(2001) The Bonesetter's Daughter (43 page)

“And Sister Yu, Teacher Pan. Did you hear from them?”

“My brother did—you know, Jiu Jiu in Beijing. He said Sister Yu was promoted many times, until she was a high-position Communist Party leader. I don’t know her title, something to do with good attitude and reforms. But during the Cultural Revolution, everything got turned around, and she became an example of bad attitude because of her background with the missionaries. The revolutionaries put her in jail for a long time and treated her pretty hard. But when she came out, she was still happy to be a Communist. Later, I think she died of old age.”

“And Teacher Pan?”

“Jiu Jiu said the country one year held a big ceremony for the Chinese workers who helped discover Peking Man. The newspaper article he sent me said Pan Kai Jing—the one your mother married—died as a martyr protecting the whereabouts of the Communist Party, and his father, Teacher Pan, was present to receive his honorable-mention award. After that, I don’t know what happened to Teacher Pan. By now, he must be dead. So sad. We once were like family. We sacrificed for each other. Sister Yu could have come to America, but she let your mommy and me have this chance. That’s why your mommy named you after Sister Yu.”

“I thought I was named after Ruth Grutoff.”

“Her too. But your Chinese name comes from Sister Yu. Yu Luyi. Luyi, it means ‘all that you wish.”’

Ruth was amazed and gratified that her mother had put so much heart into naming her. For most of her childhood, she had hated both her American and her Chinese names, the old-fashioned sound of “Ruth,” which her mother could not even pronounce, and the way “Luyi” sounded like the name of a boy, a boxer, or a bully.

“Did you know your mommy also gave up her chance to come to America so I could come first?”

“Sort of.” She dreaded the day GaoLing would read the pages describing how she had wangled her way to the States.

“Many times I’ve thanked her, and always she said, ‘No, don’t talk about this or I’ll be mad at you.’ I’ve tried to repay her many times, but she always refused. Each year we invite her to go to Hawaii. Each year she tells me she doesn’t have the money.”

Ruth nodded. How many times she had had to suffer listening to her mother complain about that.

“Each time I tell her, I’m inviting you, what money do you need? Then she says she can’t let me pay. Forget it! So I tell her, ‘Use the money in the Charles Schwab account.’ No, she doesn’t want that money. She
still
won’t use it.”

“What Charles Schwab account?”

“This
she didn’t tell you? Her half of the money from your grandparents when they died.”

“I thought they just left her a little bit.”

“Yes, that was wrong of them to do. Very old-fashioned. Made your mommy so angry. That’s why she wouldn’t take the money, even after your Uncle Edmund and I said we could divide it in half anyway. Long time ago, we put her half in T-bills. Your mommy always pretended she didn’t know about it. But then she’d say something like, ‘I hear you can make more money investing in the stock market.’ So we opened a stock market account. Then she said, ‘I hear this stock is good, this one is bad.’ So we knew to tell the stockbroker what to buy and sell. Then she said, ‘I hear it’s better to invest yourself, low fees.’ So we opened a Charles Schwab account.”

A chill ran down Ruth’s arms. “Did some of those stocks she mentioned include IBM, U.S. Steel, AT T, Intel?”

GaoLing nodded. “Too bad Uncle Edmund didn’t listen to her advice. He was always running after this IPO, that IPO.”

Ruth now recalled the many times her mother had asked Precious Auntie for stock tips via the sand tray. It never occurred to her that the answers mattered that much, since her mother didn’t have any real money to gamble with. She thought LuLing followed the stock market the way some people followed soap operas. And so when her mother presented her with a choice of stocks, Ruth chose whichever was the shortest to spell out. That was how she decided. Or had she? Had she also received nudges and notions from someone else?

“So the stocks did well?” Ruth asked with a pounding heart.

“Better than S and P, better than Uncle Edmund—she’s like a Wall Street genius! Every year it’s grown and grown. She hasn’t touched one penny. She could have gone on lots of cruises, bought a fancy house, nice furniture, big car. But no. I think she has been saving it all for you… . Don’t you want to know how much?”

Ruth shook her head. This was already too much. “Tell me later.” Instead of feeling excited about the money, Ruth was hurt to know that her mother had denied herself pleasure and happiness. Out of love, she had stayed behind in Hong Kong, so GaoLing could have a chance at freedom first. Yet she would not take love back from people. How did she become that way? Was it because of Precious Auntie’s suicide?

