NATALIE TAN’S BOOK OF LUCK AND FORTUNE
Roselle Lim

Copyright

OneMoreChapter an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by One More Chapter 2020

First published in the United States by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House 2019

Copyright © Roselle Lim 2019

Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Roselle Lim asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

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Source ISBN: 9781984803252

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008361846

Version: 2020-01-10

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Acknowledgments

Readers Guide: Natalie Tan’s Book of Luck & Fortune

About the Author

About the Publisher

Dedication

To Daddy, who taught me how to cook.

To those who think you can’t; you can.

Chapter One

A horned lark perched on the concrete balcony outside my window, framed against the colorful paifang of Montreal’s Chinatown. Ma-ma, who shared my love of birds, would have gasped at the sight of it. It was so still, I could study it closely: in the morning sun of steamy hot July, the smudge of gold on its throat seemed to have been created by a paint-dipped fingertip, and the dark markings along its collar, cheek, and crown inked by a calligraphy brush.

The lark stared back, its tiny black eyes studying me before it serenaded me. The melody transitioned from an ordinary song to one that was haunting and familiar: “Sono andati?”

My admiration of the feathered visitor turned to dread. Every person had a song humming under their skin to the beat of their heart. “Sono andati?” was my mother’s. The only reason I’d hear it now was if … I lurched to my feet and shooed the messenger from my ledge before turning my back on the window, refusing to listen.

The rain came once my feathered vocalist had departed. It echoed the same tune, pinging against the gutters and metal roof, imitating timpani drums instead of the robust strings and brass of an orchestra, delivering the meaning with tiny percussive notes I couldn’t ignore.

Ma-ma was gone.

Numbness traveled through my limbs, emanating from my heart, freezing me in place. Reeling from the loss of my mother, I could do nothing but stare out the window.

I needed to go home to San Francisco. By the time I packed my bags and left for the airport, the melody had followed me into the interior of the taxi. The sputtering vents of the air conditioner complemented the dancing raindrops on the car roof. The aria played on ordinary surfaces, a constant impromptu performance only I could hear.

The last time I heard this music had been on vinyl, spinning on an ancient turntable Ma-ma had once fished from a dusty flea market. Sesame oil sizzled in the air, popping out of a hot wok filled with stirfried enoki mushrooms, mustard greens, baby bok choy, and strips of pork tenderloin. My mother had danced by the stove against snakes of smoke emanating from sticks of sandalwood incense stuck in nearby pots of ash. The scent filled our tiny Chinatown apartment.

Ma-ma had always predicted some sort of curse would claim her. She subscribed to superstitions as if they were horoscopes—welcoming their vagueness instead of recognizing them as worthless generalities. She avoided the number four because it represented death and misfortune, while seeking out lucky eights. She made no important decisions on the fourth day of the month but postponed them until four days later, on the eighth. Once she had mentioned that she made sure she didn’t give birth to me on the fourth. I laughed when she told me. My birthday ended up on the seventh, a day short of her ideal date, seeing that Ma-ma could only control so much.

It didn’t matter anymore, of course, because she was gone. What would I do now?

I thought about calling Emilio, but I had burned that bridge a long time ago. Tears slid down my cheeks. Tiny crystals sang a sorrowful melody against my skin before trickling down into a glittering pile on my lap. I gathered them in my hands. Such was the beauty of sadness: it transformed the hollowness of the heart into something as precious as the loss it suffered.

An unfamiliar number flashed across my phone’s screen. It came from a San Francisco area code. My past called to me.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Natalie? Natalie Tan?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. My skin prickled. “Yes, it is.”

“This is Celia Deng. You gave me your number before you left in case of emergency. I’m sorry to call under such circumstances, but it’s about Miranda.”

Ma-ma. I knew why she was calling. A heavy weight sank to the bottom of my belly. Celia continued: “I don’t know how else to put it, but she passed away this morning. I’m so sorry. It was sudden.”

Ma-ma was the only family I had left in this world, and we hadn’t spoken in years. As her daughter, I was expected to obey. By refusing, I’d caused an estrangement between us that was justified by our culture. She had called me a few times after I moved out. The conversations played like a broken record: a rehash of our arguments in the apartment, of two people talking over each other, not listening to what the other one was saying. After I left the country, the calls stopped. She must have realized that the miles between us represented the ones in our hearts.

I had left San Francisco in anger, and as time passed, silence became a habit. All of my unspoken words to my mother now hovered in the air, swarming in swirls of black until I could no longer see through them. I slammed my eyes shut, unable to tell Celia that I knew and was already on my way to the airport. How could I explain that hearing Ma-ma’s song had already told me all I needed to know?

“The entire neighborhood is shocked. It was so sudden. I spoke to your mother last night and she was fine. Well, as fine as she could be with her various ailments. We were watching our favorite K-drama and were considering what to order in next week.” Her voice went soft, lost in the memories she’d shared with Ma-ma. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I know you didn’t leave on good terms … but Miranda loved you very much. She spoke of you often and told me the sweetest stories.”

Although I had no right to resent her for her closeness with Mama, a tiny ball of jealousy curdled inside my chest, nestled inside the numbness. “I’m heading home now. I’ll take the next flight out.”

“See you soon, Natalie.”

I ended the call before I realized I hadn’t thanked her.

I didn’t want to go back home, but there were Ma-ma’s affairs to settle—and what would I do with her apartment? I certainly couldn’t live in it.

There was nothing left for me in San Francisco, no friends, no family. Our neighbors in Chinatown had known Ma-ma’s agoraphobia meant she couldn’t leave the apartment, yet when I was growing up they had never visited or offered aid. Even Celia, whom I’d left my number with, was a stranger. She’d always been my mother’s friend, not mine. My father had abandoned our family before I was born, so I was tasked with the sole responsibility of taking care of my homebound mother. While our neighbors’ indifference had taught me the valuable lesson of self-reliance, their inaction contributed to the heavy burden of responsibility I’d carried as a child.

They were content to remain bystanders while I had become a caged bird, first as Ma-ma’s helper, then her keeper. For as long as I could remember, my mother’s dark spells had been a part of her, as day coexisted with night. I loved her all the same, though my memories of those times held a certain fuzziness at the edges like that of an old afghan. When Ma-ma’s reservoir of sadness overflowed, she retreated to her bedroom: paralyzed, weak, speaking in endless whispers. I brought her cups of hot oolong. Food was ordered in until I was old enough to cook.

I would sit by her side, stroking her dark hair, threading the inky strands through my small fingers. My mother’s cheek was smooth and decorated with rivers of tears. Nothing I did could banish the sadness, so I stayed with her, hoping my presence would ease her pain and that most of all, she would be reminded she was loved.

And things would have remained this way if she’d accepted my desire to go to culinary school. But she’d adamantly denied me my heart’s wish, insisting on college instead. I didn’t need her permission to pursue my dreams, but I had wanted her support and blessing. I realized then that I had to leave and go out on my own. I couldn’t stand another day of fighting with her. She refused to acknowledge that I wanted a different path.

It took me two years to save up fifteen thousand in tuition for the first year of culinary school in the city while working three jobs. The glorified closet I’d lived in still sucked up most of my income. Rent in San Francisco was steep, even with three roommates.

When I started culinary school, I thought it would be easy, but the pressure of fulfilling my dream crushed me. Self-doubt suffocated me and made my hands shake. I ended up failing all of my courses, and I’d blamed Ma-ma.

But I’d refused to return home in defeat. I’d used the opportunity to travel, something I was deprived of while caring for my agoraphobic mother. I decided to go around the world and find a culinary education through other means. My dream had always been to open my own restaurant, and I couldn’t competently do this without learning more first.

And so I’d traveled, funding my journeys with the humility to work any menial job. One stint as a painter had me dangling off the side of a building in Prague as the strings and woodwind section of an orchestra practiced in the courtyard below. As a dishwasher in Cairo, I’d snuck off into the night for a ride in the desert to see the pyramids. My peripatetic lifestyle hadn’t allowed me to make many friends, but the practical education I’d received from working in kitchens was invaluable. I hadn’t achieved my original plan of getting a degree in culinary arts, but I’d successfully defied Ma-ma and learned just the same. However, my dream of running a restaurant remained unrealized.

And now seven years had passed and Ma-ma was really gone.

After I settled her affairs, nothing would tether me to San Francisco. Perhaps when all was done, I could return to traveling, but to where? Now that my mother was gone, the world suddenly didn’t hold as much allure as it once had.

Despite our falling-out, I had lost the only person in this world I cared about. It had always been just the two of us. My grandmother, Qiao, died before my parents were married. My father was gone. Mama and I had clung to each other for love and survival until I’d left.

As strange as my mother had been with her quirks and superstitions, my memories of her and our time together were stitched into the thickest of blankets, ready whenever I needed comfort. And I needed it now.

While I was gallivanting across the globe, my mother had died alone.

Chapter Two

San Francisco undulated with hills against the blue of the bay. As the cab headed from the airport to my mother’s home, the balmy summer breeze threaded its way through the open windows into the strands of my long hair, sending it flying like fluttering ribbons of black silk.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that my mother had known she was going to die, but hadn’t wanted me there when it happened. She had always told me, “Death is not meant to be seen. It’s an immovable force that claims every living thing. Might as well strap yourself to a tree to witness a hurricane.” Perhaps my mother meant to spare me some pain from the inevitable.

