第3章 TRUTH-2

The less Ruth said, the more her mother tried to guess what she might want. As she lay in the recliner, she heard LuLing talking to Auntie Gal on the phone. "She was almost killed! Scared me to death. Really! Im not exaggerating. She was nearly yanked from this life and on her way to the yellow springs. . . . I just about cracked my own teeth to see how much pain she was in. . . . No, no tears, she must have inherited the strength of her grandmother. Well, shes eating a little bit now. She cant talk, and I thought at first she bit off her tongue, but I think its only the fright. Come over to visit? Fine, fine, but tell your kids to be careful. I dont want her arm to fall off."

They came bearing gifts. Auntie Gal brought a bottle of eau de toilette. Uncle Edmund gave Ruth a new toothbrush and matching plastic cup. Her cousins handed her coloring books, crayons, and a stuffed dog. LuLing had pushed the television set close to the La-Z-Boy, since Ruth had a hard time seeing without her glasses.

"Does it hurt?" her younger cousin, Sally, asked. Ruth shrugged, though her arm was now aching. "Man oh man, I wish I had a cast," Billy said. He was the same age as Ruth. "Daddy, can I have one too?" "Dont say such bad-luck things!" Auntie Gal warned.

When Billy tried to change the television channel, Uncle Edmund sternly ordered him to put it back to the program Ruth had been watching. She had never heard her uncle be strict with her cousins. Billy was a spoiled brat. "Why arent you talking?" Sally asked. "Did you break your mouth too?"

"Yeah," Billy said. "Did the fall make you stupid or something?" "Billy, stop teasing," Auntie Gal said. "Shes resting. She has too much pain to talk." Ruth wondered whether this was true. She thought about making a little sound so small no one would even hear. But if she did, then all the good things that were happening might disappear. They would decide she was fine, and everything would go back to normal. Her mother would start scolding her for being careless and disobedient.

For two days after the fall, Ruth was helpless; her mother had to feed, dress, and bathe her. LuLing would tell her what to do: "Open your mouth. Eat a little more. Put your arm in here. Try to keep your head still while I brush your hair." It was comforting to be a baby again, well loved, blameless.

When she returned to school, Ruth found a big streamer of butcher paper hanging at the front of the classroom. "Welcome Back, Ruth!" it said. Miss Sondegard, the teacher, announced that every single boy and girl had helped make it. She led the classroom in clapping for Ruths bravery. Ruth smiled shyly. Her heart was about to burst. She had never been as proud and happy. She wished she had broken her arm a long time before.

During lunch, girls vied with one another to present her with imaginary trinkets and serve as her maiden-in-waiting. She was invited to step into the "secret castle," a rock-bordered area near a tree at the edge of the sandbox. Only the most popular girls could be princesses. The princesses now took turns drawing on Ruths cast. One of them gingerly asked, "Is it still broken?" Ruth nodded, and another girl whispered loudly: "Lets bring her magic potions." The princesses scampered off in search of bottle caps, broken glass, and fairy-sized clover.

At the end of the day, Ruths mother went to her classroom to pick her up. Miss Sondegard took LuLing aside, and Ruth had to act as though she were not listening. "I think shes a bit tired, which is natural for the first day back. But Im a little concerned that shes so quiet. She didnt say a word all day, not even ouch."

"She never complain," LuLing agreed. "It may not be a problem, but well need to watch if this continues." "No problem," LuLing assured her. "She no problem." "You must encourage her to talk, Mrs. Young. I dont want this to turn into a problem."

"No problem!" her mother reiterated. "Make her say hamburger before letting her eat a hamburger. Make her say cookie before she gets a cookie." That night LuLing took the teachers advice literally: she served hamburger, which she had never done. LuLing did not cook or eat beef of any kind. It disgusted her, reminded her of scarred flesh. Yet now, for her daughters sake, she put an unadorned patty in front of Ruth, who was thrilled to see her mother had actually made American food for once. "Hambugga? You say hambugga, then eat." Ruth was tempted to speak, but she was afraid to break the spell. One word and all the good things in her life would vanish. She shook her head. LuLing encouraged her until the hamburgers rivulets of fat had congealed into ugly white pools. She put the patty in the fridge, then served Ruth a bowl of steaming rice porridge, which she said was better for her health anyway. After dinner, LuLing cleared the dining table and started to work. She laid out ink, brushes, and a roll of paper. With quick and perfect strokes, she wrote large Chinese characters: "Going Out of Business. Last few days! No offer refused!" She set the banner aside to dry, then cut a new length of paper. Ruth, who was watching television, noticed after a while that her mother was staring at her. "Why you not do study?" LuLing asked. She had made Ruth practice reading and writing since kindergarten, to help her be "one jump ahead." Ruth held up her broken right arm in its cast. "Come sit here," her mother said in Chinese. Ruth slowly stood up. Uh-oh. Her mother was back to her old ways. "Now hold this." LuLing placed a brush in Ruths left hand. "Write your name." Her first attempts were clumsy, the R almost unrecognizable, the hump of the h veering off the paper like an out-of-control bicycle. She giggled. "Hold the brush straight up," her mother instructed, "not at a slant. Use a light touch, like this." The next results were better, but they had taken up a whole length of paper. "Now try to write smaller." But the letters looked like blotches made by an ink-soaked fly twirling on its back. When it was finally time for bed, the practice session had consumed nearly twenty sheets of paper, both front and back. This was a sign of success as well as extravagance. LuLing never wasted anything. She gathered the used sheets, stacked them, and set them in a corner of the room. Ruth knew she would use them later, as practice sheets for her own calligraphy, as blotters for spills, as bundled-up hot pads for pans. The following evening, after dinner, LuLing presented Ruth with a large tea tray filled with smooth wet sand gathered from the playground at school. "Here," she said, "you practice, use this." She held a chopstick in her left hand, then scratched the word "study" on the miniature beach. When she finished, she swept the sand clean and smooth with the long end of the chopstick. Ruth followed suit and found that it was easier to write this way, also fun. The sand-and-chopstick method did not require the delicate, light-handed technique of the brush. She could apply a force that steadied her. She wrote her name. Neat! It was like playing with the Etch-A-Sketch that her cousin Billy received last Christmas. LuLing went to the refrigerator and brought out the cold beef patty. "Tomorrow what you want eat?" And Ruth scratched back: BURGR. LuLing laughed. "Hah! So now you can talk back this way!" The next day, LuLing brought the tea tray to school and filled it with sand from the same part of the schoolyard where Ruth had broken her arm. Miss Sondegard agreed to let Ruth answer questions this way. And when Ruth raised her hand during an arithmetic drill and scrawled "7," all the other kids jumped out of their chairs to look. Soon they were clamoring that they too wanted to do sand-writing. At recess, Ruth was very popular. She heard them fussing over her. "Let me try!" "Me, me! She said I could!" "You gotta use your left hand, or its cheating!" "Ruth, you show Tommy how to do it. Hes so dumb." They returned the chopstick to Ruth. And Ruth wrote quickly and easily the answers to their questions: Does your arm hurt? A little. Can I touch your cast? Yes. Does Ricky love Betsy? Yes. Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Yes. They treated her as though she were Helen Keller, a genius who didnt let injury keep her from showing how smart she was. Like Helen Keller, she simply had to work harder, and perhaps this was what made her smarter, the effort and others admiring that. Even at home, her mother would ask her, "What you think?" as if Ruth would know, just because she had to write the answers to her questions in sand. "How does the bean curd dish taste?" LuLing asked one night. And Ruth etched: Salty, She had never said anything bad about her mothers cooking before, but that was what her mother always said to criticize her own food. "I thought so too," her mother answered. This was amazing! Soon her mother was asking her opinion on all kinds of matters. "We go shop dinner now or go later?" Later. "What about stock market? I invest, you think I get lucky?" Lucky. "You like this dress?" No, ugly. Ruth had never experienced such power with words. Her mother frowned, then murmured in Mandarin. "Your father loved this old dress, and now I can never throw it away." She became misty-eyed. She sighed, then said in English: "You think you daddy miss me?" Ruth wrote Yes right away. Her mother beamed. And then Ruth had an idea. She had always wanted a little dog. Now was the time to ask for one. She scratched in the sand: Doggie. Her mother gasped. She stared at the words and shook her head in disbelief. Oh well, Ruth thought, that was one wish she was not going to get. But then her mother began to whimper, "Doggie, doggie," in Chinese. She jumped up and her chest heaved. "Precious Auntie," LuLing cried, "youve come back. This is your Doggie. Do you forgive me?" Ruth put down the chopstick. LuLing was now sobbing. "Precious Auntie, oh Precious Auntie! I wish you never died! It was all my fault. If I could change fate, I would rather kill myself than suffer without you. . . ." Oh, no. Ruth knew what this was. Her mother sometimes talked about this Precious Auntie ghost who lived in the air, a lady who had not behaved and who wound up living at the End of the World. That was where all bad people went: a bottomless pit where no one would ever find them, and there they would be stuck, wandering with their hair hanging to their toes, wet and bloody. "Please let me know you are not mad at me," her mother went on. "Give me a sign. I have tried to tell you how sorry I am, but I dont know if youve heard. Can you hear me? When did you come to America?" Ruth sat still, unable to move. She wanted to go back to talking about food and clothes. Her mother put the chopstick in Ruths hand. "Here, do this. Close your eyes, turn your face to heaven, and speak to her. Wait for her answer, then write it down. Hurry, close your eyes." Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. She saw the lady with hair to her toes. She heard her mother speak again in polite Chinese: "Precious Auntie, I did not mean what I said before you died. And after you died, I tried to find your body." Ruths eyes flew open. In her imagination, the long-haired ghost was walking in circles. "I went down into the ravine. I looked and looked. Oh, I was crazy with grief. If only I had found you, I would have taken your bones to the cave and given you a proper burial." Ruth felt something touch her shoulder, and she jumped. "Ask her if she understood everything I just said," LuLing ordered. "Ask her if my luck has changed. Is the curse over? Are we safe? Write down her answer." What curse? Ruth now stared at the sand, half believing the dead womans face would appear in a pool of blood. What answer did her mother want? Did Yes mean the curse was gone? Or that it was still there? She put the chopstick in the sand, and not knowing what to write, she drew a line and another below that. She drew two more lines and made a square. "Mouth!" her mother cried, tracing over the square. "Thats the character for mouth!" She stared at Ruth. "You wrote that and you dont even know how to write Chinese! Did you feel Precious Auntie guiding your hand? What did it feel like? Tell me." Ruth shook her head. What was happening? She wanted to cry but didnt dare. She wasnt supposed to be able to make a sound. "Precious Auntie, thank you for helping my daughter. Forgive me that she speaks only English. It must be hard for you to communicate through her this way. But now I know that you can hear me. And you know what Im saying, that I wish I could take your bones to the Mouth of the Mountain, to the Monkeys Jaw. Ive never forgotten. As soon as I can go to China, I will finish my duty. Thank you for reminding me." Ruth wondered what she had written. How could a square mean all that? Was there really a ghost in the room? What was in her hand and the chopstick? Why was her hand shaking? "Since I may not be able to go back to China for a long time," LuLing continued, "I hope you will still forgive me. Please know that my life has been miserable ever since you left me. That is why I ask you to take my life, but to spare my daughter if the curse cannot be changed. I know her recent accident was a warning." Ruth dropped the chopstick. The lady with bloody hair was trying to kill her! So it was true, that day at the playground, she almost died. She had thought so, and it was true. LuLing retrieved the chopstick and tried to put it in Ruths hand. But Ruth balled her fist. She pushed the sand tray away. Her mother pushed it back and kept babbling nonsense: "Im so happy youve finally found me. Ive been waiting for so many years. Now we can talk to each other. Every day you can guide me. Every day you can tell me how to conduct my life in the way I should." LuLing turned to Ruth. "Ask her to come every day." Ruth shook her head. She tried to slide off her chair. "Ask," LuLing insisted, and tapped the table in front of the tray. And then Ruth finally found her voice. "No," she said out loud. "I cant." "Wah! Now you can talk again." Her mother had switched to English. "Precious Auntie cure you?" Ruth nodded. "That mean curse gone?" "Yes, but she says she has to go back now. And she said I need to rest." "She forgive me? She—" "She said everything will be all