“By the way,” Ruth now thought to ask, “what was Precious Auntie’s real name?”

“Precious Auntie?”

“Bao Bomu.”

“Oh, oh, oh,
Bao Bomu!
You know, only your mother called her that. Everyone else called her Bao Mu.”

“What’s the difference, ‘Bao Bomu’ and ‘Bao Mu’?”

“Bao
can mean ‘precious,’ or it can mean ‘protect.’ Both are third tone,
baaaaooo.
And the
mu
part, that stands for ‘mother,’ but when it’s written in
bao mu,
the
mu
has an extra piece in front, so that the meaning is more of a female servant.
Bao mu
is like saying ‘baby-sitter,’ ‘nursemaid.’ And
bomu,
that’s ‘auntie.’ I think her mother taught her to say and write it this way. More special.”

“So what was her real name? Mom can’t remember, and it really bothers her.”

“I don’t remember either… . I don’t know.”

Ruth’s heart sank. Now she would never know. No one would ever know the name of her grandmother. She had existed, and yet without a name, a large part of her existence was missing, could not be attached to a face, anchored to a family.

“We all called her Bao Mu,” GaoLing went on, “also lots of bad nicknames because of her face. Burnt Wood, Fried Mouth, that sort of thing. People weren’t being mean, the nicknames were a joke… . Well, now that I think of this, they were mean, very mean. That was wrong.”

It pained Ruth to hear this. She felt a lump growing in her throat. She wished she could tell this woman from the past, her grandmother, that her granddaughter cared, that she, like her mother, wanted to know where her bones were. “The house in Immortal Heart,” Ruth asked, “is it still there?”

“Immortal Heart? . . . Oh, you mean our village—I only know the Chinese name.” She sounded out the syllables.
“Xian Xin.
Yes, I guess that’s how it might translate. The immortal’s heart, something like that. Anyway, the house is gone. My brother told me. After a few drought years, a big rainstorm came. Dirt washed down the mountain, flooded the ravine, and crumbled the sides. The earth holding up our house broke apart and fell, bit by bit. It took with it the back rooms, then the well, until only half the house was left. It stood like that for several more years, then in 1972, all at once, it sank and the earth folded on top of it. My brother said that’s what killed our mother, even though she had not lived in that house for many years.”

“So the house is now lying in the End of the World?”

“What’s that—end of what?”

“The ravine.”

She sounded out more Chinese syllables to herself, and laughed. “That’s right, we called it that when we were kids. End of the World. That’s because we heard our parents saying that the closer the edge came to our house, the faster we ‘d reach the end of this world. Meaning, our luck would be gone, that was it. And they were right! Anyway, we had many nicknames for that place. Some people called it ‘End of the Land,’ just like where your mommy lives in San Francisco, Land’s End. And sometimes my uncles joked and called that cliff edge
momo meiyou,
meaning ‘rub sink gone.’ But most people in the village just called it the garbage dump. In those days, no one came by once a week to take away your garbage, your recycling, no such thing. Course, people then didn’t throw away too much. Bones and rotten food, the pigs and dogs ate that. Old clothes we mended and gave to younger children. Even when the clothes were so bad they couldn’t be repaired, we tore them into strips and weaved them into liners for winter jackets. Shoes, the same thing. You fixed the holes, patched up the bottoms. So you see, only the worst things were thrown away, the most useless. And when we were little and bad, our parents made us behave by threatening to throw us in the ravine—as if we too were the most useless things! When we were older and wanted to play down there, then it was a different story. Down there, they said, was everything we were afraid of—”

“Bodies?”

“Bodies, ghosts, demons, animal spirits, Japanese soldiers, whatever scared us.”

“Were bodies really thrown in there?”

GaoLing paused before she answered. Ruth was sure she was editing a bad memory. “Things were different then… . You see, not everyone could afford a cemetery or funeral. Funerals, those cost ten times more than weddings. But it wasn’t just cost. Sometimes you couldn’t bury someone for other reasons. So to put a body down there, well, this was bad, but not the same way you think, not as though we didn’t care about who died.”

“What about Precious Auntie’s body?”

