Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(10)

“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.