Gift of the Golden Mountain (64 page)

     She waited, gave me time, but when I did not speak she went on:

     "It is my habit," she said, "on the nights of the full moon to look for the rabbit, and when I see it I think:
Mei-jin, Sister Kit's child in America, I hope you have found the elixir, and drink of it in great gulps.
Now I look at you, now I see." Her face was filled with yearning, with the need for May to see, to know.

     May searched her mother's face so she would not forget. "All my life," she began, searching for the right words, "I have had you here, inside of me." She placed her hand over her heart. "But it has not been a good feeling," she went on, "I was angry with you for leaving me."

     Ch'ing-Ling bent her head, and for a moment May thought she was crying. To ease the situation, she moved to the dresser to get the photo. "Who is the boy?" she asked.

     Her mother took the picture, studied it as if she had not seen it before. "Only a boy," she finally said. "A poor boy with a damaged spine. His parents were dead, and all of his family, in the war. I tried to cure him, but he died."

     Something in her voice caused May to murmur with sympathy.

     "I know why he died, the medical reasons," Ch'ing-Ling went on, "but I do not know why he had to die."

     "Did you love him?" May asked.

     "Yes," Ch'ing-Ling whispered, "as I loved you, but it did not help him, and it did not help you."

May stood, shaken. Nothing was as she had imagined, nothing. "Can I have some tea?" she asked, giving her mother a task to take her mind off the pain.

They drank tea and talked in low, earnest voices. When it grew too dark to see, Ch'ing-Ling lit a lantern and they put it between them and drank more tea and talked through the night. She answered May's questions with the studied thoroughness of a doctor who knows her patient's needs. She told a story of struggle, and privation and pain, and she made May understand that she had finally found a kind of peace in the small village clinic. When May's questions began to lag, she asked some of her own.

     For May, it was as if a long thirst was finally quenched. She wanted to talk about herself, to tell her about Faith and Sara, about her break with Kit and their reconciliation. She told her about Karin and Hayes and about her work with volcanoes. The light outside the window had worked its way through several shades of gray when she spoke, at last, about her father.

     "When he died," she said, "I thought I was loose in the world, that there was no one to hold on to. I dreamed of you every night. In my dream you held your arms out to me, and motioned me to follow you."

     In the lantern light she could see her mother's eyes fill with tears. May reached to put her hand on her arm, and felt the frailness under the thin stuff of her blouse.

     As the early morning moved into the room, it illuminated two women sitting together, their heads bowed as if in prayer.

THE TELEPHONE RANG and Kit lunged for it, almost knocking over the pitcher of water next to Philip's bed.

     "She's out, she's safe," Karin shouted over the long distance line. "Hayes just called me from Macao. He was waiting when she came through the gate this morning and he says that everything is fine, that aside from being terribly tired May is wonderful."

     "She's all right?" Kit repeated, wanting to be reassured. "Everything is Jill right?"

     "Right as rain. I didn't talk to May, but I could hear her in the background and Hayes was almost giddy."

     "Did he say anything about what happened, did May get to see her mother?"

     "Yes. He said it is quite a story and he's going to stop off in San Francisco for a few hours on his way back to Washington to tell you about it. May kept a journal, and he's bringing it to you. The only other thing he said was to give you a message from May—to tell you that she loves you very much."

     Tears choked her. She had to strain to say, "Thank God it's over."

     To give Kit time, Karin filled the silence with chatter. May and Hayes would be staying in Hong Kong for two days, then she will spend some time in Japan, winding up her work there. Hayes will make a quick official trip to Vietnam before coming back—he said to say it would be about a week before he makes it to San Francisco, he would let her know. Thea was doing just fine, they were looking forward to Dan's coming through week after next, on his way to his first duty post in Saigon. They hoped Philip was doing well. . ."

     "He's doing remarkably well," Kit said, regaining her composure. "The doctors can't believe the progress he is making. Everyone is working very hard, Philip hardest of all. He's right here—would you like to speak to him?"

     "No," Karin came back, too quickly, "I mean, please, just tell him we are thinking about him. I hope he enjoys the 'daily news' we've been sending. It's probably a little boring for the readers, listening to all the everyday details of our lives—it was Thea's idea to write something every day, and send it off each Monday."

     "It's a great idea. Philip says it makes him feel a part of your lives. He told me this morning to let you know that he thinks you are making the right decisions about Thea's school work. He doesn't want to influence her too much, but he would very much like to see her go to Stanford next year even if that means staying on at Punahou to go to summer school. He thought you might like to consider getting her a math tutor to help with the calculus. But he says the decision is yours, because you are right there and know all the variables."

