The Astonishing Color of After(33)

Waipo wanders over to the other side of the temple, and Feng follows her.

The relief of being alone comes like the cold side of my pillow on a restless night. When their backs are turned, I reach for the bwabwei. The moment my fingers touch the two moons, a shiver blooms against my neck.

Fear makes me hesitate. I throw the blocks anyway. As they turn in the air above me, I ask:

Is the bird here?

One lands faceup. One lands facedown.

The answer is yes.





34





The moon blocks said the bird was there. But I walked every inch of that temple, even the little offices where it didn’t look like I should be allowed in, and still I found nothing. Not one sign of my mother.

After lunch and back at the apartment, Waipo stands over a bamboo tray, cutting into a vacuum-sealed package of tea. It’s the tea from Feng’s box. She’s saying something, but I don’t understand.

“Popo says every set of leaves has their own story,” Feng translates.

My grandmother holds the package to her nose and inhales deeply, sighing the air back out. Her face full of cobalt contentment.

“You never drink this in America, right?” says Feng.

“I do, actually. You can get Asian teas in the States. And, like, Chinese restaurants always serve tea.” I try to swallow the instinct to be defensive.

“Well, you probably haven’t had this. This is Dong Ding oolong tea,” Feng explains eagerly, her eyes gleaming. “I got it because it’s Popo’s favorite.”

The way she grins at me as she says that last word makes my jaw clench. Is she trying to prove a point? Show that she knows my family better than me? It’s hard not to look at her since she’s sitting directly across from me, but I drop my gaze, try to ignore the sap-green irritation dripping through my insides.

Waipo arranges the cups in a line, handling them like fragile pieces of art. There are only three cups out; Feng made a big stink about how tea has been disagreeing with her stomach. I guess she brought the tea just to suck up.

My grandmother distributes the brew by pouring a continuous stream from left to right, excess water trickling down the sides of the cups, through the slats of the bamboo tray.

I reach for a cup, but my grandmother shakes her head.

“Hai mei,” she says. Not yet. With wooden tongs, she tips each cup by its edge, empties it over the tray.

“That was just a wash,” Feng explains, setting a hand on my arm, her long floral sleeve tickling me. “These are the steps in the laoren cha tradition.”

I shift out from under her touch. “Right.”

Waigong traces figure eights against the surface of the table, his finger tracking through a spot of water, dragging it left, dragging it right. He catches my eye and winks, and a bit of my tension ebbs.

Another round of water from the kettle. This time my grandmother lets the leaves sit. The usual tremor in her hands gone—in making tea they’re deft and stilled by certainty. She stands over us with a confidence in her shoulders I’ve never seen. Her fingers are older and softer versions of the hands I knew so well, hands that shaped the dough for danhuang su and mixed batter to pour into the waffle iron.

My grandmother. My mother. Both of them so careful, so full of love. How did they end up so cut off from each other?

When Waipo pours the tea again, the stream that flows forth is reddish brown.

Feng takes in a deep breath. “Mmm. It smells divine. Did your mother brew tea for you a lot?”

Mom was never this particular about the tea she made, but once I caught her standing at the kitchen counter for a long and quiet moment, sifting through the wet leaves with her fingers. She dug them from the belly of the pot, rubbed at the pieces in her palms. It seemed that she was deep in thought, trying to remember something.

The idea hits me then—the tea. The leaves my grandmother carefully spooned out of the foil. The leaves she so lovingly handled, whose smell she inhaled through her knuckles, pressing her fingers to her nose and closing her eyes. Nobody will notice if I take them.

Waipo brings out trays of passion fruit with the tops sawed off. The pulp inside is sunny and glistening, tart like citrus but also refreshingly sweet, and we scoop it out with tiny silver spoons.

“I think this should be a new family tradition,” says Feng, watching me crunch on the dark seeds. “Afternoon tea and passion fruit.”

The green feeling goes hot, and closes around me like a shell, like armor, and I swallow and set my spoon down. “Why?”

“Why not?” she says, her voice a tad too cheerful. “I think family traditions are important.”

“We’ve got plenty of traditions,” I reply.

“But you don’t have any with Popo,” she says.

I don’t know what to say to that. Waipo and Waigong look at me almost expectantly, even though I know they haven’t been following the conversation. They can’t understand what Feng and I have been talking about.

“It can be a tradition for all of us,” Feng tries again.

The thought of her inserting herself into this family that I already barely feel a part of turns me coppery and mean. I pick up my tea and exhale into the cup, letting the steam press against my face.

When the husks of fruit are empty and we’ve all had about eight servings of tea, I follow Waipo back into the kitchen. Together, we wash the cups and the spoons, return things to their cabinets. As she reaches for the teapot, I wave her off, and she smiles, understanding that I’ll take care of it.