right. Everything. All right? Youre not supposed to worry anymore." Her mother sobbed with relief. As Ruth drove her mother home after dinner, she marveled at the worries she had had at such an early age. But that was nothing compared with what most children had to go through these days. An unhappy mother? That was a piece of cake next to guns and gangs and sexually transmitted diseases, not to mention the things parents had to be concerned about: pedophiles on the Web, designer drugs like ecstasy, school shootings, anorexia, bulimia, self-mutilation, the ozone layer, superbacteria. Ruth counted these automatically on her hand, and this reminded her she had one more task to do before the end of the day: call Miriam about letting the girls come to the reunion dinner. She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine, an iffy time to telephone people who were not close friends. True, she and Miriam were bound by the closest of reasons, the girls and their father. But they treated each other with the politeness of strangers. She often ran into Miriam at dropoff and pick-up points for the girls, at school athletic events, and once shed seen her in the emergency room, where Ruth had taken Dory when she broke her ankle. She and Miriam made small talk about recent illnesses, bad weather, and traffic jams. If it werent for the circumstances, they might have enjoyed each others company. Miriam was clever, funny, and opinionated, and Ruth liked these qualities. But it bothered Ruth when Miriam made passing remarks about intimacies she had shared with Art when they were married: the funny time they had on a trip to Italy, a mole on his back that had to be checked for melanoma, his love of massage. For Arts birthday the year before, Miriam had given him a certific ate for two sessions with her favorite massage therapist, a gift Ruth thought inappropriately personal. "Do you still get that mole checked every year?" Miriam asked Art on another occasion, and Ruth pretended not to hear, all the while imagining what they had been like together when they were younger and in love, and she still cared deeply enough to notice the slightest change in the size of a mole. She pictured them lazing about in a Tuscan villa with a bedroom window that overlooked rolling hills of orchards, giggling and naming moles on each others naked backs as if they were constellations. She could see it: the two of them massaging olive oil into their thighs with long-reaching strokes. Art once tried that on her, and Ruth figured he must have learned the maneuver from someone. Whenever he tried to massage her thighs, though, it made her tense. With massage, she just couldnt relax. She felt she was being tickled, pushed out of control, then felt claustrophobic, panicky enough to want to leap up and run. She never told Art about the panic; she said only that with her, massage was a waste of time and money. And although she was curious about Arts sex life with Miriam and other women, she never asked what he had done in bed with his former lovers. And he did not ask about hers. It shocked her that Wendy badgered Joe to give her explicit details about his past escapades in beds and on beaches, as well as tell her his precise feelings when he first slept with her. "And he tells you whatever you ask?" Ruth said. "He states his name, birthdate, and Social Security number. And then I beat him up until he tells me." "Then youre happy?" "Im pissed!" "So why do you ask?" "Its like part of me thinks everything about him is mine, his feelings, his fantasies. I know thats not right, but emotionally thats how I feel. His past is my past, it belongs to me. Shit, if I could find his childhood toy box Id want to look inside that and say, Mine. Id want to see what girlie magazines he hid under the mattress and pulled out to masturbate to." Ruth laughed out loud when Wendy said that, but inside she was uncomfortable. Did most women ask men those kinds of questions? Had Miriam asked Art things like these? Did more of Arts past belong to Miriam than it did to her? Her mothers voice startled her. "So how Fu-Fu do?" Not again. Ruth took a deep breath. "Fu-Fus fine," she said this time. "Really?" LuLing said. "That cat old. You lucky she not dead yet." Ruth was so surprised she snorted in laughter. This was like the torment of being tickled. She couldnt stand it, but she could not stop her reflex to laugh out loud. Tears stung her eyes and she was glad for the darkness of the car. "Why you laugh?" LuLing scolded. "I not kidding. And dont let dog in backyard. I know someone do this. Now cat dead!" "Youre right," Ruth answered, trying to keep her mind on the road ahead. "Ill be more careful." FOUR On the night of the Full Moon Festival, the Fountain Court restaurant was jammed with a line flowing out the door like a dragons tail. Art and Ruth squeezed through the crowd. "Excuse us. We have reservations." Inside, the dining room roared with the conversations of a hundred happy people. Children used chopsticks to play percussion on teacups and water glasses. The waiter who led Ruth and Art to their tables had to shout above the clatter of plates being delivered and taken away. As Ruth followed, she inhaled the mingled fragrances of dozens of entrees. At least the food would be good tonight. Ruth had picked Fountain Court because it was one of the few restaurants where her mother had not questioned the preparation of the dishes, the attitude of the waiters, or the cleanliness of the bowls. Originally Ruth had made reservations for two tables, seating for her side of the family and friends, as well as the two girls and Arts parents, who were visiting from New Jersey. Those she had not counted on were Arts ex-wife Miriam, her husband Stephen, and their two little boys, Andy and Beauregard. Miriam had called Art the week before with a request. When Ruth learned what the request was, she balked. "There isnt room for four more people." "You know Miriam," Art said. "She doesnt accept no as an answer to anything. Besides, its the only chance my folks will have to see her before they leave for Carmel." "So where are they going to sit? At another table?" "We can always squeeze in more chairs," Art countered. "Its just a dinner." To Ruth, this particular gathering was not "just a dinner." It was their Chinese thanksgiving, the reunion that she was hosting for the first time. She had given much thought to setting it up, what it should mean, what family meant, not just blood relatives but also those who were united by the past and would remain together over the years, people she was grateful to have in her life. She wanted to thank all the celebrants for their contribution to her feeling of family. Miriam would be a reminder that the past was not always good and the future was uncertain. But to say all this would sound petty to Art, and Fia and Dory would think she was being mean. Without more disagreement, Ruth made the last-minute changes: Called the restaurant to change the head count. Revised the seating plan. Ordered more dishes for two adults and two children who didnt like Chinese food all that much. She suspected that Fias and Dorys