The Kitchen God's Wife Part 2

The evening turns out to be much worse than I expected. Throughout the dinner I watch my mother and Auntie Helen getting on each other's nerves. They argue in Chinese over whether the pork is too salty, whether the chicken is overcooked, whether the Happy Family dish used too many water chestnuts to cut down on the ration of scallops. I see Phil trying to make polite conversation with my cousin Frank, who is chain-smoking, something Phil hates with a pa.s.sion. I see old family friends who are not really friends making toasts to a bride-and-groom-to-be who will surely be divorced in two years' time. I smile woodenly and listen to Mary and Doug chatting to me as if we were still the best of friends.

Mostly I see my mother sitting one table away, and I feel as lonely as I imagine her to be. I think of the enormous distance that separates us and makes us unable to share the most important matters of our life. How did this happen?

And suddenly everything-the flower arrangements on the plastic-topped tables, my mother's memories of my childhood, the whole family-everything feels like a sham, and also sad and true. All these meaningless gestures, old misunderstandings, and painful secrets, why do we keep them up? I feel as if I were suffocating, and want to run away.

A hand taps my shoulder. It's Auntie Helen.

"Not too tired?" she whispers.

I shake my head.

"Then come help me cut the cake. Otherwise I have to pay the restaurant extra." And of course, I wonder what secret she's about to confess now.

In the kitchen, Auntie Helen cuts a white sheet cake into little squares and puts each piece on a paper plate. She licks whipped cream off her fingers, stuffs a falling strawberry back into its spongy center.

"Best cake in San Francisco," she says. "Mary got it from Sun Chee Bakery on Clement. You know the place?"

I shake my head and keep adding a plastic fork to each plate.

"Maybe you know something else, then," she says sternly. "About my own sickness?" She stops cutting, and looks at me, waiting for me to answer. I am surprised by her sudden change in tone, because I honestly don't know what she's talking about.

"Doesn't matter," she answers tartly, and goes back to cutting more cake. "I already know."

And standing in the kitchen like that, she tells me how she had to go to the doctor two months ago. She had fallen down her front steps on a rainy day and hit her head against the rail. And my mother, who was with her at the time, had taken her to the hospital. They took X rays: no broken bones, no concussion, not like Auntie Du, lucky for her. Instead they found a little dark spot on her skull, did more tests.

"And that's how I knew," she says, tapping her head, sounding triumphant. "G.o.d touched his finger there and told me, Time to go. I have a brain tumor."

I gasp, and Auntie Helen quickly adds, "Of course, the doctors did more tests later to make sure. Then they told me it is benign." She says this word as if she were calling out a bingo slot, B nine. "They said no problem, no need to operate."

I sigh, and she continues, "Your mother said, Lucky you, nothing wrong. My children, your Uncle Henry, they all said, Now you will live forever. But what do you think they are really saying?"

I shake my head.

"You look. Why does Bao-bao suddenly say he is getting married? Why does Mary say she is flying home, bringing the whole family? Let's have a reunion, she says. And Frank, he got a haircut before I had to ask twice." She smiles. "Even your mother. Today she said at the shop, Go, go, you are busy with your son's party. I can make the wreaths. Why are you shaking your head? This is true!"

Her face becomes more serious. "I said to myself, Eh, why this big change, everyone so nice to me? Why so sudden? My children now respect me, why? They come to see me, why? Mary calls me Mommy again. Your mother wants to do all the work. You know why? They know. They all know I'm dying. They won't say, but I think it must be very fast."

I'm putting the plates on a tray. "Oh, Auntie Helen, I'm sure there's nothing wrong. If they said it's benign, it means it's-"

She holds up her hand. "No need to pretend with me. I'm not scared. I'm not a young woman anymore. Almost seventy-three."

"I'm not pretending," I insist. "You're not going to die."

"Everyone wants to keep this news from me, okay. They want to be nice before I die, okay. I can pretend too that I don't know."

I am starting to feel confused. I don't know whether Auntie Helen is really sick, or only imagining something bad out of her children's good intentions. It does strike me as strange, though, what she said about everyone's sudden change of character. It would be just like the Kwongs to pa.s.s around a secret and then pretend n.o.body knows a thing.

"Don't worry for me," she says, and pats my hand. "I am not telling you this so you have to worry. I only want to tell you so you understand why I can no longer keep your secret."

"What secret?"

She sighs deeply. "Pearl-ah, this is too much burden for me. It makes my heart and shoulders heavy that your mother does not know. How can I fly to heaven when this is weighing me down? No, you must tell your mother, Pearl. Tell her about your multiple neurosis."

I am too stunned to laugh or correct her mistake. "This is the right thing," Auntie Helen says with conviction. "If you cannot tell her, then I must tell her myself-before the Chinese New Year." She looks at me with a determined face.

And now I want to shake her, tell her to stop playing this game.

"Auntie Helen, you know I can't tell my mother that. You know how she is."

"Of course," she says. "For fifty years I've been knowing your mother. That's why I know this is the right time to tell her."

"Why should I tell her now? She'll only be angry that we kept it a secret."

She frowns. "You are only concerned your mother will be angry with you? Tst! Tst! So selfish."