What do I do now?

I had planned on leaving Montreal soon. I had been there for a year and was searching for the next port, even while my anemic bank account urged me to seek stability. Most twenty-eight-year-olds had family, careers, a foothold in some sort of direction—wanted or unwanted. After all this time, I found myself yearning for the very same thing I’d sought when I left—a career doing the thing I loved most of all: cooking.

Now that I had worked in the kitchens of others, more than ever I wanted a restaurant to call my own. Something small and humble, serving authentic Chinese dishes. Massive establishments with armies of servers and kitchen staff held no allure for me. I craved intimacy, to know and see my customers and develop a relationship with them.

Ma-ma had been my first cooking teacher, helping awaken in me a lifelong fascination with food. It still cut me that she of all people had denied me what I’d desired most. She claimed she was protecting me from inevitable misery: she didn’t want me to have the life of being trapped in a restaurant. Ma-ma had said I was destined to fail if I chose this path. During one of our fights about it, she finally revealed to me that my grandmother, Qiao, had run a restaurant and needed my mother to run it as well, but Ma-ma had refused.

The revelation about the family business excited me, and I grew more determined to pursue my dream, knowing that Laolao had done so as well. Ma-ma did her best to enforce her will. The old restaurant was below our apartment, but it was boarded up and had fallen into massive disrepair. And besides, Ma-ma told me, the kitchen would be my cage: no room for a husband, family, or a life outside it. She painted a miserable life of cooking for others while struggling to feed myself. She herself had never wanted the life Laolao had intended for her: in her eyes, the hours were far too long, the frequent interactions draining, and the thought of catering to the whims of others left her miserable and unfulfilled. The most hurtful thing she said to me? That no matter how hard I tried, I would never cook as well as Laolao. No one could.

Dreams, even modest ones, had a steep price. Mine had cost me my mother and given me the silence of seven years.

Now that silence could never be breached.

The taxi dropped me off by the Dragon’s Gate at Bush Street. I saw it right away: the neighborhood was different. Dusk’s veil failed to hide the increasing number of converted office buildings and upscale, big-name chains moving in where bodegas and apartments used to be. These buildings used to be small businesses that housed hives of families. I’d read that the boom in the real estate market in San Francisco, fueled by the tech industry, had created a housing crisis for those with low and middle incomes. Ma-ma had been lucky that she owned our building, otherwise she would have been prey to the mass evictions that occurred. Growing up, I was accustomed to an insular neighborhood where the faces were as familiar as my own, but more and more, the demographics were changing. Gentrification was devouring Chinatown. Even knowing this, however, I hadn’t expected the neighborhood to change so much in seven years.

I pressed my hand against one of the stone lions guarding the gate. This symbolic archway at Grant Avenue and Bush Street marked Chinatown. I’d grown up seeing this beautiful monument outside my window. In the past, the paifangs were the magical doorways of my universe. My mother’s reclusive ways had afforded me a sort of freedom: even as a small child, I’d had the run of the oldest Chinatown on the continent while performing errands for my mother that she wouldn’t leave the apartment to do herself.

A gathering fog brewed at the base of the gate the way steam rises from a perfect bowl of noodle soup.

I was home.

I should have gone straight to the apartment, but I feared the finality of what awaited me there. Instead, I kept my head down, veering by my old front door, speed walking past the familiar shops of our neighbors, hoping the fog would thicken like salted duck congee to conceal my arrival. I should pay my respects and visit them after my time away, but I wanted to do no such thing. I rationalized to myself that, just this once, my grief justified dismissing these cultural expectations.

I headed toward Stockton Street, escaping my deserted block with its faded signs and dwindling businesses. My neighborhood was struggling, as it had been most of my life. However, rumors abounded of a golden age during my grandmother’s lifetime. I had mentioned this to Ma-ma once and she dismissed it as a fairy tale, wishes of those who couldn’t change their ill luck or destiny. She had been a firm believer in the Chinese adage of keeping one’s eyes on one’s own plate and swallowing one’s misery. Even though this wasn’t how I wanted to live, I feared I had internalized that proverb and made it my own.

I turned the corner to face Old Wu’s restaurant, the Lotus. Since the main entrance and windows faced Stockton Street, it was considered outside of the neighborhood, remaining prosperous and seemingly untarnished from the decay that had gripped the residents on my street. Its facade showcased the old world with its curved tiled rooftops, second-story balcony, and golden Chinese characters raised high above the entrance. A string of red paper lanterns zigzagged across this section of the street, bobbing in the breeze like ripe cherries in a bucket of water.

I had an unpleasant history with this place and its owner, but after so many years away, perhaps Old Wu had retired. My growling, empty stomach, and sudden cravings for cheung fun, zhaliang, and yin-yang fried rice, overrode any misgivings.

Evening had fallen and, as expected, the restaurant was nearly full of Chinese clientele. The noise from the dining room crackled in my ears, and I plucked out bits and pieces of conversation like picking up kernels of rice with chopsticks. Ma-ma and I had switched between Chinese and English at home. She was responsible for my fluency in Mandarin and Cantonese.

Old Wu, who’d always manned the takeout counter like a vigilant sentinel, wasn’t there. I exhaled as the tension left my shoulders. An edition of the San Francisco Chronicle and the latest issue of Scientific American lay together wedged beside the cash register. No sign of the man, but his reading materials of choice remained, so he must be around somewhere. I chalked up his momentary absence to good luck.

The hostess greeted me at the podium, then led me to an empty table. Since Ma-ma had never left the apartment, we’d always gotten takeout, so I had never eaten inside the restaurant before.

I ordered our preferred three dishes and poured myself a cup of jasmine tea. I wished every restaurant had the customary teapot of jasmine or oolong waiting at the table. My stomach gurgled, impatient for the food to arrive. I’d purposely ordered more than enough for one person—the three dishes meant leftovers for tomorrow.

The server soon brought large platters of cheung fun and zhaliang along with various condiments for dipping. Cheung fun was a delightfully surprising dish: nestled within the flat, translucent rice rolls were plump prawns. Zhaliang were crispy, long fritters wrapped in rice noodle. This was a favorite because of the combinations of contrasting textures: tender steamed rice noodles and crunchy golden fritters. The taste of these two dishes was determined by its accompanying dressing: spicy if paired with hot mustard, salty with soy sauce, and sweet with the peanut sauce.

I helped myself to three each of the fritters and rice rolls. I first used the soy sauce on my portions, savoring the chewy noodle and prawns, then alternated between the peanut sauce and the hot mustard. Before I could dive in for a second helping, the last dish arrived.

Yin-yang fried rice was a feast for the eyes and the senses. Swirls of cream contrasted with an orange tomato sauce to form the iconic pattern. Underneath the sauces lay a bed of yang chow fried rice containing a bounty of minced jewels: barbecued pork, Chinese sausage, peas, carrots, spring onions, and wisps of egg. Slices of white onions and pork emerged from the tomato sauce while shrimp and sweet green peas decorated the cream. Which side I preferred depended on my mood. The tomato sauce was tangy and sweet while the cream was subtle.

I dipped my spoon into the cream side, heaping the rice into my bowl. This was comfort in my time of need, nourishment and a sense of stability when grief threatened to crumble the earth from under me. After this meal, I would face the emptiness left by Ma-ma’s passing.

The steam rising from the fried rice dish obscured my view of the entrance, which meant I was completely surprised by the ambush I faced next.

“How dare you come in here!” Old Wu shouted as he walked to the edge of my table. The food in my mouth lost all flavor. I instantly reverted to the cowering seven-year-old girl I had once been, fingers gripping the sides of my seat.

He pointed at me, his index finger a thin dagger made of flesh and bone. Wu’s reedy build had always reminded me of a malevolent grasshopper. “Natalie Tan. It was your fault that your mother died alone. What kind of a daughter are you?”

Chapter Three

I couldn’t answer. His question had wounded me where he had intended it to—into my very being. He was right: I was guilty of the greatest transgression. Filial piety was sacred in my culture, and my mother had died while I was 3,100 miles away. I trembled, speechless from his judgment and my shame, as his onslaught continued.

“You left her alone for years. You knew she never went out. You knew this would happen! She raised you on her own and took care of you. This is how you repay her? You come back too late to be of use!”

I could say nothing to defend my actions. If I hadn’t left her, Mama would most likely still be alive. I’d have been there all along to ease the strain, or at the very least been able to call an ambulance for her this morning, when she passed. Maybe that would have made all the difference.

“You’re not welcome here. Get out of my restaurant.”

I lowered my spoon to the plate without making a sound and reached for the handle of my rolling suitcase. Eyes downcast, I pushed myself away from the table.

“Mr. Wu, please,” a familiar voice spoke, the same one from the phone earlier today. “Have some compassion. She just lost her mother.” Celia Deng stood beside me, her firm hand resting on my shoulder, resplendent in a navy frock with a white hibiscus pattern. She was five years younger than Ma-ma at forty-eight, yet despite their age difference, they were close friends. There was no trace of gray in her curled hair. Her subtle perfume smelled like cut gardenias. She continued in firm but gentle tones. “She must have arrived from the airport and wanted to get something good to eat. You can’t fault her for choosing your restaurant.”

Blood rushed to my face, bringing a welcome heat. Why was she defending me? Was this an act of pity? Old Wu’s harsh face softened. “If it was your idea, then I apologize.”