fussiness over unfamiliar food came from their mother. Arts parents were the first to arrive at the restaurant. "Arlene, Marty," Ruth greeted them. They exchanged polite two-cheek kisses. Arlene hugged her son, and Marty gave a light two-punch to his shoulder and then his jaw. "You knock me out," Art said, supplying their traditional father-son refrain. The Kamens were impeccable in their classy outfits and stood out amid the crowd of casually attired customers. Ruth wore an Indonesian batik-print top and crinkled skirt. It occurred to her that Miriam dressed like the Kamens, in designer-style clothing that had to be professionally pressed and dry-cleaned. Miriam loved Arts parents, and they adored her, whereas, Ruth felt, the Kamens had never warmed to her. Even though she had met Art after the divorce was nearly final, Marty and Arlene probably saw her as the interloper, the reason Miriam and Art did not reconcile. Ruth had sensed that the Kamens hoped she was only a brief interlude in Arts life. They never knew how to introduce her. "This is Arts, uh, Ruth," theyd say. They were nice to her, certainly. They had given her lovely birthday presents, a silk velvet scarf, Chanel No. 5, a lacquered tea tray, but nothing she might share with Art or pass on to his girls—or any future children, for that matter, since she was beyond the poss ibility of giving the Kamens additional grandchildren. Miriam, on the other hand, was now and forever the mother of the Kamens granddaughters, the keeper of heirlooms for Fia and Dory. Marty and Arlene already had given her the family sterling, china, and the mezuzah kissed by five generations of Kamens since the days they lived in the Ukraine. "Miriam! Stephen!" Ruth exclaimed with enthusiastic effort. She shook hands, and Miriam gave her a quick hug and waved to Art across the table. "Glad you could join us," Ruth said awkwardly, then turned to the boys. "Andy, Beauregard, how you doing?" The younger one, who was four, piped up: "Im called Boomer now." "Its awfully nice of you to include us," Miriam gushed to Ruth. "I hope it wasnt any trouble." "Not at all." Miriam opened wide her arms toward Marty and Arlene, and rushed to give them effusive hugs. She was wearing a maroon-and-olive outfit with a huge circular pleated collar. Her copper-colored hair was cut in a severe page boy. Ruth was reminded why the hairstyle was called that. Miriam looked like one of those pages in Renaissance paintings. Ruths cousin Billy—now called Bill by others—showed up, trailed by his second wife, Dawn, and their combined four children, ages nine through seventeen. Ruth and Billy rocked in embrace. He thumped her back, as guys did with their buddies. He had been a skinny brat and a bully to Ruth in childhood, but those qualities had turned out to be leadership skills. Today he ran a biotech company and had grown chubby with success. "God, its good to see you," he said. Ruth immediately felt better about the dinner. Sally, always the social one, made a loud entrance, shouting names and squealing as her husband and two boys followed. She was an aeronautical engineer, who traveled widely as an expert witness for law firms, plaintiff attorneys only. She inspected records and sites of airplane disasters, mostly small craft. Always a talker, she was perky and outgoing, not intimidated by anyone or any new adventure. Her husband, George, was a violinist with the San Francisco Symphony, quiet but happy to take the lead whenever Sally fed him a line. "George, tell them about the dog that ran onstage at Stern Grove and peed on the microphone and shorted out the entire sound system." Then George would repeat exactly what Sally had just said. Ruth looked up and saw Wendy and Joe, gazing about the crowd. Behind them was Gideon, nattily dressed and perfectly groomed as usual, holding an expensive bouquet of tropical flowers. When Wendy turned and saw him, she smiled in mock delight, and he pretended to be just as enthusiastic. She had once called him "a star-fucker who practically gives himself neck strain looking past your shoulder for more important people to talk to." Gideon, in turn, had said that Wendy was "a vulgarian, who lacks the nuance to know why its not good manners to grace everybody with lurid details of ones menstrual problems at the dinner table." Ruth had thought about inviting one and not the other, but in a stupid moment of resolve, she decided they would just have to work it out between them, even if it gave her heartburn to watch. Wendy waved both hands when she spotted Ruth, and then she and Joe eased their way through the restaurant. Gideon trailed a comfortable distance behind. "We found a parking space right in front!" Wendy boasted. She held up her lucky charm, a plastic angel with the face of a parking meter. "I tell you, works every time!" She had given one to Ruth, who had placed it on the dashboard but only received parking tickets. "Hi, sweetie," Gideon said in his usual low-key manner. "Youre looking radiant. Or is that sweat and nervousness?" Ruth, who had told him on the phone about Miriams crashing the party, kissed him on both cheeks and whispered where Arts ex was. He had already suggested he act as spy and report everything appalling that she said. Art came up to Ruth. "Hows it going?" "Where are Fia and Dory?" "They went to check out a CD at Green Apple Annex." "You let them go by themselves?" "Its just up the street, and they said theyd be back in ten minutes." "So where are they?" "Probably abducted." "Thats not funny." Her mother used to say it was bad luck even to speak words like that. On cue. LuLing entered, her petite frame contrasting with GaoLings sturdier one. A few seconds later, Uncle Edmund came in. Ruth sometimes wondered whether this was how her father would have looked—tall, stoop-shouldered, with a crown of thick white hair and a large, relaxed swing to his arms and legs. Uncle Edmund was given to telling jokes badly, consoling scared children, and dispensing stock market tips. LuLing often said the two brothers werent similar at all, that Ruths father had been much more handsome, smarter, and very honest. His only fault was that he was too trusting, also maybe absent-minded when he was concentrating too hard, just like Ruth. LuLing often recounted the circumstances in which he died as a warning to Ruth when she was not paying attention to her mother. "You daddy see green light, he trust that car stop. Poom! Run over, drag him one block, two block, never stop." She sa id he died because of a curse, the same one that made Ruth break her arm. And because the subject of the curse often came up when LuLing was displeased with Ruth, as a child Ruth thought the curse and her fathers death were related to her. She had recurrent nightmares of mutilating people in a brakeless car. She always tested and retested her brakes before heading out in the car. Even from across the big room, Ruth could see that LuLing was beaming at her with motherly adoration. This gave Ruth heart pangs, made her both happy and sad to see her mother on this special day. Why wasnt their relationship always like this? How many more