Diamond Head (21 page)

And I, with the passing of time, would find happiness with Bohai.

November 1964

H
ONOLULU
, H
AWAII

The smell of jasmine and smoke opens Amy’s eyes. She faces downward, her eyes in her lap, and Theresa’s hand is gone. Thick ivory clouds hang suspended in the air, floating sideways, filling the empty spaces of the room and stifling its light. Amy lifts her eyes to the first row of chairs and finds that she cannot make out a single face. She is cloaked in smoke, and so are they.

She follows the haze to her right, to a table at the foot of Bohai’s coffin where Hong is lighting joss sticks, one by one, with a wooden match. In a heavy bowl, lined with gold and filled with grains of uncooked rice, dark incense rises in slim sticks.

“Mom, are you okay?”

Amy turns to her left and sees Theresa still sitting beside her.

“Oh,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine. I needed—”

“I know,” Theresa interrupts. “I told Uncle Kaipo to let you be. I was just asking.”

“I’m okay,” Amy says. “Thank you.”

Beside Hong, a priest begins to chant. He holds a small gong in his hand, beating it in front of him with a bamboo stick, its head wrapped in soft leather. The metallic sound reverberates throughout the room, shaking the smoke, keeping pace with his voice. The song he sings comes from his nose, shrill and beautiful, punctuated by the steady crash of the gong. His words are a prayer for Bohai. He calls out to the spirits, begging them to open the road for his departed soul, to grant him a dignified transition. The priest’s chant,
his melodic plea, marks the beginning of Bohai’s journey into the next world.

Smoke oozes from the tips of the joss sticks, rising high in white, undulating lines. They seem to dance to the gong, flitting sideways and breaking in half when the mallet strikes the brass. When the last stick is lit, Hong blows out her match and squats below the table, removing a wooden box the size of a mah-jongg set. She holds it from the bottom with open palms, positioning herself beside the table like an imperial statue, powerful and motionless.

The priest’s song ends with a high note, climbing in octaves, higher and higher until the final strike of his gong. When the ringing halts, the smoke becomes still.

“Let the family approach,” the priest calls. “Let them offer their comforts for the afterlife.”

Almost immediately, Amy rises from her chair. She is the first to do so, and at her new height, she finds that the air is clearer. The fog hovers above the heads of the seated, creating a soft blanket of clouds, separating the earth from the sky. She breathes in the placid air and hopes that the afterlife is something like this. A moment completely your own. A quiet place to breathe. Amy makes her way to the table, and when she arrives, Hong reaches over the top of her box and opens it toward her like a briefcase.

Within the container lie dozens of folded gold papers, the majority of which are cylindrical—paper wrapped into a circle and tucked inside on the open ends. Scattered throughout these tubes are silhouettes of golden paper houses, boats, and cars. There is a pair of pants and a pair of shoes. There is a trunk for carrying these things and a servant to carry the trunk. Amy takes a match from the table and strikes it against its surface. The flame stings the tips of her fingers; she tips it sideways. With her left hand, Amy reaches into the box and removes a cylinder that she holds to the flame, letting it catch fire and releasing it into the ceramic bowl below her. It continues to smolder, transforming from shiny paper to flakes of delicate grey ash.

Hastily, Amy reaches for another, lighting and releasing, sending the paper money to her husband. She burns three more, one after the other in quick succession, before her match has burned to the end and she must put it out.

There are many things that Amy would like to burn, none of them available in Hong’s wooden box. She thinks of them now—locked in her vanity drawer, all of the words she would like to incinerate. But for that she needs a real fire. She needs a furnace that leads to nowhere, a flame with the power to simply destroy. She looks into the ceramic bowl, at the flimsy piles of paper remains, and knows that a single match can never do what she hoped.

Before this moment, Amy had thought that the burning of these papers would fill her somehow. She had asked to go first; she had requested to make the first offering. The fire, the smoke—Amy thought it a way to be close to her husband. She imagined it as a moment of clarity and repentance, her thoughts lifted with the paper, able to reach Bohai well before the gifts arrived. But as she stands before the table, inches away from her husband’s body, Amy’s mind is as white as the room. She burns the paper and feels like a fool, the first person to offer a worthless symbol, to sacrifice something of no value. Why did she think it would be this easy? It’s a match, she scolds herself. It’s not magic.