“I’ll take her home now. I’m sure she must be exhausted from her flight. I’ll pay the bill.” Celia squeezed my shoulder as a cue to leave. I reached for my suitcase and took my place beside her.

He cleared his throat. “No, it was my fault, Celia. Don’t worry about the bill.”

“No, no. Business is business, Mr. Wu. We all need to make a living.” She reached into her purse for her wallet.

“I refuse to allow you to pay for my error. Put your wallet away, Celia.”

“I’m one of your most loyal customers and I don’t want to lose my standing. Please, I insist.”

This was a familiar dance, and I’d have laughed if Old Wu were not involved. The tug-of-war to pay the bill was a common cultural occurrence involving everything from mad dashes to the till, to calling the restaurant or telling the server ahead of time who would be paying. In most cases, the end result required the server’s patience in waiting for the resolution. The performance of paying the bill demonstrated the traits of generosity and hospitality so prized by our culture.

Celia emerged victorious and left two crisp twenty-dollar bills on the table before she linked her arm with mine and escorted me out of the restaurant. Old Wu returned to his post without further comment. My heated cheeks remained the sole trace of the old man’s earlier tirade. The details of the incident might fade, but I would never forget the shame.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Wu,” Celia murmured. “He’s set in his ways and he doesn’t understand your relationship with Miranda. He’s probably still stinging from your laolao’s death decades ago.”

Old Wu was of the same generation as Laolao. Ma-ma had seldom spoken of her mother because their relationship had been complicated at best, but I’d always yearned to know more about my grandmother.

“He knew her?” I asked.

“Of course. Your grandmother’s restaurant was once the jewel of Chinatown.”

I unwound my arm from hers in surprise. Information about my grandmother had never flowed freely from my neighbors.

Celia smiled. “Qiao and Miranda loved each other, but both wanted very different things.” She paused. “Miranda asked us not to mention your laolao to you. I have honored her wishes until now.”

Ma-ma. I still couldn’t believe she was gone.

“How did it happen?” My voice dwindled to a whisper. If Celia weren’t in such close proximity, she might have missed it.

“It was the strangest thing. Anita Chiu found her outside your building, collapsed on the sidewalk. I still don’t know why Miranda stepped out.”

A sudden hope swelled inside me, mingling with the shame and guilt. Ma-ma’s agoraphobia had kept her confined upstairs. The building could have been on fire, and if she had to walk across the threshold for safety, she still wouldn’t have been able to. Had something changed over the years I was gone? “Was … She’d been able to leave the apartment?”

“No. It was so unlike Miranda. I saw her two nights before when I came for a visit. She looked fine then. A little pale but within the normal range for your mother.”

Why had my mother stepped outside?

I was thirteen, on my way to the bus stop, when I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk across the street, opening a deep gash in my shin. Ma-ma had seen the whole thing, her face plastered against the glass of the window, but she wasn’t able to come down and help me. The combination of sheer panic, anguish, and helplessness on her face was forever burned into my memory.

Why did you go outside, Ma-ma?

“It is a mystery to all of us. But the important thing is that you’re here now.” Celia paused to gather her breath before continuing. “Her body is at the morgue. I can go with you in the morning, and if you want me to, I can help you plan the funeral. Miranda wanted a traditional Buddhist ceremony. We can do a private one and rebuild your family shrine.”

“Family shrine?”

“You had one. I saw it once, but Miranda put it away after your grandmother died.”

Laolao died long before I was born. Ma-ma had only spoken of her as one would a favorite fable, presenting merely the morals of the tale and leaving the details vague on purpose. Guilt gnawed at me for wanting more than what my mother had given, but now that she was gone, the opportunity to know anything about my grandmother was lost. Regret flooded me: I should have pushed harder. Laolao was a part of me too.

“With your mother the way she was, I know you’ve never been to a Chinese funeral. Do you know what to do? Let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”

Celia’s kindness crept in to surprise me. Such was the vulnerability of grief: every act of concern was felt more deeply, for the path to the heart was clear. It mattered not who was offering, this was what I needed now, and I was grateful.

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know what to do or how to even begin arranging this.”

She patted my arm. “After having arranged the funerals for my parents five years ago, I know the ins and outs. I’ll be your guide.”

We stopped at the door to Ma-ma’s apartment. Celia gave me a tight embrace. “I’m really sorry about Miranda. Would you like me to come in with you?”

I shook my head. “I need to do this alone, but thank you.”

“I understand.” She nodded. “Oh! And before I forget, beware of the cat.”

“The cat?”

“I’ve been feeding the little piranha for Miranda. She picked it out a month ago. I was both delighted and supportive of her decision until Meimei drew blood. The kitten is very cute and only likes—liked—your mother. Don’t be insulted if she hates you.”

Meimei. Little sister. Ma-ma chose the name well. The idea of my mother having a companion made me smile. She should have done it years ago. My gaze drifted to the faded scratches on Celia’s forearms, which I hadn’t noticed until now. “Thank you for the warning and for everything else.”

“You have my number. Call me when you’re ready.”

Celia returned to her building and left me standing alone by the door to the apartment.

By the time I turned the key, climbed up the stairs, and stepped into my mother’s apartment, I was crying. A trail of sorrow followed me. When sadness made an appearance in my life, it always brought the weight of the ocean with it.

I locked the door behind me and set down my luggage in the foyer.

It was like traveling back in time—nothing had changed. From the bird figurines my mother collected to the small cracks in the pale lemon walls she had so carefully painted, it was exactly as I remembered. The layout of the apartment was modest by San Franciscan standards but generous compared to the closets I had lived in the last few years. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a combined kitchen and living area, and access to a seldom-used rooftop patio. Three windows overlooked Grant Avenue and provided a clear view of the green tiles of the paifang, the ornate arch marking the edge of Chinatown at Bush Street.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the familiar scents of the apartment: oolong, jasmine, and tieguanyin teas held in vintage tins in the pantry; pungent star anises and red Sichuan peppercorns mingled with pickled ginger and dried chili peppers in the collection of spices above the stove; the musty scent of newsprint from the stacks of Chinese newspapers Ma-ma subscribed to; and the subtle perfume of phalaenopsis on the windowsills.

Home, but empty in a way I’d never experienced.

On the kitchen counter, a long envelope stuck out from one of the slots of the unplugged toaster. Ma-ma had never eaten toast in her entire life. She had bought the appliance for me because I’d loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on toast for lunch. The paleness of the crisp paper matched the shade of sliced bread. Ma-ma’s elegant script spelled out my name. The pristine corners betrayed its age: this had been placed there recently.

Goose bumps rose on my skin.

I picked up the envelope and ripped it open. My fingertips skimmed the rippled surface where the pressure of Ma-ma’s pen had marked the paper. My heart clenched, squeezing inside my rib cage like a captured bird. Written on sheets of onionskin were my mother’s last words to me.

Dearest Natalie,

I had imagined your homecoming to be full of joy, sugared fritters, and late nights listening to the tales of your travels. I wanted to hear your stories and all about the new dishes you’ve tried.

I attempted to write you this letter every year, and until now, I could never finish it. At first, it was because of pride: I wanted you to come to your senses and come home because you knew I was right. Then as the years grew longer, I didn’t care anymore about who was right or wrong. I shouldn’t have allowed the silence between us to stretch on for so long. I never reached out because I was afraid that you didn’t love me anymore.

I love you so much.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for not understanding your wishes.

I’m sorry I tried to impose my will on you.

I’m sorry for all the hurtful things I said, that you would never cook like your grandmother, words uttered in desperation and spite.

These were my fears. I pinned them onto you, hoping you’d claim them as your own and abandon your dream. I wanted you to stay close to me. Instead, I lost the very person I loved most in this world.

I will always love you, dear heart.

Your presence in my life helped me forget its fractured state: my heart has been broken since before you were born. I fear it will be my undoing, but I have accepted this. It’s my burden and mine alone to bear.

Before you came into this world, your grandmother and I quarreled, just as you and I have done.

She wanted me to be someone I’m not, just as I tried to do the same to you.

You should have the freedom to choose your own way. I understand this now. You are more like your grandmother than I was willing to admit. And that isn’t a terrible thing by any means.

Your grandmother helped build this community. She came from China with nothing but her mother’s wok and the cooking skills she had learned from her own mother. All by herself, she opened a restaurant, and her dishes brought people together: strangers, bickering relatives, newcomers, and old-timers alike. Her establishment welcomed all and was the jewel of Chinatown.

But I refused to honor my mother’s legacy.

Because of this, I have watched the street die. The neighbors are struggling to keep their businesses afloat. They will lose everything they have worked so hard for. If your laolao’s restaurant were still open, this would never have happened. People came from miles around to eat there. She kept the neighborhood alive.

I lied to you about the restaurant. I told you that it was in a horrible state of disrepair. I did this to dispel any illusions you might have had about running it. But I was wrong to turn you away from what you sought.

If you want to reopen the restaurant, you have my blessing. It is dirty and dusty but still operable. Perhaps it is your destiny to follow your grandmother and save the neighborhood once more. Follow your dreams, beloved daughter.

Love,

Ma-ma

The letter was dated yesterday. It fluttered to the floor as I braced my palms against the counter.

I wished her written words could have taken to the air and shattered the long years of silence between us. What she said about my cooking, all those years ago, had left lingering scars. I’d wanted to prove her wrong, and yet I still hadn’t accomplished my goal. I’d been so angry that I allowed myself the luxury of reticence until it became a habit.