gatherings like this would they have? "Happy Full Moon," Ruth said when her mother reached the table. She motioned for LuLing to sit next to her. Auntie Gal took the other chair next to Ruth, and then the rest of the family sat down. Ruth saw that Art was with Miriam at the other table, what was fast becoming the non-Chinese section. "Hey, are we in the white ghetto or what?" Wendy called out. She was sitting with her back to Ruth. When Fia and Dory finally showed up, Ruth did not feel she could chastise them in front of their mother or Arlene and Marty. They did a mass wave, "Hi, everybody," then gurgled, "Hi, Bubbie and Poppy," and threw their arms around their grandparents necks. The girls never voluntarily hugged LuLing. The dinner began with a flurry of appetizers set on the lazy Susan, what LuLing called the "go-round." The adults oohed and aahed, the children cried, "Im starved!" The waiters set down what Ruth had ordered by phone: sweetly glazed phoenix-tail fish, vegetarian chicken made out of wrinkly tissues of tofu, and jellyfish, her mothers favorite, seasoned with sesame oil and sprinkled with diced green onions. "Tell me," Miriam said, "is that animal, vegetable, or mineral?" "Here, Ma," Ruth said, holding the jellyfish platter, "you start since youre the oldest girl." "No-no!" LuLing said automatically. "You help youself." Ruth ignored this rite of first refusal and placed a heap of noodle-like strands of jellyfish on her mothers plate. LuLing immediately started to eat. "Whats that?" Ruth heard Boomer ask at the other table. He scowled at the jiggling mound of jellyfish as it swung by on the lazy Susan. "Worms!" Dory teased. "Try some." "Ewww! Take it away! Take it away!" Boomer screamed. Dory was hysterical with laughter. Art passed along the entire tables worth of jellyfish to Ruth, and Ruth felt her stomach begin to ache. More dishes arrived, each one stranger than the last, to judge by the expressions on the non-Chinese faces. Tofu with pickled greens. Sea cucumbers, Auntie Gals favorite. And glutinous rice cakes. Ruth had thought the kids would like those. She had thought wrong. Halfway through the dinner, Nicky, Sallys six-year-old, spun the go-round, perhaps thinking he could launch it like a Frisbee, and the spout of a teapot knocked over a water glass. LuLing yelped and jumped up. Water dripped from her lap. "Ai-ya! Why you do this? " Nicky crossed his arms, and tears started to well up in his eyes. "Its okay, honey," Sally told him. "Say youre sorry, and next time spin it more slowly." "She was mean to me." He aimed a pout in the direction of LuLing, who was now busy dabbing at her lap with a napkin. "Sweetie, Grand-Auntie was just surprised, thats all. Its only that youre so strong—like a baseball player." Ruth hoped her mother would not continue to berate Nicky. She remembered when her mother would enumerate all the times she had spilled food or milk, asking aloud to unseen forces why Ruth could not learn to behave. Ruth looked at Nicky and imagined what she would have been like if she had had children. Perhaps she too would have reacted like her mother, unable to restrain the impulse to scold until the child acted beaten and contrite. More drinks were ordered. Ruth noticed Art was on his second glass of wine. He also seemed to be having an animated conversation with Miriam. Another round of dishes arrived, just in time to dissipate the tension. Eggplant sauteed with fresh basil leaves, a tender sable fish coated in a mantle of garlic chips, a Chinese version of polenta smothered in a spicy meat sauce, plump black mushrooms, a Lions Head clay pot of meatballs and rice vermicelli. Even the "foreigners," LuLing reported, enjoyed the food. Above the noise, Auntie Gal leaned toward Ruth and said: "Your mother and I, we ate excellent dishes at Sun Hong Kong last week. But then we almost went to jail!" Auntie Gal liked to throw out zingers and wait for listeners to take the bait. Ruth obliged. "Jail?" "Oh, yes! Your mother got into a big fight with the waiter, said she already paid the bill." Auntie Gal shook her head. "The waiter was right, it was not yet paid." She patted Ruths hand. "Dont worry! Later, when your mother was not looking, I paid. So you see, no jail, and here we are!" GaoLing took a few more bites of food, smacked her lips, then leaned toward Ruth again and whispered, "I gave your mother a big bag of ginseng root. This is good to cure confusion." She nodded, and Ruth nodded in turn. "Sometimes your mother calls me at the train station to say shes here, and I dont even know shes coming! Course, this is fine, I always welcome her. But at six in the morning? Im not an early birdie!" She chuckled, and Ruth, her mind awhirl, gave out a hollow laugh. What was wrong with her mother? Could depression cause confusion like this? The next week, when they had the follow-up visit with Dr. Huey, she would discuss it with him. If he ordered her mother to take antidepressants, maybe she would obey. Ruth knew she should visit her mother more often. LuLing often complained of loneliness, and she was obviously trying to fill a void by going to see GaoLing at odd hours. During the lull before dessert, Ruth stood up and gave a brief speech. "As the years go on, I see how much family means. It reminds us of whats important. That connection to the past. The same jokes about being Young yet getting old. The traditions. The fact that we cant get rid of each other no matter how much we try. Were stuck through the ages, with the bonds cemented by sticky rice and tapioca pudding. Thank you all for being who you are." She left out individual tributes since she had nothing to say about Miriam and her party. Ruth then passed out wrapped boxes of moon cakes and chocolate rabbits to the children. "Thank you!" they cried. "This is neat!" At last Ruth was somewhat becalmed. It was a good idea to host this dinner after all. In spite of the uneasy moments, reunions were important, a ritual to preserve what was left of the family. She did not want her cousins and her to drift apart, but she feared that once the older generation was gone, that would be the end of the family ties. They had to make the effort. "More presents," Ruth called out, and handed out packages. She had found a wonderful old photo of LuLing and Auntie Gal as girls, flanking their mother. She had a negative made of the original, then ordered eight-by-tens and had those framed. She wanted this to be a meaningful tribute to her family, a gift that would last forever. And indeed, the recipients gave appreciative sighs. "This is amazing," Billy said. "Hey, kids, guess who those two cute girls are?" "Look at us, so young," Auntie Gal sighed wistfully. "Hey, Auntie Lu," Sally teased. "You look kind of bummed-out in this picture." LuLing answered: "This because my mother just die." Ruth thought her mother had misheard Sally. "Bummed out" was not in LuLings vocabulary. LuLing and GaoLings mother had died in 1972. Ruth pointed to the photo. "See? Your mother is right there. And thats you." LuLing shook her head. "That not my real mother." Ruths mind turned in loops, trying to translate what