Searching for Sylvie Lee (40 page)

I catch Willem’s furtive, pained look at Ma and know that he may have chosen Helena, perhaps for her money, but he has always been in love with my mother. In this, I am wise enough to know when to keep silent.

Willem says, his voice thick, “I only regret I never held Sylvie after she knew she was my daughter.”

Pa glares at him. “She was my daughter.”

Their eyes meet, their frames are rigid. I am afraid they will come to blows.

“Ours,” I say. “Sylvie belonged to all of us.” I step over to Lukas and touch him on the arm. “I am so embarrassed by the accusations I made.”

He takes a shuddering breath. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with an ocean of grief. “I should not have kept the truth from you. I should have been kinder to you, especially since I know how much you meant to Sylvie. The truth is that I have always been jealous of you.”

I am taken aback. No one has ever envied me. “What? Why?”

He says simply, “You took my place.” I hear in those words how much he loved her, how much he missed her when she left, and how much he will long for her the rest of his life.

“There was enough room for all of us.” My breath hitches. I rub my temples with my fingers. “That’s what her signature meant. She wasn’t pretending to be married to you. She was trying to tell us her true name: Sylvie Tan.”

I stretch out my arms. He steps into them and we hold each other for a long time.

As he pulls away, he says, “I never intended to keep the jewelry. She hid it in my apartment that last night. I was going to give it to your ma before you all left. I did not want any problems.” He glances at his mother. “I only ripped off her signature because I was afraid of what would happen if our secret was revealed. Look, the note was still in the bag. I saw it fall out when you emptied the jewelry onto the table.”

I pick up the plastic bag with the wrapped items. “Is it in here?”

He clenches his jaw and I see anguish overtake his face. “No, I think those are the presents she bought for you in Venice.”

We search the floor and I find the folded piece of yellow notebook paper beneath the coffee table. When I flatten it out, the signed scrap is a perfect match.

Dearest Ma, Pa, and Amy,

You are the true treasure of my heart.

Love always,

Sylvie Tan

Chapter 32

Ma

Monday, May 16

I
said to Helena, “You never deserved what I did to you. I wronged you.”

Helena’s face worked and then she said, “I committed evil as well. I did not treat Snow Jasmine as I should have. I could only see you and Willem in her face. Every time I looked at her, the same wound reopened.”

She left the room and returned with a homemade rag doll in her hands. Helena’s wan smile no longer contained a knife. “This was Sylvie’s. She named it Tasha. Grandma and Sylvie would have wanted you to have it.”

“Thank you, Helena.” I turned to her husband, who watched me with his heart laid open in his eyes, as he always had. “Goodbye, Willem.”

For so many years, I had loved someone who did not exist. I wronged Pa in more ways than one. A part of my heart had never been accessible to him, obsessed with the useless fantasy of a young girl. I had ignored the man with whom I had enjoyed the sweet and undergone suffering for all these years.

I stood beside Pa and took his arm in mine. Despite everything I had done to him, he gave me a small smile.

Epilogue

Amy

Sunday, December 25

T
his is our first Christmas since Sylvie passed eight months ago. We celebrate at our apartment. It is strange that a Christian holiday acts as a bookmark for a bunch of Buddhists. For us, it’s an adopted holiday, like a pair of shoes that once belonged to someone else. It grows more comfortable with wear until it becomes ours as well. We used to think it was Sylvie who pushed the tradition on our family, but now that she’s gone, we realize we are still drawn to it. This year, there is no burned pot roast or Western cutlery. No Jim either; he’s quit his job and disappeared. No one knows why. We saw him for the last time at Sylvie’s memorial service. Ma went up to him afterward and said, “Ah-Jim, you good husband for Sylvie. Thank you, you take care of her.” He pressed his cheek to Ma’s and then hurried away. Her former company also sent a large bouquet of flowers.

Ma and I have cooked a full Chinese meal and Zach, the cute guy from the music store, has brought traditional desserts he made himself—crispy gingerbread men, frosted Christmas tree cookies, a dark chocolate pie and a flakey pumpkin one. He’s a grad student at NYU in music and we are slowly getting to know each other. I’ve re-enrolled at CUNY for my teaching credential and I love it. I’m studying with a determination and focus I’ve never had before.

After dinner, Zach plays his guitar while I sing Christmas carols. Wonder of wonders, Ma and Pa sit together on our couch holding hands. I have overheard their long whispered conversations these past months. He gazes down at her hair with a gentle expression. She too shimmers with a contentment that overlies our ever-present grief. Some wounds will heal while others will never fully close. I did not have the chance to practice grief—no pets that died, and I never knew my grandparents. There should be smaller wounds to the heart before the killing blow is struck, and yet I have survived.

We are all thinking of Sylvie. She smiles down upon us from her photo next to Grandma’s in the altar. Lukas sent us this picture of her. Her doll, Tasha, is tucked beside it. I touch the copy of
Time
on our coffee table that contains news of his photo exhibition. I know there are several images of Sylvie in it, but I cannot bear to see them. The last I heard, he has been working and traveling nonstop.

It turns out the Dutch police were right all along. It was suicide. Oh, Sylvie, if only you had allowed yourself to share your burdens with me, or maybe if I had gone to the Netherlands when you invited me. My love would have kept you safe. There could have been, there
should
have been another way. I envision, so clearly it hurts my eyes like dazzling sunshine, another future with a joyful, thriving Sylvie. The vacuum caused by her absence will haunt us forever. How my knowledge of Sylvie, of Ma, of myself has changed. We had all been hidden behind the curtain of language and culture: from each other, from ourselves. I have learned that though the curtains in the Netherlands are always open, there is much that can be concealed in broad daylight.

