Searching for Sylvie Lee (35 page)

Lukas said, his voice breaking, “Mother, we did not know. We never would have gone.”

She came over to the bed and put her arms around him. “I am not blaming you.” Her eyes were on me. It was clear who she blamed.

I longed to have Grandma or something of hers in my arms again. I looked around the bare room. “Where is Tasha?”

“Who is that?” asked Helena.

I said in a quiet voice, “You know. The doll Grandma made for me. She was on the bedside table when I left.”

She shrugged. “We must have thrown it away by accident.”

I recoiled as if she had struck me. I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from crying out. Tasha, Grandma gone. It was just like the day I had left the Netherlands, losing everyone I had loved. I realized suddenly, of course Helena had taken Tasha then too. What a cruel thing to do to a child. Now she knew I had Grandma’s treasure and had stolen Tasha from me. Lukas looked between us and reached out for me but I stood suddenly. If he touched me, I would break down again and I refused to do that in front of this woman, who had always hated me.

I stumbled out of the room and let the grief take me once I was alone in my attic room.

V
enice had been a beautiful dream but now I was confronted by reality again. Grandma was gone. Her things had been either thrown away or hidden somewhere and Helena would never allow me access. Tasha, the doll Grandma had made for me with her own hands, had been tossed in the trash. I had not been here for Grandma for all these intervening years and was not here to hold her when she died.

I lay on my bed all day and night. I sent Filip a text message canceling the rest of my lessons. Lukas tried to see me, but I would not let him in. I loved him, but it could not go any further. I had been burned enough. I savored our time in Venice: the longing, the awareness of him, his skin, his smell, his touch . . . but after this came passion and then, inevitably it seemed, betrayal. I knew this desire, to edge closer to the cliff, to tempt fate. I had leaped off before and barely survived it. I was not sure I had. My grief consumed me and I could not bear any more risk to my wounded heart.

Estelle left me messages, but I did not respond. Friendship had failed me. In a way, I was angry at all three of them for tempting me to go to Venice, though I knew it was my own fault. Besides, I had already done enough damage to our group.

When I could speak again, I called Ma and told her that her mother was dead. She keened, each cry hitting a tender spot inside of me. I did not dare tell her that I had not been there at the end. I failed in my original purpose in coming to the Netherlands. When Amy’s voice came on the phone, I said, “Take care of Ma for me,” and she promised, “I will.”

T
wo days later, it was King’s Day, the birthday of King Willem-Alexander. Even though I stayed inside the house, I had to endure the knowledge that hordes of Dutch in fluorescent orange clothing were celebrating and drinking throughout the land. They painted Dutch flags on their faces; dressed in orange boas and huge sunglasses that read
KING;
wore hats that could hold a liter of beer, which they then piped to their mouths with a siphon. It was an excuse for the ever-controlled Dutch to cut loose. Some people saved up the entire year for their partying on this day. It was the worst day for grieving.

When I was little, it was called Queen’s Day, since Queen Beatrix still reigned. Grandma loved this holiday. It was the one day in the year when everyone could sell their old junk on the street, without a permit of any kind. She would wake me and Lukas early, so that we left the house by seven in the morning.

“Quickly, or all of the good things will be gone,” she said. She wheeled her large shopping cart along with us. The square in the center would have been transformed, covered with children and parents huddled against the early morning wind, each guarding a tarp mounded high with old toys, books, teacups, bicycles. People would be sipping coffee bleary-eyed, dressed in unbearably bright orange shirts and hats. Grandma loved a good bargain and would stop at every stand. She always gave Lukas and me some money to spend as well—fifty cents for a puzzle, a guilder for a toy car. Sometimes people sold freshly baked cookies or cupcakes. Lukas always spent everything at once, on marbles, plastic dinosaurs, Lego sets, but I liked to save my money, knowing I might find something more expensive. It was at the Queen’s Day street markets that I bought lavender-scented candles and delicate tea cups for Grandma, Helena, and Willem. Despite my fear of Helena, I still loved her and tried my hardest to please her. Grandma bought us cups of hot chocolate or warm, freshly made caramel waffles to munch on as we shopped. She would fill her shopping cart with miniature china ballerinas, bronze clocks, crystal glasses, and then we would walk home together, with Lukas pushing the cart and Grandma and I following, swinging our hands.

B
efore she died, I had spoken to Grandma about Dutch burial laws and her wishes. This was not very Chinese. We did not like to speak openly about death, but I wanted to make sure everything was done in accordance with what she, and not Helena, wanted.

“What? They can dig you up after ten years? And then throw your bones away?” This had not occurred to Grandma. In China, the burial site was of utmost importance. Families fought for the best spots on the mountain for their loved ones because it was the only place with good feng shui. This way, they believed, the departed could continue to bless the living. The forces of wind, water, and earth were in harmony there. Grandma shook her head. “Barbarians.”

“Customs are very different here. The burial rights need to be renewed in Holland and within cemeteries because it is so crowded. There is not enough room. They often will not permit a renewal after ten years.”

Grandma leaned back against her pillows, her cheeks and eyes sunken and still. “You decide, Sylvie.”

A pang went through me at the thought of Grandma’s death. How could it already be so near? I had to pull myself together. The most important thing was that she was happy. “I cannot do that, Grandma. This is too important. I want to know your wish. There is the possibility of a natural grave. That means that you would be placed somewhere in nature, without a tombstone. Many Dutch love this option.”

She huffed and waved her frail hand around. “Nameless and forgotten, in the soggy mud of this country? I do not think so.”

I hid a smile. “We could try to transport you to another land.”

