After they left, we went back into the room to say goodbye one more time.
We don’t want to let you go, my uncle said.
Some hospital staff came into the room and wheeled my dad out and into the side elevator. We followed them, taking the elevator down into the parking lot. We followed my dad’s body as it was pushed toward a large truck. The light in the parking lot was fluorescent gray. We stood there, watching the men in dirty white T-shirts load him into the truck.
Say safe journey, my mom said.
Safe journey, my sister and I said.
We stood there for a while. As we turned around and walked toward the exit, some relatives came over to me.
You’re the oldest daughter. Take care of your mother, one of them said.
Remember, you have to take care of your mother now, another said.
Be strong. Take good care of your mother for me, a third one said.
My uncle pulled up in his car and drove us home.
SINGAPORE NOODLES
When we walked in the door, the light in our apartment was golden. I went into the kitchen and washed my hands with three pumps of soap. The bubbles smelled like fresh jasmine on my skin. Then I scraped the leftover Singapore fried noodles into three bowls, and heated them in the microwave. My sister went to shower.
As my mom and I sat there, eating the bright yellow vermicelli, I saw a flicker on the balcony, on the other side of the glass. My dad was standing there, waving at us, smiling. I could tell that he was happy, and that it was the first time in a long, long time. I smiled back.
The noodles are delicious, I said.
Delicious, my mom said.
THE PICTURE WE TOOK AT THE BEACH
We need a picture of your dad for the funeral, my mom said.
Does it have to be big? I asked.
I don’t know, but find a nice one, she said. I don’t have any recent pictures of him.
I opened up my laptop and scrolled through my photo albums. I didn’t have many pictures of my dad either. Most of the ones I had, he wasn’t smiling. After a while, I found one that I took of my parents when we went to Bintan Island three years earlier, just before he got sick. It was the first time we had traveled together as a family since I was a child. In the middle of the photograph is a pale tree trunk wrapped in thin rope. Patches of sunlight lie here and there on the sand. There are two blue and white striped reclining beach chairs on either side of the tree trunk. On the left side, my mom is leaning back and grinning. Her beach chair has sunk into the sand. On the right side, my dad is sitting up, his hands outstretched and resting on his knees. On his face is a big smile. It was the only picture I found of him smiling this way, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
I cropped the photo to his face and emailed it to my mom.
At the funeral, several people said to us, That is such a beautiful picture of your father. Where was it taken?
THE FUNERAL
We held the funeral at the Hong Kong Funeral Home. At the entrance, when we checked in, I realized there would be several funerals taking place at the same time in the building that night.
As we walked toward the room reserved for my dad, I saw a profusion of paper offerings on the floor. They were made from neon color paper: hot pink, bright yellow, lime green, silver, and gold. There were stacks and stacks of paper money, a large flat-screen television, a doll-sized Mercedes with a driver, and a cross-section of a mansion with servants inside.
Is that all for Dad? I asked.
Yes, my mom said. Later today, we’ll burn it all.
We walked into the room. Facing the entrance, in the center of the opposite wall, was a large print of my dad’s picture in a white wooden frame. The room was lined with white lilies from friends and relatives, with handwritten messages wishing my dad a safe journey. Flowers from my mom, my sister, and me were closest to the center. On both sides of the room, rows of white chairs faced the center aisle. In front of his picture was a large banquet table covered with fruits and roast goose and congee, more white flowers, and burning incense. We walked up to the picture and bowed three times. Some of our relatives were already sitting in the chairs, folding joss paper for burning. The paper was pale yellow, with a large gold square stamped in the middle.
You can start burning the money, one of our relatives said to me and my sister.
She showed us the door to a tiny room in the back, where there was a small fireplace, a candle, and a giant cardboard box containing all different kinds of paper money. There were imitation Hong Kong dollars, US dollars, and euros.
That’s so your father can travel, the relative said.
There were also stacks of million-dollar notes, colorful circular money, and blank rectangular sheets. My sister and I lighted a few of the bills, and threw them into the fireplace, adding more bills and stoking the flame with steel tongs.
A few minutes later, the relative came in to check on us.
You’re doing it too slow! she said. Faster! Burn it faster! You can’t let the flame die like that!
She moved in front of the fireplace and started doing it herself. We watched her light the paper bills and throw them into the fireplace.
There’s money for you! she said. We’re burning money for you!
You have to say it while you burn the paper, she told us.
Then she left the room, and my sister and I continued burning the money. As guests started to arrive, our cousins took over the burning while we welcomed the people arriving. An emcee dressed in a black suit appeared. The emcee spoke into a microphone and instructed the guests to bow to the photograph of my dad three times, and then to bow once to my mom, my sister, and me. Then, he told the three of us to lower our chins lightly in acknowledgment. Finally, the guests sat down in the chairs facing the center and began folding joss paper.