her mother meant. Auntie Gal gave Ruth a peculiar look, tightening her chin so as not to say anything. Others had quiet frowns of concern. "Thats Waipo, isnt it?" Ruth said to Auntie Gal, struggling to stay nonchalant. When GaoLing nodded, Ruth said happily to her mother, "Well, if thats your sisters mother, she must be yours as well." LuLing snorted. "GaoLing not my sister!" Ruth could hear her pulse pounding in her brain. Billy cleared his throat in an obvious bid to change the subject. Her mother went on: "She my sister-in-law." Everyone now guffawed. LuLing had delivered the punch line to a joke! Of course, they were indeed sisters-in-law, married to a pair of brothers. What a relief! Her mother not only made sense, she was clever. Auntie Gal turned to LuLing and huffed with pretend annoyance. "Hey, why do you treat me so bad, hah?" LuLing was fishing for something in her wallet. She pulled out a tiny photo, then handed it to Ruth. "There," she said in Chinese. "This one right here, shes my mother." A chill ran over Ruths scalp. It was a photograph of her mothers nursemaid, Bao Bomu, Precious Auntie. She wore a high-collared jacket and a strange headdress that looked as if it were made of ivory. Her beauty was ethereal. She had wide tilted eyes, with a direct and immodest stare. Her arched eyebrows suggested a questioning mind, her full lips a sensuality that was indecent for the times. The picture obviously had been taken before the accident that burned her face and twisted it into a constant expression of horror. As Ruth peered more closely at the photo, the womans expression seemed even more oddly disturbing, as if she could see into the future and knew it was cursed. This was the crazy woman who had cared for her mother since birth, who had smothered LuLing with fears and superstitious notions. LuLing had told her that when she was fourteen, this nursemaid killed herself in a gruesome way that was "too bad to say." Whatever means the nursemaid used, she also made LuLing believe it was her fault. Precious Auntie was the reason her mother was convinced she could never be happy, w hy she always had to expect the worst, fretting until she found it. Ruth quietly tried to steer her mother back to coherence. "That was your nursemaid," she coaxed. "I guess youre saying she was like a mother to you." "No, this really my mother," LuLing insisted. "That one GaoLing mother." She held up the framed photo. In a daze, Ruth heard Sally asking Billy how the skiing was in Argentina the month before. Uncle Edmund was encouraging his grandson to try a black mushroom. Ruth kept asking herself, Whats happening? Whats happening? She felt her mother tapping her arm. "I have present for you too. Early birthday, give you now." She reached into her purse and pulled out a plain white box, tied with ribbon. "Whats this?" "Open, dont ask." The box was light. Ruth slipped off the ribbon, lifted the lid, and saw a gleam of gray. It was a necklace of irregularly shaped black pearls, each as large as a gumball. Was this a test? Or had her mother really forgotten that Ruth had given her this as a gift years before? LuLing grinned knowingly—Oh yes, daughter cannot believe her luck! "Best things take now," LuLing went on. "No need wait to I dead." She turned away before Ruth could either refuse or thank her. "Anyway, this not worth much." She was patting the back of her bun, trying to stuff pride back into her head. It was a gesture Ruth had seen many times. "If someone show-off give big," her mother would say, "this not really giving big." A lot of her admonitions had to do with not showing what you really meant about all sorts of things: hope, disappointment, and especially love. The less you showed, the more you meant. "This necklace been in my family long time," Ruth heard her mother say. Ruth stared at the beads, remembered when she first saw the necklace in a shop on Kauai. "Tahiti-style black pearls," the tag said, a twenty-dollar bit of glassy junk to wear against sweaty skin on a tropically bright day. She had gone to the island with Art, the two of them newly in love. Later, when she returned home, she realized she had forgotten her mothers birthday, had not even thought to telephone while she was sipping mai-tais on a sandy beach. She had boxed the twice-worn trinket, and by giving her mother something that had crossed the ocean, she hoped she would also give the impression she had been thinking of her. Her downfall lay in being honest when she insisted the necklace was "nothing much," because LuLing mistook this modesty to mean the gift was quite expensive and thus the bona fide article, proof of a daughters love. She wore it everywhere, and Ruth would feel the slap of guilt whenever she ove rheard her mother boast to her friends, "Look what my daughter Lootie buy me." "Oh, very pretty!" GaoLing murmured, glancing at what Ruth held in her hand. "Let me see," and before Ruth could think, GaoLing snatched the box. Her lips grew tight. "Mmm," she said, examining the bauble. Had Auntie Gal seen this before? How many times had LuLing worn it to her house, bragging about its worth? And had GaoLing known all along that the necklace was fake, that Ruth, the good daughter, was also a fake? "Let me see," Sally said. "Careful," LuLing warned when Sallys son reached for the pearls, "dont touch. Cost too much." Soon the pearls were making the rounds at the other table as well. Arts mother gave the necklace an especially critical eye, weighing it in her hand. "Just lovely" she said to LuLing, a bit too emphatically. Miriam simply observed, "Those beads are certainly large." Art gave the pearls a once-over and cleared his throat. "Eh, what wrong?" Ruth turned and saw her mother scrutinizing her face. "Nothing," Ruth mumbled. "Im just a little tired, I guess." "Nonsense!" her mother said in Chinese. "I can see something is blocked inside and cant come out." "Watch it! Spy talk!" Dory called from the other table. "Something is wrong," LuLing persisted. Ruth was amazed that her mother was so perceptive. Maybe there was nothing the matter with her after all. "Its that wife of Arts," Ruth finally whispered in her American-accented Mandarin. "I wish Art had not let her come." "Ah! You see, I was right! I knew something was wrong. Mother always knows." Ruth bit hard on the inside of her cheek. "Now, now, dont worry anymore," her mother soothed. "Tomorrow you talk to Artie. Make him buy you a gift. He should pay a lot to show that he values you. He should buy you something like this." LuLing touched the necklace, which had been returned to Ruths hands. Ruths eyes smarted with held-back tears. "You like?" LuLing said proudly, switching back to the public language of English. "This real things, you know." Ruth held up the necklace. She saw how the dark pearls glistened, this gift that had risen from the bottom of the sea. FIVE Ruth held LuLings arm as they walked to the hospital parking garage. Her slack-skinned limb felt like the bony wing of a baby bird. LuLing acted alternately cheerful and cranky, unchanged by what had just transpired in the doctors office. Ruth, however, sensed that her