     "Good grief, Kit!" Karin laughed, "He must be getting well—that sounds just like Philip!"

     Kit put the receiver back in its cradle carefully, letting her hands linger on it for a few moments before she turned and stepped into Philip's field of vision. She took his hand in both of hers and held it while she repeated Hayes's message.

     "I think my darling May found what she was looking for," Kit said, "I do believe she is free now."

     She felt the tears rolling down her face, felt them fall onto her hands, watched them merge and roll into the crevices between her hand and his. Then she stood motionless, holding her breath.

     "Philip?" she said. "My God, Philip. Was that you?" One blink. Yes. And again, his hand pressing hers, stronger now.

     "Oh, dear God," she cried out, "Philip, your hand. You moved your hand."

     She was laughing then, and crying, all of the morning's emotion came streaming out of her as she stood, holding his hand, feeling as if her world was expanding in great, glorious bursts, feeling as if she had been waiting all her life for this one exquisite moment.

Karin sat at the kitchen table, brushing crumbs from a package of Pepperidge Farm peanut butter cookies into separate little mounds on the table cloth. She was thinking that the time had come to take stock. Now that May's odyssey was over. Now that Philip was progressing with Kit's help. Now that Thea had got her balance and soon would be able to walk on her own. Now that Dan had found his niche. Now that everybody she loved best in the world was in place, what about Karin? Where did she fit in the grand scheme of things?

     She walked out to the lanai and squinted in the morning light. The whole of Honolulu lay beneath her, high rises glinting in the distance, planes coasting across the sky toward the airport, a vast and silent panorama. Nowhere, she thought, I fit nowhere. She leaned far over the railing, looking down into the treetops on the steep hillside below.
A "Be Still" tree
, the woman who rented her the house had called them.
They say it was because you had to be still while walking the horses through them.
She wished she could
be still; she wanted to feel calm again, peaceful. Useful. In place.
What does it mean, "in place"?
She wasn't sure. Kit had taken over, for now. Rising to the challenge, pure Kit. But decisions would have to be made for the long term. She did not like to think about the long term.

     The day lay before her, flaccid and empty. She would have to get out of the house, away from the telephone. The wait for Hayes's call had exhausted her, the wait and the dread. She had tried to prepare herself, had told herself, "Something is going to go wrong," so it wouldn't be such a shock. But nothing had gone wrong . . . best now not to tempt the gods, best to get out. Still, she did not move because she did not know where she would go. Yesterday she had spent the better part of the day roaming the Ala Moana shopping mall, losing herself in the maze of cheap shops and food stalls that smelled of caramel corn and rancid oil and teriyaki chicken. She had bought a toaster oven that she did not need and did not want because an overweight salesman had spent so much time describing how it worked. All because of the telephone, of the bad news she knew was coming.

     The phone rang. She turned to look at it, startled and afraid. What is happening to me, she thought, when the ringing of a telephone terrifies me?

     The woman's voice on the line was hesitant. "I'm calling from the carnival committee—you know about the Punahou school carnival next week?"

     Karin laughed with relief. "I've heard of nothing but the carnival for days . . . Thea's working in the ring-toss booth. Is there anything I can do to help?"

     "Oh, if only you would," the woman blurted, rushing into a complicated explanation of how the chairman of the fine arts booth had broken her hip and was in the hospital, how it was an especially important job because the banks and several businesses always make large art purchases at the carnival, to benefit the school. How she hoped Karin could see why they would need
someone who knows something about art to take over, which wasn't going to be easy at the last minute. But then they heard that Karin had a degree in art history, and she would be absolutely saving their lives if she would agree to take over the job. Even if it means doing what they know is impossible—becoming familiar with the local artists and the works they were donating, all before the weekend.

     Within the hour Karin was on her way downtown with a list of artists and local galleries. At dinner that night, Thea said, "You did all that in one afternoon? You don't waste time, do you?"

     "It's awful, having time to waste . . . it's the worst thing that can happen to you," Karin answered. "I needed something to do, and this is perfect. Tomorrow I'm covering the museums and the Art Institute. I'll at least have a notion of what's going on in the local art scene."

     Thea concentrated on cutting her asparagus spears. "You should probably see the art collection at Alex's house. That was his mother's thing—art. She was a docent at the Art Academy, stuff like that. She bought from local artists when they were just starting out. Alex says her collection is worth a lot now."

     "I thought you weren't seeing Alex," Karin answered, working to keep her voice even.

     "I'm not seeing him," Thea shot back. "I do talk to him—or is that not allowed?"

     Karin looked at her. She did not want a struggle, not tonight. "Freedom of speech—a constitutional right, isn't it?" she tried to joke.