She sat up and I placed a pillow behind her back so she would not tire herself out. “Where? To the Beautiful Country, where I have never been? Back to the Central Kingdom? No, I have been away too long. I would like to fly free, like the phoenix. I wish to see your grandpa again. Dragon and phoenix, yin and yang, man and woman. A death should be floating clouds and flowing water: natural, beautiful, free.” Her voice drifted away. The tirade had exhausted her.

I took her hand in both of mine. How happy I was that she was still with us. I had to savor each moment with her, no matter how bittersweet. I cleared my throat to rid the thickness. “Would you consider cremation, then?” This was what I would want for myself. Good riddance to this body.

She thought for a moment and nodded slightly. “Yes. I am a modern woman. Our rituals must fit the lands we live in. Our old feng shui master would have a terrible time here in Europe.”

O
n the day of Grandma’s funeral, we drove through a wooded area to a long one-story rectangular building set like a concrete block within a flat meadow. April was sweet but wore a white hat. Despite some initial warm days, this one had turned out to be the coldest in years, closer to the depths of winter than any rebirth of spring. The sky stretched over the horizon, gray and clear, like the iris of an unblinking eye. When Lukas and I stepped from the back of Helena’s car, our breaths turned to mist. We were as cold as newly shaven sheep.

“At least Grandma would be happy it is dry,” Lukas said, his breath disappearing into the air like a ghost.

Grandma had always carried an umbrella bigger than she was on rainy days. She hated the chilly wet weather. Other parents had often remarked that they expected her to take off on the wind like an airplane during storms. Lukas and I had both fit beneath her massive umbrella. He had always been a long boy and had helped her hold it as I clutched her arm on her other side.

We entered the reception hall, where the guests were supposed to wait. To my surprise, Oma and Opa were there. I had completely forgotten about them. Oma started when she saw me. I did not think she had expected to see me either. It had been so many years. They used to visit us from Belgium every birthday and major holiday. Where Helena had grown harder, Oma and Opa had grown smaller and softer. Their skin and eyes had faded to white, though Oma’s hair was still dyed black. I had not known them well. They had never been around enough to enforce discipline. I did remember that they always brought large sacks of chocolate with them for Lukas and me.

I was longer than both of them now. I bent to kiss Oma three times on her cheeks.

Tears sprouted in her eyes. “I know how much you loved her.”

“Thank you, Oma.” I had never noticed their Belgian accents when I was little, but they had only just moved to Antwerp then. This was how I could mark the years: Oma and Opa had lived there long enough to develop accents.

Opa patted me on the arm. I took a moment to look around the chilly and depressing reception area. There was only a long modern sofa with flat leather cushions. Its hard seats were dark brown and the multicolored beige and orange backrests had been added in an attempt to bring some cheer to the room. Everything was nondenominational. There was no sign of a cross or a Buddha anywhere. We had been asked if we wanted to have a priest and politely declined. This room was as pragmatic as the Dutch, with nothing to suggest anything as nebulous as heaven or an afterlife. I closed my eyes and offered a prayer to our gods.
Please take Grandma into the company of our ancestors.

The funeral director, a stubby man in a dark suit, greeted us and led us to the room reserved for immediate family. It resembled a typical Dutch living room, with a few square indigo fabric couches arranged around two mismatched coffee tables. We sat and were served tea and coffee. It felt like we were visiting distant relatives, not saying farewell to the woman I had loved the most, the only real mother I had ever had.

Then the director told us that if we wished, we could take leave of the departed privately in the mourning room. Oma, Opa, Helena, and Willem stood but I remained. Lukas stayed behind with me, shifting closer on the sofa. I would not share my grief with Helena and did not think she wished me to witness hers either. After an awkward pause, they left.

When they returned, their eyes were swollen and most of Helena’s makeup had worn off. I had not bothered to put on any cosmetics. Then Lukas and I entered the mourning room together. It was tiny, barely enough room for a few people to stand around the closed red mahogany coffin set on a high table in the center. Two lonely chairs leaned against the wall, which had been painted a calming beige.

I could not comprehend it: Grandma was inside that coffin. How could she breathe? It made no sense. How tiny she must be inside there. I felt a sudden urge to open the lid, to release her, to set her free. “She does not like that clunky Dutch-size thing.”

Then a large hand took mine and Lukas wrapped me in his arms. “She is already gone. She is free.” I closed my eyes and rested my cheek against his shoulder as he stroked my hair. He said softly, “No more pain. No gasping for air.”

Then we were racked with sobs again, our arms around each other, the two children Grandma had tended.

“We were not here,” I whispered. “I let her down. It was all my fault.”

“No.” He held my chin in his hand and bent to brush away my tears. “She wanted it this way. Do you remember the last thing she said to us?”

“‘Open your hearts. Be happy.’” And with those words, my burden lightened just a bit. In my mind, I said,
Grandma, I know you can hear me. I love you.

I heard her answer in my heart:
I love you too, Snow Jasmine.

When it was time for the ceremony, Lukas, Willem, Opa, Oma, Helena, and I acted as the pallbearers. We took the six handles on the coffin. It was heavier than I had expected. The wood probably weighed more than Grandma herself. Opa and Oma stood at the front, Helena and I were in the middle, and Lukas and Willem took up the rear.

The handle burned into my hand. The pressure was unbearable. I was carrying the body of Grandma. A tear rolled over my cheek. She was truly inside. I would never see her again, feel her hands holding mine. I would never get to take her on a luxurious holiday, treat her to a restaurant, or take her home to China. It was too late.

As we entered the main room, I was surprised to find people in attendance. I had not expected anyone. Estelle and Filip sat in the front row. It was clear Estelle had been crying, and Filip gave me a small sympathetic smile. Perhaps I had not completely ruined our circle of friends. Our neighbors were all here, the good faithful Dutch. Even though Grandma had never learned how to speak to them, they still came. The music was some generic classical assortment that the crematorium had chosen. Grandma never told me if she had a preference.