Lily was only thirteen. My sister—who shared only half my blood but possessed all of my love, who laughed like a goose and blew kisses at thunderstorms, who devoured books like they were noodles and who’d splash juice at my face when I fell asleep during her writing lessons—was gone.
My lone solace was that she was with her mother in her last moments. I hoped that Sai Ma held her hand and kissed her face. That she gave her daughter the love that she’d so craved during her short life. No matter how much I despised Sai Ma, I refused to believe that she would have done any less.
Some lies were worth believing.
For a month, my family mourned. In Lily’s memory, all resentments were forgotten. Even Sai Ma was changed. She stopped powdering her face, even stopped eating on some days. She sent Richard to live with her parents for she could hardly take care of herself, let alone her surviving child. She was kind to me.
In the mornings we prayed together before Lily’s altar. We burned spirit money and toys to keep her company in heaven. On days I forgot to eat, Sai Ma brought me a plate of slicedfruit. “For your strength,” she would say. Whenever Sai Ma sobbed in the parlor, I brought her soup to drink. We sat on the settee, exchanging no words except for disjointed good mornings and thank yous, and listening to melancholy ballads on the phonograph until the sky turned dark. In the blur of that summer, I forgot how much I hated Sai Ma, and I almost forgave her.
On the fortieth day, my stepmother emerged from her bedroom with her face fully made up and the return of that fake mole on her cheek.
“Lily’s ashes will go to her in-laws,” she announced at breakfast. “They don’t belong with us.”
The declaration came out of nowhere, but Gu Ma didn’t look surprised. Neither did Baba.
As for me, I immediately lost my appetite. “How can her ashes not belong with our family?” I asked. “She’s your daughter.”
“Are you a fortune reader, Yut Ying?” said Sai Ma. “Even your aunt agrees with me. She’s spoken with several specialists.”
Gu Ma took a bite of a steamed bun, nodding. “If you care about your sister, you won’t deprive her of a proper passage to heaven. This is tradition; she belongs with the Tsangs.”
“Why?” I demanded. “She wasn’t even married.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied my aunt. “A contract was signed. She’s not part of this family anymore.”
“She’s not property, she’s your daughter. Baba—do something!”
“That’s enough, Yut Ying,” warned Baba.
I slammed down my bowl and turned to Sai Ma. “All Lily ever wanted was to come home, and for you to love her. But you always saw her as a burden. Now that she’s dead, she’s still a burden! That’s why you don’t want her with you.”
“How dare you!” Sai Ma rose. “She was my daughter. Of course I want her with me.”
“Then why did you send her away in the first place?”
“That’s enough!” Baba barked. His fingers were curled into the table, supporting him as he half stood. “Yut Ying, go to your room.”
I didn’t budge. “Why did you send her away?” I asked again.
“Pok Mun, it’s fine.” Sai Ma wiped her mouth with her napkin. When she spoke, she sounded tired and small. “I was protecting her. We all know the world is an ugly place, but some of us find out earlier than others.”
For the briefest moment, I wondered what ugly secrets haunted my stepmother’s past, to turn her into the bitter, deceitful woman she’d become—or whether she was simply putting on another show. It didn’t matter. The truth wouldn’t bring Lily back.
I shut myself off in my room. I sat by the window, folding my arms over the wooden sill. Gu Ma hadn’t hired anyone to clear out the fallen bauhinia tree, and its petals slathered the courtyard in a pale red sea.
Sing for me, Gah Jeh,Lily used to say on quiet mornings like these.
I couldn’t sing. My voice had dried up inside, and it was all I could do just to keep breathing. Every breath hurt. Every single breath.
It’s my fault,I thought.I should’ve stayed with you. I shouldn’t have let you go. I’m sorry, Lily.
I drew in air, holding it as long as I could. The glittering cold came upon me like an old friend, sweeping me away from this unbearable existence. Once I vanished, I felt no pain. Not the swollen ache in my throat, the rawness behind my eyes, the unbearable grief in my heart. My only imprint on this world was my shadow, bereft and dark against the scratched wooden floor.
The next day, I did it again—for a little longer. And longer.
Not once did I worry that there might be consequences.
Chapter Twenty-Four
