I decide to forgive my father for lying to me, just because I want him to forgive my grandfather after so many years.
After our twentieth or two hundredth emotional group embrace, my grandpa hands me a tin full of crispy red bean pecan cookies and more Chinese cash. 5,500 yuan!!!
I’m so lucky that my grandparents are so generous. What happened to my dad? Why doesn’t he just give me money anytime he sees me? If he gave me money every time that we cried together, he’d be broke and I’d be a millionairess.
Apparently, generosity is not genetic.
What else have I inherited from my heart-attack-inducing, secret-keeping family?
* * *
As I hail a taxi back to the Shangri-La, my stomach lurches from too many varieties of bugs, cookies, decades-long secrets, and epic feelings of helplessness on a global scale. I’m extremely anxious about reconciling my entire long-lost family. Because what if I will never be able to change my dad’s mind about my poor grandpa? What if my dad stays furious and heartbroken and depressed forever? How can I help him understand that forgiveness is worthy and possible when I’m still reeling from Samira and Peter?
As the nauseous feeling intensifies, I realize that forgiveness is like taking your first bite of a scorpion. You just have to believe it won’t kill you and get over that funny, slightly off-putting texture. I just need to convince my dad that forgiving his father is like eating a gross-looking but highly nutritious insect. The problem is that my dad, unlike my mom and me, has always been an extremely picky eater.
Worry, like an eight-legged spider crawling inside my brain, continues to gnaw at me. I pace up and down in my bedroom for almost half the night, hatching a plan.
24
Pregnant
When you grow up with a curse, you’re told to expect nonstop trouble. You’re told there’s nothing you can do because a Tiger girl always has horrendous luck with boys and excess facial hair. When I pluck and wax my Tiger mustache every forty-eight hours, I have sometimes wondered if there is an easy home remedy or Chinese spell to make it all go away.
Honestly, I’m sick of being told who or what I should be. And I’m seriously annoyed about being told that there is no cure for my lifelong curse.
This morning, as I keep stirring sugar in my coffee, I wonder whether I would be the same person if I hadn’t known I was a Tiger or if I didn’t barf all over the famous Madame Xing. I have always questioned superstitions, but I have honestly half believed them. I blame my lack of commitment to Chinese mythology on both of my parents.
My mom says “they are bullshit,” but my dad wholly believes in them.
If there’s one person who can change my dad’s mind and get him to forgive his father after so many years, it’s a famous fortune-teller. Preferably, the same one who predicted my fate. I’m certain that a professional named Madame Xing is the only person who can finally end our generation-long family feud.
All night I have searched online and used translation sites, and I have figured out that there is a Madame Xing fortune-teller and face-reader on a tour of the magical, mystical Chengdu Hot Springs. I don’t know if it’s the same one, but she’s currently taking appointments with newborn babies and people with serious skin afflictions.
Even if it’s not the same one, my dad doesn’t even have to know.
“We’re going on a field trip,” I say when Frank shows up at the apartment for my tutoring lesson. He’s the only person who hasn’t lied or kept a secret from me in Beijing. So far, he seems trustworthy. Besides, he’s always going on about how I don’t have a worthy cause or passion. I continue, “I thought about what you said about me not making an effort, and I am going to change that. I really need your help, Frank. I need to fix my family.”
I look at him hopefully.
Subconsciously, I gnaw at my bottom lip.
I nervously touch my hair, which I just washed with this amazing organic iris-infused and almond-scented shampoo that Ruby bought me as a surprise gift before she left for Milan for her costume fitting. The whole room smells like me: a sexy botanic garden in full bloom. I’m also wearing a body-fitting jumpsuit made of jungle-green chicken feathers, gifted to me by Auntie Yingfei. I look and feel like a fantastic parrot about to embark on a grand, outdoorsy adventure.
“I don’t know,” he says, frowning slightly.
“Come on,” I beg, touching his shoulder, and he glances around, as if worried someone will see us.
“No one is home,” I say suggestively. “We can do whatever we want.”
My comment causes Frank to seriously blush. I giggle at his reaction.
“I’m still going whether or not you come with me,” I say.
Sidling closer to him, I make my most wide-eyed, pleading face. I hope Frank is psychic and can understand how much I need his help. Also, it would just be easier if he could read my mind and we could just fool around whenever I wanted. For instance, I really want him to see me without this amazing jumpsuit on.
Frank flushes again. He looks resigned.
I show him the crumpled yuan from my grandpa. For once, I’m not spending it on something frivolous or even something that directly benefits me.
“You can have all this if you come,” I offer. “Think of it as extra tutoring income, and you can tell me about the history of the hot springs!”
Frank’s face slowly softens into a smile and he agrees.
Enthusiastically, I hug him in thanks and his body eventually relaxes into mine. After a while, he embraces me back. It’s clear that this is not even a friend hug. I burrow my face deep into his shoulder, thinking wild and extremely dirty thoughts. My insides flutter nonstop. And we stay that way, inhaling the rich overriding scent of fresh irises and almonds. I wonder which one of us will step away first.
“Iris, are you sure … ,” Frank begins in a low, low voice. I barely hear him.
“You won’t regret it!” I promise quickly, worried that he’ll change his mind about coming with me to find the fortune-teller who can reunite my family.
We take a two-hour taxi, a subway, and then another taxi up several bumpy, winding roads. For once, Frank isn’t talking about history or discussing Mandarin, and I watch the mountainside come into full view. China’s countryside is gorgeous. It’s like being inside one of the calligraphy paintings at the NAMOC. I’ve actually never been this excited about nature before. Is this why people climb Mount Everest? To become more worldly and sophisticated?
As the car slowly climbs the mountain, it hits me that I’m really in the land of my ancestors. My father was born in a village and then he left his home so he could have a better chance of a new life. I tell myself that if I manage to find Madame Xing and get her to make my dad see reason, I’ll put in more effort to learn Mandarin, whatever it takes to make my dad and his parents happy again. Whatever it takes to put my whole family together. At the end of the summer, I want to all be sitting together slurping soup noodles and wontons.
After three and a half hours of nonstop traveling, we finally stop at the Herijun Hot Spring Hotel, where apparently Madame Xing is holding private appointments for the week. There is no cell reception, but surely the hotel has Wi-Fi.
“Where can I see Madame Xing?” I ask her assistant, who thankfully speaks English. She’s a young woman with thick glasses and spiky, pink hair holding a clipboard. There are at least fifty people in the lobby.