The paper bouquets could be multi-purposeful too. Jun hands lilies to Ming, and roses
to Cho, which were fitting for her friends’ personalities. Ming cries at the sight
of roadkill, swearing she recognizes the poor creatures from somewhere, innocent
in her alliance with the flat and faceless. Cho craves perfection, being brassy at
her best, and walks up to their church’s graveyard to find and share goofy names
with them. They were ideal for Jun’s idea, a balance of sweetness and bravery that
will get her through this. It is a funeral, which must be done after breakfast and
before lunch.
Their guests were the silent type, respectful mourners. They take in the girls’ preparation
with their plastic eyes and furry stomachs. Their grieving positions were chosen
with care, and Jun thinks up individual reactions for them: the rhino has a runny
nose; her orange elephant won’t forget today; the giraffe is so stoic that he doesn’t
cry and can barely move. They line the pink window seat opposite her canopy bed,
the makeshift funerary arch. Her brother loved animals. Someone has to remember that
and it looks like it will be her.
They decorated the coffin, a J.C. Penney’s shoebox with fingerprints on the sides
and its original price tag scratched out, with crayon art. Ming drew a lake with
swans, where you can only see the gold bills of the birds on the space since the
box is white. Cho made a black terrier with even legs and gave him a proper nametag,
dubbing him Dusky. Jun contributed a panda chewing bamboo because she promised Hao-Ling
they’d go to Beijing together when they were old enough to buy plane tickets and
knew enough Chinese. Most of the Chinese she does know is courtesy of her mother
doling out several odd phrases as delicately as dandelion seeds waltzing in the wind.
The phrases parachute down, quickly into her ears, and their beauty is heard for
a fleeting moment.
Jun picks up the baby doll to be placed in the coffin. He’s passed around, the girls
placing kisses on his forehead. Jun’s hair sweeps his nose. The placeholder for Hao-Ling
feels more human than he looks. Maybe it’s his porcelain skin, the cool temperature
of his cheeks, and the moan elicited from his body when Jun bends his legs back and
forth. She only bent them to make his body fit into the box. The efforts prove useless.
His feet hover over the edge. He deserves far better.
Cho places the coffin on the bed and the sight is too much for Ming, who buries her
nose in her lilies.
“I don’t want to do this,” she says.
“Hao-Ling didn’t get a funeral,” says Jun.
“Everybody has to have a funeral, even if we get it wrong,” says Cho.
“What if his ghost comes back?” says Ming. “If we do something wrong, I mean?”
“Then, that will make it more interesting,” says Cho, considering the possibility
with a smile.
Ming weeps a little more, wiping her nose with her yellow collar.
The macaws Jun saw with Hao-Ling two years ago had brilliant yellow collars, and
bright green feathers that were thick as moss. Their father Ping had picked a new
pastime for that summer. He read that Teddy Roosevelt kept macaws and wished to emulate,
in any way, any president who was not only intelligent, but adventurous. The bird
put up a fight once removed from the cage. Ping joked it was because he wasn’t wearing
his pith helmet. The pet store employee went into detail about the bird’s diet and
its other needs. Meanwhile, Jun and Hao-Ling roamed the aisles, passing orphan puppies
who appeared too eager, kittens who cared more for grooming than for them, and a
snake tonguing the glass of its case. Jun loved how it slithered and showed off its
bumpy belly. Hao-Ling believed they could take it home if his sister could wrest
the case open since she had bigger hands. She couldn’t, though she tried. They attempted
to think of an alternative plan, and sneak out the snake before snack time, but their
father found them and introduced the macaw as Sandy. During the week Sandy was with
them, more a visitor than a pet, their mother fed him more than their father. Sandy
cheeped her discontent whenever she was left alone. Ping said that he understood
why birds were left in the wild, because the macaw required more of a commitment
from him than his wife. Hao-Ling showed his commitment. He was the only person to
say good-night to Sandy the entire week, and never missed a night. Jun watched the
talks with Sandy from the kitchen and led her brother to bed when their discussions
were through.
“Is it over yet?” asks Ming.
“No,” says Cho. “Somebody has to say some memories.”
“He didn’t have any,” says Jun.
What memories would a four-year old have? He isn’t there to say them. She couldn’t
remember much when she was four so chances are that Hao-Ling would have had no clue.
Then, Jun realizes that Cho means that others should share some memories of their
time with him.
“My mother doesn’t say anything about him,” says Jun.
“You didn’t tell her we were having a funeral?” says Cho. “You really are a scaredy-cat.