mother was growling hollow, that soon she would be as light as driftwood. Dementia. Ruth puzzled over the diagnosis: How could such a beautiful-sounding word apply to such a destructive disease? It was a name befitting a goddess: Dementia, who caused her sister Demeter to forget to turn winter into spring. Ruth now imagined icy plaques forming on her mothers brain, drawing out moisture. Dr. Huey had said the MRI showed shrinkage in certain parts of the brain that were consistent with Alzheimers. He also said the disease had probably started "years ago." Ruth had been too stunned to ask any questions at the time, but she now wondered what the doctor meant by "years ago." Twenty? Thirty? Forty? Maybe there was a reason her mother had been so difficult when Ruth was growing up, why she had talked about curses and ghosts and threats to kill herself. Deme ntia was her mothers redemption, and God would forgive them both for having hurt each other all these years. "Lootie, what doctor say?" LuLings question startled Ruth. They were standing in front of the car. "He say I die soon?" she asked humorously. "No." And tor emphasis, Ruth laughed. "Of course not. Her mother studied Ruths face, then concluded: "I die. doesnt matter. I not afraid. You know this." "Dr. Huey said your heart is fine," Ruth added. She tried to figure a way to translate the diagnosis into a condition her mother would accept. "But he said you may be having another kind of problem—with a balance of elements in your body. And this can give you troubles . . . with your memory." She helped LuLing into the front seat and snapped her seat belt in place. LuLing sniffed. "Hnh! Nothing wrong my memory! I member lots things, more than you. Where I live little-girl time, place we call Immortal Heart, look like heart, two river, one stream, both dry-out. . . ." She continued talking as Ruth went to the other side of the car, got in, and started the engine. "What he know? That doctor dont even use telescope listen my heart. Nobody listen my heart! You dont listen. GaoLing dont listen. You know my heart always hurting. I just dont complain. Am I complain?" "No—" "See!" "But the doctor said sometimes you forget things because youre depressed." "Depress cause can not forgot! Look my sad life!" Ruth pumped the brakes to make sure they would hold, then steered the car down the falling turns of the parking garage. Her mothers voice droned in rhythm with the engine: "Of course depress. When Precious Auntie die, all happiness leave my body. . . ." Since the diagnosis three months before, LuLing had come to Art and Ruths for dinner almost every night. Tonight Ruth watched her mother take a bite of salmon. LuLing chewed slowly, then choked. "Too salty," she gasped, as if she had been given deer lick for the main course. "Waipo," Dory interjected, "Ruth didnt add any salt. I watched. None." Fia kicked Dory. She made an X with her index fingers, the symbolic cross that keeps movie Draculas at bay. Dory kicked her back. Now that Ruth could no longer blame her mothers problems on the eccentricities of her personality, she saw the signs of dementia everywhere. They were so obvious. How could she not have noticed before? The time-shares and "free vacations" her mother ordered via junk mail. The accusations that Auntie Gal had stolen money from her. The way LuLing obsessed for days about a bus driver who accused her of not paying the fare. And there were new problems that caused Ruth to worry into the night. Her mother often forgot to lock the front door. She left food to defrost on the counter until it became rancid. She turned on the cold water and left it running for days, waiting for it to become hot. Some changes actually made life easier. For one thing, LuLing no longer said anything when Art poured himself another glass of wine, as he was doing tonight. "Why drink so much?" she used to ask. And Ruth had secretly wondered the same. She once mentioned to him that he might want to cut back before it b ecame a habit. "You should take up juicing again." And he had calmly pointed out that she was acting like her mother. "A couple of glasses of wine at dinner is not a problem. Its a personal choice." "Dad?" Fia asked. "Can we get a kitten?" "Yeah," Dory jumped in. "Alice has the cutest Himalayan. Thats what we want." "Maybe," Art replied. Ruth stared at her plate. Had he forgotten? She had told him she was not ready for another cat. She would feel disloyal to Fu-Fu. And when the time was right tor another pet, an animal she inevitably would wind up feeding and cleaning, she preferred that it be a different species, a little dog. "I once drive to Himalaya, long ways by myself," LuLing bragged. "Himalaya very high up, close to moon." Art and the girls exchanged baffled looks. LuLing often issued what they considered non sequiturs, as free-floating as dust motes. But Ruth believed LuLings delusions were always rooted in a deeper reason. Clearly this instance had to do with word association: Himalayan kitten, Himalayan mountains. But why did LuLing believe she had driven there by car? It was Ruths job to untangle such puzzles. If she could find the source, she could help LuLing unclog the pathways in her brain and prevent more destructive debris from accumulating. With diligence, she could keep her from driving off a cliff in the Himalayas. And then it occurred to her: "My mother and I saw this really interesting documentary on Tibet last week," Ruth said. "They showed the road that leads to—" But Dory interrupted her to say to LuLing, "You cant drive to the Himalayas from here." LuLing frowned. "Why you say this?" Dory, who like LuLing often acted on impulse, blurted, "You just cant. I mean, youre crazy if you think—" "Okay I crazy!" LuLing sputtered. "Why you should believe me?" Her anger escalated like water in a teakettle—Ruth saw it, the rolling bubbles, the steam—and then LuLing erupted with the ultimate threat: "Maybe I die soon! Then everybody happy!" Fia and Dory shrugged and gave each other knowing looks: Oh, this again. LuLings outbursts were becoming more frequent, more abrupt. Fortunately, they quickly abated, and the girls were not that affected by them. Nor did they become more sensitive to the problem, it seemed to Ruth. She had tried to explain several times to them that they shouldnt contradict anything LuLing said: "Waipo sounds illogical because she is. We cant change that. This is the disease talking, not her." But it was hard for them to remember, just as it was hard for Ruth not to react to her mothers threats to die. No matter how often she had heard them, they never ceased to grab her by the throat. And now the threat seemed very real—her mother was dying, first her brain, then her body. The girls picked up their plates. "I have homework," Fia said. "Night, Waipo." "Me, too," Dory said. "Bye, Waipo." LuLing waved from across the table. Ruth had once asked the girls to give LuLing kisses. But she had stiffened in response to their pecks. Art stood up. "I have some documents to look over for tomorrow. Better get started. Good night, LuLing." When LuLing toddled off to the bathroom, Ruth went to the