American Panda(57)
I collected my things and stood. “Thanks for coming with me. I’m sorry it was such a disaster.”
“Mei, wait! Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll take you home.”
I nodded, then scurried out the door, assuming he was close behind. The cab ride was silent—awkward this time—with Darren sneaking worried glances at me as I pretended not to notice.
As we neared campus, I finally spoke—to my lap, because I was unable to look at him. “I’m really sorry about today.”
He grabbed my limp hand. “I’m here for you, Mei. You’re not alone.”
“How can you even want to be in the same car as me after seeing my aunt?”
He puffed out a breath, the fog disappearing as quickly as my happiness had. But before he could say anything—I didn’t think I could take it, whatever it was—I slipped my palm from his, reluctant but determined.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” I forced my gaze to meet his. “I’m doing this for you, so you don’t have to go through what Esther did. I think it’d just be easier. For your sake. For both our sakes.”
“When are you going to stop fighting who are you? What you want?” He shook his head over and over. “Don’t do this.”
We pulled up to Burton Conner. “I’m really sorry.”
I exited the car before he could stop me, and before I could change my mind.
Voicemail from my mother
Mei? It’s your mǔqīn. Bǎbá doesn’t want you to come. <pause> I’m not the one who told you this, but . . . the Chuang Funeral Home. In Chinatown. Saturday at noon. Come late and sneak in so he doesn’t see you.
CHAPTER 23
GOOD-BYE
I TOOK MY MOTHER’S ADVICE and went to the funeral late so I could slip in with the crowd, hopefully unseen by my father and aunt. In what screwed-up world did the granddaughter have to sneak into her grandmother’s funeral to hide from her family? But today wasn’t about all that crap. It was about saying good-bye to Nǎinai.
“What are you?” the cabdriver asked me in an Eastern European accent. “Like, as in, ethnicity.”
“Chinese.”
“No, you can’t be. You much too big to be Chinese.”
“Well, you’re too rude to deserve a tip.” Why did everyone think anything above size zero was obese for Asians? I glared at him, hoping he would see in the rearview mirror.
Fifty dollars later, I arrived at the funeral home. I was too spent to argue with the jerk about driving ten miles out of the way. I threw cash in the front seat as I exited, no tip as promised.
Outside the funeral home, I paused. The pagoda-shaped entrance was from one of my two worlds, the one in which I didn’t belong.
I looked at the buildings across the street, outside Chinatown. Tufts Medical Center. The W Hotel. McDonald’s. I didn’t belong in that world, either.
Roommate number one’s harsh words echoed in my mind, reverberating louder and louder. Even my grandparents hadn’t belonged anywhere, driven out of China by the Communists, yet foreigners in Taiwan. Maybe I was destined to be lost, just like them.
My legs numbly carried me inside. The funeral home was dark and I relaxed slightly. The dimness matched my mood and masked my presence, almost as if I were a bystander, watching instead of partaking. I felt like an intruder.
The memorial service had begun, and the small space was filled with vaguely familiar faces. Despite the cold, the door was propped open so Nǎinai’s spirit could come in. The guests chanted amid the chiming of bells, and the discordant sounds mixed to become, somehow, concordant. Cloaked by the darkness, I slipped through the sea of black to the back corner. Sticky-sweet smoke filled the room and my lungs as guests approached the casket one by one to bow and light their incense. Before rejoining the crowd, they jumped over a fire and ate a peanut to cleanse their soul.
These traditions—they were about respect. Devised to mean something, like how an engagement ring symbolized commitment and a wedding ring, love. The more traditions you were willing to go out of your way to do, the more you respected the deceased. For a family who didn’t stress affection or communication, maybe this was the only way to convey emotion. They believed Nǎinai’s soul was here, watching, so in death they were finally ready to show how much they cared. I would’ve felt so much better if I could believe Nǎinai to be here, listening, so I could have one last chance to make amends. But to me she was gone.
Someone wailed in Chinese, “Huílái ba,” over and over, trying to guide Nǎinai’s soul home. The dissonant phrase, louder, longer, and more urgent than the chanting, broke through my thoughts and returned me to the present.
The room hushed, and the guests filed out the open door into the courtyard to burn paper clothes, mansions, and furniture for Nǎinai to have in the afterlife. If an insufficient amount was burned, Nǎinai’s impecunious soul would haunt her family and friends’ dreams in revenge, complaining of hunger and cold.
I remained in my hiding spot until the room emptied. And finally, I took a step out of the darkness into the candlelight.
Nǎinai’s abandoned walker was parked beside the open casket, a single black bow looped around the handles. A lump formed in my throat.
The altar on the far wall was filled with ceremonial bowls, incense, and Nǎinai’s favorite snacks—oranges, mooncakes, and red bean bāos. Between the food, there appeared to be trash, and I wondered why no one had cleaned it up. I crept over to clear the litter and add my offering to the rest.