Diamond Head (23 page)

I arranged for Amy and her mother to meet my seamstress at the house. Hong helped me set up the pedestal in the sitting room and position the three-paneled mirror. We opened the two sides and found ourselves standing before our reflections, two aging women preparing for a wedding. I had been married for just a year when Hong arrived in Guangdong, and the image of us together now was startling. Like the simplest function of my body, I gave little thought to how Hong had changed, how age and time had marked her. The years had washed over us, each new phase shinier, easier than the last until we had hardly anything left to worry about, to confide in each other the way we used to. Our relationship was different now, certainly, the intensity of our past left behind, but I never took for granted the importance of Hong, the necessity of her. The sound of her making tea in the afternoon, the old-world clink of porcelain cups against saucers, the smell of her sweet, black herbal tonics lined up along the low shelf of our refrigerator, the way she still covered her mouth when she laughed—these things anchored me to a place where I still had to fight, when I made my greatest leaps of faith. I cherished that about Hong, and I would always think of her as she was that day at my table, young, fierce, and determined. She was almost sixty now, her arms soft, her skin loose. I wondered how she thought of me.

The doorbell rang and I went to answer it. Amy waved at me nervously as she climbed the stairs, touching her cheek to mine when she reached the top.

“Mrs. Chan,” I said, extending my arm to her mother, “I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

“Yes,” she said, her small voice unsteady. She leaned in to greet me. “Thank you so much.”

I led Amy and her mother into the sitting room, where my seamstress began immediately. She showed them the fabrics we had gathered, encouraging Amy to touch the colored bolts and hold them to her skin. Amy would need three dresses for the occasion, my seamstress explained: a white wedding gown, a traditional Chinese cheongsam, and a departure dress.

Throughout this ceremony, Mrs. Chan remained silent. She shared no opinions as we picked through the fabrics. She stood with her hands in her pockets, her lips pressed tightly together.

My seamstress began to take Amy’s measurements and I went into the kitchen to find the tray of iced tea that Hong had prepared. When I returned, Mrs. Chan had left the pedestal and was sitting quietly on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, the pads of her thumbs rubbing anxiously together. I wanted to tell Amy’s mother that I understood. That during my wedding preparations I had barely said a word, so frightened that I would say something wrong and have it all taken away. But now was not the time for such heavy matters. A wedding was meant to be a happy time, and what Amy’s mother needed was a distraction.

“Mrs. Chan,” I said, setting down the tray of iced tea, “have you decided on what you’d like to wear?”

“Me?” she said, her palm pressed to her chest as she looked behind her.

“Of course!” I replied, clapping my hands together. “You’re the mother of the bride—your dress should be almost as beautiful as your daughter’s. Amy, help your mother to the pedestal, please.”

Mrs. Chan’s eyes widened and moved to her daughter, as if asking her permission to accept my offer. It occurred to me that Mrs. Chan had no idea that she would be having a dress made as well. Amy
smiled at her mother, stepping off the pedestal in a ball gown they had begun pinning, and walked to her.

“Mom,”
she whispered, putting her hands on her mother’s knees. “Go on,” she said, still smiling. “You heard Mrs. Leong, it’s your turn.”

Slowly, Amy’s mother rose from the couch and took cautious, even steps toward the mirror.

“Mrs. Chan,” my seamstress began, “I think a skirt suit in a royal blue would be marvelous on you.” She walked over to the bolts of fabric, selecting a rich blue silk that shimmered as it unraveled.

Mrs. Chan looked at the seamstress but said nothing. She had stopped walking, frozen in her step, one leg in front of the other.

“Or we could make a dress—not too short, maybe lavender? Or a suit with pants if that would make you more comfortable.” My seamstress paused and turned to Mrs. Chan for a reaction but her face remained stuck in the same faltering expression.

“We can make anything, ma’am, just say the word and—”

Amy’s mother burst out laughing. Uncontrollable, girlish laughter tumbled from her mouth, a joyful gust of disbelief.

“This is really happening,” she said, shaking her head and wiping a tear from the bottom of her eye. She looked at her daughter, then to the seamstress.

“Make me anything you like. No matter what it is, I promise you, it will be the nicest thing I’ve ever owned.” She stepped onto the pedestal, still shaking her head, and stretched out her arms to be measured.

