Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune

by Roselle Lim

  “Where will you go?” The street musician’s dark eyes bored into mine. “You want to disappear again?”

  Like my father, the one I hated the most in this world, the one wandering around in some city who probably didn’t care that his wife had died, the one whom I’d spent my entire life trying not to be.

  “Your neighbors need you and so does the neighborhood. What do you think will happen when you leave?”

  I didn’t want to answer his question because it meant confronting my own cowardice. The street would be fractured when Older Shen and I sold. Ms. Minnows and the others would descend on the opportunity and begin the process of gentrification. Gentrification would turn the Dragon’s Gate into a grave marker of what was once here. But my best efforts had created more harm than good, so I straightened my shoulders.

  “What will happen, will happen. For seven years, I was gone. They didn’t need me then. They don’t need me now,” I replied.

  “It sounds like this is what you want to believe. What do you actually want?”

  I bared my soul. “I want this neighborhood to be as prosperous as it once was. I want my neighbors to be happy and to be able to provide for themselves and their families. I want my mother back.”

  “What about your restaurant?” he asked.

  My heart constricted. I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “If this had happened to your grandmother, do you think it would have stopped her from running another?” The street musician didn’t wait for me to answer. “She came to this country without much. She only had herself and her skills. Her restaurant isn’t a physical building made of brick and mortar. It’s her heart and soul.”

  He was right. Laolao would have found—made—another spot. It wasn’t where she cooked that was important; it mattered that she cooked.

  “Cooking is your gift. You can’t ignore how well your food has been received. Do you fear that you are only able to cook from your grandmother’s book?”

  “I cooked before I was given Laolao’s book. I’ve cooked my own dishes since,” I replied.

  “Then the need to cook will continue to burn inside of you. If this is so, why give up on the restaurant?”

  “Look around you. I don’t even want to know how much it will cost to fix,” I said, gesturing to the damage.

  “It looks bad now, Xiao Niao, but it will all work out. I didn’t believe it could happen, but I have my wife back. Miracles can happen if you allow them to.” His smile lit his face, highlighting its handsome angles. “Perhaps if you take a closer look, you can see that there’s still hope in the most unlikely places.”

  I walked to the burnt wreckage that was the kitchen. The darkness intimidated me. The memory of the angry flames devouring everything in sight was still fresh in my mind. There was a strange, dark lump on the counter. I moved closer and dragged my fingers across it, coating them with soot. When I pulled my hand away, a streak of brown appeared against the black. Odd. Using both hands now, I rubbed away the grime, channeling Ma-ma’s motions when she attacked her scratch-off lottery tickets. Something was emerging from the darkness . . .

  My mouth fell open.

  Laolao’s recipe book.

  It should have been destroyed.

  Yet the leather-bound book showed no signs of damage. It was as if it had been sitting on the coffee table upstairs instead of here. Traces of soot peppered the ornate grooves of the cover and the leather, but wiped off easily. My grandmother’s book had survived.

  What did this mean?

  I pulled the book against my chest, not caring that the last bits of soot stained my white sweater dress.

  Everything else might have been lost, but at least I still had this.

  This was a connection to my past.

  Perhaps Mr. Kuk Wah was right: I really was meant to honor and follow Laolao’s legacy.

  There was no other reason why the book would have survived. Laolao faced overwhelming obstacles and built a life for herself and her family here. She found her purpose. All my life, I had been searching for mine. Running a restaurant was what I always dreamed of and it had cost me years away from Ma-ma.

  This was what I wanted.

  If I gave up now, I would be left wondering about what could have been . . .

  If only.

  Twenty-eight years of if onlys.

  This was enough.

  My destiny was mine to shape.

  Laolao’s book had survived this and so would I.

  “This is a sign that you are meant to stay,” declared Mr. Kuk Wah.

  “Yes, I think it is. You were right, and finding the book confirms it: I do need to stay and finish what I started. And now that I have the book back, I need to find out why the recipes aren’t working,” I said. “Once I do, I can start figuring out how to get financing to fix up the restaurant.”

  “There must be something we have missed.” Mr. Kuk Wah nodded. “It is a shame you can’t ask your mother for help.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that if Ma-ma were alive, she could shed some light on this. She knew Laolao the best.”

  “So your days of running away are behind you after all?”

  I didn’t want to be the person who ran away from people and from love. I wasn’t my father. His habit of abandonment was no longer mine. I wanted to be the person who wasn’t afraid to seize my dreams. I wanted to be the woman that Celia had called her friend and the one Daniel had believed in.

  “Yes. I’m not going anywhere. Besides, it’s time for another woman in my family to cook for this neighborhood,” I replied.

  After saying goodbye to Mr. Kuk Wah, I headed back up to the apartment. If Ma-ma were alive, I was certain she would know why her own mother’s recipes were backfiring. I missed her so much. I wanted nothing more than to eat one of her special peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on toast.

  But before I could make one, I had someone to apologize to. I hugged the cat and told her I was sorry for almost leaving her before.

  In response, Meimei licked my cheek. I took it as a sign of forgiveness.

  But the cat wasn’t the only one I owed an apology to. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Daniel: I’m sorry.

