The Colour of Tea (30 page)

I glance back at the cake, which has an air of French architecture. “Yes. I am good at it.” I can’t help but beam at him.

Pete pulls his hands from his pockets, and I notice that he’s holding a red bag.

“What’s in there?”

“Oh …” He shrugs. “Nothing really.” He places it on the counter. “I got it a little while ago. Saw it in a shop.” He pulls out
a toy, soft and floppy in his hands—a small gray rhino with loose limbs, two beige horns, and weighted feet. It has a tiny stump of a tail and a straight smile, which makes it look sleepy. “Maybe it’s better for a boy? I dunno, he’s … cute?”

I hold the rhino in my hands and look at my husband. He has shaved, which he never does on the weekend. He rolls his lips over his teeth and presses them together.

“That’s sweet. I think she’ll like it,” I say gently. Noticing how handsome he can be. That fresh face against a crisp blue collar.

Marjory, Don, and Rilla arrive together. Marjory carries a helium balloon with
IT’S A GIRL
! written in purple. Rilla has a clear plastic box with knitted booties inside.

The cries of her baby herald Gigi’s arrival. Yok Lan trails behind her, moving slowly. Gigi holds the little one against her chest, looking tired and a bit dazed. My breath catches in my throat seeing them together like that. One plus one equals two. Our Gigi, now a mother.

She apologizes over the head of the sniffling baby. “Sorry we’re late. She won’t stop crying.”

Inside, Yok Lan stands beneath a bunch of balloons and grins like a child.
“Ho leng,”
she exclaims, and Pete translates, “Very beautiful.”

“Yeah, looks great, Grace,” Gigi agrees.

“Here, everyone take a seat. I’ll get teas and coffees,” Pete says.

Rilla scoops up the baby and begins jiggling and shushing her softly while Don and Marjory talk to Gigi. I get a chance to look at Gigi properly; she is wearing a large, worn T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, and purple flip-flops. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a little greasy at the roots. Her skin looks paler than usual, with light coffee-colored freckles on her cheeks. I realize she is not wearing her usual thick layer of foundation to cover them up.

Marjory gives Gigi a pair of earrings the same as her own;
small gold hoops. Gigi smiles and gives her a hug. After a few moments, the baby’s cries subside and Pete has ferried all the cups to the table.

“Are there more people coming, Gi? Your friends?” I ask, looking out the window, half expecting to see a flock of dark-haired girls in bright socks and skimpy tops.

Gigi shakes her head. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, and there is a small stain on the front of her T-shirt.

“What about your mum? Should we wait?”

“Ma’s not coming,” she says, too quickly.

Marjory catches my eye, but we say nothing. She puts her arm around Gigi’s back and rubs her shoulder. Almost imperceptibly Gigi leans into the touch.

“Wanna hold, Grace?” Rilla asks.

I look at the baby properly now, a little nervously. I swallow down a few jitters and nod; Rilla places her in my arms. She is a tightly wrapped bundle in the crook of my arm. The muslin is soft, as is the weight of her. She has static tufts of black hair springing from her head as though she just stuck her little finger in a socket. Although the cries are quieter, she is still grizzling, eyes tightly closed. She is so small, her nose the size of a penny. I find myself staring at her tiny, frustrated face, transfixed. There’s a strange falling sensation in my stomach. Her fingers grasp at the air as she whines and I bounce her gently up and down.

“Shh, shh, shh,” I whisper into the tiny shell of her ear.

Rilla gives Gigi her present, whispering that she knitted the booties herself. She beams with pride when Gigi thanks her with a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Rilla.”

“My pleasure, Mama Gi.”

Pete has slid a finger into the baby’s palm, and despite her upset she grips it. He holds it up to me and gives a wobbly, shy kind of smile. I kiss the top of his head and feel Gigi watching us.

“Shall I get the cake?” Pete asks me.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

I don’t want to put the baby down. She smells sweet and clean, like new sheets or the air after rain. When Pete brings the cake back to the table, I watch Gigi’s face. She glances over, does a double take, and then stares. Her face goes soft, the muscles holding her frown falling. Yok Lan is looking up too, not at the cake but at Gigi. She looks caught off-guard. She is younger with this expression, and without her makeup just a regular young woman. Yok Lan gives me a quick look, like she wants to say something. Her eyes come to rest on the baby, growing heavy now in my arms.