Amy strikes a second match and holds it to her face. She watches it flicker as it climbs the length of the stick. It’s almost to her fingertips and she hasn’t moved; she hasn’t looked away. But as the flame kisses her skin, she drops it suddenly into the bowl. She inhales sharply.

“Careful, Amy,” the priest says.

Amy looks into the priest’s face and is stricken by the sight of him. This close, she’s surprised by how he’s aged since she saw him last, twenty years ago on her wedding day. The priest’s skin hangs loosely along his jawline, rippling gently as he speaks. He still wears his hair long, gathered behind him in a ponytail, but it’s greying, not at the roots but streaked throughout its length, which seems unusual to Amy.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?” he replies, smiling. “I hope you didn’t burn your finger.”

“No, I’m fine.” She nods. “I just . . . I think I’m done.”

“Very well, then. If you want, you may see your husband now.”

Amy hesitates. To her left, she sees Kaipo rise from his chair. Amy moves to the side and takes slow steps toward the head of the casket, where Bohai lies, padded by white silk cushions and exposed from above. When she can almost see his face, she stops. She closes her eyes and takes the last two steps. She searches for the thoughts that failed her at the altar, the words she was supposed to send with the smoke.

She waits.

She waits for a long time, but nothing comes.

Amy opens her eyes and almost chokes. She brings a hand to cover her open mouth, tries to close her eyes but they resist. Everything about her body, inside and out, grows weaker with the sight of him.

Bohai looks like himself. He looks almost exactly as he should, which frightens Amy more than anything for which she prepared herself. It reminds her of ten thousand mornings, of the last twenty years of her life, waking up next to the face she sees now. Amy stands there, waiting for Bohai to open his eyes. She waits for him to say good morning and push himself upright against the silk pillows. He’s reaching for his glasses now; he’s about to make coffee. There’s something entirely ordinary about the way he looks in that coffin, something startling about the ease spread across his face, and suddenly, Amy realizes it’s been six months. Six months, a summer followed by a fall, one hundred and eighty unique opportunities to explain, they’ve all passed since Amy last saw this expression.

Her husband looks serene in death. He looks relieved.

“It doesn’t feel real,” Amy hears behind her. It’s Kaipo, his eyes resting on his brother’s face. “Something about this family,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Never a warning. Just out of fucking nowhere.”

Amy nods.

“For me too,” she whispers, before turning and walking back to her seat, passing Theresa at the altar.

As Amy sits, she thinks she hears Mrs. Leong’s voice behind her—something short, barely audible, maybe nothing at all.

“Sorry,” she says. “Did you say something?”

“I’m next,” Mrs. Leong says, turning to look Amy square in the eye.

Amy’s lips part, waiting for words, but a moment later she presses them back together. Who is she to tell her no?

“I could come with you,” Amy offers.

“No.” Mrs. Leong pauses, but that’s all she has to say.

Theresa was supposed to be last. She is Bohai’s only child, the youngest member of their family. But as Theresa walks to her father’s casket, Mrs. Leong rises. She displaces a pillar of smoke and coughs. The sound is moist and raspy. With knees bent, her feet take slow, shallow steps toward Hong.

As the two women stand face to face, Amy wonders what Hong will do. She’s already closed the lid of the box; the ceremony should be over, Mrs. Leong should not be last. As Hong has told the family many times, Mrs. Leong should not be present at all today. Under no circumstance, she has explained, should a mother be permitted to bury her child.

They stand, their solemn expressions unchanged, their collective stillness enormous—but something passes between them in the moment that they share, looking into each other’s face. Slowly, Hong reaches her hand to the front of the box and lifts its cover.

Mrs. Leong chooses a cylinder, holding it lightly between two fingers. She turns to the burning incense and hesitates. She squeezes the paper softly, compressing it and releasing, allowing it to spring back into its natural shape.