It might be for the best. Sometimes when your mom speaks, I don’t understand her.”
Cho’s tone mirrors that of the doctor who told their family the news, a tone of authority
mixed with guilt. Hao-Ling came to the world healthy and three years later, he left
the physician’s dying. They took him in for two appointments that week to examine
a painful rash and a nasty bruise on his back that sprang up suddenly. No one thought
the two were connected. Jun couldn’t find any connections as their father drove,
couldn’t find them when they came back home. She sat on the floor as her father sat
stiff in his recliner, sniffling at the same time as her mother, whose tears were
collecting into her palms, the palms that folded the laundry of others so expertly,
the palms that were then shaking. Jun asked question after question, and was met
with no responses. She decided to dig or else risk being naïve forever. The doctor
gave them some pamphlets and information that she could track down. She would hunt
for words, like her father, only he was a writer and she was almost seven. The one
word that kept reappearing was tricky for her to figure out. She split the word into
two parts, leuke and mia, writing them on her Scholastic dry erase board. They sounded
like Luke and Mia. She thought they were two friends who’d be coming over for a play
date with Hao-Ling. The whole thing made less sense and she wiped the words away.
She returned the pamphlets to her father’s desk. Her head was jumbled after that
confusing journey.
Bao called her oldest child into her bedroom the next day. She told Jun she had to
be careful with Hao-Ling from now on. Jun thought it was because he was three years
old and the bruise had yet to disappear. Peeping into the hallway, she saw Ping taking
certain items from his son’s room, things she knew Hao-Ling would hate to see being
taken. There was his Pokémon box, the anime-inspired plush toys set aside; his Mister
Potato-Head whose hat Hao-Ling loved to cram into his spud head; the Superman sheets
from his bed. From behind, Bao told Jun that they didn’t want him to get hurt. Jun
thought they were doing more damage than good by taking his toys, reading the words
Good and will on a spare empty box. She said she’d be good and watch over Hao-Ling,
despite not knowing why they were so cautious.
“I don’t understand her, either,” says Jun.
“My mother speaks the same,” says Ming. “It’s just how she talks.”
When Bao talks with her customers at the cleaner’s, her accent is strong and they
usually have to read her lips. Jun pulls the sides of the hangers towards her body
while she notices this. Her mother is quick to forget the tiny words, particularly
the “the” of sentences. She forgets grammar as easily as Jun does when she’s not
bothering with her class lessons. Sometimes Jun pretends to ignore her mother when
she is called to converse with the regulars, who simply just remark on how big Jun
has gotten. What’s simple is that her second-grade books always manage to insert
the “the” without any trouble. She doesn’t get why her thirty-six year old mother
can’t.
There are other things her mother can’t do, chief among them being that she won’t
go into Hao-Ling’s bedroom anymore. Jun caught her pressing her palms against the
wall near his door, like she could walk through the wall if she pushed hard enough.
The right leg of her embroidered pants touched the light socket. Jun thought that
if the sewn dragon on the pants touched the socket there’d be a spark and it would
look like the dragon was breathing fire on the silk, her pants engulfed in a tiny
flame. Jun stopped staring to go fill won tons with her father. He dispensed soy
sauce into two, and he let Jun do the next two after him. She asked him what they
were going to do with Hao-Ling’s room, which made Ping drop a won ton. He fetched
it and said that her mother wasn’t ready to go in there yet. This didn’t surprise
Jun.
However, her mother surprised her every now and then. A year before Hao-Ling was
diagnosed, she took them to Dutch Wonderland, Pennsylvania’s closest thing to a kingdom.
The amusement park was large and she was amused since Bao didn’t tell them where
they were going. Jun and Hao-Ling stared in wonder at the rollercoasters racing
recklessly along the aerial loops. Costumed princesses came out to greet them, their
teeth white and their mouths painted with a cherry color. Kids whirred pinwheels
with their breath and ate funnel cake without asking what a funnel was, while adults
ambled from spot to spot, leading the group by using their brochures. Bao found the
smallest part of the park just by looking up. Jun and Hao-Ling went to the table
full of different shades of sand, as the employee taught them how to make sand people
with glass bodies. The glass bodies resembled small vases where you had to pour various
portions of the hued sand to fill it. Hao-Ling let his first body slip through his
grasp and it shattered on the ground. He cried and tried to touch the fallen bits.
