Base note //Musk
I’ve been in Vancouver for twenty-three hours and seven minutes—I know because I’m counting every second—and it’s become clear that if there was a national championship for “most awful person,” I would be a worthy contender. Forget regional or national; I could make the grade on the global stage.
The competition would start with Selfish and Neglectful Daughter. I can hear the commentators now:
Commentator 1: Lucy Hua has been a strong fan favorite in this event, ever since she deserted her family to live her own life without considering the impact this would have on anyone else.
Commentator 2: You know, Jennifer, we thought Lucy—and I’ll add here that her mother hates that she doesn’t use her given name of Luling—
Jennifer: That’s a few more points on the board, Martin.
Martin: Absolutely. Going back to what I was saying, we thought Lucy had her title sewn up during the Lunar New Year visit from several years ago.
Jennifer: That’s right, when she stomped out of a crowded dim sum restaurant because her mother had the nerve to ask what her plans were. Note the strategic use of a public setting to maximize impact.
Martin: Her brother, Eric, was not impressed, although the judges were mesmerized—especially when she kicked over her grandmother’s cane on the way out.
Jennifer: Apparently an “accident,” but the entire meal was classic Lucy. This is something we’ve come to expect from a competitor of this caliber.
Martin: It’s all the more impressive since Hua Meilin was a devoted daughter to her own mother. Not a lot of role-modeling was available for Lucy, who was forced to go out and learn to be an absolute ass all on her own.
Jennifer: Now, with the death of her mother, Meilin is clearly worried about the family legacy.
Martin: Yet Lucy’s expertly setting her up for a Big Disappointment, one of the compulsory elements in this competition, of course, along with Taking Everything Personally and Avoiding Hard Conversations.
Jennifer: Where Lucy has a major advantage is in our current event, Horrible Granddaughter.
Martin: I agree. Lucy had a disappointing performance at the actual funeral ceremony, where she made the unusual error of showing affection to her mother.
Jennifer: Only nonverbally, however, and through a stiff one-armed hug, thus limiting the damage.
Martin: The judges will hopefully take that into consideration. She’ll have a chance to make up ground here at the reception.
Jennifer: Oh, look! This is it, Martin, the Lucy we know anddespise. Here she is, at her own grandmother’s funeral, and she’s not thinking about her waipo at all. Not sparing a single thought for all the times Hua Yulan brushed her hair and dressed it in the same braids she herself wore as a child. She’s forgetting those happy moments as a little girl when Yulan let her sit to calm herself by watching her work.
Martin: She’s not sparing a single regret for the heartbreak she caused her grandmother when she left.
Jennifer: Not contemplating the fragility of life and the preciousness of family.
Martin: Or noticing the lines on her mother’s face and wondering how much more time they’ll have together. Instead, she’s thinking about…
Jennifer: A man. There we have it, Martin! Lucy is back in fighting fashion. Watch out, competitors!
***
I’m on my third circuit of the room, black pants dragging on the industrial carpet since I brought flats instead of heels, when I realize, to my absolute disgust, that my heart leaps every time I glimpse a tall man. It infuriates me that I’m thinking about Rafe. But the grief for my grandmother burned fast and bright before settling into an emptiness I’m not sure how to deal with and am doing my best to ignore.
My mother comes up to halt my progress, tidy in her black suit, her short salt-and-pepper hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are clear, because if she cries, it’s never in front of me. We both smell of lemon, Waipo’s favored scent. Mom’s is mixed with vanilla for a comforting, warm aura, while mine is sharp and spiky thanks to black peppercorn. I know without asking that, like me, Mom formulated her perfume specifically for today, and neither of us will wear them again. She glances at my too-long pants. She already asked twice why I didn’t bring appropriate shoes to my own grandmother’s funeral.
Before I can say anything, she moves aside to reveal the woman behind her.
“Luling, I’m sure you remember Ms. Kang.”
In a blink, I’m twenty years old again because I remember Ms. Kang perfectly. She was my first client and witness to my immediate failure as a Hua perfumer.
I had done my best to not think about who was in this room to honor my grandmother. Among her remaining friends and our business contacts are trusted patrons who know the Huas as more than just the family who run Yixiang Parfums. These are people whose ancestral memories include our glory days.
They remember that we’re witches.
