Mingmei Yip - Petals from the Sky

I patted her hand. “But it’s all over now, Ah-po.”

“Hai!” Chan Lan sighed. “If the man hadn’t died, my niece wouldn’t have become a nun.”

Of course. Then Dai Nam would have gotten married and had children, many many.

“Is that why she became a nun?”

“You bet. She said very painful. She told me if she is a nun, she won’t attach.” Chan Lan studied me for a few seconds. “Miss, you’re smart; do you think they should make that promise?”

I didn’t respond. I was immersed in my own thoughts. Now all the puzzles about Dai Nam seemed to be falling into place. The strenuous cultivation of nonattachment. The agitation behind her seemingly emotionless face. The attractiveness hidden under her plain, oversized clothes and thick glasses. The cold demeanor to seal in her mental turmoil. Burning off her fingers to show nonattachment. Forcing open her third eye to be able to see ghosts-perhaps her boyfriend’s ghost. Her black-painted room. Her awkward squatting poses. Even her suicide attempt was not because she’d broken her vow by eating the wrong cake, but because she was still suffering.

Only at the moment she had pushed herself to the threshold of death was she relieved of her pain.

Buddhists say “to die in order to live.” Suddenly I felt a swell of great compassion for my friend, together with admiration for her love and courage.

I turned back to Chan Lan. “ Ah-po, since Dai Nam’s boyfriend is dead, how can she go to see him?”

“Yes, yes, of course she can!” Chan Lan nodded her head like a pestle hitting on a mortar. “Boyfriend’s grave overgrown with weeds. She went back to tend to it. Gone-three years’ mourning. Also, my nephew-her father-died.”

Now I understood. Chan Lan must have confused Dai Nam’s departure for China now, with her departure a few years ago.

I put one of Chan Lan’s stray hairs into place. “Dai Nam must have loved her boyfriend very dearly.”

Chan Lan spoke again in her shrill, girlish voice. “Yes, yes. She told me the only man good and bad to her in China.”

“What do you mean, good and bad?”

“Ah, you don’t know?” Chan Lan’s eyes twinkled. “He ruined her face when he was a kid; then he repaid his bad karma by being nice to her.” She made a face. “But then he was drowned, so still too much bad karma unpaid!”

I felt a jolt inside. So Dai Nam’s lover was the little boy who’d slashed her face for no reason and left her with the big scar?

Right then a nun approached us, smiling generously and beginning to tease her. “Ah, Chan Lan, you’re gossiping again. Don’t you know it’s time for lunch? The other ah-pos are all waiting for you.” The nun turned to me, still smiling. “Sorry, miss, it’s time for lunch; maybe you can come back and talk to her later?”

As the nun helped Chan Lan to leave, I put my hands together and bowed slightly to both of them.

Chan Lan waved her bony hand, chuckling. “Miss, get married soon and have children, many many.” When she was a few steps away, she turned back. “When you grow old, it’s still better than talking to the four bare walls!”

The nun chided her affectionately. “ Ai-ya! Chan Lan, stop lecturing others all the time!”

Watching the nun’s and Chan Lan’s receding backs, I felt tears roll down my cheeks. Michael’s image emerged clearly in my mind. Again the clouds vanished and the full moon shone, silently reminding me that life is fragile and true love hard to find.

I swore that I would never let go of Let-Go-and-Be-Carefree.

The next day after my meeting with Dai Nam’s great-aunt, I asked Mother to sit down with me to plan for the wedding.

She looked uncomfortable.

“Ma, aren’t you happy that I’m getting married?”

“Of course. But…” She sighed. “I worry because he’s a gweilo.”

“Ma, stop being racist! What’s the difference, as long as Michael’s a nice person? Besides, don’t worry that you can’t get along with him. He knows more about Chinese culture than most Chinese do.”

Mother still looked upset.

Then I told her about Michael’s erudition in Chinese philosophy and art, that he was a good doctor, and finally, how he had saved my life during the fire in the Fragrant Spirit Temple.

“Ah! This gweilo saved your life?”

“Ma, I’ve told you his name is Michael.”

“All right, Mic Ko! So this Mic Ko saved your life and you’ve never told me that.” She paused, seemingly in deep meditation; then suddenly her eyes widened. “But you know what? I think it’s because you’re a lucky girl. Remember the villagers in Yuen Long regarded you as the reincarnation of Guan Yin? That’s why nothing can harm you. First you fell into the well, then this fire. Ah, so lucky, the Goddess of Mercy!” Mother looked at me admiringly while putting a strand of hair on my forehead in place. “So I think you’re the one who saved his life.”

“Ma, don’t be ridiculous, how-”

“Why do daughters never listen to their mothers?” Mother sighed, shaking her head. “Because your aura protected him and made him do the right thing, that’s how.”

I wanted to argue, but stopped myself. If that was what she would like to think, why shouldn’t I just let her enjoy her own notions?

“All right Ma, I saved his life.” I chuckled. “Now why don’t we start to plan for the wedding?”

Without answering me, Mother shot up from the sofa, dashed inside the bedroom, returned with a book in her hand, and plopped it down on the coffee table in front of me.

“What’s that?”

“Tong Sheng, silly girl,” Mother chided affectionately. “You think I’m not thinking about your wedding? I’ve got everything ready.”

I flipped through the book-Tong Sheng, literally “Sure Win,” is the most popular almanac for Chinese astrology. Mother always kept it in the house so she could look up and pick auspicious days, sometimes even moments, to do things right.

For Chinese, picking the right date is essential: for getting married, naming a new baby, starting a business, even starting a fire in the stove or getting a haircut.

“Thank you, Ma,” I said, and, to show my respect for her, helped her to sit down on the sofa.

Then Mother and I, two generations with the same face yet different temperaments, sat beside each other in a respectful manner and turned the pages of destiny.

For the first time we became of one heart and one mind.

“Wait just another moment,” Mother said. This time she hurried into the kitchen and returned with a tray.

She generously covered the coffee table with snacks, her favorites: roast melon seed, fried shrimp chips, pig-fat sweet cake, egg tart; and my favorites: Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut milk chocolate, peanuts coated with fried fish skin, and preserved plums. To my surprise, she even brought out a dozen of my adored ginger flowers.

“To purify the air for relaxation,” she said as she inhaled deeply from the velvety white petals.

“Ma-” I felt tenderness swelling inside. “Thanks for preparing all these.”

Mother chuckled. “Ha, don’t think that your mother is stupid. I’m not. You think I won’t realize that after all, gweilo or not gweilo, you’re getting married?”

Looking happy, Mother began to feast on the watermelon seeds. She would put the seed edgewise between her teeth, crack it open, slip in the whole seed, and spit out the husk in perfect condition, then noisily chew the kernel.

I’d tried, but could never learn how to split and eat the seeds expertly in one fluid movement as she did. I’d let the seed slip and bite my finger, or swallow the seed with the husk, or chew up both the husks and the kernel in an unpleasant-tasting mess.