Bao slapped his hand away and it made Hao-Ling cry more intensely until a fresh,
new body was put in the boy’s sight. Her brother acted like nothing had happened
and started filling the new body. The bodies were topped with Einsteinesque tufts
of hair, given bulgy eyes and cotton ball noses. Bao meticulously wiped the bodies
and her children’s hands once they were done. Bao having wipes was as reliable as
the sun showing itself.
“Can’t have germs,” said Bao as she wiped their fingers. “Yes. Stay clean.”
“I don’t like the wipes,” said Jun.
They were sticky and she couldn’t hold her sand creature. Her mother’s mouth became
tight and she ran a hand through Jun’s bangs.
“Children don’t know best,” said Bao. “Here. I carry sand men for you and Hao-Ling.”
“I want to carry it. It’s mine,” said Jun.
“I give him seat of honor in my bag pocket,” said Bao. “That way, everybody see him
in a special place.”
Bao never took art lightly. Her sewing machine never showed a speck of dirt. Her
papier mache was sorted according to size and durability. She rescued the bits of
ribbon and cloth that fell from their clothes during play to use in her arts projects.
So Jun believed Bao. Of course, Hao-Ling requested that his sand creature go in too,
after hearing that. A few kids pointed to the crafts while they walked through the
park. Jun held her head high from the merry-go-round to the exit. Bao let the bag
rest in Jun’s lap once they were in the car. Her mother grinned at her in the rear
view mirror and Jun buckled her seatbelt. Bao didn’t have to say what to do. It was
clear.
Jun is not sure what to do as Hao-Ling’s replacement lies in his rectangular tomb.
She has no set of instructions and has been left to improvise. The only fact that
is clear is that this is her mother’s fault. Men, kind men, came to their house and
sat on their living room couch a few months ago. They asked Bao what to do, if she
and Ping would like a private memorial service or a more public event. Her parents
were shown possible programs with beautiful calligraphy and talked about two dates,
Hao-Ling’s birth and death. Jun later located a blank one that had fallen under the
couch. Bao said for them to leave her alone. The men didn’t return and they seemed
more willing to honor his memory than her mother. Where is Hao-Ling’s place of honor?
Jun crept from her bedroom that night and slept where she thought Bao laid Hao-Ling’s
memory to rest, between the couch cushions.
The highest Jun ever saw Hao-Ling was on the back of a pony, a stranger leading the
little horse around the dusty pen. Ping was following them, new sandals on his feet
and a video camera firmly in his grip while on the pony’s side. They were in a petting
zoo and the American flag blanket on the pony immediately caught her father’s eye.
He said Hao-Ling could pretend he was from the old Wild West. That was more her father’s
dream. He could be a Chinese cowboy, a Mandarin-speaking maverick who the sheriff
was no match for. Ping often entertained those pretend trips through time, but Jun
believed that Hao-Ling dreamt them too. Why else would Hao-Ling mercilessly kick
the pony’s hindquarters with his ankles, his face level to the tips of the fence
posts? His small shoes dangled, pointing to the dust, and he waved to Jun. Jun and
her mother witnessed the rest of Hao-Ling’s version of the West, viewing the gangly
walk of newborn lambs, the goats sashaying around the circle, and the mule who meekly
courted their attention by swishing its tail. Hao-Ling remained at the center of
it all. He was king of the West for fifteen minutes.
“Time’s running out,” says Cho, tapping her Snoopy watch.
“Shouldn’t we have music?” says Ming. “There’s music at these things.”
There are only three tunes Jun has perfectly memorized: Happy Birthday, Twinkle Twinkle
Little Star, and the theme song to Sesame Street. None of them are religious or sad.
Her mother doesn’t let her listen to any other types of music. Bao insisted the songs
today were either too vulgar or too adult. This made music more interesting to Jun.
Her mother must be hiding it from her. She went in her parents’ bedroom to find the
missing music, knocking on furniture to hear any lyrical echoes and wading through
her mother’s drawer to search for any signs of buried melodies. She did find a music
box. It was plain and brown, but it worked when she opened it, playing a melody she
heard Bao sing to Hao-Ling once. The lullaby was in Mandarin, so neither she nor
Hao-Ling could decipher it. Despite the difference in language, Hao-Ling was lulled
to sleep. Jun touched the green velvet bottom of the music box that day and wondered
if her mother sang that to Hao-Ling when he was in the hospital, to sing him into
an eternal sleep. Then, the songs Jun could offer wouldn’t be able to be sung to
him anymore because she sang him away.
Cho takes the initiative and hums a song they learned in Sunday School. Ming and
Jun join in, and they hum the hymn. The doll’s eyes shine.
