Beautiful as Yesterday Page 31

  When Ingrid returns to the wheel, her mother is still sleeping. Ingrid reaches over to move her mother’s head slightly and wedges a pillow between her head and the window; she also rearranges the blanket. She starts the engine, which wakes up Bing’er.

  As soon as Bing’er realizes that it’s snowing, she cries out merrily. “It snowed a lot when I was a kid. Every winter I so looked forward to the first snow that I couldn’t focus on school. If the forecast said there’d be snow in the evening, I’d press my nose to the window, waiting for the first flake to appear in the sky. I could never stay up long enough for the snow, and when I woke it was daytime and the world was already white, reflecting on the ceiling of my room. How I hated my parents for not waking me up earlier! I made snowmen and snow angels, marked new snow with my footprints and fingerprints, played hide-and-seek with other kids. Those days, nothing was more painful than going to school. I learned how to fake stomachache; I was so good at it that I could even produce a cold sweat on my forehead. After my parents went to work, I sneaked out. I never got tired of playing in the snow. Nowadays it rarely snows in my hometown, and even if it does it melts fast, turning into slush. It must be because of global warming.”

  Ingrid tells Bing’er she likes snow too; she also faked sickness to play in the snow, and was spanked often by her father for playing hooky. Before she left China, she says, it snowed every winter in her hometown, especially around the Spring Festival, but since she hasn’t been back for so long, she doesn’t know if it still snows much or even at all.

  “Well, you’d better visit me in the winter then,” Bing’er says cheerfully. “There’s tons of snow in Toronto. Heavier than any snow I’ve experienced in China.”

  Seeing Ingrid become preoccupied, Bing’er asks, “Are you thinking about your interview with KQED?”

  Ingrid shakes her head. “No, I’m just imagining what my hometown is like on a snowy day.”

  Bing’er takes out a pencil and pad from her backpack and begins to draw the snow, the trees, the slow-moving cars. She is soon absorbed in her world.

  Snow comes from all directions. If she were outside, Ingrid imagines, she wouldn’t be able to open her eyes. She wants to be outside, to let the flakes fall on her palms and see them melting, as she liked to do as a kid. She rolls down her window and extends her hand. Afraid that the cold wind might awaken her mother, she quickly closes the window.

  They have more than ten miles to go. At the speed they are traveling, it could take quite a while. But if the old man in the down jacket was right about the storm clearing soon, Ingrid thinks, they might arrive before sunset. She doesn’t mind driving in snow, as long as she can see the road ahead.

  FIFTEEN

  May

  MARY STANDS AT THE kitchen sink peeling a cucumber, looking out the window, a hollow feeling inside her. She doesn’t awaken from her trance until the overpeeled cucumber snaps in half. She dumps the fallen half into the garbage disposal and presses the switch. Hearing the loud grinding, she pictures the crushed cucumber, feeling that her life is not much better than its.

  Her mother died suddenly last Saturday. In the morning she went to the park as usual. Barely twenty minutes had passed before she returned, telling Mary that she was a little tired and needed a nap. “Where is Dongdong?” she asked. Mary told her that Dongdong had gone to a swimming class with Bob. Her mother nodded pensively and yawned. Mary thought that her mother hadn’t slept well the night before, so she made up the bed for her. Her mother lay down and asked her to stay a while. “Wake me up when Dongdong is home,” she said. Mary agreed, then sat beside her mother, leaning back against the wall. They chatted, mostly about inconsequential things, and soon her mother fell asleep.

  Mary didn’t leave but slipped into a reverie. She had been overwhelmed at work, taking on extra projects after a staff reduction, and hadn’t slept properly for days. Before dozing, she heard vaguely the raindrops beating on the windows and roof, even remote thunder; but rather than awakening her, they lulled her to sleep. An hour later, she opened her eyes, refreshed. She felt her mother’s forehead to see if she had a fever. Only then did she realize that her mother had stopped breathing. She looked peaceful and calm, her wrinkles smoothed, as though she were sleeping soundly.