"No, I mean, there's no reason to tell her now. I'm fine."

"You think you can hide this until she dies? Maybe she lives to be a hundred. Then what do you do, ah?"

"It's not that. I just don't want her to worry."

"This is her right to worry," says Auntie Helen. "She is your mother."

"But she shouldn't have to worry about something that isn't really a problem."

"That's why you should tell her now. No more problem after that."

"But then she'll wonder why we kept this a secret from her. She'll think it's worse than it is."

"Maybe she has secrets too." She smiles, then laughs at what must be a private joke. "Your mother, oh yes, plenty of secrets!"

I feel I am in a nightmare, arguing with someone who can't hear me. Maybe Auntie Helen is right and she does have a brain tumor. Maybe it's eaten away at her brain and she's gone crazy. "All right," I finally say. "But you can't be the one who tells her. I will."

Auntie Helen looks at me suspiciously. "This is a promise?"

"Promise," I whisper, and even I don't know if I'm lying.

She rubs my shoulder, plucks at the fabric of my green wool dress. "This is a good color for you, Pearl. Anh! No more talking now. Let's go back." She hoists the tray of cakes.

"I can carry that," I say tersely. She hesitates, ready to argue. And then, perhaps in deference to her own illness, she lets me.

After the dinner, we are back at my mother's house. The girls have done their usual segue of giggling, then fighting, then wailing, and have finally fallen asleep. I had considered asking my mother about Auntie Helen's brain tumor but decided it was not the best time to have one subject lead into another. I'm exhausted. So after declining my mother's offers of tea, instant coffee, and orange juice, I stand up and yawn. "I'm going to bed," I say. Phil offers my mother a good-night kiss, which she cautiously accepts with a stiff upturned cheek. And at last we have escaped to our room.

"Did you bring your toothbrush?" my mother calls to us through our closed door. "Brush your teeth already?"

"Got 'em!" Phil calls back. "They're brushed."

"Enough blankets, enough towels?"

"Plenty," he says. He rolls his eyes at me. "Good night!" he calls, and turns off the light. It is quiet for about five seconds.

"Too cold? Heater can be turned up."

"Ma, we're fine," I say with a little too much irritation. And then I say, more gently this time, "Don't worry. Go to bed."

I hold my breath. There is only silence. And finally, I hear her slippers slowly padding down the hallway, each soft shuffle breaking my heart.

2.

GRAND AUNTIE DU'S FUNERAL My mother left the house two hours ago with Auntie Helen so they could decorate the funeral parlor. And now Phil and I are going to be late for Grand Auntie's service, thanks to a spat between Tessa and Cleo that resulted in eggs over easy being flung onto Phil's only good shirt and tie. While we searched for replacements along Clement Street, Phil suggested that we shouldn't bring the girls to the funeral.

"They might be disruptive," he said. "And they might not appreciate seeing someone who is D-E-A-D."

Tessa grinned and said in a singsong voice, "Daddy's saying a naughty word."

"Maybe I could wait with them outside in the car," said Phil.

"They'll be fine," I a.s.sured him. "I already asked my mother if it's closed-casket and she said it is. And I've explained to the girls it's like that time we went to Steve and Joanne's wedding-grownup time. Isn't that right, girls?"

"We got cake after," said Cleo.

"All right," said Phil. "But after the service, let's make the usual excuses and go home."

"Of course."

At twenty minutes after two, the four of us walk into the reception area of the funeral parlor. My cousin Frank hands us black armbands to wear. As I put mine on, I feel somewhat guilty, this pretense of grief. I realize now that I knew almost nothing about Grand Auntie Du, except that she smelled like moth-b.a.l.l.s and was always trying to feed me old Chinese candies and sugared beef jerky, pulled out of dusty tins stored on top of her refrigerator.

Bao-bao is there to greet us as well. He's smiling broadly. "Hey, man, glad to see you guys finally decided to make it." He hands each of us a piece of foil-wrapped candy and a small red envelope of lucky money.

"What are we supposed to do with these?" Phil whispers. "Offer them to Grand Auntie Du?" He pulls out a quarter from the lucky-money envelope.

"How should I know?" I whisper back. "I've never been to a Buddhist funeral, or whatever this is."

"My mom says it's like insurance in case you pick up bad vibes here," says Bao-bao. "You eat the candy for luck. You can buy more luck later with the money."

"I'm gonna eat mine now," announces Tessa.

Cleo waves her candy for me to unwrap. "Mommy, me too, me too!"

Phil flips his quarter. "Say, if I buy chewing gum with this, will my luck last longer?"

We turn toward the main parlor. Suddenly we are blinded by the glare of a spotlight. I'm surprised to see Tessa is now walking down the aisle in the manner of a coquettish bride. And Cleo-she's preening and blowing kisses like a movie star. I can't believe it: Uncle Henry is standing in the middle of the aisle-videotaping the funeral! Who's going to watch this later?