“Jun, I think you should give a speech now,” says Cho. “It has to be really good.”
“Maybe start with ‘dearly beloved, we are gathered here’ since pastors say that a
lot,” says Ming.
“Dearly beloved,” begins Jun. “We are gathered here today….is that right?”
“My aunt was carrying a bouquet in the church last week, and those were the words
I heard,” says Ming.
“Was her mother there?” asks Jun.
“Yes,” says Ming. “And she was happy.”
“That has to be a wedding,” says Cho. “Mothers aren’t happy at funerals. Was there
a cake with two people on top?”
“There was a cake like that,” replies Ming.
“Then, it was a wedding,” sighs Cho. “How could you mix up the two?”
“The mother was crying, though,” says Ming.
“We’ll settle this,” says Cho, turning to Jun. “What did your mother do, Jun, when
your brother died?”
“She stared in another direction without looking at me,” says Jun.
Jun and Ming’s mother were waiting for news, the mist rolling onto the window panes
of her father’s study. Hao-Ling was taken to the emergency room the night before.
He’d been in the hospital for the past month with no improvement. The mist came for
two consecutive mornings, and it returned again while Hao-Ling didn’t. Ping said
he’d take care of the preparations as if this was something they could prepare themselves
for. Bao went straight to the study, with Ming’s mother silently leaving the room.
This was the perfect place to come. Jun’s father wrote travel essays and surrounded
himself in settings that let you mentally transport yourself anywhere. There were
two globes in two corners, a blue and green one and a strictly brown one. You could
read the names of places you never knew existed or spin the globe to make it seem
less stationary. Photographs of jungles, pyramids, and coliseums lined the area above
his writing surface. Ping would receive magazines in the mail and ask Jun where she’d
like to travel most based on the pictures in it. She usually chose places that were
as far away from home as possible. Hao-Ling would hold in his own opinions since
he didn’t grasp the game. He did have some of his father’s adventurous spirit, though,
because he’d go all around the house and appear surprised with every room he ran
into, until Ping would tell him that that was enough for today. If Bao wanted to
search for Hao-Ling, imagine where death had taken him, she had come to the right
spot.
Bao stared beyond the window with her eyes blinking at the blurry backyard. Jun
stood in front of the chair and stared too. She imagined walking with Hao-Ling that
summer, behind their house. They lived in Woodlow Estates. The neighborhood lived
up to its name. They couldn’t go anywhere without wandering over some wood from the
trees, the twigs cracking under their sneakers. Jun pulled her brother forward, confident
about the way they should go. Petals sank into the arms of fallen branches. Cicadas
crawled in the crevices of brambles. They paused at the end of their yard and ventured
to a small lapping brook several steps ahead. Someone had dropped a napkin near the
brook, water trickling along the smooth stones at the bottom. Hao-Ling touched it,
not inheriting his mother’s fear of bacteria. They took it up together and set it
in the water, and watched its brittle body break in the brook as the stones tore
it apart. The pieces sank to the bottom and they walked home, hand in hand, their
afternoon journey the last of its kind. Her imagination was as pure as the untouched
napkin and she hugged her mother, as if it could be shared with Bao by her touch.
Bao grunted and didn’t move. The mist rolled on and it was just the two of them when
it left.
“Your mother was probably afraid to cry,” says Ming. “Some people think it’s not
good to do it.”
“What would you know about it?” says Cho. “You cry about everything.”
“I do not!” cries Ming.
Ming’s cry is far from mute and her most timid friend has effectively landed her
in trouble. Jun hears her mother’s slippers shuffle against the carpet and into the
room while Jun’s eyes have fallen. Cho tries to hide her barrette by pulling her
towel off and pulling it around her, her forehead the sole thing showing. Ming copies
her.
The towels won’t hide the bouquets, their workmanship recognizable and her theft
of them obvious to Bao.
“What this?” asks Bao.
Jun chews on her fingernail to delay an answer. It only bothers her mother more.
“Ah!” says Bao, taking Jun’s hand from her mouth.
“It’s a funeral,” says Jun.
Her mother’s gaze goes from the doll reclining in the coffin, its skull now sideways,
to the manner in which her daughter and her daughter’s friends are dressed.
“Why you use my flowers for this?” says Bao.
“We needed a piece of you,” says Jun. “Hao-Ling would’ve liked them.”
Bao folds her arms, her fingers twitching. During the construction of the bouquets,
there wasn’t a hint of a twitch. The strength of the tissue paper and the detail
of the petals would’ve suffered. Her mother couldn’t afford to let anybody down because
of her frail fingers.
