Mom opens her sandwich to sprinkle chili oil on it.
“Right, but there’s a middle way between total brutal honesty and hurting my feelings,” I say, voice rising.
“I’m only trying to help, Luling.”
Then it hits me. Her defensiveness isn’t born out of a desire to defend herself or her worldview. She’s scared. How could I have never seen this before?
I look at her across the table as if for the first time, her worn fingers digging divots into the soft bread. She’s always been scared, like all those Hua women, because along with the confidence, they had fear. They were scared greedy people would come for them. They werescared the men in their lives wouldn’t understand or would hurt them. That they would grow old, or ill, or something would happen to their children. Those women existed in a state of fear, and what differentiated them was how they dealt with it.
Some, like my mother, would rear up like a cobra at the first sign of dissent, unwilling to let a conflict go in case they lost everything. Others were more offensive, like Xiaoting, pushing through her life like the Ming dynasty equivalent of a bulldozer, tearing things down in the expectation they would eventually turn out and reacting with shock when they didn’t. Like Aiai, I run away, dragging the fear behind me and hoping it will never catch up. Then there was Zhengyi, who faced the future head-on. That woman knew no fear. Or did she?
Then, like a bomb, it occurs to me that this is why Mom is on my case about my moli. She’s frightened for me. Every Hua woman, including me, has lived in a time when men were in charge. Unlike them, I’m not property. Like them, my world hasn’t been designed for my comfort or convenience. It’s the opposite, in fact, and my ancestors knew it as well as I do. Dependence might have looked like safety, but the women in my family knew true safety came from independence. It came from being able to read the contracts that involved them. To make the money that would feed and shelter them, and not worry about being cast out if they were too loud or old, or on a whim. That’s why Mom wants me to have my moli. So I’m not dependent on anyone but myself.
I would like to say this helps me understand my mother, but that would be untrue. Instead, I run away again. “This sandwich is good with the oil.”
Weak, Lucy. Weak.
“It is.”
Luckily, Ana texts to see how the garden is going and if we need help. I tell her we’re fine.
“Ana is a good friend to you,” Mom says.
“She is,” I agree.
“You never had many friends growing up,” Mom says, looking intently at her sandwich crust. “I wonder if it was because of your moli. If you felt too different or embarrassed to have them come over.”
This is surprising. I never thought Mom noticed that much about me. “Not at all,” I say.
“Really, Luling?”
I think back to my childhood, but although the answer could be yes, I don’t want to get into it. Even if Mom is feeling introspective. “I had Rafe,” I say.
“You did. He’s good for you.” She leaves it at that, again with a delicacy I don’t remember from my youth.
We finish and go out to the potager patch, where we discover someone has come by and stolen a handful of the plants. Mom shrugs, more resigned than I would have expected. “We’ll get more,” is all she says.
Then we plant.
31
Hua Jiali
Qing dynasty. Jiali’s mother despaired of her moli’s appearance and celebrated with fireworks when it finally arrived.
Heart note //Dissolve anger in others
Base note //Cardamom
“Happy birthday!” I give Ana her gift, the new custom fragrance I’ve made her, which is Mom-approved, albeit after a few rounds of impassioned discussion and subsequent modifications. She takes it with reverence, then laughs when she sees what I’ve named it. “Rainbow Sprinkles?”
“You’ll see why. Oh my God, what are you doing? You don’t know if you’re going to like it.”
Ana has already uncapped the bottle and is spraying it liberally. “Shame on you for thinking so low of both me and you.” She breathes in and then sniffs her wrist, her eyes closed. “Oh, wild. I thought it would smell like a rainbow cookie—you know, the ones with the jimmies that melt into the icing and leave a little halo of color?”
“What do you smell?” I ask.
“I’ve been practicing,” she says proudly. “Your mom was helpingme. I think there’s…” She sniffs again. “Coconut? Umm, yeah. It’s sweet, like baking. Maybe chocolate?”