If only my pride hadn’t kept me away from her while waiting for an apology that never came. If only I had treated her as if she were the fickle clouds dispersed by the winds, instead of the eternal mountains. Clouds were mutable, mountains immovable. If only.

I wandered into the living room and sank into the faded sofa.

You are more like your grandmother than I was willing to admit. My mother had seldom spoken of Qiao. For years, I’d yearned for any memory Ma-ma could afford to give. But I’d never begged, for thinking of her seemed to bring my mother pain, and I’d loved her too much to press.

Ma-ma had also seldom mentioned my father, but I never wanted anything to do with him. My mother’s anger toward him had become my own, an inheritance I welcomed as a reaction to his abandonment.

My fingers dug into the cushion, squeezing the thinning foam underneath. And the restaurant. It had been boarded up on the first floor, forbidden to me because it was too dangerous to enter. But now I knew: my mother had lied when she told me it was ruined beyond all repair. My dream had been right beneath her all these years.

She wanted me to follow my dreams.

I broke into sobs, my chest heaving, gasping for breath from the pain of loss. My teardrops formed tiny crystals and fell hard against the linoleum. The ache within my rib cage swelled with every gulp of air.

As I cried, my gaze fell upon the wooden lotus-shaped bowl on the coffee table. Bought at a flea market, the bowl’s subtle wood grain reminded me of melted chocolate. It served as a replacement for the ceramic bowl I had accidentally broken before leaving. I traced its rounded petals before dipping my fingers inside it, into a small sea of teardrop crystals. Ma-ma had collected my tears since birth: first saving them in silk pouches, then graduating to bowls. I hadn’t understood why she’d wanted to keep them. She told me that she always wished to keep a part of me with her, and that there was beauty to be found everywhere—even in sadness. When Ma-ma cried, her tears took days to dry, leaving salt trails in their wake. The fragile salt disintegrated into nothingness.

Where was the piece of her I got to keep with me? Everywhere I looked I saw reminders of her presence, but nothing rivaled the power of her last letter lying discarded on the kitchen floor. I rushed to pick it up, pressing it tight against my broken heart. There was nothing I could do to bring her back.

When I finally stopped crying, I gathered the tiny crystals into my hands, pouring them into the bowl on the coffee table to join the others. A stray sunbeam struck the center, illuminating the ceiling with dancing prisms. I marveled at the display. Ma-ma always found the beauty in unlikely objects.

A soft meow interrupted my thoughts. A powder-puff-shaped creature emerged from the hallway. A pink rhinestone collar sparkled around her neck, complementing her glacial blue eyes. Meimei? I had almost forgotten about Ma-ma’s kitten.

She approached me without hesitation and rubbed herself against my calves, weaving in and out of my legs until I bent down to scoop her into my arms. Her snowy fur was softer than I imagined. I carried her to the high-backed chair. Sitting down, I lifted her to my face so our eyes could meet. She batted my nose in defiance.

“Hello, Meimei. You and I loved her the most, and now we have to start grieving her.” Sorrow swelled in my throat, cutting off my words. I held the cat against my chest and sighed. Purrs emanated from her tiny body, waves of vibrations that washed across my skin like the most comforting of massages. I held her closer and smiled when I noticed she had dozed off.

“Oh, little one. You have me now.”

Perhaps a part of my mother remained after all.

Chapter Four

My mother had given me her blessing, which meant I’d left in search of a dream that was right here at home the whole time. The restaurant. I needed to investigate. The cat batted my ankles as if she concurred with my sense of adventure. I bent down to pick her up and take her with me.

The door to the restaurant was at the base of the stairs leading up to the apartment. I pushed the door open and fumbled for the switch. Light flooded the narrow galley, which was flanked by cupboards and counter space on one side and the stove, oven, and fridge on the other. Just as my mother had said, it looked to be in perfect working order, with enough room for one person—the cook. It was in many ways comparable to the cha chaan teng—tiny counter service restaurants—I’d worked at in Hong Kong.

This was where Laolao had cooked for her neighbors all those years ago. She’d spent most of her life walking up and down this galley kitchen. She was here.

She’d learned how to cook from her own mother and hadn’t gone to a fancy culinary school. If she could do it, perhaps I could too.

This was what I’d always wanted. This could be mine.

The realization settled in between my shoulder blades, in a spot I couldn’t reach or ignore. I’d thought that as long as I kept moving, working in kitchens, and traveling, I had a goal. But Laolao had had true purpose. She had known she wanted to cook, and she’d achieved great things. Ma-ma had had purpose too. She had embraced motherhood and become the sole parent I had needed and wanted.

I had always wanted to cook. What better way to pursue my dreams than to literally follow in Laolao’s footsteps? Could my purpose be right here at home after all? Ma-ma had not only denied me this—she had concealed the restaurant’s condition from me all along. But there was no point in being angry at ghosts.

My skin itched from the stale mustiness clinging to the air. A thin veil of dust covered every surface, reflecting ages of neglect; much like the patina on Ma-ma’s bronze birds. Dust caked my fingertips when I skimmed them across the counter.

My initial excitement was soon replaced by doubts. Most new restaurants struggled to survive their first year. Even with the humble beginnings I envisioned, reopening the restaurant would still cost money I didn’t have. I strolled toward the front of the restaurant, flipping the switches, turning on the pendant lamps. The lights continued to work after all these years, proving there was definitely more than a flicker of life left in this place. The dining area, annexed in part by the stairs to the apartment above, included four wooden bar stools and two square tables.

The space was bigger than I’d thought it would be: I had expected only counter service. I walked to the picture windows, covered by plywood, shuttered as if prepared for a hurricane. A chalkboard hung on the far wall where swirls of white marred its green surface, remnants from the damp rag used to wipe it clean.

Oh, to have been here to see what this place was like in its glory: to smell the aromas from the kitchen, to hear the roar of the hot oil and the hiss of the steamer against the chatter of the customers, and the sounds of the street in the bells of the cable cars and traffic zipping by.

If my regrets and wishes were fireflies, the brilliance of their dance would turn night into day.

I walked to the main door and removed the coverings from the glass.

The cat’s meow drew my attention to the counter. She was batting a heavily draped object about two feet tall, sitting on the counter near the wall. I walked closer and unwrapped the woven striped runner rug that was tucked around this mysterious item. My fingers searched for the edge of the fabric, tugging to pry it loose without disturbing what lay underneath. The rough textile chafed my skin as I unraveled the rug.

It was a statue, dark with the discoloration that had set in over time. Unlike bronze figures whose tarnish only enhanced their beauty, this taint created a darkening cancer. Craters pitted the surface like the scars of the moon, pockmarks rendered in metal. The sculpture’s sadness, and uneven features, were familiar. Guanyin: the goddess of mercy and compassion. A revered goddess shouldn’t be treated this way.

It was odd that Ma-ma, governed by her superstitions, had done nothing about this.

Of course, I didn’t believe my mother’s fears or the many demons that rode on the back of them. Demons weren’t real. They were ghost stories meant to frighten children. It was very sad that my mother hadn’t been able to understand this.

Still, in her honor, I would make this right. I touched the gouged surface of the statue, my fingers tripping over the pits. Maybe one day I could see her restored.

Meimei meowed, hopping off the counter to stand by the door, where someone was waiting. It was nine in the evening and no one, aside from Celia and Old Wu, knew I had returned. An ash blond woman in her late forties rapped her knuckles against the glass door. She was too well dressed to be a burglar and too professional in her powder blue suit to be a lost tourist.

“Not open,” I said in a loud voice, over-enunciating the words in case she failed to hear me.

She held something white against the glass with her palm. A business card.

I walked toward her to get a closer look. Melody Minnows, realtor. The picture on the card matched the woman at the door, right down to the shade of mauve lipstick and diamond hoop earrings. I repeated that we were closed.

She dove into her oversize purse, retrieved a sticky notepad and a pen, jotted something down, and pressed the note against the glass. I’m sorry about Miranda. How is Meimei doing?

This woman knew my mother. I let her in.

Chapter Five

Melody smiled and murmured her thanks.

“You knew my mother?”

“Yes, we spoke a few times. She invited me upstairs for a cup of coffee. That’s where I met the cat.” Melody crouched down and held her hand out to Meimei. The cat hissed before running into the kitchen. “When is the funeral?”

“Soon. I still have to figure out the details.”

“Ah, of course.” Her perfect smile never faltered. I wondered if she had trained herself in front of a mirror. “It’s a lot bigger than I thought in here—the blueprints don’t do it justice! The last time we talked, Miranda was contemplating selling. I told her the market was perfect, and I have several buyers already interested. I know I can sell it over asking. Everyone is looking for office space, and this is a hot location. We’ll have to move fast before the planning committee changes the bylaws. This is prime commercial space.”

Her blue eyes darted to and fro, the movement reminding me of archaeologists wielding flashlights in an undiscovered treasure-filled tomb. I could almost hear the cash register ringing in her head.

Melody didn’t care about my mother—she was a vulture. My hands curled into fists.

“There’s commercial property on Polk listed at three million. They got rid of the residential space upstairs and converted it to office space. It bumped up the value tremendously. I mean, if you want to convert it to a condo and business, that’s also an option, but it needs to be upscale. Perfect for an affluent hipster couple with no kids.”