As Sylvie told me once, we are all ultimately unreliable storytellers of our own lives, whether we wish it so or not, whether we share a common language or not. The only reliable narrators are to be found in books. Much of Sylvie was hidden from me, but the loyal, generous sister I loved was also true—all facets of the same diamond: my sister, the woman without a country. Who could she have been if she hadn’t been born into such a burdened existence? Now the gifts she brought back from Venice are precious to us: a watch, a mask, and a knife.

Earlier today, Ma gave me a gift as well. We have never indulged in this custom at Christmas. Even before I opened it, I could tell from the worn red silk envelope that it was part of Grandma’s inheritance. Inside I found a gold necklace with a carp pendant set with vivid jade, wrought so masterfully that the fish seemed to come alive. Ma told me that while nothing can replace that which is lost, emptiness creates room for new growth. I clutch the warm jade against my skin and recall the myth Ma told us when we were little: the tenacious carp swims against the currents until she manages to leap over the dragon gate and turn into a dragon herself.

I wonder what would have happened if Sylvie had chosen to live. The truth is, it is impossible to hide from yourself. Another truth: it is possible to find yourself anywhere. I pull back the curtains as the Dutch do, and let our happiness and sorrow stream out into the dark night.

From: Lukas Tan

To: Sylvie Lee

Sent: Saturday, April 30

Subject: Call me

Sylvie, I cannot speak straight that which is bent but please give me but a chance. Why will you not answer your mobile? I must have rung you a hundred times. My mother is furious that you left without saying goodbye. You must be on your flight back to New York by now.

I can imagine how you must feel about the situation. I know what lies in my heart and hope yours is also unchanged. We must leave yesterday behind us. I will do anything to make things right. Can we talk? Please, Sylvie.

I know you do not want to hear these words but I love you. I will always love you.

Lukas

Acknowledgments

F
irst, I would like to thank my late brother, Kwan S. Kwok, who was the inspiration behind this novel. He was not only brilliant but also kind and generous. From the Chinatown clothing factory where we worked as children to the Ivy League, Kwan led the way for me until he died in a tragic plane crash. I miss him every day and will always be grateful to him.

I’m also grateful to my readers around the world for their kindness and support. Thank you so much for reading. To those who have reached out to me, it means the world to me when you share your personal stories with me and let me know what you think of my work. I’m also extremely thankful to all of the organizations, libraries, booksellers, high schools, colleges, and universities in both the U.S. and abroad that have stood behind me and my work. You’ve made the dreams of an immigrant girl from Hong Kong come true.

My agent, Suzanne Gluck of William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, has been with me from the very beginning of my career and has guided my steps with wisdom, courage, and fierce intelligence. I have the pleasure and privilege of having Jessica Williams of William Morrow as my editor. Jessica’s tremendous emotional and intellectual insight brought out the best in this novel. Special thanks to the rest of my team at WME, especially Tracy Fisher and her foreign rights team, and to all of my foreign publishers.

I’m indebted to the wonderful people at William Morrow and HarperCollins: our great publisher, Liate Stehlik; Lauren Truskowski, Ryan Cury, Kelly Rudolph, and the rest of the amazing publicity and marketing departments; marvelous copy editor Laura Cherkas; the production department; the art department; the entire hardcover, paperback, and digital sales forces, who serve on the front lines; and everyone else who did an incredible job bringing this book out into the world.

My immense gratitude to the people who were willing to share their experiences and expertise with me: Esther van Neerbos of Signi zoekhonden, Mieke Zinn, Inge Grandia, Ino Benschop, Frederike Maus, Alexander de Blaeij, Natascha Raaphorst, Shih Hui Liong, Agnes Lee, C. V. Petersen, Kelli Marcus, Emily Nolan, and Dina Nayeri. I asked you so many crazy questions and you had answers to all of them. You told me about searching for a body in the water, flying an airplane, Sylvie’s doll Tasha, palliative care, the hierarchy within a management consulting firm, running with a cello on your back, homophobia, designer shoes, anti-Semitism in Europe, legal euthanasia, darkroom photography, being an Asian abroad, and much, much more. You were my inspiration and my knowledge base—thank you from the bottom of my heart. Any errors are my own.

My awesome early readers gave me the courage to continue: Katrina Middelburg-Creswell, Sari Wilson, Alex Kahn, and Julia Phillips. What would I do without you? I also need to thank all of the great folks at the Ragdale Foundation for providing the residency where this novel was born, and especially Hannah Judy Gretz and her eponymous fellowship. A huge thank-you to fellow writers and publishing veterans for your invaluable support and advice: Helen Schulman, Julie Otsuka, Scott Turow, Celeste Ng, Cheryl Tan, Sarah McCoy, Amy Hill Hearth, Caroline Leavitt, and, most especially, the brilliant and generous Marilyn Ducksworth, whose guiding light has always illuminated my career.

I am so thankful to my dear friends, who have somehow stuck with me through all of the moaning and groaning: Julie Voshell, Stuart Shapiro, Suzanne Demitrio Campbell, Rob Wu, Stephanie and Jonathan Kastin, Paula Schasberger, Judith Schasberger, the Beck family, Chimene and Peter Lam, Carin Gerzon-Koning, Jules Gerzon, Laurent Lédé, Meta van der Wal, Jan-Paul Middelburg, Natasja Moenen, and Doris Seibert. Your laughter and encouragement keep me going.