  I waited three minutes, then I left the phone on the coffee table in the living room. I didn’t expect him to respond after how I treated him, yet I still hoped he would. For now, fixing the neighbors’ issues and my friendship with Celia seemed more achievable.

  * * *

  After I unpacked my suitcase, my stomach rumbled. The memory of Ma-ma’s peanut butter sandwiches burrowed in my mind, and my craving for them strengthened. I walked to the kitchen, took out the loaf of sliced bread from the fridge, and peered into the toaster. There was something in the other slot that I hadn’t noticed before: another sheet of crumpled paper. I fished it out and began reading.

  Mother.

  Why did you die and leave me?

  Mother!

  Darkness came for me. Swirling, tugging, drowning me with the thickness of sesame oil. Captive by paralysis of grief. Spending days in the tub submerged by the weight of my tears. The pain nullified every other sensation.

  Mother.

  There was so much I wanted to say.

  Mother.

  Come back. Awaken me from this nightmare.

  But you can’t.

  At least you didn’t leave me alone.

  He pulled me out of the deep.

  He reminded me of after, that there was an after: children, our family, a future.

  He wants to have a child.

  I want it too.

  I want to have a daughter, nourished with joy and youtiao. She will be like you, Mother: strong, confident, capable. No demons will haunt her steps. My curse will not befall her. She’ll smile because she wants to. Succored on kindness and wonder, her ima
gination will be boundless, and her lightness of being will outweigh the darkness of mine.

  She will not be me.

  She will be like you, her grandmother.

  She will be like her father.

  Him.

  The one who saved me from myself. He who accepted the darkness and instead of banishing it, acted as a beacon so I could find my way back. My love. My match. My other.

  Oh, I wish you could be alive to meet your future grandchild, Mother.

  The wrinkled page crinkled under my fingertips, undulating like a wave. Even now, the paper had marks on the places where my mother’s tears had fallen.

  I cried now, too, for my grandmother, for my mother, and for me. Drop by drop, my tears joined Ma-ma’s, changing the stains into brushstrokes as my sadness mixed with hers. The pattern of miniature puddles resembled the Chinese word for sorrow: bei-ai.

  I wept for the grandmother I had never known, the woman whose recipes I cooked and whose words I cherished, whose face I had the fortune of seeing before the photograph was lost in flames, the one who traveled across the ocean to raise her daughter alone and help those in need.

  I cried for Ma-ma, whom I missed more than anything in this world, the person whose words reached me from beyond the grave.

  I cried for myself, who was alone, uncertain, and yearning for those who had been taken from me.

  I had lost them both.

  Ma-ma’s voice spoke through the page. Her thoughts and hopes reached across time to me. It was as though we were still together drinking an afternoon tea. This piece had been torn from a notebook of some sort. A diary, perhaps? Had my mother kept a journal?

  The tangible possibility that I could reconnect with Ma-ma eased my sorrow.

  If I could find other pages, who knew what else she might have written. Maybe there was something in them that would help me figure out why Laolao’s recipe book wasn’t working. I needed to find the rest. My mother was meticulous, and odds were that if she had kept these books, they were in immaculate shape.

  I called the cat. “Come on, Meimei! Let’s go looking for treasure.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ma-ma’s room was the only place in the apartment I had not been in since I returned. I hadn’t opened the door, for I’d been too afraid that the painful memories of her would overwhelm me. Since the apartment had two bedrooms, I had avoided this for as long as I could. But if Ma-ma had kept journals, she would have hidden them in her room. I needed to face my fears and enter. The doorknob was cold to the touch. It rattled as I tried in vain to twist it open with my hand, sweaty from nerves.

  Opening a door shouldn’t be difficult, but this simple act had become complicated. It was the admission that my mother was truly gone, that she could no longer pop out of her bedroom in time to watch her Korean soap operas or share in a long, languid conversation over cups of tea. Even now I craved a cup of oolong, but only if Ma-ma were here to share it with me.

  I twisted the knob again and pulled the door open.

  A lingering miasma of pungent, traditional Chinese ointments assaulted my nostrils. My mother had used a heady mix of creams and liquids to treat anything from headaches to menstrual cramps. She had applied medicated bandages smelling of menthol and eucalyptus for any muscle aches. Odd stripes of white across her shoulders or neck had been a common sight.

  Small circular mirrors nailed all over the walls reflected my face back at me. My mahogany dark eyes, wide forehead, and small nose were replicated over and over as a hundred versions of myself stared back. These mirrors were not a product of vanity, but of superstition. According to Ma-ma, they warded off the demons and ill spirits. If each mirror represented an individual demon, my mother must have feared legions of them.

  The queen-size bed dominated the modest bedroom with its mismatched sheets, ancient because of my mother’s frugal nature. Their cotton was pilled and thin from far too many washings, but they were the most comfortable bedding I had ever known. A bad dream always guaranteed me admission into Ma-ma’s sanctuary. She would drive the ghosts and bad demons away by humming arias from La bohème in my ear until I fell back asleep.