I took a deep breath to steady myself. That was a great deal of money.

“Ms. Minnows, I’m not interested in selling right now.”

Melody’s smile never wavered. “Perhaps after the funeral, you’ll reconsider. It’s a lot of money to leave on the table. Why would you want to stay?”

“I may be reopening the restaurant.”

“In this neighborhood?” She pressed her hand against the base of her throat. Her French manicured nails gleamed in the fluorescent light. “Bad idea. There’s already five great restaurants within walking distance, and that doesn’t even factor in the mediocre joints scrambling for attention. Besides, the businesses here are struggling. I’ve been trying to convince them to sell, but they refuse to. Something about roots, superstition, and family. I guess tradition is more important than bankruptcy. But you could all walk away as millionaires. For you, the money would mean you could open a nicer restaurant, with a bigger operating budget, and a better location than here. You’ll have to act soon, though.” She ended her pitch with a wink and a tap on the face of her platinum Rolex watch.

There were spikes under her immaculate veneer. We Chinese valued family far more than she realized. Even though she didn’t understand this, she’d made good points, and I was torn. This was all so sudden. But I’d been given a gift: Laolao’s restaurant. Would selling now be a disservice to my dream and to her?

“I’ll leave you my info.” Melody placed her business card in my hand. “Again, I’m really sorry about your mother. She was such a lovely lady.”

Melody let herself out. I doubted that this was the last I’d see of her. The woman was a shark drawn to the blood in the water—after all, the neighborhood was bleeding money. And if I reopened the restaurant, I would be as well. The mortgage on the building had been paid off in Ma-ma’s lifetime, but we’d been far from wealthy. Ma-ma had lived off some small investments, but there wasn’t much, and if she had managed to save anything, it’d be a modest sum at best. I didn’t expect a windfall; I only hoped it would at least be enough to cover the funeral expenses.

I locked the door and shut the lights off, gathered Meimei into my arms, headed up the stairs, and made the decision to contact Celia in the morning. Before I could decide about the restaurant, we needed to say goodbye to Ma-ma.

Celia arrived the next morning in a navy silk frock with a black cat pattern. Her gardenia perfume drifted from her skin, and her cheerful smile matched her rosy cheeks. She exuded the effortless kindness reserved for saints and fairies.

“Thank you for coming,” I murmured. “Please come in.”

I stepped aside and followed her up the stairs. She took her kitten heels off at the landing, donned a pair of guest slippers, and headed to the living room. In the meantime, I offered to make a pot of jasmine tea.

After leaving the kettle on the stove to boil, I headed into the living room. Celia and the kitten were engaged in a standoff. Celia kept her distance at the farthest end of the sofa while Meimei occupied the high-backed chair. The kitten’s back was arched, and her little ears folded down as she hissed at Celia, who held her satchel as a shield.

“Meimei, don’t do that,” I chastised the cat. “That’s rude.”

“She hates everyone but Miranda,” Celia reasoned. “Although, judging from the lack of bandages on your arms, Meimei likes you too.”

I scooped the kitten into my arms and sat in the chair. Meimei stopped hissing, but kept one white ear cocked in Celia’s direction. I buried my fingers into the cat’s fur, scratching and massaging until I was rewarded with purrs. I had never had a cat before, and I could see why Meimei had brought Ma-ma such comfort and joy.

“When I was exploring the restaurant downstairs last night, I had a visitor,” I said. “Melody Minnows. She was asking if I wanted to sell.”

Celia rolled her eyes. “She’s been sniffing around the neighborhood for years. Our businesses are on life support. The blond reaper haunts our doors. I can’t really blame her for being enterprising—everyone has to make a living, right?—but these real estate people want to turn our neighborhood into office space and overpriced condos. The entire city has been gentrifying since the tech boom.”

This reaffirmed what Ma-ma had written in her letter about the state of the neighborhood and what I had seen for myself since I came back. “Has anyone decided to sell?”

“Of course not!” Celia frowned. “This is our community. We’re not going to be pushed out. That is our gate. Our families came here and lived here for generations. If your laolao were alive, she’d be fighting this classist eviction. If only her restaurant were still around, I don’t think business would have gotten so bad.” She paused and gathered herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about this when there are more important things to deal with. What are your plans after the funeral?”

Celia’s eyes were still locked onto the cat in my arms, and her fingers were glued nervously to the handles on her purse. The street was struggling because these businesses were their lives, while I had the luxury of considering Melody’s offer. My grandmother would never have sold. She would have put up a fight like they were doing now. I never knew her but I realized now she’d have wanted me to take over.

“I’m considering reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”

Celia, who must have noticed that the cat had dozed off, relaxed her death grip on her purse. “Is that something you want to do?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I want to, but I’m nervous that I’ll fail.”

Celia offered me a smile of understanding. “When my parents died and left me the gift shop, I was anxious too. But running the store has given me a sense of comfort and security even though it’s been fairly tough the last five years. But I won’t trouble you with that. The important thing is that you want to try.” She waved her hand. “I know if your laolao were alive, she’d be happy that you’ve chosen this path.”

Celia was right. Laolao had been a great cook, and her legacy had been neglected, but now the chance to follow in her footsteps lay beneath my feet. Could I do this? I wished that Ma-ma were here to see me through this. I had so much regret for the years I lost when I should have reached out and spoken to her. I had chosen my ego over my own mother. We Chinese wore our guilt like jade: pressed against our skin, displayed with pride, and always inherited.

“Do you have the right clothes for the funeral and afterward?” Celia asked. “Black for the ceremony and white for the next one hundred days.”

“I have something to wear for the funeral, but not much in terms of white to last me the hundred days. If I can, I’ll wear white for a year for Ma-ma,” I confessed.

Celia rose to her feet and tipped her head toward the door. “Come, let’s go.”

“Excuse me?”

“Turn the stove off. I’ll take a rain check for the tea. I’m taking you shopping.”

I blushed, taken aback at her generosity. “I can’t—”

“Nonsense.”

To reject her offer would cause offense and breach etiquette. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Celia glanced over my outfit. “Judging by your style, you love thrift shops. I know the best ones in the city.”

The thrift stores Celia chose were both on Mission Street. The biggest one had two floors with the clothing racks organized by color. Celia pulled out fashionable pieces in my size like a fisherman reeling in prize bass. Despite my protests, the cart began to overflow.

She pointed to a crocheted tank dress. “This would be perfect on you and it’s in excellent shape. No snags.”

“This is too much.” I moved to return the item to the rack, but she placed it back into the cart.

She clicked the hangers together, searching for another garment to add to the pile. “I insist. Besides, you pay for clothing by the pound here. It’s not as much as you think.”

“I already feel awful that you had to close your store to take me shopping.”

As far as I could recall, the gift shop had never been closed during the day. Tour buses still loaded and unloaded tourists in Chinatown. If any business could survive in the neighborhood, it would be Celia’s.

She stepped away from the rack, her smile faltering. “Business isn’t as robust as it used to be. I shouldn’t complain because the other stores are doing so much worse.” Celia noticed me trying to return a sundress to the rack, and her frown deepened. “No, put it back in the cart. I’m doing this for you and for Miranda. She was always kind to me. I don’t forget things like that.”

Ma-ma had cultivated friendships that I didn’t even know about. Things must have changed after I’d left. “If your laolao were alive, she would be happy that you might reopen the restaurant,” Celia said. “The talent must run in your genes.”

It was true. Ma-ma had been an excellent cook and would have excelled in any restaurant, but she hadn’t had the temperament for it. Having cooked at home and worked at many kitchens abroad, I knew I was competent enough. “Yes, I can cook, but I haven’t completed any formal training.”

A brightness shone in the older woman’s eyes and her thick lenses enhanced the effect. “That doesn’t matter! I hope you can prepare food like your laolao. Hers was the best I’ve ever tasted, even better than Old Wu’s. When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know.”

“Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?” I asked.

“Oh no, there’s too many to count.” Celia’s tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. “Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls … Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that’s why her food was the best in Chinatown.”

The shadow of my grandmother loomed over my future as it must have over Ma-ma in the past. She hadn’t been able to live under it. In time, would I feel the same way? I still had pressing issues to tackle before I opened: financing, permits, licenses, etc. I’d need to apply for a loan or possibly mortgage the building to fund the restaurant. What if I lost everything my family had worked for?

“I hope you do it. The neighborhood will be thrilled.” Celia pushed the packed cart toward the till. Not watching where she was going, she crashed against the concrete pillar. I caught her from falling, but the damage was done: one of her kitten heels buckled and tore off.

“This was a designer heel. I ate at a Michelin three-starred restaurant in Manhattan in these heels,” she wailed. She hobbled to the side and picked up a pair of neon pink sandals from a nearby shelf. She put the sandals on and placed her damaged shoes by her purse.

“I’m so sorry, Celia.”

“I have rotten luck. It happens.” She placed her arm around my shoulders. “You have good luck, though, I can feel it. I have the firm belief that you’ll accomplish what you’ve set out to do. My stomach tells me so. There is no one better to cook in your grandmother’s kitchen than you.”

I feared her faith in me was misplaced, but I welcomed it anyway.

“But the future can wait a bit longer.” Celia blushed, continuing toward the cashiers. “We have the funeral to plan and these ugly pink shoes to pay for.”

Yes, it was time for the formal farewell.

