“We’ll go after breakfast.”
“Ana may be there,” I say, as a warning that we might not be able to have the moli talk Mom wants.
“She may not. We have time to work around her. I’ll be here until we solve this.”
On that ominous note, Mom grabs the old bamboo chopsticks to dish out a bowl of spaghetti noodles she’s mixed with soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, and ginger. It’s one of those mishmash meals most immigrant families have, using the ingredients available at the grocery store to make equivalents to beloved dishes when they can’t get to a specialty grocer. Although lo mein and ramen noodles are available most places these days, I prefer it this way, with store-brand pasta, but feel a little queasy at the sight of the food.
“I don’t usually eat breakfast.”
“I can tell. Your skin is dull. You need more vegetables.” She puts the bowl in front of me, and although I want to push it away out of spite, I eat a few bites to get her off my case.
It’s only nine by the time we leave for the store. A morning walk is sacrosanct to her, and as we head out, I realize it is to me as well.
“Why did you choose this neighborhood to live?” Mom asks as we step out into the spring sunshine. It’s going to be warm today, and this cheers me.
“The rent was low.” This is true enough, although I gradually opened to the charms of the location. I point out a few places I like—a coffee shop, a tiny gift store, and a corner store with the best selection of fresh herbs I’ve seen, all year around.
“Do you walk to work every day?”
“It’s only about thirty minutes, so yeah.”
“Good. Exercise works the brain.” She glances over. “It might help with your skin too.”
I clamp my mouth shut. We get to Kensington Market and Mom looks around with a little smile. “I came here years ago when I was lastin Toronto. There was a place on the corner that made vegan muffins bigger than my hand. It must have shut down. Too bad.”
I like Kensington in the morning, when its shops are closed and streets quiet. In the day, especially on a summer weekend, it can feel chaotic, but at times like this, it seems like a secret only a few know.
Mom stares in open interest when we get to Auntie’s Closet. “Where’s your sign?”
“I told you, I rent. The store belongs to Ana.”
“Did I hear my name?” Ana comes up from behind me, then holds her hand out to Mom. “Ana Garcia. You must be Ms. Hua. I’m so pleased to meet you.”
Mom’s face is a study as she checks out Ana’s outfit, a black sheath with a sequined snake sewn around the shoulders like a boa and a leather jacket draped over it. In the time I’ve been away, Ana has bleached her hair Marilyn blond and styled it like a 1950s pinup. She looks fantastic, and I pray Mom doesn’t say something rude or judgmental.
Then Mom smiles. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to seeing your space.”
“I’d be happy… Oh, Jayne, hi.” She goes bright red as Jayne comes up, and I introduce her to my mother.
Mom holds out her hand and they shake. “Do you work in the store as well?” Her eyes dart between Ana’s makeup, which has little star stamps by the eyes, and Jayne’s classic white shirt and jeans.
Jayne laughs. “Clothes aren’t my thing, although Ana is inspiring.” Ana goes limp as Jayne continues. “I own a bar down the street. You should come for lunch, if you’re staying awhile.”
“She probably won’t be here that long,” I break in, rattling my keys as I open the door.
“I know about your company, of course, Ms. Hua.” Ana gives Jayne a wave goodbye as we enter the store. “I’d love to talk to you about how you manage to both keep it current and incorporate the historyof your perfume house. It’s fascinating content for marketing.”
“Of course.” Mom goes in to stand in the middle of the room. “Engaging displays,” she says. “Luling, are you responsible for the room scent?”
“Yes.”
Ana waits for me to say more, and when I don’t, she shoots me a look and jumps in. “Lucy changes the scent based on the season, but it always sort of smells a bit the same to make sure repeat customers recognize it.”
Mom turns to me. “A base?” She closes her eyes and breathes in. “Black currant and fig. With some bay?”
I nod and Ana looks impressed. “I can’t believe how well you two can do that,” she says.
Mom smiles. “There’s a lot of memorization. My mother made me keep a scent diary.”
