Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(60)

Clusters of ceramic birds were perched on every shelf. Her obsession had brought her happiness, so I’d fed it. The tiki bird from French Polynesia nested beside a delft bluebird from the Netherlands. One of my favorites was a glass rainbow macaw from an Argentinian artist that mimicked the vibrant barrios of Buenos Aires. Since the sixth grade, I’d given her one every year until I’d left: eight birds in total.

As I lifted each member of her extensive bird collection, I imagined Ma-ma was with me, telling a story about each one. There were no signs of dust anywhere; cleanliness had been her religion. I counted eighty-eight birds in total. Ma-ma had been busy collecting while I was gone.

I couldn’t deny that every time I saw a beautiful feathered creature in figurine form, I thought of my mother. If only I’d sent her one, even a single bird, from my travels, it could have been the precursor to establishing communication once more.

Ma-ma had spoken to her birds often, especially when she cleaned them every Saturday morning. I had imagined she was some fairy-tale princess in the Black Forest holding court over an avian kingdom.

I was tempted to speak to them now, but I didn’t want to be the one to convey the loss of their queen.

Suddenly, however, Ma-ma’s collection stirred.

It began as a single chirp, a mournful cry swelling into a chorus. The figurines burst into song, tiny beaks opening, chests puffed, to release a somber tribute to their departed beloved. The tune was unfamiliar, yet its melancholy was palpable, rising, surging until the final trill when every bird bowed their heads toward the empty bed, frozen as if they hadn’t sung seconds before.

I thanked them for the happiness they’d bestowed on Ma-ma.

I fell backward onto the bed with my arms spread-eagle. A soft purr rumbled near my ear. Meimei had hopped across the bed to join me, and curled against my side. “She’s really gone,” I whispered to the cat. “I bet you miss her as much as I do.”

The ache in my heart swelled, pushing against my ribs. Ma-ma should have been here waiting for me. If I had returned while she was still alive, would she have flitted to the toaster, happily tearing up the letter before I could see it? My chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Tears threatened to drown me again, so I gathered my thoughts and remembered why I’d come in here: to search for the rest of Ma-ma’s journals.

I rose and crouched down to my knees to peer under the bed. Labeled shoeboxes formed an impenetrable wall. Every single one had my name on it: artwork, report cards, essays, and school projects from over the years.

She had saved them all.

I opened more boxes and unearthed all sorts of financial records. Everything was organized with multiple copies. She had even kept Laolao’s old permits and licenses for the restaurant. I set that folder aside for further study.

Ma-ma had squirreled an unlabeled box between a fortress of tax returns and old Time magazines. I opened it and counted fifteen black spiral notebooks chronicling her life from her teenage years up until her death a few weeks ago. The crumpled page I’d found in the toaster must have been ripped from one of these books. I wondered why she decided to place it in there. Was it a bread crumb to lead me to find the others?

Judging from the last journal’s entries, she had written on an erratic schedule, but nevertheless, it was regular enough to fill all these books.

I pulled the box out from under the bed, placing Laolao’s folder on top. Meimei, being the cat she is, hopped onto the box, and came along for the impromptu ride to the living room.

How should I read Ma-ma’s life? From the beginning, as I would any story, or from the end where we had parted? Her letter answered any questions I’d had about whether she’d regretted the past seven years of silence between us. My eyes traveled to the worn folder full of permits. The restaurant. Laolao. Ma-ma had mentioned in her letter that she, too, had quarreled with her own mother.

On the coffee table, I arranged the journals into stacks with the oldest first. Perhaps the earlier ones would contain a clue about Laolao and her recipe book. I pulled the first book from the pile and began to read.


Some of the most magical times are when I watch Mother and Mr. Wu cook together in our kitchen. It looks like they’re culinary wizards performing some sort of alchemy.

Oh, the aromas they can conjure.

They often allow me to taste the new dishes after they both critique them. Mother makes adjustments and writes them down in her book.

Mother, I wonder if you know how Mr. Wu looks at you.

He holds you in the highest regard. I’m sure he would present you with his heart if you’d give him a chance. He has never said anything, probably because he fears it would jeopardize your friendship.

Why doesn’t he say anything?

Does he need to?

Mother, do you already know?

This must be one of those situations where love can never be.



Old Wu. He was here testing recipes with Laolao. And he knew about the recipe book, but wouldn’t answer my questions. Why? Perhaps because I hadn’t earned his respect yet.

He loved Laolao. No wonder he snapped when I started questioning her cooking.

With Ma-ma gone, he was the only one left who knew my grandmother. He cooked with her. He’d been there when Laolao wrote down her recipes.

I had to try. I had nothing left to lose. My fingers flew to my collarbones. The crisscross marks there had already healed. I wouldn’t allow him to wound me with his words again. Perhaps the Old Tiger needed to see I shared the same claws as Laolao, though mine were still growing in.