For the next three days, Celia and I planned the funeral. At her insistence, we invited the neighbors. Mrs. Chiu also offered to help. Because of Mrs. Chiu’s reputation for honesty, Ma-ma had paid her to run her most important errands. Mrs. Chiu always smelled of musky perfume with an underlying bite of pickled scallions, a favorite topping for her morning bowl of congee. She still wielded the same heavy, cherry-colored pleather purse that I remembered: both as a weapon and as a portable storage locker. As a child, I thought of her as a busybody gossip who had only come by because she was paid to. Obligation could never equate to friendship no matter the disguise, but I deferred to Celia.

It was a larger affair than I had expected. Everyone in the neighborhood showed up: Mr. and Mrs. Chiu, the twin Shen brothers, Celia, Miss Yu, and even Old Wu. Someone must have told him about the funeral. The incident at his restaurant emphasized our strained relationship.

“Mr. Wu, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said.

“I have my reasons for coming.” His lips formed a thin, harsh line. “Your mother may have died alone, but she should not be interred alone.”

I stemmed my rising anger. “She had me. I loved her more than anyone else in this world.”

He made a hoarse sound with his throat and stepped aside.

I turned my attention to the rest of the neighbors. With each embrace, they welcomed me back and shared in my sorrow. This was more interaction than I was comfortable with. Cultivating my habit of avoidance was easier from a distance.

While I was dressed in black, everyone else wore white, the customary funerary color for non-family-members. We lit the joss sticks and sent our prayers. Mrs. Chiu arranged for a pair of Buddhist monks to conduct the funerary rites so that Ma-ma’s spirit would be ushered into the afterlife. When the ceremony ended, only Celia and I stayed. All that remained was a lingering emptiness inside me.

At the crematorium, I took my place at the side of the coffin as the honored daughter and sole blood relative. The flames devoured the casket and body. When the ashes cooled, they were spilled onto a tray. Celia watched while I used chopsticks to pick out the bones for her urn, which would be interred at the local Chinese mausoleum.

Celia’s patient guidance lessened my mounting grief, yet I was still like a leaf in a river, moving chaotically through the unfamiliar ceremonies and rituals while trying to understand and absorb all the meaning behind each one.

When it came time to prepare the ancestral altar, I regained my balance. My task was to find pictures of my family. I searched the apartment, but couldn’t find any of my grandmother. If my mother had still been alive, I could have asked her. If only.

Beside a vase full of pink roses and peonies I placed a framed picture of Ma-ma in her early forties, a snapshot taken with my 35 mm camera ten years ago. A chin-length bob framed her pale oval face, and a tentative smile teased the corners of her lips. I’d captured the moment right before she smiled. She had been so beautiful.

In the kitchen I made crispy scallion pancakes, fried golden, as an offering to Ma-ma’s spirit. They had been her favorite. We spent so many wonderful afternoons kneading dough dotted with verdant rings of scallions. Now, the kitchen came to life with the sting of my palms slapping the dough into pancakes, the roar of the oil from the submerged golden disks, and the delicious aroma of fried flour and scallions. I split one in half to sample, the delicate layers revealing themselves as I dipped the pieces into a sauce made from soy, vinegar, and smashed garlic. Perfect. I stacked three on a plate and offered them to Ma-ma’s spirit along with another prayer. We Chinese believed that the dead still ate and drank in the afterlife. This concept brought me comfort knowing that I could still feed my mother’s spirit her favorite treats.

I was to pray once every seven days for the next seven weeks. I had also decided to wear white for the next year, more out of love than filial piety. There was a beauty in the rituals, a comfort to be found in the thousands of years of tradition that endured.

With the shrine complete, a genuine smile graced my lips.

Now the decision about opening the restaurant stood before me, unobstructed, like a stack of overdue bills. I needed to take a walk around the block and reorient myself. Had things really gotten as bad as Celia said? This was where I would set up shop. I had to make sure I knew what I was getting into before tethering my dreams to a sinking ship.

I bade the kitten farewell before I went outside for an afternoon stroll.

A thick layer of dust settled on the storefronts of the neighborhood, obscuring the architectural details from the twenties. In a city of grays, Chinatown once stood as a landmark of color and life: beautiful vibrant signs and extravagant chinoiserie. While as a whole this still rang true, my corner of it had become more diminished, as if the buildings on the block were now forgotten relics languishing in someone’s attic. Drab, gray, and old. The weariness showed on the crumbling brick and smudged storefront glass windows. With the Dragon’s Gate at the base, shops lined a hill with a narrow road between them. The parallel parking spots on one side of the street were empty. As a child, the decline was evident. Now all these years later it was even worse.

The other streets were packed with tourists strolling on the pristine sidewalks while ours remained empty. Books, teas, gifts, and traditional medicines should have drawn them to our threshold. In other parts of Chinatown, the bright signage in both English and Chinese contained a liveliness that mimicked a bouquet of lollipops. Not here. I lifted my eyes toward the store signs. The letters now appeared rubbed out by time or neglect. Everything about the neighborhood was leeched of life like a plant deprived of sunlight or a faded black-and-white photograph. Any stranger unfortunate enough to wander here would hurry through lest they, too, become infected by the malaise.

A glimmer of color attracted my eye. Melody Minnows’s beautiful face greeted me from a large real estate sign, hanging over the vacant space that had been a takeout window. She was stunning in her bright pink plumage. How could this sign be the only thing on the street that still retained vibrancy?

Intricate streetlights, imitating golden dragons, still marked the way, the same beacons I had followed in the past. I remembered that sometimes a handful of tourists, cameras flashing, would make their way to the Dengs’ gift shop. They would linger for a moment, murmur a few pleasantries, before returning to the empty tour bus, usually without purchasing anything. But these were ghosts of the past. Even that dwindling stream of visitors was now a dry lake bed.

Much had changed in the seven years I’d been away.

As I continued down the block, the familiar establishments drew my eye: Older Shen’s bookstore, Younger Shen’s herbal shop, Miss Yu’s tea shop, Celia’s gift shop, the Chius’ convenience store, and finally, Old Wu’s restaurant at the end of the road. The street was empty. The neighborhood now seemed to act as a straight thoroughfare to another destination: people merely stopped by the paifang for pictures before moving on to newer, more exciting attractions deeper within Chinatown.

This was where I was supposed to open a restaurant? The location was far from ideal. And money was definitely an issue. I had spoken to the lawyer and Mrs. Chiu about Ma-ma’s finances. After the funeral expenses, the modest amount Ma-ma had left me was enough to cover upcoming permit fees, but not an update of the space nor an upgrade of the appliances.

Could I do this?

I tried giving myself a pep talk. I was twenty-eight years old, far older than Laolao had been when she arrived here all those years ago. If she could do it then, I should be able to now. The same blood pumped through my veins. But I still struggled with doubts.

The sonorous tones of the erhu, the Chinese violin, greeted me as I approached the end of the street. I closed my eyes, drawn to the song. Even the twittering birds overhead stopped. The bow across the two strings coaxed out raw emotion, a bittersweet melancholy spun from the lower register of notes.

The traditional Chinese two-stringed instrument was unusual to the Western eye. It had a long, dark spine with two spikes near the top and a round barrel at the end. One hand manipulated the bow while the other vibrated along the spine, moving up and down along the strings.

As the last note vanished into the summer air, I was released from its spell. Reaching into my purse, I showed my gratitude in the form of paper bills I tossed into the musician’s empty moon cake tin.

“I never realized how much I missed your playing,” I murmured. “Thank you for the song, Mr. Kuk Wah.”

“You’re back in town?” the older man asked.

I nodded.

Mr. Kuk Wah tugged his flat cap over his forehead and set his erhu against the brick wall. The lines around his eyes, like the roots of a banyan tree, had deepened over the years. A dark ink dragon snaked up his right forearm against a background of blooming chrysanthemums. Decades ago, after a particularly thick fog, he had appeared on this street corner to play his erhu, and ever since, like the fog, he’d come and gone as he pleased.

“Why have you returned, Xiao Niao?”

Xiao Niao was from a popular Chinese children’s song and meant “tiny bird.” Ma-ma and I had sung it often. I treasured Mr. Kuk Wah’s term of endearment. He had played the song for me once, soon after we met. I’d sung along, reinforcing the start of our friendship.

“Ma-ma died.”

He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. Gray infiltrated his short, dark hair; he had to be in his late fifties now. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s passing.”

“Thank you. I miss her with every breath.” I was surprised at how easily I could talk about my grief with him.

“Then allow me to play a happy tribute to her life.” He lifted the erhu onto his lap.

The melody unfurled, dancing across the higher registers only to return to the lower notes like a flock of starlings sweeping across the twilight sky. Long interchanging notes were punctuated by staccato plucking of the strings. My heart swelled; Ma-ma would have adored this piece, a playful tune.

At the end of the song, I dived again into my purse, but the musician shook his head.

“This is a gift,” he said.

A worthy tribute. My mother had loved classical music and operas. Perhaps if she had ever ventured outside, she could have met Mr. Kuk Wah and fallen in love with his erhu. In our home, listening to music wasn’t a luxury so much as it was a part of life, like hanging laundry on a clothesline. Bach, Verdi, and Puccini made more of an impact on my consciousness than any modern musician ever had.

“Thank you,” I said.

Mr. Kuk Wah rubbed his chin, bristling his shadow of a beard. “I hope you’ll be staying even after you’ve settled your mother’s affairs.”