At one point, when there were no guests to acknowledge, my mom asked if we wanted to see our dad. I hadn’t realized we could see him. We followed her into another small room at the back. I felt as if I’d walked into a museum. My dad lay there in his open coffin, covered with a golden yellow blanket, behind a glass window. There were spotlights shining on him. His skin was chalky and his cheeks had a pink blush.
How did they close his eyes?
We bowed.
We stood there in a row, looking at my dad through the window.
I love you, my mother said to him softly.
Later in the afternoon, a few monks arrived to carry out a Buddhist ceremony. They sat around a long table and chanted. A woman motioned for my mom, my sister, and me to offer a stick of incense to my dad and walk in a circle around the monks. We walked many circles.
In the evening, the funeral advisor announced that they would burn the large paper offerings, and that the immediate family and close relatives could attend the burning. Several of us followed him out of the building and onto the street. We walked for a few minutes until we saw a truck and a closetlike contraption for the burning. We all stood there, dressed in black, on the street under the bridge in the dark.
The funeral advisor gave us the instructions. We were to tell my dad to come receive the offerings as soon as they started burning them. We were to yell as loud as we could.
They started throwing the paper items into the burning closet.
Come get your stuff! we shouted. Come get your stuff!
The flames licked so high I wondered if the cars driving along the bridge could see them.
You’re not yelling loud enough! a relative said to me. Yell louder!
It was the same one who had scolded us earlier. I wanted to throw something at her.
I yelled louder instead.
Here we were, all facing the same direction, yelling, as a man threw paper luxury items into the fire.
THE CREMATION
There was a discu
ssion about whether I would carry out the customs traditionally given to the eldest son. My mom asked if I would do it. One relative told my mom that I shouldn’t because I’m not a son.
If she does it, she might never get married, the relative said.
In the end, I accepted.
On the morning after the funeral, a large group of us returned to the funeral home. After we sat down in the chairs and started folding more joss paper to burn, one of the funeral advisors came over and led me into the back room, where my dad lay in his coffin. They had moved him from behind the window out into the viewing room.
Hold this, the advisor said, handing me a damp white towel with both hands. Now repeat after me and say, Dad, I’m washing your face.
I held onto both ends of the damp white towel, but the advisor didn’t let go. We were both holding onto the towel now.
Dad, I’m washing your face, I said.
The advisor swept the towel back and forth in the air above my dad’s face, without ever touching him. Then he asked me to go back to the main room and take a seat.
A few minutes later, they wheeled my dad out to the main room. Everyone took turns bowing in front of the coffin before sitting down again. Then they announced that they were about to close the lid of the coffin, and said that those of us born in the Year of the Horse, Rabbit, or Pig were to look away during this part of the ceremony. Because I was born in the Year of the Rabbit, I looked down at the ground. I wasn’t sure when exactly they would close the coffin, so I looked down at the ground for a very long time.
Later, I carried a stone bowl filled with water over to the window. Then I carried my dad’s large framed photograph to the van that took us to the cremation site.
There was a large travel bus for our relatives and family friends, and a smaller van for my mom, my sister, and me. The cremation site was at the top of a hill. The cremation was held inside, in a room covered with gold and yellow wallpaper. As we entered the room, each of us was handed a stick of incense, and we were directed to stand next to each other, row by row. My mom, my sister, and I stood at the front. The coffin sat on a conveyor belt on the left side of the room. Each of us bowed and placed our stick of incense into the burner. Then the advisor called me, my mom, and my sister over to the coffin.
Put your hand lightly on this button, he said.
We each placed a finger on the small white button on the wall.
One, two, three, he said.
We pressed the button, and the conveyor belt took the coffin, and my dad inside it, through the hole in the wall and out of the room. There were no flames and no smoke.
What’s on the other side? my sister asked.
They burn him on the other side, my mom said.
In this gold and yellow room hazy with incense, the three of us pushed a button that sent my dad into flames that we could not see or smell. What did it look like on the other side? Were they going to throw the coffin into the fire the same way they threw the paper offerings into the fire? Were there rows and rows of coffins in a fluorescent room, waiting to be burned later that day?
Now that I think about it, the last time I saw my dad was when I held the damp white towel above his face. If I had known that then, I would have taken a better look.
All I thought then was, Am I holding this towel right?
SEVEN DAYS
The day after my dad died, my mom told me, The soul returns home seven days after passing.
So Dad is coming back? I asked.
So your dad will come home next Wednesday. The funeral advisor told us to prepare dinner for your dad, with all of his favorite foods, and leave it out on the table before we sleep. I thought we could have steamed rock cod, poached chicken with ginger and scallion sauce, egg custard, and baby bok choy. We also have to prepare three place settings, one for your dad, one for Ox-Head, and one for Horse-Face. They will escort your dad home and then take him away again.