“Oh,” breathes Gigi as if she might start to cry.

“It’s a kind of orange sponge,” I explain to the crowd around the table.

Don lets out an impressed whistle. “It’s a beauty,” he says.

“Gorgeous, love,” says Marjory.

“So pretty, Grace,” says Rilla.

Pete smiles proudly.

Gigi looks at me, then back to the cake. “Can I slice it?” she asks.

“Of course. It’s for you, after all. You and …” The baby girl in question is blinking at me. Her eyes are dark and curious. She stares up at me, and I stare down at her. She lets out a sad, sleepy puff of air before resting her cheek against my chest. “What is her name?”

Gigi looks up from the cake; she has the knife in her hand, and her eyes are glazed and worn. I think I see the gloss of tears, but when she blinks it is gone like a trick of the light. She looks back and forth between Pete and me, and then back to the knife in her hand and the cake. “It’s Faith. She’s called Faith.”

Faith
. Now her face is still and calm; skin smooth and creamy. Her mouth is like a petite, pale pink confection, wet in the middle as she lets out small breaths. Gigi and Rilla are cutting the cake together, and Gigi has the
macaron
from the top in her fingers. Yok
Lan struggles out of her chair, leaning heavily on her cane. She hobbles over and sinks into a chair next to me with a quiet moan. She is still looking at the baby but rests her hand on my arm. It is cool but soft, her skin papery, like layers of mille-feuille; I can see through the age spots and lines to the pulsing of thick, dark veins. Pete comes to stand behind us, his breath warm against the top of my head. He looks down into Faith’s face and sighs, as if he’s been holding on to that breath for weeks, maybe years.

Yok Lan says something in Cantonese and pats my arm. Then she leans over to stroke Faith’s forehead with the back of her index finger. She looks back up at my face and smiles a delicate smile. It is then I notice that her eyes and Faith’s are exactly the same color, the color of oolong: clear, dark amber. The Colour of Tea.

Dearest Mama,

It pulls at the strings of my heart to know that Pete will never be someone’s daddy. He’d do a good job of it, Mama.

For such a long time I didn’t notice there was a man missing in my life. I loved you and you loved me and we were a team, like Batman and Robin. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t do ourselves, was there? We could open too-tight jar lids or clear out a blocked sink. We didn’t have a car so we never needed to change a tire, and if I wanted something from the top shelves of the kitchen, you never minded me scrambling up on the counters. We could reach or fix anything, couldn’t we, Mama?

But I had always wanted a pet. A kitten or a puppy. You remember me begging? Do you remember what you would say to me?

“Oh, Gracie girl, a child is more than enough for your mama, more than enough.”

You were right.

But what I really wanted more than a pet was a daddy. I just couldn’t tell you that. I couldn’t ask for that.

It felt like a betrayal to want more, to want a father for myself. You didn’t know how much I wondered about him, how much I craved to know. Was he tall? How did he take his tea? You loved me so much it sometimes wrung the both of us right out. I couldn’t make you feel as though you weren’t enough. I know you tried to make up for the bits you thought I missed out on, taking the ferry across the Channel to Paris that summer, feeling the salty wind through my hair. You said, “Isn’t this heaven?” and squeezed my cold hand with your warm one. We went to rock concerts and football matches together, you taught me how to ride a bike and make bacon butties for a hangover. I know you did your best.

Families are all different shapes, aren’t they? Today I watched our odd little gang. All with different kinds of families, making up different kinds of families. Rilla seems like she has a whole tribe of people: cousins, friends, fellow Filipinos. Then there’s Marjory and Don, Pete and me. Pete will never be a dad, I will never be someone’s mama, but we do have each other, and for that I am now grateful. I think Gigi is exhausted, coping with a little one on her own, without a partner. She has a hollow kind of look in her eyes. Who knows where Faith’s daddy is? And Yok Lan looks around at us all, not understanding a word but content as a cat in the sun. What a strange little clan we make.

I wish you were here to be part of it.

Your loving daughter,
Grace

*   *   *

The following Saturday, I am in bed, a deep sleep thick upon me, when I hear something ringing. Reluctantly, I open my eyes.

