Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(71)

“Miranda was always one of those people who spoke little, but she had a sharp mind. I often wondered what she was thinking at any given time. I imagine that what she wrote in those diaries will give you some sort of closure, or even a better understanding of who she was as a woman. And maybe it’ll show you more about her relationship with your father. It was too painful for her to tell you when she was alive.”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Since I don’t have a hot date tonight, I’ll keep you company.” Celia pulled out her cell. “I’ll cook. Do you want pizza or Thai?”



* * *





?I went through three more journals with no additional insight into my father. They seemed to jump back and forth in time to reflect whatever was on Ma-ma’s mind. However, there were many entries detailing her depression, which were heartrending to read.


Sadness isn’t something I can ever shake.

Wherever I go, she follows.

She ties me to the bed and holds me down until I have no energy to get up. She robs me of any small joy like stealing the sweetness away from sticky sesame balls or the tangy note from sliced green mangoes.

If I could banish her, I would.

Yet I’m afraid.

I fear she is a part of me.

We will never be separated.



I reached for the kettle to pour myself another cup of tea. “I wish Ma-ma had gotten help.”

Mental illness was a foreign concept in my culture. To my people, superstitions were more real than depression or anxiety. Instead of therapists, we saw doctors, herbalists, feng shui consultants, and acupuncturists. We would rather believe in spirits, luck, ghosts, and demons than the discipline of psychology. Perhaps it wasn’t that my grandmother had refused to see my mother’s condition, but rather that she could not see it.

“Your grandmother was from another generation. Was it possible? Sure. Unlikely? More so.” Celia sighed. “The only thing you can do for Miranda now is to listen.”

After the pizza ran out and the hour grew late, I sent Celia home with the reassurance that I would contact her if I needed anything. Besides, I wasn’t alone. The cat curled around my belly as I read. The more pages I consumed, the more I began to realize that I was more like my grandmother in terms of personality than I was like my mother. Laolao found happiness in cooking and felt the call to help those around her. If my grandmother had been alive when I was a child, perhaps I could have helped heal the fracture between her and Ma-ma.

The second to last journal meandered back and forth in mood between anxious ramblings and Ma-ma’s depression after Laolao’s death. As painful as it was to read, I kept turning the pages, hoping and wishing that I would read about Ma-ma experiencing joy again. The tone of her writings changed at the end. I sat up, jarring the napping cat from my belly.


Oh my love, you give me such joy.

I knew you were the one when I first heard your voice.

Nothing made me happier.

I never thought I could ever be in love.



This could only be about my father. My stomach clenched at the thought of what I might find in these pages. I didn’t want to learn about him, but I couldn’t help but keep going. As I read, I was submerged into my mother’s first foray into love—happy, hopeful, infatuated. The journals existed out of time, with stories of their courtship intermingled with vignettes of their marriage. He’d made her happy once, only to break her heart afterward. All I remembered was Ma-ma’s sorrow, pain, and anger. The triumvirate of emotions tugged at my throat, reaching down into my heart as it locked my limbs into place.





Chapter Twenty-seven





Mother, if you could only see what I see.

Push aside your rash judgments.

Give him a chance.

He makes me so happy.

Please.



“Laolao didn’t approve of Ma-ma’s husband,” I murmured to the cat before taking another sip of the tea. “Can’t say I’m surprised, since I don’t like him either.”

The cat placed a paw of solidarity on my chest.

“He should have been there for her. She needed him.”

Meimei tapped her paw.

“I know that I should let it go. Anger poisons.”

Father. No other word caused me more rage and anguish. As a child, I’d fielded questions about my absentee parent, swatting them away like fruit flies in the heat of summer. The questions stopped when I claimed he was dead. It wasn’t a lie because it was plausible. And while I had asked the neighbors about my grandmother because I wanted to know more, I never asked about my father because I was afraid of what they might say: that he never really loved my mother, and that he wouldn’t have loved me.

My fingers found the place where I’d left off. Ma-ma’s diaries shone a spotlight on the creature I kept in the darkness, fattened by hatred and bitterness. Since I was a child, I had considered my father a monster. It seemed it was time for me to confront him through my mother’s eyes.


Mother, do you remember the morning we decided to elope?

I wanted to leave, but he wouldn’t allow me to go without telling you. He insisted. He didn’t want our relationship to suffer.

You never cared for him, but he held you in great esteem.