Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(16)

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.





Chapter Seven





Following Chinese tradition, I would pay court to the eldest member of the neighborhood first.

Older Shen was five years older than Ma-ma. Previously, our contact had been limited to his brief, polite inquiries about my mother when I’d run in and out of his shop on errands. Now, like the mummified mammoth at the natural history museum, he seemed ancient and trapped in his own glass case of a store.

Keeping these shops in the family was tradition. The Chiu, Shen, Wu, Deng, and Yu families had lived on this street for more than a century. After the great earthquake of 1906 decimated the neighborhood, the families had rebuilt their businesses as the city did the same. They had survived the Tong Wars and outlived the diasporas, and now their roots ran underneath Grant Avenue, anchored by the Dragon’s Gate, the great paifang.

Immigrants flocked to Chinatown, got their start here, prospered, and moved out after having achieved their American dream. To me, the ones who stayed should be commended for their endurance. They helped foster the influx of newcomers against the foibles of the economy.

As I reached the door, Melody Minnows emerged with a smile on her face. “Oh hi, Natalie! I was wondering if you’ve changed your mind. I just finished talking to Mr. Shen. We need a facelift, a jolt, to get this area going again. Can you imagine a hot yoga studio here? I have so many buyers interested. It really is the best time to sell.”

Before I could reply, her phone beeped and she excused herself as she made her way toward Miss Yu’s tea shop. Although I hated her motives, I couldn’t fault her tenacity. If only she were working to help the businesses here instead of trying to sell each property to the highest bidder. For now, I would avoid her. I had made my decision to open the restaurant and would do whatever I could to make that happen. I just hoped the rest of the neighbors would not fall prey to her aggressive techniques in the meantime.