“Your glasses are crooked,” I said. “Do you need to get a new pair?” I couldn’t stop my voice from going higher. We couldn’t afford new glasses.
“No, no,” Marigold replied briskly. “One of the screws is loose. I’ll just fix it with the end of a paperclip.” She rifled into her backpack for one, then took off her glasses and tightened the screw. With her face bare, I noticed the old scar by her eye, red and slightly raised—like mine. Seeing it chilled me.
“Is that better?” Marigold put on her spectacles again, unaware I was staring.
Yes, it was better. But I didn’t say so aloud.
She was clever, like Lily. Eager to please, too, just as Lily had been with Sai Ma.
Strong and brilliant in the way I had never been, soon she’d crave a future that I couldn’t give her. I could see it, with every report card and praise from her teachers she’d drift further across the vast wide sea that already divided us.
I wanted to tell her how proud I was, to give her the words of assurance I’d longed for when I was her age—yet every time I took a step forward, I took three back. Marigold had seen my demons. She was the only one of my daughters who’d witnessed me vanish, who knew I had no shadow.
Who knew I was a liar.
I bit my cheek, immobilized by my long-lingering fears. Curses weren’t contagious like flus and fevers, but demons—demons had their temptations. Maybe if I kept my distance they wouldn’t touch her. I didn’t want her to suffer, to be burdened as Mama and I were. Her future was too bright.
“Mama?” asked Marigold. Worry showed on her face.
“Yes, yes.” My ear rang as I picked up her report card, pretending to read it.
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing at the comments. The only word I recognized wasfriend.
Marigold made a sheepish face. “Mrs. Sheldon says I don’t have enough friends.”
Secretly I agreed with her teacher, but I said nothing.
“Can we go please? The truck’s just down the block.”
“Truck?”
“The ice cream truck. It parks right by the yellow plum trees in front of the elementary school, then it comes down to Channing Way. Listen, they’re playing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’—”Marigold stopped short, realizing that the truck was too far away for me to hear.
“Your sisters went with your father to buy supplies. If we leave, there’ll be no one to watch over the bakery,” I heard myself say. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
Marigold’s face fell. “Okay, Mom. Tomorrow.”
The ice cream truck drove past the bakery in a feeble wash of tinkly piano. Marigold left the report card on the table. The perfect line of A’s stared back at me.
The Yut Ying who was twelve years old wouldn’t recognize the woman she’d become, who wore her unhappiness like armor. It came at a cost, and that cost was Marigold.
I flipped the report card over so I wouldn’t have to face my guilt.
We both knew there would be no tomorrow.
Berkeley
1974
Chapter Forty-Two
Marigold
Marigold was eighteen when she witnessed her mother disappear again.
It was April, Marigold’s favorite month. The sky was bluer than a peacock’s neck, and the rain puddles that had gathered by the downspouts were finally drying up. Tulips dappled the streets, green ivy sprawled over the fences, and Cal students bustled into Three Flowers for pastries to eat out in the parks.
Marigold had put on her luckiest red shirt, usually reserved for the first day of Chinese New Year, 14K gold-plated earrings, and since this was a special occasion, she donned her old silk gloves, too, taking comfort in the distant little giggle she heard when she tugged the fabric over her fingers. All good omens.