  Her death had probably resulted from a stroke or heart failure, the doctor said. He gave more details, but his explanation sounded cold and distant to Mary, as if he were speaking the language of aliens.

  During the past half a year, she had gotten used to her mother being around. In the afternoon, before she even turned in to the driveway, her mother heard her car and would come to open the garage door for her. It was nice to be greeted by family after a long day’s work; Mary liked it. When she stepped into the house, the light was burning and a cup of hot green tea was on the coffee table. Her mother would also hand her a warm face towel. If Mary had to work from home in the evening, her mother made porridge or a snack for her, and they’d chat while eating. Since her mother arrived, Mary had kept the heat on during the daytime, but her mother always turned it off after she and Bob left for work and didn’t turn it on until half an hour before they came home. Mary knew that her mother wanted to save money for them. She understood that her mother’s generation had lived in poverty for years and become accustomed to being thrifty: they didn’t know how to enjoy themselves even when the situation allowed.

  One day in March, her mother had insisted that Mary book her return airline ticket. She said she needed a medical checkup. Mary said that she would take her mother to see her and Bob’s family doctor. But her mother didn’t want to go. Okay, Mary said, she would book the return ticket the next day. The next day, Mary’s company announced a layoff plan; four people on her team had to go, though the list was not yet finalized. Mary must have looked gloomy that evening, because her mother guessed what had happened. She told Mary not to worry, saying Bob and Mary should focus on work and she’d help with the housework and look after Alex. She also said that she wouldn’t leave until Mary’s job stabilized: she even asked Mary to file an application with the embassy to extend her visa. Then, only two months later, she was gone.

  Mary glances down the quiet hallway that leads to the guest room, mourning silently.

  “Mary,” Bob interrupts her thought, entering the kitchen with handfuls of Safeway bags. “I bought chicken, beef, brown onions, asparagus, and button mushrooms. I hope I didn’t miss anything. I also bought cereal, yogurt, juice, and bananas for breakfast.”

  “Thanks for doing it.” Mary takes a few bags from her husband and helps him load the groceries into the refrigerator.

  “Is Alex still sleeping?” Bob asks.

  “I guess so. Let me wake him up.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Did he say he wanted to go to Marine World?”

  Bob nods and closes the refrigerator. “I’m thinking about taking him there today.”

  “Hopefully it’ll make him less sad.”

  “When will Ingrid be back?”

  “Maybe in an hour. The travel agency is in Palo Alto.”

  Mary coughs and cups her mouth with both hands.

  “You still have some cold,” Bob says as he pulls a tissue from a box on the countertop and hands it to her.

  She wipes her mouth and hands. “It’s almost gone.” Then with a smile, she says, “I thought I’d never get sick.”

  “Mary.” Bob places both his hands on her shoulders. “I could try to take some time off from work and go with you for your mother’s funeral, you know. We can ask Mingyi or Julia to take care of Alex for a few days.”

  “It’s too much trouble, with visas, Alex, and everything else. And I know it’s difficult for you to leave work right now. Besides, we already had a ceremony here.”

  “But I want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be fine. Ingrid will help me out there. And I worry about Alex. It’s better you’re here with him. We can all go to China next year to see her, our who
le family and Ingrid. My mother would like that.” Disturbed by mentioning her mother, Mary breaks away from Bob’s hands and walks to the sink, looking out the window. “Mingyi, Yaya, and Julia will be here soon,” she says, as a way to change the subject.

  “Are you sure you want to cook for so many people today?”

  “They are old friends. It’s nice to see them before I go to China.” She gazes at a small basket of flowers against the bay window, arranged by her mother before she died. The petals of the yellow mini-roses and golden daisies have fallen off, but the leaves are still quite green. Mary’s tears drip into the sink. She feels Bob behind her, his arms around her, pressing her against his chest. She turns around and buries her head in his shoulder, her hands clasping him tight. She sobs, her eyes and nose running freely, her body shivering, just like eleven years ago, when she was biking in the December evening rain, empty-stomached, hopeless, toward her dorm, or like that Friday night in January when she lay next to Bob on the bed, looking into his eyes, and told him how she wished they loved each other like they had: that Friday night, they finally talked, and they talked for the whole night, each apologizing for neglecting the other.