Through the haze of the incense-blurred light, I can barely see my mother. She's gesturing for us to come sit with her in the second row. Phil corrals the girls. As the camera continues to roll, we walk quickly down the aisle, past what must be only a dozen or so mourners-Mary, Doug, and their children, some people from the church, all Chinese. I also see several old ladies I've never met before. They look like recent immigrants, to judge from their undyed cropped hair and old-style brown padded jackets.

As we slide into our seats, Auntie Helen turns around in the front row. She squeezes my hand, and I see she has tears in her eyes. My mother is dry-eyed. "Why so late?" she asks crossly. "I told them to wait until you came."

Suddenly Cleo starts laughing and points. "Daddy, there's a lady sleeping up there! And her dinner's on fire!" Tessa is staring too, only her eyes are big, her mouth dropped open.

And then I see it too-G.o.d!-Grand Auntie Du lying in her casket, with gla.s.ses perched on her emotionless waxy face. In front of the casket is a long, low table overflowing with food-what looks like a nine-course Chinese dinner, as well as an odd a.s.sortment of mangoes, oranges, and a carved watermelon. This must be Grand Auntie's farewell provisions for trudging off to heaven. The smoke of a dozen burning incense sticks overlaps and swirls up around the casket, her ethereal stairway to the next world.

Phil is staring at me, waiting for an explanation. "This has to be a mistake," I whisper to him, and then turn to my mother, trying to keep my voice calm. "I thought you decided on closed-casket," I say slowly.

She nods. "You like? Clothes, I chose for her, all new. Casket, I also helped decide this. Not the best wood, but almost the best. Before she is buried, we take the jewelry off, of course."

"But I thought you said the lid would be down."

My mother frowns. "I didn't say that. How can you see her that way?"

"But-"

"Do we have to eat here?" Tessa asks fearfully. She squirms down low in her seat. "I'm not hungry," she whispers. I squeeze her hand.

"Tell that lady to wake up," Cleo squeals, giggling. "Tell her she can't sleep at the dinner table. It's not nice!"

Tessa slaps Cleo's leg. "Shut up, Cleo, she's not sleeping. She's dead, like Bootie the cat."

And Cleo's bottom lip turns down, dangerously low. "Don't tell me that!" she shouts, and then pushes Tessa's shoulder. I am trying to think of what I can say to comfort the girls, but-too late-they are pushing each other, crying and shouting, "Stop it!" "You stop!" "You started it!" My mother is watching this, waiting to see how I will handle it. But I feel paralyzed, helpless, not knowing what to do.

Phil stands up to lead both of the girls out. "I'll get them some ice cream over on Columbus. I'll be back in an hour."

"Make it forty-five," I whisper. "No more than that. I'll meet you out front."

"Daddy, can I have a chocolate and a rocky road?" asks Cleo.

"And sprinkles on top?" adds Tessa.

I'm relieved to think this may be all the damage that will remain, a ruined appet.i.te and sticky hands. Over on the other side of the pews, Mary's son, Michael, is snickering. As I throw him a scowl, I notice something else: Uncle Henry still has the videocamera going.

After Phil and the girls leave, I try to regain my composure. I look ahead to avoid glaring at my mother or Uncle Henry. No use arguing, I tell myself. What's done is done.

In front of the pews is a large picture of Grand Auntie. It looks like a blown-up version of a pa.s.sport photo taken fifty years ago. She's not exactly young, but she must have had most of her teeth back then. I look at Grand Auntie in her casket. Her mouth looks caved in, her thin face like that of a wizened bird. She is so still, yet I feel we are all waiting for something to happen, for Grand Auntie suddenly to transform and manifest herself as a ghost.

It reminds me of a time when I was five years old, that age when anything was possible if you could just imagine it. I had stared at the flickering eyes of a carved pumpkin, waiting for goblins to fly out. The longer I waited, the more convinced I became that it would happen. To this day, I can still vividly remember the laughing ghost that finally poured out of the pumpkin's mouth. My mother had come rushing into the room when I screamed. I was babbling tearfully that I had seen a ghost. And instead of comforting me, or pooh-poohing that it was just my imagination, she had said, "Where?" and then searched the room.

Of course, my father later a.s.sured me that the only ghost was the Holy Ghost, and He would never try to scare me. And then he demonstrated in a scientific way that what I must have seen were smoky fumes created when the candle inside the pumpkin burned too low and extinguished itself. I was not comforted by his answer, because my mother had then stared at me, as if I had betrayed her and made her look like a fool. That's how things were. She was always trying to suppress certain beliefs that did not coincide with my father's Christian ones, but sometimes they popped out anyway.

"The jiao-zi, I made them," my mother is now telling me. "Grand Auntie always said I made the best-tasting." I nod and admire the steamed dumplings on the banquet table. She really does make the best ones, and I think it's a pity that these are just for show.

"Auntie Helen made the chicken and green peppers dish," she says, and after I nod, she adds, "Very dry-looking." And I nod again, wondering if Grand Auntie is appreciating this culinary post-mortem in her honor. I scan the other dishes and see they have even added the cake left over from last night.

Above the casket, a white banner made out of ten feet of butcher paper is stuck to the wall with masking tape. The banner is covered with large black characters, and the whole thing ends with an exclamation point, just like political billboard slogans I once saw in magazine photos of China.