The Astonishing Color of After(63)

Jingling believes this with absolute certainty: Her sister could be successful, could be famous, could be loved by the world if only they knew who she was. The way her sister mastered entire piano sonatas and concertos with nothing at home to practice on but a broken kitchen table—that was true magic. There is something heavenly in her sister’s fingers. Something the rest of the family doesn’t understand.

“Thank you, Jingling,” says Yuanyang, her voice brimming with relief. “You always know what to do. She’ll listen to you. I’m certain of it.”

Jingling is certain, too, because she knows what she is going to tell her sister: to work hard, yes. To understand her priorities. But also to know that if her priorities are different from those wished upon her by their parents, that’s fine. If they need time—years, even—to understand those priorities, Jingling will at least be there to support her, to make Mama and Baba see that some things are worth dropping everything else for.

Everything gives out, buzzing like static. The darkness comes, then the flash, flipping to a new memory.

Outside the Zhongzheng International Airport, Jingling squeezes her little sister’s wrist. Dory is all grown up, a university girl now, and about to leave the country for the first time. Jingling can hardly believe it. Yuanyang stands behind them, her face twisted with obvious disapproval.

“You’ve got everything you need?” says Jingling.

Dory nods. “I wish you would apply for a program abroad, too. So that we could be in America at the same time.”

Jingling smiles apologetically. “But if I can get through the bulk of my thesis this summer, I’ll be able to graduate early. Save that tuition money.”

A sigh. “I know. You’re right.”

“Go study your music. Go be inspired. The summer will disappear, and soon you’ll be home again.” Jingling’s face is shining with pride for her sister. “I have a present for you.”

Dory’s eyes light up. “What is it?”

“A surprise.” Jingling draws a small box from her pocket. She watches her little sister tug at the cream-colored ribbon, slide off the top. There, shining in smooth stone, in cloudy hues of dark and pale greens: a jade cicada. So intricately carved it looks alive. Any second now it will begin to sing.

“Jingling!” Dory gasps.

“I went to six different merchants to get the perfect cicada,” says Jingling. “I know they’re your favorite.”

“It’s incredible! I’ve never seen one as beautiful as this.” The glittering chain hangs the cicada right in the center of my mother’s sternum, over her heart.

“Mama found the chain,” says Jingling, gesturing toward their mother. “See how it twists? It’s a very special one.”

Dory and their mother lock eyes for the briefest of moments. Yuanyang is the first to look away.

“Thank you,” says Dory. “I’ll wear it every single day.”

The sisters beam at each other.

“I have something for you, too,” says Dory. “We think alike.” She produces her own little box, a rich and lucky red, the top folded like origami.

Jingling grins as she undoes the lid. Pinned down against a little bed of dark velvet: a bracelet of jade ovals like little flower buds, each piece framed in gold.

She clasps the bracelet around her wrist. It looks perfect on her.

Everything is shuddering, earthquaking. The colors inverting. A staticky buzz grows into a roar so loud my ears hurt.

The lights and colors flicker on and off, on and off.

On.

Off.





66





Fall down. Slam into the floor. Cough through the cloud of ashes.

Ashes everywhere, dusting the walls, coating every surface of my room. The floor covered in mounds and swirls, all of them a dead, muted gray.

Sister. My mother has a sister. Where is she?

My grandmother pushes herself up off the bed, looking shaken.

“Waipo,” I start to say.

My mind is fuzzy and aching. What are the words that I need in order to ask my question?

Staggering to her feet, my grandmother crosses the room and lets herself out.

Strewn throughout the ashes: flame-eaten letters, leftover corners that used to be whole photographs. A singed length of string that must have tied together a bundle of envelopes. The original box from the bird, destroyed.

Almost all the incense has been smashed or burned up—I can see the snakes of gray where they fell and embered down to the very end. The few precious sticks that do remain are broken, their lengths uneven.

That net I wove from my shirts has been half consumed, and what’s left of it is charred and disintegrating. Even as I try to see what I can salvage, the fabric breaks apart in my fingers.

I wasn’t supposed to do this, to bring Waipo in; the incense memories were meant only for me. How was I supposed to know?

Each breath is tight, like there’s thick rope wound over my ribs, binding my bones together. A storm starts behind my eyes, shooting a monstrous headache across my temples.

I gather up what I can: just three pieces of incense. Three more chances to call up the memories, see the colors of the past, and try to understand.





67





My phone chimes to alert me to a new email and I couldn’t be more relieved. This is what I need right now. Exactly this kind of distraction, something to take me away from the feeling of ruin and failure.