“I know.” Peony lifted from Marigold’s shoulder and, through her sniffles, put on a cheery face. She went to the bar and grabbed two glasses. “Come on, we deserve a soda.”
There was no grenadine in the storeroom to make their favorite Shirley Temple, so Peony twisted open a bottle of golden sparkling cider and filled two glasses halfway. Marigold poured in 7UP until the glasses were full.
Belfast Sparkling Cider and 7UP were the Chinese American salt and pepper, sure to be found on top of a lazy Susan during any proper banquet—at least in San Francisco. The sisters mixed the sodas together with chopsticks.
“Still tastes like Chinatown,” Peony declared, clinking Marigold’s glass. She gave her sister a sidelong glance. “You don’t want ice?”
“Got used to drinking soda warm. All those years of Mom nagging me, I actually prefer it now.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
Marigold flinched. “Twenty minutes ago, to take pictures with Uncle Francis and Eugene.”
“You know what I mean.”
She shrugged. She didn’t mention how their mother had come up to her, lips parted as if she had something important—maybe even conciliatory—to say. Only to state, “Your glasses are crooked.”
Marigold wouldn’t waste any neurons dwelling on it. At the cost of her own happiness, she’d done what her parents had asked. For months, Peony and Rosie had pleaded her case, but Philip was maddeningly stubborn, and seeing as how he could barely breathe without an inhaler, no one dared upset him too much. What else could she do but move far away?
Marigold was thankful when the chattering of chopsticks started again. It was a boisterous invitation for the bride and groom to return to their table and kiss. “Come on, Mrs. Wong,” she said, “your party awaits.”
Marigold didn’t go home for Christmas. The night before her flight she came down with the flu, which triggered her childhood asthma, and it took her the entire break to recover. Boston winters were harsh, and after living her whole life in California, she was not prepared.
Nor was she prepared for how grueling medical school would be. By nature she was an efficient student, but as soon as she mastered one concept, her professors assigned a dozen more.With barely enough hours in the day to even sleep, there was no time to brood over Kenji or be upset at her parents, but she also didn’t call her sisters. Her guilt kept piling up like the snow outside her dorm. The only difference was, come spring, it didn’t melt away.
Before long she was a second-year, which was even harder than the first, for on top of studying for boards, she was shadowing a surgeon at Mass General and meeting patients. Marigold didn’t even remember her own birthday.
Her sisters did. She missed their calls and picked up their cards and packages a week later. Rosie had recently started a part-time job at Tower Records and sent a cassette of herself singing “Happy Birthday,” Peony a box of sponge cakes that had gone sour—and the picture of the two of them at her wedding. Marigold stuck the photo on her fridge next to her picture with Rosie at prom, and promised herself once the board exams were over, she’d visit home.
Late one March night the phone rang. It was midnight Marigold’s time, but she was still up memorizing patient histories and practicing the interactions she’d have the next day.
“You picked up,” breathed Rosie, sounding surprised.
Marigold set down her notes. Rosie had long since given up calling, especially on a school night. It had to be important. “What’s up?”
“Peony’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant! When’s the baby due?”
“Babies.”
“Twins?”
“Mm hmm. They’re due October 10. Can you believe it, we’re going to be aunts!”
Twins.A rush of joy swelled to Marigold’s chest, warm and full. “What’s the bad news?”
“Did I say there was bad news?”
No, but Marigold had intuited it from Rosie’s very first words. A year and a half away from home, and she still knew the up-and-down inflections of her younger sister’s voice.
There was a long, long pause. “Dad has cancer.”
Marigold felt the phone slip in her hand. The light from her lamp was too bright. She closed her eyes, stitching them shut. “Where?”
“Lung. Listen, I know you’re in the middle of exams, so don’t worry. Mom and us are taking care of him—”
Don’t worry.Marigold’s head was spinning. Since starting medical school, she’d seen the myriad ways a body could fail. A drug overdose, a slash across the artery, a genetic disease like cystic fibrosis. In the name of science, she and her classmates had cut through cadaver tissue with all the emotion they’d have brought to slicing a mushroom, and they passed organs around like oranges. Dissecting the mysteries of human mortality had become so routine that they discussed their findings over paper bag lunches.
