I quietly moved away before she awoke. Every morning she had red eyes, so I knew she had been crying. Sometimes my eyes were red, too.
When Precious Auntie was not working in the ink-making studio, she was writing, sheet after sheet after sheet. She sat at her table, grinding the inkstick into the inkstone, thinking what, I could not guess. She dipped her brush and wrote, paused and dipped again. The words flowed without blots or cross-outs or backward steps.
A few days before I was supposed to leave to join the Changs, I awoke to find Precious Auntie sitting up, staring at me. She raised her hands and began to talk. Now I will show you the truth. She went to the small wooden cupboard and removed a package wrapped in blue cloth. She put this in my lap. Inside was a thick wad of pages, threaded together with string. She stared at me with an odd expression, then left the room.
I looked at the first page. “I was born the daughter of the Famous Bonesetter from the Mouth of the Mountain,” it began. I glanced through the next few pages. They concerned the tradition of her family, the loss of her mother, the grief of her father, all the things she had already told me. And then I saw where it said: “Now I will tell how bad this man Chang really is.” Right away, I threw those pages down. I did not want Precious Auntie poisoning my mind anymore. So I did not read to the end where she said she was my mother.
During our evening meal, Precious Auntie acted as if I were once again helpless. She pinched pieces of food with her chopsticks and added these to my bowl. Eat more, she ordered. Why
aren’t you eating? Are you ill? You seem warm. You forehead is hot. Why are you so pale?
After dinner, we all drifted to the courtyard as usual. Mother and my aunts were embroidering my bridal clothes. Precious Auntie was repairing a hole in my old trousers. She put down the needle and tugged my sleeve. Did you already read what I wrote?
I nodded, not wishing to argue in front of the others. My cousins, GaoLing, and I were playing weaving games with strings looped around our fingers. I was making lots of mistakes, which caused GaoLing to howl with glee that the Changs were getting a clumsy daughter-in-law. Upon hearing this, Precious Auntie threw me stern looks.
The evening wore on. The sun went down, the sounds of darkness came, the chirp, creak, and flap of unseen creatures. All too soon it was time for bed. I waited for Precious Auntie to go first. After a long while, when I thought she might already be asleep, I went into the dark room.
Immediately Precious Auntie sat up and was talking to me with her hands.
“I can’t see what you’re saying,” I said. And when she went to light the kerosene lamp, I protested, “Don’t bother, I’m sleepy. I don’t want to talk right now.” She lit the lamp anyway. I went to the k’ang and lay down. She followed me and set the lamp on the ledge, crouched, and stared at me with a glowing face. Now that you have read my story, what do you feel toward me? Be honest.
I grunted. And that little grunt was enough for her to clasp her hands, then bow and praise the Goddess of Mercy for saving me from the Changs. Before she could give too many thanks, I added: “I’m still going.”
For a long time, she did not move. Then she began to cry and beat her chest. Her hands moved fast: Don’t you have feelings for who lam?
And I remember exactly what I said to her: “Even if the whole Chang family were murderers and thieves, I would join them just to get away from you.”
She slapped her palms against the wall. And then she finally blew out the lamp and left the room.
In the morning, she was gone. But I was not worried. A few times in the past, when she had become angry with me, she left but always came back. She was not at the table for breakfast, either. So I knew her anger was greater than in the past. Let her be angry, then, I said to myself. She doesn’t care about my future happiness. Only Mother does. That is the difference between a nursemaid and a mother.
These were my very thoughts as my aunts, GaoLing, and I followed Mother to the ink-making studio to begin our work. As we entered the dim room, we all saw the mess. Stains on the walls. Stains on the bench. Long spills along the floor. Had a wild animal broken in? And what was that rotten sweet smell? Then Mother began to wail, “She’s dead! She’s dead!”
Who was dead? In the next moment, I saw Precious Auntie, the top half of her face limestone white, her wild eyes staring at me. She was sitting crooked against the far wall. “Who’s dead?” I called to Precious Auntie. “What happened?” I walked toward her. Her hair was unbound and matted, and then I saw that her neck was clotted with flies. She kept her eyes on me, but her hands were still. One held a knife used to carve the inkstones. Before I could reach her, a tenant pushed me aside so she could better gawk.
Of that day, that was all I remembered. I didn’t know how I came to be in my room, lying on the k’ang. When I awoke in the dark, I thought it was still the morning before. I sat up and shuddered, shaking off my nightmare.
Precious Auntie was not in the k’ang. Then I remembered she was angry with me and had left to sleep elsewhere. I tried to fall back asleep, but now I could not lie still. I got up and stepped outside. The sky was thick with stars, no lamp burned in any room, and even the old rooster did not rustle in alarm. It was not morning but still night, and I wondered if I was dreamwalking. I made my way across the courtyard, toward the ink-making studio, thinking that Precious Auntie might be sleeping on a bench. And then I remembered more of the bad dream: black flies feasting on her neck, crawling along her shoulders like moving hair. I was scared to see what was inside the studio, but my shaking hands were already lighting the lamp.