“Lin,” the priest says gently. “May I light it for you?”

Mrs. Leong jumps; the paper drops from her hand. She stares at the man, her pupils darting from feature to feature.

“Lin,” the man says again, extending his hand, a match pinched between two fingers. “It’s okay.”

Between them, the dying joss sticks release the last of their smoke. Mrs. Leong leans in closer, bending at her waist, trying to get a better look at the man.

“She’s here,” Mrs. Leong says, her eyes lit with emergency. “I saw her. Hurry up. I have to get Bohai—she’s already here!”

1942

D
IAMOND
H
EAD
, H
AWAII

Bohai sat at his desk in the study, a dim lamp lighting the papers spread before him. Behind him, the sun began to set through darkened windows covered in crepe paper that extended from edge to edge of the wooden frames. With the declaration of military law, Hong and I had gone to the craft store and bought their entire supply, a dozen black rolls, and went immediately to work. From the outside of the house, a faint yellow glow could still be seen but how elegant it looked, how magical. Tonight, I needed magic.

Amy was here; the evening was in motion. She had just arrived with her father and she looked spectacular. I could tell by her appearance that she had taken my offer seriously. The dress was hemmed beautifully, her hair slicked back in a perfect French pleat. She had come to win my son, and when I hugged her at the entrance, I sensed a shaky understanding pass between us.

Now it was time to reach an understanding with Bohai. I looked at him from the doorway, from the small, dim passage that led to the study, and I felt such determination. Ready or not, Bohai would find some happiness of his own.

I said his name as I walked through the door. He looked up from his papers but said nothing. I sat across from him. I placed my hands on his desk.

“Photographer Chan is here,” I said, “with his daughter, Amy.”

Bohai nodded.

“She liked you, Bohai. Did you know that? She asked about you tonight.”

“Okay,” he said, without a trace of emotion. It was as if I had told
him it would rain, or we would have fish for dinner. I was astonished by what little effect they had, my careful words. Perhaps he sensed it was a lie; maybe he didn’t believe me. Whatever the reason, it was clear that flattery was not the correct approach. For this, I’d have to try another way.

“Listen,” I said, lowering my voice as I leaned forward. “It’s time. I know you know this, even if you won’t admit it to me. But I’m telling you, Bohai: right now, right outside this room there is a young girl who is interested in you, and unless you intend to grow old and alone with your father and I, I suggest you take this seriously.”

Now I watched his face soften. His eyebrows sank as he took in my words. This was the image I would leave him with. Old and alone, a middle-aged man still living at home with his elderly parents. It was working; I could see it.

“Okay,” Bohai said, removing his glasses and setting them down. He looked directly into my eyes, which is something he did so rarely. Something had clicked. “Thank you,” he said, and I fought every urge that came to me. I wanted to congratulate him, to jump from my chair and embrace my son, but I didn’t; I couldn’t. I knew it was best to remain calm. I could feel my limbs battling the impulse, tightening and releasing with excitement.

“I know you don’t like crowds,” I told him, “so I’ll bring her here if that’s okay.” He nodded. It had been my intention all along to bring them together on Bohai’s ground. He was most confident in the study, wearing his suit, surrounded by his paperwork. In the dim light, he looked almost powerful. He looked important.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, rising from my chair. “And don’t be nervous,” I added, reaching over and squeezing his arm before leaving through the alcove. “She likes you.”

I found Amy with her father in the sitting room. As I approached, I watched Mr. Chan raise his whiskey to his lips and take a long sip.

“I’ve come to borrow your daughter,” I said to Mr. Chan, placing my hand on Amy’s shoulder. She turned, her face bright and cheerful,
and fashioned a smile that revealed so much. It touched me somehow, filled me with something familiar. Behind her crafted smile was a mountain of anxiety hidden by courage. It was a good thing, I decided—a promising sign. She would need both in equal balance for what awaited her.