That night, I couldn’t fall asleep, so I looked up Ox-Head and Horse-Face online. Ox-Head has the head of an ox and Horse-Face has the face of a horse. They are the guardians of the underworld, assistants to the God of Death, taking new souls to judgment. On one website, I saw an image of a yellowing silk scroll that depicted Ox-Head and Horse-Face scooping out the intestines from two guilty souls. Their blood dripped out in red strings.
108 PRAYERS
We were not to tell my grandma that my dad died. She was still in Vancouver at this time.
If she asks how your dad is, just don’t say a word, my mom said.
I didn’t call my grandma for days.
Then one day, I called her, and she asked about my dad.
He’s the same, I said.
I’ve been praying 108 times twice a day, she said. I pray that he gets better soon so he can retire and take your mom on vacations.
We didn’t tell her for months, until my mom flew back to Vancouver.
TRANSLATIONS
Before my dad died, I’d bought The Pocket Thich Nhat Hanh at a bookstore and carried it with me to Hong Kong.
Dad, I bought a Buddhist book, I said. Do you want me to read it to you?
No, there’s no need, he replied.
I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand.
Is it in English? he asked, a few minutes later.
Yes, it’s in English. But I can translate it into Chinese for you. Do you want me to read it?
Okay, he said.
I took out the yellow pocket-sized book from my bag, and flipped through the first few pages. The first chapter was on Mindfulness. I didn’t know how to say mindfulness in Cantonese, so I asked him for help. I read out loud, slowly, asking him for help to translate every tenth word or so. His eyes were closed. Was I tiring him by asking him to help me translate too many words? Was he disappointed in my terrible Chinese?
I started sweating on my upper lip. I was translating it all wrong, and droplets collected inside my surgical mask. I kept reading until the nurses came in to inspect the tubes going in and out of his body. Then I closed the book and put it back into my bag.
A few days later my dad said, I learned something new from what you read to me the other day.
Really? I asked. What did you learn?
I learned that it is important to be true to yourself. Many people do whatever society tells them to do. They’ve lost themselves. I grew up with Confucian values, and they are limiting. I focused only on work and making a living. But I’m old now. Remember not to lose who you are.
I never got to finish reading the first chapter of The Pocket Thich Nhat Hanh to my dad, but we cremated the book with him because he’d said that he wanted to study Buddhism when he got better.
Six months after he died, I went back to the bookstore and bought myself another copy. In the first chapter, it says,
You are here, alive, completely alive. That is a miracle. Some people live as though they are already dead.
Reading it now, I don’t recall translating any of it.
FORGIVENESS
Did you forgive him? my friend asked.
I don’t know, I said. How do I know?
Then I thought of the time, a few months before he died, when we were at the hospital, and my dad was feeling a little better. We propped him up on the chair to sit for twenty minutes. He said he wanted to talk to me and my sister, so I sat on his right side holding his right hand, and my sister sat on his left side holding his left hand. He said to us, I say that I’ve never hit either of you, but it’s not true. I have. He turned to my sister and said, You were little and you refused to take a bath. You were running around, misbehaving. So I spanked you. Then he turned to look at me and said, You were older, probably fourteen, and walking around so quietly that you scared me. So I hit your head. I had told you not to walk around so quietly like that. You did it anyway. But you probab
ly don’t remember any of this, either of you. It was so long ago.
I remember, I said.
I remember too, my sister said.
I think he was reaching out for forgiveness then, that day at the hospital, and I didn’t want to give it to him. I didn’t want to forgive him, and now I haven’t forgiven myself for not forgiving him when he needed it. He just wanted forgiveness, and I didn’t give it to him.
But can you forgive yourself now? my friend asked.
I don’t know. I don’t know how.
TOES
I can still see my dad’s toes.
His big toes rounded into a circle above the joint, as mine do. Long black hairs fanned out below.
He rubbed his big toe and his second toe back and forth against each other, a soft pattering, while watching the news, while reading the paper, while staring out the window.
Sometimes I rub my toes back and forth so I can make that sound too.
BEST POSSIBLE DAY
I read an article this morning, a doctor wrote it, I said. It was about a piano teacher at the end of her life. The doctor wasn’t her doctor. His kid was her student, and they had become friends, in a way.
Why did he write the article? my sister asked.
He said that despite having worked in medicine for over a decade, he still didn’t know what to do when a patient seemed incurable. Do they do everything they can to keep her alive? Or should she give up? And why are these the two main options? So he asked her what her fears were, and when she said more pain, humiliation, and loss of bodily control, he suggested she try hospice. Back in her home, they set up everything she needed in the living room, and adjusted her medication until she was comfortable yet aware. Then, they asked her what it would mean for her to have her best possible day. In the end, she started teaching piano lessons again, and former students flew in from around the country to perform a concert for her. She said goodbye to all of her students, and died peacefully soon after.
Ghost Forest Page 8