“Ai-ya. Your mommy wrote everything! Yes, that was very bad what my mother did. She was crazy when she did that, afraid that Bao Mu put a curse on our whole family. After she threw the body in there, a cloud of black birds came. Their wings were big, like umbrellas. They nearly blocked out the sun, there were so many. They flapped above, waiting for the wild dogs to finish with the body. And one of our servants—”

“Old Cook.”

“Yes, Old Cook, he was the one who put the body there. He thought that the birds were Bao Mu’s spirit and her army of ghosts and that she was going to pick him up with her claws and snatch him up if he did not bury her properly. So he took a large stick and chased the wild dogs away, and the birds stayed there above him, watching as he piled rocks on top of her body. But even after he did all that, our household was still cursed.”

“You believed that?”

GaoLing stopped to think. “I must have. Back then I believed whatever my family believed. I didn’t question it. Also, Old Cook died only two years later.”

“And now?”

GaoLing was quiet for a long time. “Now I think Bao Mu left a lot of sadness behind. Her death was like that ravine. Whatever we didn’t want, whatever scared us, that’s where we put the blame.”

Dory flew into the kitchen. “Ruth! Ruth! Come quick! Waipo fell in the pool. She almost drowned.”

By the time Ruth reached the backyard, Art was carrying her mother up the steps of the shallow end. LuLing was coughing and shivering. Sally ran from the house with a pile of towels. “Wasn’t anyone watching her?” Ruth cried, too upset to be more tactful.

LuLing looked at Ruth as though she were the one being chastised. “Ai-ya, so stupid.”

“We’re okay,” Art told LuLing in a calming voice. “Just a little whoopsie-daisy. No harm done.”

“She was only ten feet away from us,” Billy said. “Just walked in and sank before we knew it. Art dove in, beer and all, as soon as it happened.”

Ruth swaddled her mother in towels, rubbing her to stimulate her circulation.

“I saw her down there,” LuLing moaned in Chinese between more coughs. “She asked me to help her get out from under the rocks. Then the ground became sky and I fell through a rain cloud, down, down, down.” She turned to point to where she saw the phantom.

As Ruth glanced where her mother gestured, she saw Auntie Gal, her face stricken with new understanding.

Ruth left her mother at Auntie Gal’s and spent the next day at her house sorting out what should be moved to Mira Mar Manor. On the take list she included most of her mother’s bedroom furniture, and the linens and towels LuLing had never used. But what about her scroll paintings, the ink and brushes? Her mother might feel frustrated looking at these emblems of her more agile self. One thing was for certain: Ruth was not moving the vinyl La-Z-Boy. That was destined for the dump. She would buy her mother a new recliner, a much nicer one, with supple burgundy leather. Just thinking about this gave Ruth pleasure. She could already envision her mother’s eyes aglow with wonder and gratitude, testing the squishiness of the cushion, murmuring, “Oh, so soft, so good.”

In the evening, she drove to Bruno’s supper club to meet Art. Years before, they often went there as prelude to a romantic night. The restaurant had booths that allowed them to sit close and fondle each other.

She parked around the corner a block away, and when she looked at her watch, she saw she was fifteen minutes early. She did not want to appear too eager. In front of her was the Modern Times bookstore. She went in. As she often did in bookstores, she headed to the remainder table, the bargains marked down to three ninety-eight with the lime-green stickers that were the literary equivalent of toe tags on corpses. There were the usual art books, biographies, and tell-alls of the Famous for Fifteen Minutes. And then her eyes fell on
The Nirvana Wide Web: Connections to a Higher Consciousness.
Ted, the
Internet Spirituality
author, had been right. His was a time-sensitive topic. It was already over. She felt the thrill of guilty glee. On the fiction table were an assortment of novels, most of them contemporary literary fiction by authors not well known by the masses. She picked up a slim book that lay obligingly in her hands, inviting her to cradle it in bed under a soft light. She picked up another, held it, skimmed its pages, her eye and imagination plucking a line here and there. She was drawn to them all, these prisms of other lives and times. And she felt sympathetic, as if they were dogs at the animal shelter, abandoned without reason, hopeful that they would be loved still. She left the store carrying a bag with five books.

Art was sitting in the bar at Bruno’s, a retro expanse of fifties glamour. “You’re looking happy,” he said.