  I sat on the lumpy mattress. Meimei squirmed out of my arms and settled herself on the bed. Nothing much had changed in the years I was gone.

  No. The birds . . .

  The birds had multiplied. She’d installed rows upon rows of floating melamine shelves above shoulder height to accommodate the expansion of her once humble collection. Though she’d had bird figurines all over the apartment, the bulk of her prized collection was confined to her bedroom because it had given her joy to wake up to them every morning. Before I’d left, I had a tradition of gifting her with bird figurines. It began with a storm petrel, a Wakamba carving of ebony wood from Kenya I had picked up at the museum gift shop from a sixth-grade school field trip. She’d adored the unexpected birthday present, and I had hunted for them since.

  Clusters of ceramic birds were perched on every shelf. Her obsession had brought her happiness, so I’d fed it. The tiki bird from French Polynesia nested beside a delft bluebird from the Netherlands. One of my favorites was a glass rainbow macaw from an Argentinian artist that mimicked the vibrant barrios of Buenos Aires. Since the sixth grade, I’d given her one every year until I’d left: eight birds in total.

  As I lifted each member of her extensive bird collection, I imagined Ma-ma was with me, telling a story about each one. There were no signs of dust anywhere; cleanliness had been her religion. I counted eighty-eight birds in total. Ma-ma had been busy collecting while I was gone.

  I couldn’t deny that every time I saw a beautiful feathered creature in figurine form, I thought of my mother. If only I’d sent her one, even a single bird, from my travels, it could have been the precursor to establishing communication once more.

  Ma-ma had spoken to her birds often, especially when she cleaned them every Saturday morning. I had imagined she was some fairy-tale princess in the Black Forest holding court over an avian kingdom.

  I was tempted to speak to them now, but I didn’t want to be the one to convey the loss of their queen.

  Suddenly, however, Ma-ma’s collection stirred.

  It began as a single chirp, a mournful cry swelling into a chorus. The figurines burst into song, tiny beaks opening, chests puffed, to release a somber tribute to their departed beloved. The tune was unfamiliar, yet its melancholy was palpable, rising, surging until the final trill when every bird bowed their heads toward the empty bed, frozen as if they hadn’t sung seconds before.

  I thanked them for the happiness they’d bestowed on Ma-ma.

  I fell backward onto the bed with my arms spread-eagle. A soft purr rumbled near my ear. Meimei had hopped across the bed to join me, and curled against my side. “She’s really gone,” I whispered to the cat. “I bet you miss her as much as I do.”

  The ache in my heart swelled, pushing against my ribs. Ma-ma should have been here waiting for me. If I had returned while she was still alive, would she have flitted to the toaster, happily tearing up the letter before I could see it? My chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Tears threatened to drown me again, so I gathered my thoughts and remembered why I’d come in here: to search for the rest of Ma-ma’s journals.

  I rose and crouched down to my knees to peer under the bed. Labeled shoeboxes formed an impenetrable wall. Every single one had my name on it: artwork, report cards, essays, and school projects from over the years.

  She had saved them all.

  I opened more boxes and unearthed all sorts of financial records. Everything was organized with multiple copies. She had even kept Laolao’s old permits and licenses for the restaurant. I set that folder aside for further study.

  Ma-ma had squirreled an unlabeled box between a fortress of tax returns and old Time magazines. I opened it and counted fifteen black spiral notebooks chronicling h
er life from her teenage years up until her death a few weeks ago. The crumpled page I’d found in the toaster must have been ripped from one of these books. I wondered why she decided to place it in there. Was it a bread crumb to lead me to find the others?

  Judging from the last journal’s entries, she had written on an erratic schedule, but nevertheless, it was regular enough to fill all these books.

  I pulled the box out from under the bed, placing Laolao’s folder on top. Meimei, being the cat she is, hopped onto the box, and came along for the impromptu ride to the living room.

  How should I read Ma-ma’s life? From the beginning, as I would any story, or from the end where we had parted? Her letter answered any questions I’d had about whether she’d regretted the past seven years of silence between us. My eyes traveled to the worn folder full of permits. The restaurant. Laolao. Ma-ma had mentioned in her letter that she, too, had quarreled with her own mother.

  On the coffee table, I arranged the journals into stacks with the oldest first. Perhaps the earlier ones would contain a clue about Laolao and her recipe book. I pulled the first book from the pile and began to read.

  Some of the most magical times are when I watch Mother and Mr. Wu cook together in our kitchen. It looks like they’re culinary wizards performing some sort of alchemy.

  Oh, the aromas they can conjure.

  They often allow me to taste the new dishes after they both critique them. Mother makes adjustments and writes them down in her book.

  Mother, I wonder if you know how Mr. Wu looks at you.

  He holds you in the highest regard. I’m sure he would present you with his heart if you’d give him a chance. He has never said anything, probably because he fears it would jeopardize your friendship.

  Why doesn’t he say anything?

  Does he need to?

  Mother, do you already know?

  This must be one of those situations where love can never be.

  Old Wu. He was here testing recipes with Laolao. And he knew about the recipe book, but wouldn’t answer my questions. Why? Perhaps because I hadn’t earned his respect yet.