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.
Upon closer inspection, the scraps of paper and worn trinkets weren’t garbage—they were memories. A crumpled picture of Nǎinai, clearly well loved and often looked at through the years. A receipt from a dinner for two. Figurines of oxen, Nǎinai’s zodiac year and therefore her favorite animal. Maybe Yilong’s hoarding was more than met the eye—it was a way for her to express herself. Similar to how my father showed his love by demanding Nainai’s funeral be here, close to the joint cemetery plot he had purchased years ago after Yéye’s death.
I placed the bottle of multivitamins at the front of the altar and whispered, “Eat your vitamins,” to Nainai one last time.
Clasping my hands in front, I stepped onto the raised platform. Then I stopped breathing.
It was Nǎinai but not. The cadaver’s skin sagged, signaling she was gone. The makeup was caked on, but instead of hiding the lack of life, it drew more attention to it. A tear trailed off my chin onto her cheek.
“Nǎinai,” I whispered, so softly I could barely hear myself. “I’m so sorry.”
My words caught in my throat. I lifted a shaky palm but pulled back before it left my side. We rarely touched before, and now it was too late. The body before me wasn’t her anymore.
“I wish it didn’t end like this. I wish you could hear me right now. I wish you could’ve seen me for who I was—a loving daughter and granddaughter who just wanted to be heard. Wanted to be happy. I wish you could’ve understood, but we’re from two different worlds. Good-bye, Nǎinai. Rest in peace.”
Footsteps. Behind me.
I whirled around. The sight of my mother made the lump in my throat swell. I longed to go to her, but she felt like a stranger.
I held her gaze and she stared back, the moment stretching. My breath blew out hot in the silence.
“You have to go,” she said finally, her face tight with worry. “He’ll know I told you. About the funeral. I wasn’t supposed to.”
That was it? I shook my head in disappointment. “Nǎinai’s gone, you have no children, and that’s the first thing you think of ? You know, I used to think that one day you’d learn to stand up for yourself. Then, when I realized you wouldn’t, I thought—hoped—maybe you’d at least stand up for me. Or Xing. But I’ve finally accepted that it will never happen. Bǎbá is all you have now. And Yilong. I hope you’re happy with the people you’ve chosen.”
More footsteps, heavy and angry this time. My mother’s eyes widened in fear. I didn’t need to turn around to know that I should brace myself for—
“Get out!” Yilong screamed. “You’re not allowed here! You murdered her!”
My father’s face twisted into a deep scowl—brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, and jaw tensed. I glanced at my mother, hoping she had internalized my words, but she merely opened her mouth, no sounds coming out.
Three deep breaths. I concentrated on my chest rising and falling, imagining my lungs filling and emptying of air. I had to calm down before I said something I could never take back.
Yilong grabbed my arm and yanked, causing me to stumble over the step. I fell, catching myself on Nǎinai’s walker.
“Don’t touch that!” Yilong screeched.
I let go, not because she had ordered me to, but because touching the walker felt like touching Nǎinai’s ghost.
I turned to my parents. “Isn’t Nǎinai’s death enough? Can’t we compromise now? I’ll never be able to make up with her—don’t you want better for us?”
My father’s voice was more gravelly than usual. “This isn’t a negotiation. If you want to make up, you know what it takes.”
Air rushed in through my mouth, scratching my sandpaper throat. I said nothing.
He turned his back to me. “Leave. I don’t want you here. Nǎinai doesn’t want you here.”
Something snapped inside me. I found my voice, and I spoke clearly while staring straight into my father’s eyes. “Can’t you see a piece of me dies every time I ignore what I want and just do what you say? I wish you could accept me the way I am.”
In a gust of wind, Xing and Esther walked through the door.
I shouldn’t have been surprised—I was the one who had told them where and when the funeral was—but I had hoped they would disappear into the crowd like I had, not show up at the worst possible moment.
“Get out! Gun!” Yilong yelled. “How dare you bring Nǎinai’s murderer here to rub her dead nose in!”
Xing remained calm, but his eye twitched—a flash of anger I knew to look for. “I want to say good-bye to Nǎinai.”
Yilong turned in a semicircle, pointing first at Xing, then Esther, then me. “None of you belong here. You’re not family.” She clenched her fists, then took a step toward Esther. “This is all your fault!”
Esther instinctively covered her belly with her hand. It was only a second before her arm dropped back to her side, but I noticed. So did my mother, whose eyes were so wide they were about to pop out of their sockets.
Xing’s gaze met my mother’s, and unspoken understanding flickered between them. Joy filled her face, completely out of place in the dim funeral home.
My mother turned to Esther and spoke to her for the first time. Like she was human. “Are you pregnant?”
Even the crickets didn’t chirp. They left the room as fast as they could to avoid the inevitable Lu-suvius eruption.
Suddenly, Esther’s billowy wedding dress, the loose qípáo, Xing’s comment about how his salary was more important now than ever . . . it all made sense.
Xing stepped between Esther and my parents. “None of you will be in his life. You made damn sure of that.”
“His life?” My father’s eyes were glued to the baby bump. “How is this possible? You said she couldn’t get pregnant.”
Xing shook his head. “I never said that. I just said she may have some trouble.”
I threw my hands in the air. “So is this all over now? She’s pregnant. Your one objection is moot. And it’s even a boy. The Lu family line will indeed carry on.”
My father turned away. “Xing still disobeyed us.”
“So did I. I guess that’s it for us, then. No redemption.” I turned to my mother, my last hope. Her eyes were downcast, shoulders slumped.
My voice dropped to a whisper. “Look at all of you, pushing away every relative you have for no good reason. Maybe I should ask myself if I even want to be a part of a family like this. I’m open to reconciliation if we can learn to talk like adults, but until then I’m going to stop trying so hard. Let me know when you’re ready to have a real, open conversation.”
Xing glanced at Esther. “We’ve discussed it and we’re open to reconciliation as well if you apologize.”
I held my breath. He’d finally done it. He’d made the first step. My father had to acknowledge that, be moved enough to take a step forward too, right?
But he just folded his arms across his chest and shook his head.
Xing shrugged as if they were discussing where to have lunch. “Then we’re done here too.”
“This is so ironic,” I said, some spit flying out. “Bǎbá, you disown Xing for disobeying you, not providing grandchildren—which isn’t even true anymore—yet that’s what you’ve done too, since according to you, you have no kids. How can you stand in front of Nǎinai like this? You failed.”
My father’s tears proved I had struck his Achilles’ heel. The rare sight filled me with guilt, but I couldn’t back down now. I fled, Xing and Esther close behind.
We crammed onto a park bench, Esther in the middle. It was silent for some time as we processed.
“Do you think they’ll ever come around?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t care.” Xing’s words sent chills down my spine.