  Bob tightens his embrace and rubs her back soothingly.

  “Mom, Dad.” Amid her sobs, Mary hears Alex calling in his room. She straightens her back and cleans her face hurriedly.

  “You stay here. I’ll go,” Bob says gently while taking off his jacket, which has been soaked by her tears. He hugs her once more.

  Forty-five minutes later, Bob and Alex head for Six Flags Marine World in Vallejo, an hour’s drive away.

  “Sister, I’m back.” Half an hour after they leave, Ingrid returns. She hands Mary her plane ticket. In their grief and preoccupation, neither realizes that it is the first time since Ingrid moved to New York that she has called Mary “Sister.”

  Mary takes the ticket, studying the details. “Are we seated next to each other?”

  “No. The plane is full. There were only three seats left when I called. We can try to switch seats with someone.” Since their mother passed away, Ingrid has been staying with Mary, helping with the arrangements: looking for a crematorium and a beautician, calling relatives about the funeral to be held in their father’s hometown, picking an urn for the ashes, booking the plane tickets. She started her part-time job at KQED one month ago, but she doesn’t need to go to the office unless there is a meeting.

  “Where are Bob and Alex?” Ingrid asks, smelling the white lilies in a vase on the countertop. There are fresh flowers in every room, sent mostly by Mary’s church friends.

  “Bob took him to Six Flags Marine World; they won’t be back until late afternoon. We thought it’d make him feel better. Since Ma passed away, Alex has been crying every day, asking to go to the hospital to see her. I said wai po is now living in paradise. He didn’t believe me, saying that wai po didn’t go to church so she wouldn’t be living in paradise. I said wai po was a very nice person, that of course she would live in paradise, and that someday we’d visit her there. He burst into tears and said he knew wai po had died and would no longer tell him stories and make him a rat with her handkerchief.” Mary’s eyes turn red.

  “Kids his age are forgetful. Soon Alex won’t be so sad,” Ingrid consoles her sister, though she can barely hold back her own tears. To compose herself, she squats and extracts an apron from a lower drawer. She slips the neck strap over her head and ties the apron around her waist. “Is there anything I can help with?”

  “It’s fine to eat a bit late. Mingyi, Yaya, and Julia won’t mind.”

  “When will Mingyi begin her seminary studies in Pennsylvania?”

  “In another two months. She’s already quit her job and devoted herself to volunteering and church affairs. Next Monday she’ll go to China with a few sisters and brothers to start a documentary film about Christianity’s development there. They’ll travel to more than twenty provinces and interview more than more hundred people. There won’t be much time between her trip and her school. I hope I can still see her now and then after she goes to the seminary.” Mary mopes. “Oh, let’s not talk about it right now.” She walks to the fridge and takes out a piece of beef. Ingrid finds another apron and puts it on her sister. Mary smiles appreciatively and begins to chop the beef on a cutting board. She asks Ingrid to pick some basil leaves and chives from the backyard.

  The day before her mother passed away Mingyi had told Mary that she had decided to study at a seminary in Pennsylvania, and afterward serve as a missionary in the Congo for five years.

  “Why do you want to be a missionary?” Mary had asked.

  “I think it’s the right thing to do,” Mingyi had said calmly. “I’ve been waiting for this day over the past twenty-plus years, waiting for God to summon me. It’s only through serving God wholeheartedly that I feel my life has a meaning.”

  If these words had come from Pastor Zhang or other sisters and brothers, Mary wouldn’t have been so shocked, but this was her best friend. Though Mingyi had told Mary before that she was considering doing missionary work outside the United States, Mary didn’t think she really meant it—especially not in Africa. She just couldn’t imagine that a friend with whom she had been so close would choose to do something like this. She had secretly hoped that a nice man in their church would change Mingyi’s mind about not getting married. After all, Mingyi was so kind, gentle, wise, and beautiful, the sort of woman who attracted men easily; such a woman deserved a good family.

