It was what she deserved, Marigold knew. Still it hurt. It hurt miserably.
She put on her gloves, tucked the comb into the Altoids tin he’d given her, and snapped it shut.
She didn’t speak his name again.
. . .
That summer, Peony married Paul Wong.
It was the Chinese American wedding of her dreams. Rosie prowled the Gunne Sax outlet for weeks until she found matching pink-chiffon bridesmaids dresses for herself and Marigold. The sisters hand-sewed sequins and tiny pearls ontoPeony’s three wedding dresses: a ruffled white gown with a lace collar for the church ceremony, a brocade kwa embroidered with double golden phoenixes for the tea ceremony, and lastly, a red cheongsam that Peony had painstakingly embellished with eighty-eight beaded flowers that she’d change into during the banquet at Orchid Lounge. It was a month of hard, tedious work, but the three sisters spent more time together than they had in years, whispering and giggling in the attic and cursing when Rosie spilled the jar of pearl beads. During these precious moments, Marigold almost fooled herself into being happy.
Helen and Philip had invited the entire Yuen Association to the banquet, and Mrs. Kwan came bearing a three-tier sponge cake layered with strawberries and tangerines, with a plastic cake topper of a couple with black hair—it looked close enough to Paul and Peony. To add extra auspiciousness, she’d painted the white bell over their heads gold and exchanged the fake white flowers for fake red ones.
Rosie was on the stage singing “We’ve Only Just Begun” in alternating Cantonese and English verses, while Marigold was on photographer duty. She liked being behind the camera; it meant she didn’t have to talk to anyone—including her parents.
Halfway into dinner, Marigold snuck away to help Peony change into her cheongsam. Paul ran up to her with a plate loaded with walnut shrimp and longevity noodles. “For Peony,” he said. “Will you make sure she’s not hungry?”
Usually Paul looked like he’d rather unclog a drain than make small talk with anyone, and Marigold and Rosie had pegged him as blander than plain, unsalted congee. But tonight he was merry, passing out red envelopes filled with chocolate coins and crisp five-dollar bills to all the children and single adults, and laughing whenever someone tried to coax him for more money. And suddenly Marigold appreciated her new brother-in-law. They were more alike than she’d thought: both wallflowers, timid and a trifle awkward, who’d found a vibrant sun in Peony.
“You’re a good one,” Marigold told Paul. She took the plate.
Peony’s changing room was behind the bar in a storeroom cordoned off by a wooden folding screen.
“From Paul,” Marigold said, setting her sister’s plate atop a makeshift table of boxes. “You should eat before you get out there again.”
Peony was hungry. She picked the shrimp and walnuts off her plate and dove into the noodles. While she ate, Marigold helped her sister take off her wedding jewelry and undress. She patiently undid the twenty buttons on Peony’s kwa before helping her sister into the cheongsam.
Peony put on her gold wedding bangles, her expression turning wistful as Marigold closed up her dress. “Feels like only yesterday that we were ten and nine and you were slicing my stuffed animals open to practice giving them stitches. Look where we are now.” Her eyes glistened. “You, off to Harvard, and me... married.”
“No crying,” warned Marigold. “Rosie’s already drunk on cheap wine, and I promise if I have to fix your eyeliner, you’ll end up looking like a panda.”
“I like pandas.”
Marigold reached for a tissue, when Peony hooked her by the shoulder—and hugged her.
“I know you probably hate this,” her sister whispered, “but it’s my wedding day. I get to be selfish.”
Marigold’s arms were covered and her shoulders padded; she’d come prepared. “Be as selfish as you want,” she said softly. She held up her camera, angling the lens to capture them both, then clicked the shutter.
“What’s that for?”
“To remember now. Me with my big sister, sitting in the back of the Orchid Lounge like we used to, with a hundred crates of Belfast cider behind us. Except we’re grown up now, and it’s her wedding”—Marigold paused deviously—“and she’s got no idea she has big fat dollop of mayonnaise on her chin.”
“Oh my God!” Peony grabbed the tissue in Marigold’s hand and wiped her chin, her eyes shining with both laughter and tears. “Better?”
“You’re all clear.”
Peony purposefully rested her chin on Marigold’s shoulder. “You know, I’m going to miss you. Is it too late to change your mind and go to Stanford?”
For months, Rosie had gotten on Marigold’s case for rejecting Stanford for a school thousands of miles from home.
“Harvard’s got a better teaching hospital,” Marigold had replied. “Plus, it’s Harvard.”She put on a feeble smile.“You don’t say no to Harvard.”
Not once had Peony voiced her disappointment, until today.
“Rosie thinks you’re running away,” she said.
Marigold couldn’t deny it. “Just for a little while. I’ll come back.”