“Yes, I’m thinking of reopening Laolao’s restaurant.”

“That’s very honorable of you to follow in your grandmother’s footsteps.”

I lowered my eyes. “I’m not sure if I can do it because there are so many obstacles to opening one. I already tried culinary school and failed spectacularly.” A thread of frustration in my voice escaped without my consent. The walk around the block had reminded me how hard running my own business would be. “I shouldn’t complain. I just inherited a restaurant. Everything’s old but it should still be functional.” Though of course I couldn’t be certain because I hadn’t checked yet.

“Yes, it will be difficult, but I like to think that you’ll succeed.” He paused, then nodded. “If this is what you want to do, then do it. It sounds like cooking feeds something in your soul like music does for me. Following your dream leads to happiness, Xiao Niao.”

I clung to this scrap of hope and mulled over Mr. Kuk Wah’s advice as I made my way back home.

I walked to the kitchen table and sat down. Meimei jumped on my mother’s vacant seat and hopped onto the table to attack the stack of mail, batting it with her furry paws until it fell into a flat pile. While Meimei alternated her paws over the envelopes in an adorable cat version of Twister, a lilac envelope caught my eye. It bore no stamp, but my name was written in beautiful cursive on the front.

I pulled the envelope toward me. It bore the perfume of peonies and inside was a note: Dear one, I have something for you that your mother entrusted to my care. Please come and see me at midnight. Use the alley beside the tea shop. I’ll be waiting. The note was signed by Miss Evelyn Yu.

The date given was today.

What had Ma-ma entrusted with her?

Chapter Six

My mother once told me midnight was a magical hour when the gateway to possibilities was opened. Never had I wanted to believe this more than tonight.

Miss Yu’s instructions were to bypass the tea shop for the alley. I peered in the window as I walked by. Her store was small but cozy. Pastel vases presented fresh pink peonies on the windowsills while Teresa Teng sang through the speakers. My lifelong love affair with tea had begun here at a very young age. I’d had my formal introduction to rooibos, matcha, chai, maté, and pu’erh, all seducing me with their floral, fruity, earthy scents.

Lovely Miss Yu curated teas like she was a librarian scouring the world for the best books. Her diligence had kept her local customer base happy and also created a loyal following outside of the state, which must still be sustaining her. Perhaps she sold things online to offset the decline in foot traffic.

As I started down the narrow passage, a strange light pulsed at the end of it. All my life I had strolled past this alley without sparing it a thought, for it was too narrow for comfort. My shoulders brushed against the rough brick of the walls. As I walked, I became aware of the strong odor of peonies and jasmine. I inhaled deeply to draw in the lovely bouquet. The scent was from the fresh flowers of a lush garden.

The path opened into a courtyard, a tangle of peonies and jasmine framing the entrance, blooming in spectacular fashion. Silky petals brushed against my skin. The tension building in my neck and shoulders melted away as I entered a fairyland.

The rustle of the night breeze joined the familiar voice of Teresa Teng echoing from invisible speakers. Beneath my feet, a path of moss-covered stones led to a circular platform surrounded by a large, shallow pond. The night garden was bursting with a palette of muted greens, starlit ivories, and sparkling golds: the verdant lichen and waxy lily pads in the pond, the snowy white peonies and jasmine flowers, and the metallic tones of the fireflies suspended in the air, the square-holed coins lining the floor of the pond, and the special golden three-legged creatures resting on the floating fronds.

I knew these creatures from my childhood. The feng shui symbol of prosperity, Jin Chan was transformed into a golden toad for stealing the peaches of immortality. Jin Chan’s three legs represented heaven, earth, and humanity. Statues of him graced every Chinese home I had ever been in, for fortune was a visitor always in demand. Ma-ma had placed one near the stairs leading to the front door.

The pond before me held eight fabled toads, each biting on a coin. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their vocal sacs, I would have thought them statues.

In the center of it all was Miss Yu. A vision in cream and soft gray cashmere, she sat at a round red lacquered table. Silver streaks like strands of starlight coursed through her dark hair. Though she was in her late forties, she could pass for late thirties or younger. The Yu family was fabled to own the elixir of youth in the form of a mythical tea blend gleaned from the Kitchen God himself. She had pinned a buttercream cashmere shawl across her shoulders with a crystal peony brooch. Underneath, she wore a dove gray tank dress with a subtle floral print. Pink jade bangles circled her wrists, tinkling when she moved.

Miss Yu smiled. “Welcome, dear one. Come, sit.” She gestured to the empty seat across from her.

“I didn’t know about all this.” I sat down, marveling at the enchanting atmosphere around me. “It’s so beautiful. What is this place?”

“It’s my ‘other’ shop. Miranda was here once. She was my first client after I took over the duties from my mother.”

Ma-ma must have visited when she was young and her agoraphobia wasn’t yet an issue. It was a version of my mother I didn’t know. What were her dreams then? How had she seen her future? The picture of Ma-ma communing with a younger Miss Yu made me smile.

“What did she want?” I asked.

Miss Yu held a finger to her lips. “Confidentiality is one of the cardinal rules here. You see, this is a place of divination. Clients ask a question about their future or for help in making important decisions.”

I patted my empty pockets for money and was about to curse when I heard Miss Yu’s giggle. She reached across the table to pat my hand.

“No, it’s a gift. I don’t charge for my services,” she said. “And besides, this isn’t why you’re here.”

“Yes.” I remembered. “You mentioned you had something of my mother’s?”

“A very important package, but we’ll get to that in a minute.” Miss Yu poured me a cup of tea. Judging by its fruity floral fragrance, it was tieguanyin, an apt choice. I took a sip.

Miss Yu looked at me intently. “If you could ask your grandmother any question, what would it be?”

Laolao. How could I choose a single question when I had been robbed of a lifetime with her? To distill a sea of wishes into a single drop was impossible. I wanted to know her, spend time with her, cook with her. I knew so little about her, and yet she was the bravest woman I’d never met. “If I could ask anything, it would be: How did you do it? Find the strength to leave your family, immigrate to a new country, and run a successful business out of nothing?”

Miss Yu nodded. “This is a good question to ask. Qiao was a very strong woman—as was Miranda. It’s in your blood.”

“Is it?” I asked. “I want to reopen Laolao’s restaurant. I want to make this work, but all I see are hurdles. I don’t even know if I can get the amount of money needed to start a business and complete all the legal paperwork. I don’t have entrepreneurial experience. On top of that, most restaurants don’t even survive their first year in business. Can I do this?” I blushed at my outpouring. I blamed grief for my recent, sudden confession.

Miss Yu reached across the table to steady my trembling hands. “Don’t despair. I may have something that will help you.” She reached under the table, produced a large, flat red box, and slid it toward me. “Your mother gave me this years ago for safekeeping.”

I lifted the lid. A red silken scarf embroidered with golden flying sparrows lay inside. The avian pattern brought a smile to my lips. I had never seen Ma-ma wear this. It would have been perfect on her.

As I tugged the fabric loose, a book tumbled out from its embrace with a thud. Thick spined and leather bound, it was heavy in my hands. The rich chestnut cover bore no marks, no title or publisher. Upon further examination, it appeared to be handmade with great care. I opened the book and gasped. Written with an elegant brushstroke in Chinese characters was the name of my grandmother, Tan Qiao.

“Laolao,” I whispered, tracing the characters with my fingertips.

I turned the cover page and discovered a recipe for noodle broth. This was familiar. Ma-ma had often cooked it when rain painted the windows or when the city covered itself in a thick duvet of fog. The rest of the pages contained recipes of every conceivable dish and ingredient. Judging by the book’s thickness, there were hundreds of them.

I resisted the urge to embrace the book against my chest as though it were a child. “Can you tell me more about the restaurant?” I asked. “What was it like? What did Laolao cook?”

“The best food in Chinatown, but don’t tell Old Wu.” Miss Yu winked. “Your grandmother’s dishes sang across the tongue. They tasted delicious, but it was more than that. It was the way her food made you feel.”

This stirred my appetite to hear more. My grandmother would come alive to me through the memories of others. I smiled and gestured for Miss Yu to continue.

“Everyone ate there. It wasn’t a big place, but it served the most wonderful food. She changed the menu daily, cooking whatever she found at the market that morning. Her dishes always used ordinary ingredients, but their taste was far from humble. She used her food like a delicious spider web—as a means to connect strangers. If anyone ever needed anything, she would always try to help them.”

Miss Yu paused to sip her tea. “When your laolao died, we mourned her and the business we knew would die along with her, but we didn’t know the neighborhood would suffer as well.”

“I wish I’d had the chance to meet her,” I murmured.

“You would have loved her, and she, you.” Miss Yu reached across the table and patted my hand. “Your mother turned away from the family business after your laolao died. The restaurant had been very successful, but after Qiao’s death, Miranda closed it down. I’m not sure if Miranda ever told you, but your grandmother was struck by a car outside of her restaurant. I think this made Miranda’s agoraphobia worse. She had always been shy by nature, but the accident followed by your father’s departure made her unable to leave the apartment. Miranda just didn’t have the temperament to run the restaurant.” She paused and her smile returned. “Your mother may have neglected the family business, but she did a wonderful job raising you on her own. I’m happy to hear that you want to reopen the restaurant and follow your laolao’s path.”