Bohai and Amy were married at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in April 1942. I wish I could say it was a simple wedding to arrange, but it was not. In the months after the bombing, all of Oahu’s best hotels were closed to tourists and private events like ours. They had made special arrangements with the military, which turned their hotels into a place for American soldiers to rest and enjoy the island. Frank suggested that we wait to hold the ceremony, as did Bohai when he
became aware of the difficulties. But I wouldn’t hear of it. I wanted the wedding right away. I feared that the passing of time would bring complications and mixed feelings about the joining of our families. I feared that if I waited too long, I risked spoiling Bohai and Amy’s happiness.

I took on the task of arranging everything myself, faced with wartime decisions that I had never before considered. Despite the circumstances, it was important to me that I honor Hawaii with the marriage of my first son in our adopted soil. I drove to Waikiki three days in a row and walked the grounds of my favorite hotels. I imagined a ceremony in each of their ballrooms; in my mind, I arranged tables and flowers and guests. The space was not available for weddings, the staff continued to remind me, but I was determined. I decided on the Royal Hawaiian, for both its grandness and its rich history of housing Oahu’s royal family.

I spoke first with the general manager, then to the owner. They told me the same thing. It would be impossible to evacuate all four hundred guestrooms for a private event. I tried to ask them in the way that Frank would, with equal amounts of charisma and authority. But I wasn’t as convincing as my husband, and in the end, I needed his help.

“I won’t need you for anything else,” I told Frank at dinner. “I promise. I’ll do the rest myself.” He smiled at me and shook his head.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied.

The next morning, Frank called, and we were given a Saturday in April.

My original idea was a twilight ceremony—at seven thirty in the evening—honoring the Chinese tradition of wedding on the half hour, so that the hands of the clock move upward instead of down. The general manager of the Royal Hawaiian laughed, as Frank said he would, as he turned down my offer to outfit the hotel in blackout shades. We settled on an afternoon ceremony in the Coconut Grove, a quiet outdoor garden shaded by coconut palms, along the
hotel’s private beachfront. It would be followed by a traditional Chinese reception at the famous Lau Yee Chai across the way. We would begin at noon, Bohai and Amy drinking wine from a shared goblet a half hour later, and end at five thirty, with just enough time to drive our guests home by curfew.

It was a small wedding by Chinese standards. Flights in and out of the island had been suspended and all private planes had been grounded. The Honolulu airports were being run by the military. Frank considered bringing in friends from China with one of his cargo ships, but there was no time. The wedding day would arrive before our guests had crossed the Pacific and there was no possibility of rescheduling. So the invitations were sent only to our friends on Oahu. Three hundred in all: two hundred and forty guests from our side and sixty from Amy’s. When she handed me her short list of names I encouraged her to invite more people. I told her she needn’t leave anyone out.

“That’s it for me,” she said. “All from Kaneohe—so the good news is that we’ll need just one big bus to take everyone home. It could be a way of saving money.” She laughed nervously afterward and I felt so close to her. I knew her excitement intimately. I understood her doubt.

Our guests sat in bamboo chairs with fat red cushions, the chair backs wrapped in white silk covers and knotted in the back with a sweeping bow. The grass had been sprinkled with white pikake earlier that morning, so that its light floral scent could perfume the air and mix with the sweetness of the coconut trees. I had hoped to re-create that first feeling of Oahu—the awakening of all five senses that had greeted me in the harbor that morning. Frank had chosen a Hawaiian band to play quiet meles. They strummed ukuleles and tapped on ipus as our guests arrived and took their seats.

Bohai and Amy entered the Coconut Grove in red sedan chairs, each of them lifted off the ground by four friends, one at each corner. Amy’s chair was covered in the front; Bohai was not allowed to see
his bride until the last moment. They met at the mouth of the aisle, and slowly they were lowered to the ground. Bohai stepped down and took confident steps down the aisle. As he reached the end, the minister picked up a conch shell and blew on the opening, announcing the entrance of the bride. I had everything scheduled down to the minute, and I found myself watching the clock more than the event I had so carefully planned—until Amy emerged. From behind her curtain, Amy’s ivory-and-diamond shoes touched the ground. They were followed by her hand, which pulled away the curtain as she slowly came into sight. The entire garden was silenced, including the priest, who stopped blowing on his conch shell abruptly, the air taken from his lungs. I had seen Amy that morning in her dressing room, as her sister removed the last of the pins from her hair. But in the final few hours she had transformed completely, and even I was not prepared for how spectacular she was that afternoon.

