“It’s not like your judgment is perfect. You married Dad and told him.”
She pulls back like I’ve struck her. “We are not discussing that.”
Good, because the second the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. What a night.
“Mom, seriously. There aren’t witch hunts anymore. No one’s going to burn our house or take away our land.”
“People don’t change, Luling.” Mom sounds disgusted at my naivete. “We are disadvantaged in a world that wasn’t made for our safety. Look around and show me a powerful woman who doesn’t have a sea of people trying to drag her down. Show meanywoman who doesn’t have that.”
I open my mouth and shut it. She goes on, “You see so little of the world. The people on our client list are not used to being told no. They get what they want because they have money, power, and influence, and those things are all they value. When we lost them, we turned from people of regard to nothing but providers, to be ordered around without respect or deference.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Powerful people don’t see others as people in their own right. We’re only there to serve their needs. No one calls them to account. How do you think we protected ourselves from their tyranny over the years? How do you think your past grandmothers avoided being taken hostage and forced to work for a noble or an empress, as Aiai was? Because they had power themselves.”
“The world has changed.” My voice sounds weak.
“No, Luling. You’ve been trained to think things have changed. You can’t see it because you’re not of that level. You’re on the land, and your vision is limited because they are above the clouds.”
“That’s a nasty way to look at the world.”
“It’s a realistic one. That’s why our perfumes cost so much. Respect. Supply and demand. When we lost our wealth, we lost more than money. We lost our status. If we can’t replenish it, we are dead in the water. That’s why I covered for you when you left, although you’ve kept yourself sheltered and ignorant so you don’t need to think about it.”
I look down, ashamed because she’s right but irritated that, as usual, she’s put it so bluntly. “Do you think Eric was right? About the men in the family?”
She shrugs. “Weak people will always find excuses to shift blame for their circumstances.”
The server comes with the bill. Mom pays it silently as I grab one of the after-dinner mints, then quickly spit it out when it turns out to be spearmint and not peppermint. My luggage and our coats appear, and we weave our way between the tables. I’m not sure what’s going through Mom’s mind, but I’m thinking about what she’s said. She thinks we can’t replenish what we lost, but I have my moli now. At least, I think I do. I can make those changes. I’m uncomfortably aware Mom is right in her assessment of the world, but I can’t bring myself to accept it the way she does. Mom wants to reclaim our place in that domain, but I wonder if we can change it.
The last glass of wine hits me hard, and I stumble out the door after Mom, the street wavering around me.
17
Hua Zhilan
Southern Song dynasty. The first Hua to accept banknotes as payment.
Heart note //Lessen disappointment
Base note //Eucalyptus
I wake in my childhood bedroom, in my childhood bed. At least I hit the perfect spot with the booze last night, drinking enough to keep me asleep instead of waking me in the dark hours to worry. Now, however, nothing stops me. Why did Dad do that? There’s almost no point speculating; I’m sure he thinks he has a perfectly inarguable reason for why he’s right. For the very first time I wonder if Dad even respects Mom, let alone loves her. He seems to hold what she does in deep contempt, and if he thinks that about his own wife, what about his daughter?
Dads are supposed to love their kids, but no one says anything about liking them.
I want to talk to Rafe, but I’m not sure if it’s an overstep.Friends—if that’s what we are—is a vague term. One person’s friend is another’s acquaintance and yet another’s bestie. A lot has happened since thenight of the blackout, and we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other as the people we are now. We’ve texted since I’ve been back to Vancouver, mostly him asking how I am and me sending photos of things that have changed, but does that mean anything? I like a single path, with no deviations that make me question myself more than I do already, and Rafe has set me down in the middle of a labyrinth.
Calling Rafe, however, would mean talking about last night and also telling him I might have my moli. That decides me. I put the phone down, worried a simple hello could lead to a conversation I’m unable to deal with right now.
The house is quiet. It’s a reprieve to have my parents at work, although Dad’s absence is a familiar feeling. When he’s home, he’s usually in his office with the door shut.
My clothes are in a mess on the floor, the pants in a figure eight and the shirt tossed over a chair. I don’t like to wear clothes I’ve had bad experiences in until they’re washed, so I pull out a fresh, if wrinkled, outfit to wear before moving robotically through my morning routine. What am I going to do about Kelsey? Why does Dad have to leave like that all the time instead of staying to say what he thinks? Does Eric truly believe Mom is lucky because she wasallowedto continue our family business? That the men who live with Hua women don’t trust them? What’s Eric’s problem, anyway?
When I’m fresh enough, I check my phone to see a message from my mother, ordering me to come to the store when I get up.
Instead, I climb back into bed and pull the crumpled sheets over my head. I don’t want to go to the store. I don’t want to talk to, or about, Kelsey. I don’t want to look at Dad, knowing finally and for certain how much he despises part of me. I absolutely don’t want to talk to Mom about my moli, which is causing as much trouble with its appearance as it did with its absence. I pull out my phone. Since the avoidance tactic I’ve used in the past—running away—has been thwarted this time by having a plane ticket that’s not good untiltomorrow, I might as well mentally escape by scrolling social media for hours. I make it through six videos of earnest but frazzled women cooking breakfast for their gigantic families—where are the men in any of these?—before I realize I’m not paying the slightest bit of attention to the surreal fact that these people own family chafing dishes.
I know what I have to do. I haul myself out of bed and head to the shop, where I find Mom sitting with a cup of ginger tea.
