I return to the page at the back of the book and let my finger slowly trace down the characters as I read, mouthing the words as I go to make sure I translate them correctly.
I am Hua Aiai and the first of this line, which will be counted only among daughters. This is a record of my troubles so you may learn from this humble and ignorant woman. I leave here the words of the Peony Goddess, who came to me in a dream and told me the fragrances we create will be unique. She said my gift was to make hearts become whole. For my daughters, other gifts would stir.
I was born in the reign of Emperor Taizong…
I squint at a character I don’t recognize, then grab a notepad andjot it down to check later. I can get the gist from its context and I don’t want to be distracted by hunting through the onionskin pages of my old Chinese-English dictionary, which I prefer to anything online.
Some chapters run long, while others are only a page or two. Occasionally, there’s a note that the chapter was finished by a daughter or granddaughter after an untimely death. Zhengyi had kept the traditional format, and the book reads backward to my Western eyes. Should I do the same thing? How about an English version? These are decisions for later.
I turn to the first page, which has a few additional comments from Hua Zhengyi dating from 1953, with a straightforward explanation of changes in measurements from taels and catties to the new metric system, along with a laughably short side note that covers the end of the Qing dynasty, World War II, the rise of Mao, and moving the family to Canada in 1950.
I pen this note far after my six years of work on our family register, she writes at the end.May I be forgiven any errors.
Six years of work. Good to know.
Then I turn the page, my initial reticence subsumed under an intense need to know everything about the women in my family. It’s like I’m trying to absorb the information like a sponge, skipping all around the register to the sections that catch my eye.
What I soon realize is that there’s not a new problem under the sun. After an hour, I take a sip of cold coffee and stretch out my legs. I’m in the distant Yuan dynasty and poor Jing is worrying about not being found desirable enough to marry; how would she carry on the family line? If she does marry, what if her future husband is unkind or doesn’t wish to keep her girl?
There’s a note from Mom here.Better to leave the man than damage the daughter, she’d written. Of course she’d say that. Huas need to protect their investments, after all.
Other burdens echo through the generations. Fears of sickness, ofstrange lumps and unexplained bleeding. Worries that they’re getting too old to work, gnarled hands unable to handle the delicate materials. Concerns about no longer being able to contribute. Frustration about never being able to rest. Fury at having to hide who they are. Rage sits on the pages among the everyday updates of life, as if the anger itself was banal.
What none of them have—or at least, none that I’ve seen so far—is a lack of conviction. My ancestors, for all their differing personalities over a period spanning a thousand years, had one thing in common: an overwhelming confidence in their power as a Hua. I rub my eyes, remembering when I felt the same way. I knew exactly who I was and what I was born to do. Unlike them, it was taken from me. I don’t know whether to envy them their stability or pity their lack of choice.
That’s a lie. I know.
I put the register away and drain my cup. It’s time for me to go to work.
***
The next few days fly by, and I spend my nights reading the register. Rafe and I have been texting, but he’s busy as he tries to get used to working in Toronto, and I don’t mind as much as I thought I would. It’s nice to be able to have some casual conversation without pressure. Kelsey calls to talk about the luxury gift bags as I’m about to leave work for the evening.
“People loved them.” She’s marveling slightly, like she can’t believe it. “Your perfumes were a real hit.”
“Thank you,” I say. It’s nice to have my work appreciated.
“We’re getting all these client requests for wedding and engagement parties, which is amazing.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say.
“It’s why I’m calling! I said you could supply us with more samples.I’ll need something people will like.”
“I’m fairly busy.” I’m going to stick to my guns this time.
“You’re never too busy for family.” She laughs. “Jo Malone is popular, so something like that would be perfect. A Jo Malone dupe.”
“It might be an idea to get Jo Malone samples, then.”
“I would, but it’s important I use you,” she says. “Clients love it when I can tell them we support diverse women-owned businesses. Oh, let me get back to you. I’ve got another call.”
Ana comes by as I’m making a face at the phone and gives me a searching look as she pulls on her shearling mittens, one of the few solely practical items she owns. “That seemed fun,” she says. “I’m here if you want to chat, you know?”
She reaches out and gives me a quick squeeze on the arm, which, given the size of the mittens, feels more like the tap of a bear’s paw. I do want to chat, I realize. I want the comfort of Ana’s conversation and laughter. I want to talk to someone about Rafe to help me figure out how I feel about him. Our date—although I still don’t know ifdateis the right word—is tomorrow, and I’ve already mentally gone through my closet twice trying to decide what to wear. I open my mouth to ask if she wants to go for dinner when Jayne comes through the door and Ana’s eyes go huge. My jaw shuts so fast my teeth clack together, and I do my best to feel only good things for people whose lives are working out.
I tell Ana I’ll finish closing, and she goes to check on the cats with Jayne, which is the furthest their relationship has progressed, much to Ana’s chagrin. After I set the alarm and double-check the doors, I stand shivering on the sidewalk before forcing my feet homeward. I’m in no mood to cook, so I toast an English muffin and crunch it dry over the sink, where I eat many of my meals, then make two more to block the emptiness inside me.
I don’t think twice before cracking open the wine I bought over the weekend and filling a glass almost to the top before I pull out the register again. I wonder why it gives me comfort even though it’s asummary of everything wrong with me. In the collective wisdom of a thousand years, some other woman must have faced the same feelings I have. Yet if I found that validation, what would I do? After my recent attempt, I’ve given up ever finding my moli.