“He’s so excited you’re here,” I whispered to Amy as we walked down the hall. “But you know how he’s shy, so don’t let that put you off. I know you’ll get on wonderfully once he gets comfortable.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor. “I’m good at talking.”

“Then it will be perfect.” I led her through the passage and knocked on the open door of the study. “Bohai,” I said, “there’s someone here to see you.”

Bohai stood immediately, banging his knee on the desk and shaking the lamp.

“Hi,” he said abruptly. “Hi—wow,” he gulped, pressing his hands to the knee he had hit.

It was the dress. The pale orange drew out the warmth in Amy’s skin; the silk glided with her step, the slit up her left leg gave just a hint of what lay behind. My son was speechless—but not in his usual way. Bohai was dumbstruck. It was a different silence, a stillness fueled by desire.

Amy smiled—there was her confidence, growing as my son stared.

“Hi,” she greeted him. I waited for more but that was all she said.

“Sit, sit Amy!” I gestured toward the two chairs. “Bohai, would you like to offer your guest something to drink?”

“Yes,” he replied, still looking at Amy. He walked toward the small cooler and caught my eye. Then, with the smallest gesture, he nodded me from the room. With a flick of his head, he asked me to leave. “Thank you,” he said, and I couldn’t believe it. My son wanted to be alone with Amy. He wanted me to leave and it was I who wasn’t ready.

“Of course,” I said quickly, gathering myself. “I’ll call when dinner is ready.”

I walked through the alcove and paused in the middle, realizing how dark it was.
Would you like some champagne
, I heard.
That’d be great
, she replied. Slowly, I flattened myself against the bookshelves that lined the small passage, not yet sure what I was doing. To my left was a space, a narrow gap between two shelves into which I could easily fit. It was ridiculous, but they wouldn’t see me, I thought; it was so dark. I could stay and listen. I slid across the shelf and into the space.

In the study, Bohai held the bottle of champagne, twisting the cork with his right hand. I held my breath; he’d never done it before. The bottle popped and I jumped. He filled two glasses and I told myself to calm down. To have confidence in my son.

“You look beautiful,” he said, handing her a glass. I covered my mouth.
Thank you
, I heard. Amy was just outside my vision.

“Your mother gave me the dress, when we delivered the photographs. I’m glad she invited us to dinner so I’d have somewhere to wear it.”

No
, I thought; don’t tell him the dress is from me. Don’t make him think of me. I was sweating. But she was being honest, I realized, just as I had been with Frank. She was comfortable with her simplicity; I liked that about her. If I was going to stay, I needed to relax, to breathe, I warned myself. I pressed my back against the wall. Perhaps it was better if I didn’t look.

It’s from France,
I heard Bohai say,
the champagne.
I could feel his mind working.
My father has cases of it brought in during the summer. He has a friend with a vineyard.

Wow.

Do you like it?

There was a pause. I wondered what was happening. Then I heard a damp cough—Amy’s cough, muffled by a hand or a sleeve.

Is there something wrong?

No, no.
Another pause; I leaned forward, far enough to see Amy’s wrinkled face, Bohai’s worried expression.

“It’s just,” Amy said, “I’ve never had champagne before.”

“Never?
”

“Never.” She shrugged. I fell back against the wooden panel. I smiled. It was happening already.
It’s delicious
, I heard. Bohai was opening her world; she was opening his.
The bubbles, they taste like roses.
Bohai laughed and so did she. There was an urgency in the room, I could feel it from my spot in the dark. They had their own reasons, but they both wanted this. They were working together unknowingly, toward the same goal.

Your father’s photographs were so nice.

It’s easy to do in a house like this. Usually, we just have a white wall. We don’t normally have a waterfall to work with.

Still. We’ve had plenty of photographers. Your father is the best.

Is that so?

Really. He is. And that waterfall. It’s embarrassing. I’ve always thought it was too much.

I disagree. Your father seems like a man who deserves a waterfall.

It wasn’t his idea, actually. My mom wanted it.

A pause.

But if you like it, then so do I.

He was trying so hard. I’d never heard so many words from my son in a single conversation. He was creating his own topics, searching for compliments. He had learned something from Kaipo. He was doing well.