  Now, standing in the kitchen, Mary feels despair. Though she had thought she and Mingyi were similar, she has come to see they are actually very different in their thoughts and attitudes, Mary’s feet always on the ground concerning secular things like house payments, bills, food, work, and children’s schooling, while Mingyi lives at another level, focusing on a simple life and spiritual devotion.

  The distance between them, Mary has now recognized, is vast, unbridgeable.

  After Mingyi completes her seminary degree and returns from the Congo, will they still be able to share sorrow and joy as they did before? Will they still be able to enjoy cooking together and chatting? Mary isn’t sure. She tries to think positively, to cheer herself up by respecting Mingyi’s new endeavor, but meanwhile, she cannot avoid the thought that their friendship is destined to fade with time, with them living far apart, with their different priorities. In her mind’s eye she has already begun to see Mingyi’s face acquiring an amiable yet distant smile. If she hadn’t been so distressed and exhausted by her mother’s sudden death, Mary would have tried her best to dissuade Mingyi from going to the seminary, though she knew that Mingyi had made up her mind. Now she doesn’t have the energy.

  After chopping the beef into thin strips, she uses a new cutting board to slice a brown onion. Usually she would place the board on the sink and cut the onion under cold running water so that she wouldn’t cry, but today she forgot. Soon, her tears flow, and as she rubs her eyes, absentmindedly, more tears emerge. She stops chopping the onion and closes her eyes, waiting for the stinging to go away; she begins to sob, her shoulders shaking.

  Hearing Ingrid closing the backyard door, Mary hurries to the hallway bathroom, splashing cold water on her eyes and patting them with the tips of her fingers to reduce the swelling. She flushes the toilet and pauses for an appropriate moment, then comes out.

  Ingrid must have been crying in the backyard too. Her eyes look red. When she sees Mary, she looks away.

  “It took me a while to get enough,” Ingrid says hastily, attempting an excuse for being away so long. Then she tries to smash a garlic clove with the side of a Chinese knife on a cutting board—she has seen Mary do this to peel the skin. Unused to housework, Ingrid holds the knife as if it were a brick. She uses too much force, and a piece of garlic flies out and hits the end of her nose. Both Mary and Ingrid laugh at this small incident. The grim atmosphere that has hung around the house suddenly lightens.

  “Did Ma bring this knife from China? It�
��s so heavy. Americans don’t use this kind of knife,” Ingrid says.

  “I asked Ma to buy it for me. It works much better than American knives when you chop bones or slice meat. It’s good for vegetables too. I don’t like the knives here. They’re only good for cutting bread or fruit. Ma even brought me an iron caldron because I once complained to her that I could find only thin, flat-bottomed pans in the U.S. and it was hard to stir-fry with them. She remembered what I had said. Imagine how heavy her suitcase was! Now, with the iron caldron, I can cook much more efficiently. Bob said that he’d have the vent hood replaced with a more powerful one so I can do more stir-fry.”

  “Bob is very considerate. I’ve never heard him complain about eating too much Chinese food at home.”

  “He knows that cooking is my biggest hobby. I’m lucky he likes my cooking. Though he’s allergic to pollen and dust, he is fine with oil and the fumes from stir-fry. When he was little, he told me, his grandma cooked only Chinese food,” Mary says. “I don’t know why, but I haven’t been able to make myself like Western food. No matter how delicious and sophisticated French or Italian cuisines appear, they don’t stimulate my appetite. However, a bowl of fish fillet porridge or a plate of sweet-and-sour chicken does. Before Bob and I got married he ate mostly Western food, but now he is more used to Chinese food.” Mary’s face lights up as she talks about Bob.

  “That’s true. He’s eaten more Chinese cuisines and dishes than I have,” Ingrid says and pauses. Then she says, “You and Bob seem to get along well. These days, Bob has helped a lot, taking care of Alex, doing housework, and even cooking. He cooks very good pasta.”