Her skin was as smooth as porcelain, her mouth painted red as a pomegranate. Black kohl traced the outsides of her eyes, one of them covered by a red lace veil. The train of her dress was endless, an entire bolt of embroidered silk trailing behind her as she walked down the aisle. And the final piece—a long, delicate strand of creamy pearls—was wrapped twice around her neck and clasped in the back with a jade brooch lined with gold. An early wedding present from Frank and me. I had picked it out myself and given it to her the night before.

Instead of a Chinese tea ceremony, Bohai and Amy exchanged leis in front of a kahuna, to honor the Hawaiian tradition, and shared a goblet of wine in front of the newly joined families. Bohai placed a lei of orchids around Amy’s neck, catching a blossom on her hairpin.
Marriage is never easy
, the minister joked, and the sound of laughter, of the warmth of our guests filled the afternoon sky, blessing their union. Amy placed her maile lei around Bohai’s neck. She ran her fingers along the edges as she pulled away. They held hands, they kissed, they became husband and wife.

Before we knew it, it was two o’clock and we were rushing Bohai and Amy to their bridal chamber in the hotel’s presidential suite. They sat on the bed where they would spend their first night together, while Frank prepared the two goblets waiting on the table. He tied them with the traditional red string, and handed one end to Bohai and one to Amy, filling them with wine and honey.

As the mother of the bride, Mrs. Chan was in the nuptial chamber, sitting in a chair beside her husband. She had decided on a lavender dress with a wide collar and a thin silver belt. She looked lovely, so happy. Her eyes were bright and glossy as she smiled, her excitement glowing from within. It seemed to me that all the apprehension that Amy’s mother felt on the day of their fitting had vanished in that moment, as Amy and Bohai toasted to their happiness. The red thread connected their goblets; it joined their lives and their fortunes.

When the wine and honey were gone, we met our guests at Lau Yee Chai for a customary nine-course Chinese dinner. The restaurant had been decorated lavishly. Thirty circular tables were arranged around the banquet hall, each of them dressed in a red silk tablecloth. The chopsticks were painted in gold leaf; the white cloth napkins were embroidered in black. Gold-and-crystal chandeliers hung from the tall ceilings and delicate strands of sparkling turquoise dropped below them. It was exactly how I had imagined it. Everything from the place cards to the temperature of the tea was absolutely perfect, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. Then Amy entered the banquet in her second dress, a gold cheongsam with delicate silver embroidery, and I knew that all of our hard work had been worthwhile. That rushing the wedding hadn’t, even for an instant, compromised the loveliness of their moment.

Dinner was served in traditional succession: shark’s fin soup followed by Peking duck, cold ginger chicken and lobster with black bean sauce. When the plates were cleared, they brought out deep-fried oysters, steamed whole fish with chili and garlic, abalone and
black mushrooms, roasted squab, and finally, salt-and-pepper shrimp. I had selected the menu with Hong. We sampled two dozen dishes before settling on our nine.

Mr. Chan happily fulfilled his duties as the father of the bride, walking from table to table to take the customary shot of whiskey. I watched all of Frank’s friends and business associates shake his hand and congratulate him on the success of his daughter. They clinked their glasses together and cheered, sending a shot of whiskey down their throats. Frank joined him about halfway through the tables, announcing to each new group that Mr. Chan was a famous photographer, and as the evening progressed, his best friend. By the time Mr. Chan had greeted his last guest, he had finished half a bottle of whiskey and started dancing with Amy, his suit jacket abandoned on his chair.

This is the happiest day of my life
, Amy whispered in my ear, her expression so sincere she looked like she might cry. Every inch of Amy’s body sparkled, from the diamonds in her ears to the rubies on her shoes. She couldn’t take a step without receiving a compliment or being presented with a red envelope filled with lucky money. As the evening continued and she began to drink, sipping whiskey from her teacup, I watched Amy give her mother the little packets of lucky money. Amy nodded and smiled and pressed the envelopes into her mother’s trembling hands. I could feel her satisfaction; I remembered the disbelief. To have my own money, to be worth at least the amount in the envelope, was one of the most extraordinary realizations of my life. On my wedding day, I took my mother behind a dividing wall and showed her the money I had been given.
You can keep it for yourself
, I whispered.
You don’t have to give it to him
. Of course, she had. But it didn’t matter; there was enough money for two more lifetimes, and I, their worthless daughter, would always be the source.