Outrun the Moon(91)

Katie pulls Harry to her feet. “We’ll take the pedestrian path, Mercy. Catch up with us when you’re ready.”

I carry myself off to Ah-Suk’s tent, knowing it is Tom that troubles him. Surely Ah-Suk has forgiven him, how could he not, under the circumstances? It would be like an ant trying to hold onto a crumb while the rug gets shaken. Sometimes you have to let go in order to hang on.

I exchange greetings with the Pangs, then duck into Ah-Suk’s tent. The canvas in the herbalist’s tent is pulled tight as a sail. A rolled blanket nestles against the suitcase, the only two items in sight.

I set down the dishes to undo the clasps on the case, which only grudgingly give way. The waxy packages inside give off complicated earthy aromas. Ah-Suk packed this medicine chest for Tom, even including his best high-shelf tea set.

“He misses you more than you know,” I whisper.

A folded paper lies flush with one side of the case. I recognize Tom’s perfect handwriting—it’s the note he left his father. I finger the crisp paper. Just seeing his writing twists me sideways, and squeezes out my breathe. My emotions take little jabs at me, like a hundred fists. Regret, love, anger, fear, and even a little bit of longing, though I hate myself for that last one. Don’t wait for me, he said. Don’t wait.

Letters are private.

Yet . . . did Ah-Suk want me to find it here? Is that why he sent me on this unusual errand? I stroke a finger over the fold in the parchment.

Perhaps I’ll just skim the contents for anything important about where he might be.

The crinkle of paper sounds like the tsch of Ma’s tongue.

I skip the parts where Tom apologizes to his father, as well as remembers his mother. My eye catches on the characters of my name, which includes the word for heart.

I have thought about what you said about Mercy. It is true, she deserves a husband with good prospects and a dependable job, someone who commands high respect in the community. But you taught me there are many ways to treat a cough. Different formulations can arrive at the same result, like paths to a city.

I cannot be an herbalist, Ba. But that doesn’t mean I can’t make something good of myself. In fairness, I will not put hopes in Mercy’s heart. I will only endeavor to make my own path and hope it leads me back to her one day.

The letter drops from my hand like a hot freshly ironed shirt. Tom didn’t think he was worthy? Of me? I’m caught between a laugh and a moan.

Sometimes, Tom, your head really is in the clouds.

I sniff loudly and read it again. Then I carefully replace the letter in the case.

I should’ve seen through Tom’s last words to me. He wore his lie like an itchy shirt, even half lies made him scratchy around the collar. I’d known he wasn’t acting himself. Ah-Suk must have felt so guilty when Tom left, never expecting that his words would drive his son away.

When at last I throw open the tent flap, clutching the water sprite tea, the midmorning breeze stings my still wet face, and I feel as exposed as a shellfish spit up from the sea. Maybe everyone can read the joy smearing my cheeks, or the worry that sits on my chin.

Like that day at the beach, I had let go of Tom’s hand, but Tom had not let go of mine. He cares.

I repeat it over and over until I finally believe it.

The sight of Elodie leading a black horse toward the lake cuts me off at the knees. It’s Winter, Ah-Suk’s draft horse. I hurry to them.

Elodie wipes a hand on her trousers. “Someone needs to teach this horse some manners. It just slobbered on me.”

“Who brought him?”

“Mr. Cruz—”

The astonished eyes of strangers track me as I run the rest of the way back to camp, the tea clasped tightly to my chest. Maybe the Portuguese man has news of Ba.

Three crates have been arranged in a conversational triangle with Ah-Suk and Headmistress Crouch on two of them, and Mr. Cruz on the third, his leg stretched to the side. Soot clings to the folds of his neck. His straw hat is singed at the back, and the scent of smoke and sweat radiates off him.

Despite his worn-out condition, he manages to laugh. “Why am I not surprised to see you entertaining the ladies while the rest of the world is falling to pieces?” he barks in Cantonese.

Headmistress Crouch stares at the newcomer with the openmouthed look of someone who has seen a two-headed goat. Though Mr. Cruz is half Chinese, he looks more Portuguese with his strong nose and hairy face. It must be strange for her to see him speak our tongue.

“Ah, here’s Mercy,” says Mr. Cruz, switching to English. “I am glad to see you well.”

“Si-foo, have you seen my father?” I blurt out.

Mr. Cruz shakes his head. “No, Mercy. Your father has not been accounted for.” He pulls a journal out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve been keeping my own records in here. I’m afraid our association has been disbanded. Ng and Just Bob are at Jefferson Square. Leung and Chow did not make it.”

For a moment, I can hear nothing but the beating of my heart. Mr. Leung and Mr. Chow were honest and kind, and I hope it was quick, though I fear it was not. Ah-Suk stares through his worn shoes. We do not discuss the fallen men in front of strangers since that would be disrespectful to the dead.

Francesca briskly stirs a bowl of oatmeal, then hands it to Mr. Cruz, who nods his thanks.

Ah-Suk takes the journal from Mr. Cruz and studies the pages. For a moment, the only sounds are his grunting as he reads interspersed by the flipping of pages.