Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(6)

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.