living room to speak to Art. "Shes getting worse." "I noticed." Art was shuffling papers. "Im afraid to leave her alone when we go to Hawaii." "What are you going to do?" She noted with dismay that he had asked what she would do, had not said "we." Since the Full Moon Festival dinner, she had become more aware of the ways she and Art failed to be a family. She had tried to push this out of her mind, but it crept back, confirming to her that it was not an unnecessary worry. Why did she feel she didnt belong to anyone? Did she unconsciously choose to love people who kept their distance? Was she like her mother, destined to be unhappy? She couldnt fault Art. He had always been honest about their relationship. From the beginning, he said he didnt want to marry again. "I dont want us to operate by assumptions," he had told her, cradling her in bed soon after they started to live together. "I want us to look at each other every morning and ask, Who is this amazing person Im so lucky to love?" At the time, she felt adored like a goddess. After the second year, he had spontaneously offered to give her a percentage ownership in the flat. Ruth had been touched by his generosity, his concern for her security. He knew how much she worried over the future. And the fact that they had not yet changed the deed? Well, that was more her fault than his. She was supposed to decide on the percentage interest she should have, then call the lawyer and set up the paperwork. But how could you express love as a percentage? She felt as she had when a college history professor of hers had told the students in the class to grade themselves. R uth had given herself a B- and everyone else had taken an A. "You could hire someone to check on your mother a few times a week," Art suggested. "Like a housekeeper." "Thats true." "And call that service, Meals on Wheels. They might be able to deliver food while we re gone." "Thats an idea." "In fact, why dont you start now, so she gets used to the food? Not that she isnt welcome to dinner here whenever she wants. . . . Listen, I really have to get some work done now. Are you going to take her home soon?" "I guess." "When you get back, well have some rum raisin ice cream." He named her favorite flavor. "Itll make you feel better." LuLing had objected to the idea of having anyone come to her house to help clean. Ruth had anticipated she would. Her mother hated spending money on anything she believed she could do herself, from hair coloring to roof repairs. "Its for an immigrant training program," Ruth lied, "so they wont have to go on welfare. And we dont have to pay anything. Theyre doing it free so they can put work experience on their resume." LuLing readily accepted this reasoning. Ruth felt like a bad child. She would be caught. Or maybe she wouldnt, and that would be worse. Another reminder that the disease had impaired her mothers ability to know and see everything. A few days after the first housekeeper started, LuLing called to complain: "She think come to America everything so easy. She want take break, then tell me, Lady, I dont do move furniture, I dont do window, I dont do iron. I ask her, You think you dont lift finger become millionaire? No, America not this way!" LuLing continued to give the immigrant good advice until she quit. Ruth started interviewing new prospects, and until someone was hired, she decided she should go to LuLings a few times a week to make sure the gas burners werent on and water wasnt flooding the apartment. "I was in the neighborhood to drop off some work for a client," she explained one day. "Ah, always for client. Work first, mother second." Ruth went to the kitchen, carrying a bag of oranges, toilet paper, and other grocery essentials. While there, she checked for disasters and danger. The last time shed been there, she found that LuLing had tried to fry eggs with the shells still on. Ruth did a quick sweep of the dining room table and picked up more junk mail offers LuLing had filled out. "Ill mail these for you, Mom," she said. She then went into the bathroom to make sure the faucets werent running. Where were the towels? There was no shampoo, only a thin slice of cracked soap. How long had it been since her mother had bathed? She looked in the hamper. Nothing there. Was her mother wearing the same clothes every day? The second housekeeper lasted less than a week. On the days she didnt visit, Ruth felt uneasy, distracted. She was not sleeping well and had broken a molar grinding her teeth at night. She was too tired to cook and ordered pizza several times a week, giving up her resolve to set a low-fat example for Dory, and then having to endure LuLings remarks that the pepperoni was too salty. Recently Ruth had developed spasms across her shoulders that made it hard to sit at her desk and work at her computer. She didnt have enough ringers and toes to keep track of everything. When she found a Filipina who specialized in elder care, she felt a huge burden removed. "I love old people," the woman assured her. "Theyre not difficult if you take time to get to know them." But now it was night, and Ruth lay awake listening to the foghorns warning ships to stay clear of the shallows. The day before, when she picked up her mother for dinner, Ruth learned that the Filipina had quit. "Gone," LuLing said, looking satisfied. "When?" "Never work!" "But she was at your house until what? Two days ago? Three days ago?" After more questioning, Ruth deduced that the woman had not been coming since the day after she started. Ruth would never be able to find another person before she left for Hawaii. That was only two days from now. A vacation across the ocean was out of the question. "You go," Ruth told Art in the morning. They had already paid for the rental, and there was a no-refund policy. "If you dont go, what fun would that be? What would I do?" "Not work. Not get up. Not return phone calls." "It wont be the same." "Youll miss me dreadfully and tell me you were miserable." Eventually, much to Ruths chagrin, he agreed with her logic. The next morning, Art left for Hawaii. The girls were at Miriams for the week, and though Ruth was accustomed to working alone during the day, she felt empty and anxious. Soon after she settled in at her desk, Gideon called to say that the Internet Spirituality author had fired her— fired, a first in her career. Although she had finished his book earlier than scheduled, he had not liked what she had written. "Im as pissed as you are," Gideon said. And Ruth knew she should be outraged, maybe even humiliated, but in fact, she was relieved. One less thing to think about. "Ill try to do damage control with the contract and HarperSan Francisco," Gideon went on, "but I may also need for you to document your time spent and outline why his complaints were not in keeping with reality. . . . Hello? Ruth, are you still there?" "Sorry. I was a little preoccupied. . . ." "Hon, Ive been meaning to talk to you about that. Not to imply that youre somehow at fault for what happened. But I am concerned that you havent been your usual self. You seem—" "I know, I know. Im not going to Hawaii, so I can c