Reunions
A new life awaited the star-faced girl, and for this the fish was glad. One final time he floated to the surface, his body curving soft and round like the white moon above.
As everything became nothing, he stared up at the heavens, and dreamt that he was home.
Berkeley
1976
Chapter Forty-Four
Helen
I double-locked the entrance to Three Flowers. Since opening the bakery, we’d only ever closed for Christmas, Chinese New Year, and Qingming—when we went to sweep our ancestors’ tombs—but today I taped a sign to the door:Closed November 25–December 7.
“Did you flip the duck?” I asked Peony.
Peony gave me a thumbs-up. “Uncle Francis called. He’s bringing cranberry sauce and mantou. Eugene’s bringing his signature pumpkin pie.”
Which meant all that was left was for me to fry the cabbage. I was good at that.
After two decades in America, Philip and I had mastered our Thanksgiving tradition, which meant roast duck instead of turkey, steamed mantou instead of buttered dinner rolls, and stir-fried cabbage with little scrolls of pork belly instead of green bean casserole. It was Francis and Philip’s favorite project together, and usually we hosted at Three Flowers, inviting friends and neighbors to celebrate with us. This year, though, dinner would be for family only.
This year, my mother would be joining us.
Thirty years I’d been waiting to see Mama again—thirty years! And of course we were stuck in traffic.
It had been over two years since the first letter from South Church—thirty-one months of red tape and headaches. I’d thought it would be as easy as flying to Shenzhen and fetching Mama the way I picked up my daughters from school when they were little. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. No one was permitted to leave the mainland.
For months I despaired. Peony had to take over the baking because I’d forget ingredients in my pastries, I’d oversalt the char siu, or my tarts would come out flavorless and burnt. Then one night Philip came to our bed and handed me a cigarette box stuffed with cash.
I jolted. “Where did you—”
“I played with my savings, not yours,” he said. “Use it to hire someone to bring your mother into Hong Kong. It’ll be easier for us to sponsor her from there.”
I should have been angry that he’d been gambling, but I simply stared at him. “She’s an old woman, you want her to cross illegally? What if she gets caught?”
“At least let her make the decision herself.”
I stared at the money, unable to stop from counting it in my head. Much as I didn’t want to agree, Philip was right. Mama would know what to do.
I closed the box. One good bet couldn’t reverse all my husband’s bad ones, but it helped. “Thank you.”
Finally, a date was confirmed and Mama’s flight to America was booked. I cried myself to sleep out of exhaustion and relief.
We arrived at San Francisco Airport half an hour after Mama’s plane landed. I ran from our station wagon. My daughters shouted, “Slow down!” but I barely heard them. Inthis moment I was a child again, racing up an escalator instead of the hills to look for my mother.
And there she was.
Two airport employees were escorting her out of customs. She sat in a wheelchair, her age-spotted hands resting on the leather knapsack on her lap, its straps curled over her knees like a cat’s tail.
I was out of breath.Mama.
“Ying Ying,” she said, as though it’d been days since we last saw each other, not decades. “Didn’t I tell you to cover your neck from the wind?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hold back my tears. “Hello, Mama.”
Forgetting her age, she nearly sprang out of her wheelchair. I helped her up, clasping both her hands. Together we stood, oblivious to the crowd of travelers surging around us.