The walls were clean. So was the floor. Precious Auntie was not there. I was relieved, and returned to bed.
When I woke up the next time, it was morning and GaoLing was on the edge of the k’ang. “No matter what,” she said with a tearful face, “I promise to always treat you like a sister.” Then she told me what had happened, and I listened as if I were still in a bad dream.
The day before, Mrs. Chang had come over with a letter from Precious Auntie clutched in her hand. It had arrived in the middle of the night. “What is the meaning of this?” the Chang woman wanted to know. The letter said that if I joined the Chang household, Precious Auntie would come to stay as a live-in ghost, haunting them forever. “Where is the woman who sent this?” Mrs. Chang demanded, slapping the letter. And when Mother told her that the nursemaid had just killed herself, the Chang wife left, scared out of her wits.
After that, Mother rushed over to the body, GaoLing said. Precious Auntie was still leaning on the wall in the studio. “This is how you repay me?” Mother cried. “I treated you like a sister. I treated your daughter like my own.” And she kicked the body, again and again, for not saying thank you, sorry, I beg your pardon a thousand times. “Mother was crazy with anger,” GaoLing said. “She told Precious Auntie’s body, ‘If you haunt us, I’ll sell LuLing as a whore.’” After that, Mother ordered Old Cook to put the body in a pushcart and throw it over the cliff. “She’s down there,” GaoLing said, “your Precious Auntie is lying in the End of the World.” When GaoLing left, I still did not understand everything she had said, and yet I knew. I found the pages Precious Auntie had written for me. I finished reading them. At last, I read her words. Your mother, your mother, I am your mother.
That day I went to the End of the World to look for her. As I slid down, branches and thorns tore at my skin. When I reached the bottom, I was feverish to find her. I heard the drumming of cicadas, the beating of vulture wings. I walked toward the thick brush, to where trees grew sideways just as they had fallen with the crumbling cliff. I saw moss, or was that her hair? I saw a nest high in the branches, or was that her body stuck on a limb? I came upon branches, or were those her bones, already scattered by wolves?
I turned and went the other direction, following the turns of the cliff’s wall. I glimpsed tatters of cloth—her clothes? I saw crows carrying shreds—pieces of her flesh? I came to a wasteland with rocky mounds, ten thousand pieces of her skull and bones. Everywhere I looked, it was as if I were seeing her, torn and smashed. I had done this. I was remembering the curse of her family, my family, the dragon bones that had not been returned to their burial place. Chang, that terrible man, he wanted me to marry his son only so I would tell him where to find more of those bones. How could I be so stupid not to have realized this before?
I searched for her until dusk. By then, my eyes were swollen with dust and tears. I never found her. And as I climbed back up, I was a girl who had lost part of herself in the End of the World.
For five days I could not move. I could not eat. I could not even cry. I lay in the lonely k’ang and felt only the air leaving my chest. When I thought I had nothing left, my body still continued to be sucked of breath. At times I could not believe what had happened. I refused to believe it. I thought hard to make Precious Auntie appear, to hear her footsteps, see her face. And when I did see her face, it was in dreams and she was angry. She said that a curse now followed me and I would never find peace. I was doomed to be unhappy. On the sixth day, I began to cry and did not stop from morning until night. When I had no more feeling left, I rose from my bed and went back to my life.
No more mention was ever made of my going to live with the Changs. The marriage contract had been canceled, and Mother no longer pretended I was her daughter. I did not know where I belonged in that family anymore, and sometimes when Mother was displeased with me, she threatened to sell me as a slave girl to the tubercular old sheepherder. No one spoke of
Precious Auntie, either once living or now dead. And though my aunts had always known I was her bastard daughter, they did not pity me as her grieving child. When I could not stop myself from crying, they turned their faces, suddenly busy with their eyes and hands.
Only GaoLing talked to me, shyly. “Are you hungry yet? If you don’t want that dumpling, I’ll eat it.” And I remember this: Often, when I lay on my k’ang, she came to me and called me Big Sister. She stroked my hand.
Two weeks after Precious Auntie killed herself, a figure ran through our gate, looking like a beggar chased by the devil. It was Little Uncle from Peking. His clothes and the hollows of his eyes were full of soot. When he opened his mouth, choking cries came out. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” I heard Mother shout as I climbed out of the root cellar. The others stumbled out of the ink-making studio. Some of the tenants rushed over as well, trailed by crawling babies and noisy dogs.
“Gone,” Little Uncle said. His teeth chattered as if he were cold. “Everything’s burnt up. We’re finished.”