I watched Amy walk across the doorway, stopping at the bookshelf that held the family photographs. She picked one up and looked at it. Bohai rose and followed. He stood inches behind her.

“We went to Indonesia, three years ago, the whole family,” he explained. I knew the picture well. The six of us stood in front of a house on stilts with a thatched roof. Hong had been there too, but she had taken the picture.

“And this one?” Amy chose another frame.

“Maui. We go every year to fish. Do you like to fish?”

“I wouldn’t know. But I’d love to learn.”

I took a deep breath and withdrew into the small space, feeling my heart pick up speed. Their voices buzzed as I closed my eyes; I felt dizzy as my mind pulled me backward. It had been years since I’d thought about it. It was a choice I made. I hadn’t needed to and so I hadn’t, but in that instant it overwhelmed me; it shook the breath from my lungs. Amy’s presence was unearthing memories, difficult emotions from a faraway place, buried for as long as I could manage. But watching her now, watching this, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we shared something, Amy and I. We were cut from a similar cloth, given a similar chance. In this girl, in my dress, I saw so much of myself.

The year was 1900 and I had just turned seventeen. Thinking of that year, the smells of deep-fried bean curd and sweet moon cakes overwhelm my senses. Hot grease coats my nostrils. I breathe in and taste salt and fat and stale seawater. I had been working in the kitchen that summer, in my parents’ restaurant in Guangdong, frying up pomfret by the hundreds in the steamy back room. I think back and it feels like another lifetime, another existence entirely. I see her in the kitchen, her hands calloused, her oily cheeks flushed, and I can hardly believe that girl was me.

I was their only child. It sounds so simple like that; such a predictable sadness, so easy to understand how my life might have been. Of course my parents thought of me as worthless, certainly they hoped for sons. These things are true, but I remember so much more than that.

Most every week, from as young as I can remember, my father would threaten to sell me. It wasn’t unusual in our village; many daughters had been sold to the fields or to the households of wealthy families. The thought of going to work among women did not scare me, but my father knew this. He said he would sell me to an old, filthy slave owner, to a man with six child concubines. If I didn’t obey him, I could disappear as easily as salt thrown in the ocean.

When he failed to scare me properly with slavery, as I got older and learned to hold a stern face, my father threatened to kill me. It was permitted in those times. If a daughter was too useless, or too disobedient, a father had the right to end her life to make his better. Rotten was my nickname, because I had spoiled my mother’s womb.
I had left it barren and ruined, which, my father told me from the age of five, was a reflection of my soul. I didn’t deserve to be wed, he had said, laughing as spit escaped through the wide gap in his teeth. Girls like me weren’t suitable for marriage.

Perhaps I was rotten, I remember telling myself, gathering strange comfort from the word. In a way, it felt like an explanation. There was something growing inside me as I became a woman, something rebellious and hard. Sell me, I said to my father on my fifteenth birthday. I even repeated it for him as he stood above me, palm raised high in the air. He beat me into darkness that night, and right before it overcame me, I thought I might be dead. That night, I thought I had gone too far. When I awoke the next morning, my body swollen and raw, I remember feeling a terrible joy. Physical damage let our neighbors know what was happening in our home, and in a strange way, I saw it as a shame on my father. He had the strength to break bones and bruise skin, but not to kill. What kind of man would continue to break his only daughter—to let her heal only to break her once again? A coward, I hoped they would think.

When my body was battered, I was kept in the back kitchen of the restaurant. I tended the vat of hot oil, which is a stench that will never leave me, frying customers’ orders and passing plates through the narrow door. It seems to me now that my father understood my game. Most fathers displayed the disobedience of their daughters, and I assumed that would happen to me. It was a humiliation that told suitors the girl was willful, to think twice before extending an offer. But my father was spineless, and I was never to be married. I was the hopeless girl with the saddest of fates, and so he chose to hide me from the pity of others. In the kitchen, my father knew I suffered alone. Tucked away without a soul to speak to, it was as if it had never happened.