It was a good sign, Marigold told herself, that her father remembered he was furious with her. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” she mustered.
Philip looked at her mother. “Ask,” he wheezed, “if she’s still seeing that boy.”
Marigold gripped the side of the hospital bed. Throughout her life, her father had dedicated himself to work, tirelessly baking every night, then delivering surplus pastries to restaurants in Oakland and San Francisco for extra profit. Yes, his gambling had often created hardships for their family, yet he’d still been the parent who’d praised Marigold’s good grades, who’d taken her side when she fought with Helen, who’d told her not to worry about how much it cost to go to medical school and finally quit his habit for her sake. It stung to realize this was the first time they were hurting each other.
“Mom doesn’t need to ask me anything,” she said. “I’m right here. And with respect, this isn’t the time for that discussion.”
Philip’s eyelid twitched more violently than before. “You listen to me. You break things off or else—”
“Or else what?” Marigold said. She spoke calmly not to upset him, but she was his daughter and the same anger was mounting inside her. “You’ll kick me out of the house? You’ll disown me?”
“Mei Yoong!” Helen cried.
“Po Po and Uncle have met him. They both agree he’s a good man. And he loves me.”
The beep of the heart-rate monitor accelerated, punctuating the escalating tension between them as Philip turned his head to view her. In his lowest, gravest voice, he said, “You listen to me, Marigold. I will take my life if a daughter of mine marries Japanese.”
Marigold balked. “Are you threatening me?”
“If you think your father is the type of man who only makes threats...” Philip’s gaze was dark. “Then be prepared for the consequences.” He closed his eyes. “Helen, get her out of here.”
Marigold didn’t need to be told. Angrily, she stalked to the bathroom, and Helen followed her in before she could shut the door.
“Breathe,” said Helen.
Marigold couldn’t breathe. She was convulsing, her lungs pinching.
“Breathe,” her mother said again, this time a command.
Marigold turned on the faucet and splashed cold water over her face. She sucked in air. “I’m sorry I upset Baba,” she said. “I’m prepared to wait until he feels better—”
“He won’t change his mind.”
“If you talk to him he might. He listens to you—”
“Your father nearly died last night. Don’t be selfish, he rarely asks anything of you.”
Heat smoldered in Marigold’s throat. How wasshebeing selfish?
“Haven’t you been in love?”
Helen gave her a hard look. “Love is not enough.” She reached for the chocolate kisses she kept in her purse. “The boy will forget you. Give it a month, you’ll see.”
“Not this boy.”
“He will,” said Helen, unwrapping a chocolate. Her mouth puckered as she ate. “They always do.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Marigold had never broken a heart before. Turned out, she was good at it.
Being a coward helped. She didn’t have the courage to do it in person, so she’d waited until Kenji was at baseball practice. Then she left a message on his answering machine.
An hour later, the phone rang. It didn’t stop ringing for days. Helen unplugged it, so Kenji started calling the bakery line. He knew that they couldn’t unplug that one. They needed it for business.
Then, after a month—as Helen predicted—the calls stopped. Marigold received a plain envelope in the mail containing the wooden comb that she’d left in his dorm. No note, no letter.
Kenji had given up on her.