“Gracie, sweetie? Wake up.” Pete’s voice is gentle.

“What …?”

“It’s your phone.”

I reach for it. Pete is sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“Hello?”

“Wai?”
is the only word I catch, and then a stream of Cantonese follows. It is a woman on the other end of the phone, I can make out that much, but she is speaking so fast I can’t even pick out a word here and there. I am awake now, pressing my ear to the phone as if it will help me to understand.

“Hang on, hang on. Hang on a second. Slow down. Huh? Sorry, I …”

Pete puts his hand on my leg. “Who is it?”

“They’re speaking Cantonese. I don’t understand.”

“Probably a wrong number.”

“Mm sik teng ah,”
I wedge into the steady barrage of Chinese coming at me through the phone. I use this sentence often.
I don’t understand what you are saying.
Or, literally,
I don’t know how to hear you.

“A wrong number, Grace,” Pete says again.

The woman on the other end of the phone finally pauses, and in the background there is a siren, but it is very faint. Other than that, wherever she is, it is quiet. She says something else, and it is slower. There is only one thing I understand. It is “Gigi.”

Pete is tugging on my pajama top, motioning for me to come back to sleep. He lies down and pulls the duvet over his shoulder.

“Sorry, what? What about …” I have my finger in my other ear now, trying to focus.

She speaks again, frustrated and sighing, before hanging up. I catch one last bit—Kiang Wu—before the line goes dead and rude beeping drums my ear. The hospital in Taipa village. I throw the covers off and scramble out of bed. Pete rolls over, and I tell him what I’d heard. We are dressed in three minutes and out the door in seven.

Prenez Ce Baiser—Take This Kiss

Honeycomb with Milk Chocolate Ganache

Y
ok Lan is waiting for us in the lobby. Her soft hair sticks out at the back of her head like the ruffled feathers of a little bird. She stands up to greet us, seeming unsteady on her feet. When she smiles, I feel my breath fall out of me, a little slice of relief. It can’t be that bad. She leans on me for support as she guides us into a hospital ward. She is talking to us earnestly, her gaze on the floor, watching each of her steps closely. I wish, not for the first time, that I could understand what she is saying. Something that can explain why we are in a hospital at three in the morning. Pete is leaning toward her voice, but he shrugs; he can’t understand her either.

We round a corner into a ward on the ground floor. It has four beds, but only one is occupied. I steel myself as Pete takes my hand. His eyes are on the woman in the bed and Yok Lan, now sitting beside her. Her arms are bare, palms facing the ceiling. Medical bits and pieces hang from her; her mouth is open, slack and sagging to one side.

“Is that Gigi?” Pete asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. She looks so small against the stark, white rectangle of bed. I can see the small rise of her tummy, the remaining
evidence of her recent pregnancy. The rest of her looks like a twelve-year-old, small and vulnerable, stripped of her usual defiance and energy. Yok Lan tugs at the sheet tucked in at the bottom of the bed, and Pete goes around the other side to help pull it up and over Gigi’s frame. Yok Lan smiles a thankyou and then sits back down and gazes at her granddaughter’s pale face. Pete comes to sit next to me on the neighboring bed, and we watch them both. I feel as if I am watching a foreign movie, without the subtitles. Everything dreamlike and confused. I wonder where Faith is, the sweet smell of her still in my memory.

“What’s happened?” Pete murmurs.

“I have no idea.”

A few minutes later a woman strides into the ward. She is probably in her late forties but has the style of an older woman. Her hair is piled high, crispy with hair spray, and a designer handbag swings showily from her wrist. She is wearing a suit and pumps with a medium heel. And she is pushing a pram. All of this put together, and at three in the morning, renders me mute.

The woman starts to speak when she is only halfway into the room. Even without knowing what she is saying, it is not hard to recognize anger, and disgust. Each word sounds snapped off—sharp and broken. Her eyes are hard as she rants at Yok Lan, who is now standing. Pete and I stand up too; she is the kind of woman who makes you feel as though you ought to, if you know what is good for you.

When the tirade appears to be finished, Yok Lan responds, pointing at Gigi. The woman crosses her arms. She shrugs, but it is not nonchalant. She sees us, staring at me first and then Pete beside me.