“This is what I’ve wanted ever since I was little. I wish Ma-ma were here so she could see me do it.”

Miss Yu peered at me sympathetically.

Familial obligation and filial piety were powerful forces in my culture. Ma-ma had never cared for such things and had raised me to pick and choose which traditions to follow, but this wasn’t something I wanted to ignore. I had my mother’s blessing; right now, I should feel more confident about my choice.

“I know Laolao was successful,” I said. “But will I be? I don’t want to fail the memory of my grandmother. Yes, I can cook, but I’m not a professional; I flunked out of culinary school. Can I make the restaurant a success?”

Miss Yu arched her brow and the corners of her lips tugged upward. “You have asked a good question, dear one. Give me your hands.” She placed my palms in hers, squeezing warmth and reassurance into them.

She closed her eyes. A rush of wind teased the leaves and stirred the blooms, releasing both fragrance and petals of varying size into the air; soaring, swirling like ethereal butterflies into the dark sky. Peonies. Jasmine. Tieguanyin. I drew the heady scent into my lungs, imprinting the memory of this moment into my consciousness.

A hush grew, swelling like a cresting wave, quieting the leaves into stillness. “The restaurant will only succeed if you rebuild the connections of what was once lost.” Miss Yu spoke as if in a trance. “The businesses on the street are dying and so shall your endeavor, if you fail. Read your grandmother’s book. The dishes from Qiao’s wok transformed the ordinary and soothed all ailments. You must cook three recipes from the book to help three of your neighbors, as your laolao did in the past. Your success is tied to them, their businesses, and the community. You are one of them. If they fail, you will fail. If you save them, the restaurant will once again be the jewel of Chinatown, and vitality will return to the neighborhood.”

A snowfall of flowers ushered in her final words, like falling stars in the night garden against a backdrop of golden fireflies. Stray petals landed on my hair and my cheeks. It tickled. A giggle escaped my throat. Miss Yu smiled and held her hands open, catching the petals in heaps to deposit into a large wooden bowl she placed on the table. I followed suit, gathering all of the fallen blossoms until there were no traces of white left anywhere.

“I will dry this and make it into tea. Stop by the shop and I’ll give you a large tin.” She moved the bowl to her right. “Besides that, I’m afraid I do not have any other insights to share. I am only the messenger.”

Three recipes to help three neighbors. How would I know which dishes to cook—or which neighbors? I didn’t know them well enough to even begin to pry into their private lives. If I was being honest, nor did I have the inclination. Where had they been when I needed them? Why should I help them now?

Miss Yu patted my hand. “I’m confident you can fulfill the prophecy and succeed.” She traced one of the lines in my palm. “As I said before, the women in your family possess great strength. It’s how your grandmother survived after leaving China. Strange new world, new people, new language, with nothing but her ability to cook. Qiao’s food brought the community together, and in time, she was able to buy the building for your family.”

I closed my eyes. My grandmother had known her path much earlier in life, but she’d had exceptional culinary skills that I was sure overshadowed my own. Miss Yu’s smile calmed me. “It’s not only the businesses, it’s also the people that are suffering. I have the utmost confidence you will help. You have all the tools to succeed with the restaurant.”

And the solution lay in Laolao’s recipe book. I had to open the restaurant because this was what I was meant to do. I had found my purpose.

In the privacy of the apartment, I finally hugged the thick book to my chest. This was an heirloom—a piece of my history that I never knew existed. Laolao, the grandmother I had longed for as a lonely child, seemed more real to me now than she had ever been in my entire life. Reopening the restaurant could only bring me closer to her.

The book contained the recipes I had to cook for my neighbors. But how would I possibly be able to solve their problems?

The supple leather cover was pliant under my fingertips, the shade of cinnamon rooibos tea with a faint filigree pattern tattooed on the front. I traced it with my fingers. The more I rubbed, the more prominent the design became, transforming into ridges and valleys. The fragrance of dishes sizzled in the air: spring rolls, sweet chili prawns, steamed crabs. My stomach growled again.

The recipe book was coming alive.

Laolao.

I turned the page and read the first recipe.

Baby Oyster Omelets

Potato starch

Water

Egg

Salt

Ground black pepper

Bean sprouts

Green onions

Baby oysters

Mix the potato starch, water, egg, salt, and pepper into one bowl. Stir well until it becomes sticky. Administer the following test: take a spoonful and drip the mixture back into the bowl. The viscosity must be like honey: smooth, but not too sticky or runny.

Add the bean sprouts and chopped green onions. Stir until blended. The color of the mixture should remind you of sunshine and the green grass of summer.

Heat the oil in the wok. Using a small shallow bowl for portions, fill the bowl with the mixture, and add five to seven baby oysters per portion.

Pour it into the heated wok. Fry until the edges turn into golden lace, then flip over, wait for half a minute for the other side to cook, then serve with ketchup, hot sauce, or fish sauce.

Note:

This recipe is for the crestfallen, the unsmiling, and the ones who need sunshine in their souls. If a customer has a difficult day, this will help raise their spirits.

I served this to an unsmiling Shao, a young man who worked at the warehouses. I had never seen a person more devoid of happiness. After he tasted the dish, he confessed to me how his wife and children were still in China and he wanted to bring them over. I encouraged him to keep his hope alive for his family. He returned once a week to eat the omelets and to chat. Sixteen years later, his family sat at my counter and ate the very same meal.

I knew this recipe. Ma-ma prepared it every spring. She and I both loved oysters. The aroma of the dish rose from the pages as if the fluffy omelets were cooking nearby. I flipped through the book, unleashing scents of fragrant meals. As I scanned the lower half of each page, I realized that each recipe was like a prescription of sorts to aid people in need.

Miss Yu had mentioned that Laolao was a healer. This must be what Miss Yu was talking about. No wonder Laolao was able to help so many people in her time. All I needed was to figure out what was wrong, and these recipes would act as the remedies so I could help out the neighbors.

I dove into the book, reading, learning, and at times, laughing over Laolao’s anecdotes. My grandmother had been fearless—a pioneer who’d wanted the best for others and herself. My admiration for her was tempered by the realization that Ma-ma might have found it challenging to live with such a formidable force. Despite her delicate temperament, Ma-ma had been strong and stubborn to a fault. A dragon pitted against a stone lotus.

Would I have been caught in between them if I’d grown up with both of them in my life?

In the middle of the book, there were three missing pages, evident by the ragged edges standing out as scars. What had happened here? My fingernails picked at the torn paper. The damage seemed to have been done in an act of anger, ripped out forcefully rather than carefully removed. Though the book brimmed full of recipes, I couldn’t help but mourn the missing three. Why had Laolao torn out recipes from her own book?

I continued to read, hoping to find the loose pages tucked within, but in the end, there was no sign of the missing pages. I closed the book to the relief of my protesting stomach. I had eaten dinner before seeing Miss Yu, but that now seemed like a very long time ago.

Fulfilling the prophecy would not only help the neighborhood, but also perhaps help me discover more about my grandmother. I supposed that even if they hadn’t been there for me, it wasn’t right that the residents and their families should suffer. This street had been my home: its current state broke my heart. I had lived so long with just my mother that it was easy to forget that the family tree extended beyond us. Connections. Laolao fostered them; maybe it was what I should be working to achieve by helping the neighbors out.

In my time away, I found myself connecting to my culture wherever I traveled, but never missing the community I’d left back home. Perhaps living with my mother in isolation for so long had prevented me from forming any bonds. Ma-ma had taught me to be independent almost to a fault. But if I were to open the restaurant, I would be a part of the neighborhood now, be one of them. Maybe it was time to reconsider how I felt about this.

I pulled the recipe book close, leafing through its pages once more. I stopped when my fingers caught an edge on the end cover. The tome was hand bound with the leather stretched taut over the spine. The adhesive on the back had worn away, revealing an old photograph tucked inside. This must be why I missed it the first time I went through the book.

I had never seen this picture before. The woman in it stared back at me. Her face was masculine with a strong jaw and high cheekbones, but softened by the doe eyes that Ma-ma and I shared. A tiny mole hovered near her left eyebrow. Her direct gaze displayed an unmistakable surety of self. She was beautiful. Laolao. A sob escaped my lips. This was my grandmother, Qiao. I pressed my hand against my chest.

I should place her photo at the family shrine, but she belonged here in these pages. This was her book, her recipes, her life. With the recipe book open and her photograph in full view, I smiled at her. I could finally pair a face with her name. I wished I’d had the chance to know her.

It was late. I tucked Laolao’s photograph back into her recipe book. Meimei crawled onto my lap. When I went to sleep that night, I dreamt of cooking alongside Laolao with Ma-ma hovering by the kitchen table to watch.

The next morning, I was ready to play intrepid detective. The cat followed me around the apartment like a puppy as I prepared to take a stroll outside. Last night, she had curled up around my head when I fell asleep. The apartment felt less empty due to my newfound feline companionship. I didn’t know that four pounds of fluff could make such a difference. I kissed her goodbye and stepped outside.

When I had left, to say that I didn’t like the neighbors would be a polite understatement. I hated them for not offering to help me and Ma-ma for so many years. I hated them for not visiting her. I hated them for treating her like a pariah because of her condition. But spending time with Celia had softened my stance a bit. Maybe it was time to move on.

Now I just had to figure out whose problems I needed to solve.

I headed for Older Shen’s bookstore.

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