“These for happy moments,” says Bao, taking Jun’s bouquet from her.
The green wrap that secures them rustles loudly, but not as loud as the thoughts
that cloud Jun’s mind. They had many happy moments with Hao-Ling. Why won’t she acknowledge
those, acknowledge that they’re gone?
“How come you have forgotten those?” says Jun. “Hao-Ling was happy most of the time.
How come you don’t mention him?”
A lump in her mother’s throat slides from her chin to the end of her neck. Jun can
feel the lump, only because one travels down her throat as well. It doesn’t want
to budge. She doesn’t want her question ignored.
“You’re bad girl,” says Bao.
Her mother walks away, leaving Jun to cry, the tears falling on the fabric of her
camisole. Jun was just trying to do right by him, but it seems the idea was lost
to her mother as much as the idea of Hao-Ling ever existing.
“Does this mean the funeral’s over?” whispers Ming to Cho.
“Jun’s too upset to do the speech,” whispers Cho.
As usual, Cho is right, yet Jun won’t tell them. She unclips her barrette and walks
to the bathroom across the hall. Turning on the sink, she lets the faucet fill her
hands with water and washes her face. Ping sticks his head in the door, a camera
hanging from his neck. She smiles. He’d just been in San Francisco, visiting her
grandparents, and always made her room his first stop when he returned. He must have
seen her duck into the bathroom.
“Jun-Jun!” he calls her, a nickname that made her feel younger.
She’s grateful she dried all the tears from her face, because she can clearly see
the gift he presents to her. It is a red packet, for her New Year’s money. They regularly
spent the New Year with Ping’s parents, who were always giving when it came to putting
money into the packets. Last New Year, she and Hao-Ling sat on the sidewalks in anticipation
of the spectacle that would light her grandparents’ part of the city. It was Hao-Ling’s
final fireworks. The confetti from the parade earlier shifted on the street, the
wind taking care of the clean-up. Hao-Ling grew tired during the parade, but was
looking forward to the fireworks. They didn’t disappoint. The pop of the fireworks
sounded, the golden streams spangling the sky, the lines of light falling in the
distance. Her whole family applauded. Bao counted off until each firework would appear
and Hao-Ling joined in midway through. With each burst, he was always in awe.
“I got a packet for Hao-Ling, too,” shares Ping.
Jun views another red packet in his grasp and nods. Her father’s eyes grow wet, giving
her a look of warmth.
“It’ll be like he’s with us,” says Ping.
“You remembered,” says Jun.
“Your mother reminded me to get one for Hao-Ling,” says Ping.
“She said his name?” says Jun.
“Yes,” says Ping, rubbing her cheek.
“She never used to,” says Jun.
“It’s tough for her,” says Ping. “Go tell your mother I brought dinner home, hmmm?”
Her mother isn’t in her parents’ bedroom. Jun peeks inside her own room, where Cho
and Ming are arguing about where each stuffed animal went. The funeral was over before
it really began. After his death a few months ago, Hao-Ling was cremated, and her
parents took off one day to spread his ashes in the Atlantic Ocean. It was where
her parents met, Ping doing an article on local merchants in Atlantic City, and going
into her grandmother’s laundromat to find Bao tie-dying for her own pleasure. They
spent their honeymoon there too. Her father told Jun it was where they felt most
in love. Perhaps they needed to spread the ashes there because they were saying good-bye
to what their love made. Jun wonders if it was love that kept them from bringing
her along. What if they didn’t want their daughter to have to watch her brother being
thrown away?
Jun watches her mother, finally finding her in her father’s study. Bao is in the
same chair she sat in when Hao-Ling didn’t come home with her. Her slippers are off.
The paper bouquet rests in her lap. Jun unwraps the towel from her waist and lets
it fall to the floor. She approaches her mother, who does not look at her. Bao’s
lips quiver. It is the only part of her that isn’t still. Jun takes the bouquet before
climbing into her mother’s lap and she takes Bao’s right hand. She folds her mother’s
fingers on top of hers to join them.
“I’m sorry,” says Jun as they hold the bouquet together.
“You okay,” says Bao, practically a whisper. “You really not such a bad girl.”
Jun presses the flowers to her chest. The petals crumple in their closed fists.
Author’s Bio
Monique Hayes received her MFA from the University of Maryland College Park. She
is
currently working at the Folger Shakespeare Library while finding time to finish
her
first novel.
