The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(94)

She glanced up as night fighters, P-40s with Chinese pilots who joined the ranks of the American Volunteer Group, roared overhead. In their wake, cinders from distant fires began to rain from the sky. Faye remembered how last month a textile plant had been hit and the subsequent inferno sent pieces of burning silk into the heavens, where they floated on the heat before drifting down, gently settling upon the muddy streets like brightly colored snow. Everything here falls apart.

She heard footsteps and noticed the monk she’d met before.

Like the other townspeople, he too had become inured to the bombing on the horizon. He hastened down the street, walking briskly, but not panicked, not yet.

Faye ran after him, barely avoiding a honking Willys jeep as she wove her way through a small parade of handcarts pulled by merchants who had been selling their wares in an open-air market. The men and women, and in some cases entire families, packed up and were now heading home or to destinations away from the bombing.

The monk was heading in the other direction, swimming upstream against the current of humanity. As Faye followed him, she caught a faint breeze that smelled like camellia and plum blossoms, so light she wondered if she was imagining it. The fragrance was a welcome respite from the harsh odor of benzene and petrol smoke.

When she saw him go inside a small Buddhist temple, she hesitated. She hadn’t been to a temple, or any shrine for that matter, since she was a girl in Canton. For years her mother, Lai King, had implored her to at least go during the Lunar New Year.

But Faye never felt as though she belonged in a place so reverent. Because in her teens, she had brought shame to her family, something she never spoke about, never allowed herself to think about. In that absence of thought, the memory faded away, like a god whose existence depends on someone remembering them. Since then she had moved forward. Becoming a nurse, living her life, traveling and helping others, and with each of those actions, those efforts, she sought redemption.

“Why don’t you come with me this year?” her ah-ma asked the last time they’d been together. “Just once before you leave for wherever it is you’re going this time. You don’t have to stay long, you could simply light prayer sticks as an offering. You create good karma that way. It will help you when you travel.”

Karma.

“You know why I don’t go,” Faye said.

She looked at her mother and the two exchanged knowing glances, replaying old records, sad lullabies. “Please don’t make me speak of it,” Faye said as a painful memory washed over her, and when it did she felt as though she were drowning.

The memory was of when she was fourteen.

That was when she didn’t leave the confines of her home—not once—for an entire year. The year her father couldn’t look her in the eye. The year her mother took care of her but struggled to hide her disappointment. Because that was the year Faye carried a child that belonged to an older boy who had charmed her, lied to her, and then abandoned her. He lived elsewhere and vowed to return, but when he learned that she had given birth to a baby girl, she never heard from him again.

In the days that followed, Faye remained silent as her parents said they’d found a new home for the baby. Faye didn’t argue. She didn’t fight for her daughter. She felt unworthy of being a mother, because no one of worth wanted her.

In the aftermath, Faye’s parents acted as if that entire year had never happened. Though she eventually realized they weren’t ashamed, they were just worried. That they cared enough to send her to a university so she could become a nurse. They were so proud of her, yet they avoided the subject whenever someone mentioned the possibility of an arranged marriage, leaving her to hold out for a love marriage that never came. There were widowed men who wanted a caretaker for their children. There were boys from unlucky homes who were deemed unfit for a traditional marriage. Then there were outright scoundrels, men who seemed charming and generous and showered her with conditional affection. But Faye swore to never again be so na?ve. She would avoid infatuation and the trouble and heartache that came with it. She refused to settle for just anyone, which sounded brave and noble to some, proud and stubborn to others. But she knew it was merely a way to reframe her perpetual spinsterhood.

Faye stared at the ornate temple door and sighed. When women bled they were discouraged from visiting sacred places, because their prayers would fall on deaf ears. Surely the prayers of a woman who gave away her newborn daughter would always be wasted. Despite her apprehension, she wanted to talk to the monk. If only so she could speak to someone who wouldn’t think she was completely mad.

She knocked softly, timidly, then opened the door as small bells announced her presence. She stepped inside, saw a warm glow down the hall, felt the warmth of a fire. She could smell gardenias and the minty, pine scent of eucalyptus.

Faye heard footsteps, then the monk appeared, mildly surprised.

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to see you again. If you’re seeking shelter, I don’t think the bombers can reach this part of the city, which is well defended. Though you’re more than welcome to join me for tea. Is something amiss at the morgue?”

I think. I wish. I don’t know anymore.

“Everything is fine,” Faye said.

She thanked him for his offer, but her tone was laced with apology. She felt like an interloper, an uninvited guest at someone else’s holiday feast. She felt shame.

What am I doing?