Where Waters Meet, page 26
Chapter VI
WHERE DREAMS MEET
1.
George Whyller woke up, stung by the glare of the bright electronic display on the desk clock. 07:16, 2011.12.31. The last day of the year, but he didn’t know where he was.
In the dim daylight seeping through the edges of the blinds, there appeared abstract patterns: blurred green curves threading through dark cubes, reminding him vaguely of a strip of wallpaper. It finally dawned on him: he was in the Peace Hotel near the Bund in Shanghai.
He lay still, trying to gather the scattered crumbs of memory to reconstruct the route of his recent travels. Toronto to Vancouver; Vancouver to Shanghai; Shanghai to Wenzhou; Wenzhou to East Creek; East Creek to Water Ridge, the county that contained the village of Five-boys, now a town; Water Ridge to Wuli, the site of the field hospital, now no longer in existence; Wuli to Wenzhou; and Wenzhou back to Shanghai.
Write it down before you forget. A voice kept nudging him to get up, as he faded in and out of his re-created trip. He knew what it was, the lingering shadow of his last dream, reminding him of what came to him in the dream. The central heating had just woken up, plodding uphill, with yawning lethargy, to its full power. How could anyone resist the snug warmth of a bed with a memory-foam mattress on such a bone-chilling morning? A little later, he thought, dismissing the voice, now fading, and returned to the mental map of the trip he and Phoenix had just taken.
These were places that appeared in Phoenix’s manuscript, some of which he had visited during their honeymoon almost seven years ago, but they struck him differently this time. How can any place look the same after it has been excavated in such a way? Story alters geography.
If he had had a globe with him to plot the trip on, he would have seen a mess of lines but not a circle—Rain (alias Chunyu) didn’t quite finish a circle. It was the track of Rain’s life that he and Phoenix had tried to trace, on a minuscule scale and in fast-forward mode.
Of course, there was another purpose (not yet accomplished) for this trip—to bring Rain home. Her ashes, rather.
Home. A word so common, yet so evasive.
When he was an audiology student, he minored in linguistics, which cultivated in him an idiosyncratic passion to dig into dictionaries (in a pre-internet age) for the definitions and etymologies of words and keep them with his then photographic memory. This passion, of little practical value, had nevertheless gained him moments of glory in his attempts to throw off some junior professors and impress certain female members of his class. A vain and childish attention-getter, pure and simple. It was a surprise to him that his memory, now fading, could still retain some of his youthful follies.
HOME: A house, apartment, et cetera where you live, especially with your family, or when it is considered as property that you can buy or sell; the social unit formed by a family living together; a place of origin . . .
These definitions were by no means mutually exclusive. If they were allowed to stand firm and alone against each other, then there emerged the real possibility that Rain’s ashes were entitled to more than one home. After all, if one has lived during one’s lifetime in several places that can be loosely termed home, why should death restrict one to a single and final resting place? It would be discrimination against the soul, as a liberal mind might argue.
It was along these lines that they had been planning the final destination, or destinations, of Rain’s ashes. Rain had left nothing that vaguely resembled a will, her mind being too far gone. Phoenix was stuck in limbo trying to fill in the silent gap in Rain’s final wishes. The general idea was to divide the ashes between Canada and China, both of which had served, at different points in Rain’s life, as her home.
The Canada part had been relatively straightforward, with Scarborough jumping out as the natural choice, since Rain had lived in this section of Toronto for two decades.
They found a place near Bluffer’s Park in Scarborough. It was a modest-size cemetery, hidden behind a tall and dense wall of junipers, with a narrow winding path flanked by silver birches with their watchful eyes on the trunks, vigilantly guarding the world of the dead. On a fine day, someone taking a walk along the path to the vantage point can actually see Lake Ontario glitter and shimmer all the way till it fades into the horizon.
It was not the closest spot to where they lived, but nevertheless conveniently located, only a bus ride away—if Phoenix chose to come by public transit, to spend half a day doing some reading or just to put herself into a better mood if she and George had a dragged-out row. There was a lot of guilt to be killed between them, and be buried.
Just before Phoenix left for Shanghai, they had interred a portion of Rain’s ashes there. A small plot, a simple headstone, with the name, dates, and the word mom, in both English and Chinese.
The China part, however, turned out to be a little more complex than anticipated. The natural choice would be to inter Rain’s ashes in Phoenix’s father’s burial plot in Wenzhou, but now they were no longer sure about the idea after Phoenix talked to a friend who worked in the city planning department.
Father had originally been buried outside the city’s western end, on a strip of hilly ground deemed inarable. That was more than forty years ago. Over the past three decades, explosive economic development had pushed the city to three times its original size, and Father’s burial ground had become, in the process, an invaluable pocket of land close to the new city center. Caught up in a frantic cycle of zoning and rezoning, his grave had been moved twice. A third relocation, which would be unthinkable, could not be ruled out, according to the friend.
The homecoming plan was now in limbo.
Phoenix was still asleep, having tossed and turned for the better part of the night, just settling down at daybreak. Gravity was hard at work in her sleep, weighing her down with Rain’s secret. She still had plenty of time to sleep in, since they had nothing planned in the morning. In the afternoon, however, Phoenix would visit Auntie Mei while George went to an art show with an American couple he had met in the hotel. In the evening, Phoenix would bring Auntie Mei to the hotel to join George for a New Year’s Eve dinner.
Phoenix had been working hard on the second draft of her manuscript whenever she could grab a moment of peace and quiet, even during their trip. Before the impressions turn flat and stale, she had explained to George.
Every conversation with Auntie Mei struck Phoenix with fresh and, sometimes, varied impressions. An event, when related on different occasions, would reveal a little discrepancy. A tiny change in where and when, a subtle switch of mood and tone. Of the myriads of rushed and sometimes conflicting information that pushed their way through her consciousness, Phoenix had to decide which piece to absorb and retain in her writing as the version of truth, which might change from day to day. A process so fluid and volatile, which seemed to lead, to George’s growing dismay, further and further away from the final version of the narrative.
It was mind-boggling to watch Phoenix at work. Utterly cool, calm, placid, and disinterested from head to toe. Even the keyboard caught her phlegmatic air, spilling out a slow, flat string of monotony, airtight with no leak of emotion. Tac, tac, tac. A clinical detachment.
Where did the emotion go? he wondered. Could ice create fire?
Then, something esoteric happened. He started to infiltrate, in his dreams, her thoughts and emotions as they emerged in her dreams. It was all there in her dreams: the rage, the guilt, the sneer, and the blame. He couldn’t quite explain what was happening in words that she, or he himself, could understand, without sounding absurdly metaphysical or, worse, superstitious.
It was as though his subconscious had hacked into hers, each drawn to the other, through a strange mode of communication that didn’t require words. Silent, naked, deep, shameless, totally trusting and understanding.
This was the closest description he could come up with, a phenomenon completely unsupported by the chunks of knowledge he had acquired throughout his life from all branches of science, excluding, perhaps, theology. But is theology a part of science?
A title? Last night, in one of his entangled dreams, he heard a voice, silent but persistent, demanding an answer. A dream asking another dream.
Then the title came, in the wee hours of morning, presenting itself in the fuzzy space between the last round of the dream and first round of awakening. He held it tight for a while before giving in to another drift of drowsiness.
Finally, he was fully awake, and immediately seized by a fit of panic. Did he still have it, the miraculous dream title? He raked through his brain, finding it tucked away safe and intact. Thank God. Quickly he got out of bed, rushing, half-naked and barefoot, to the desk, searching for a pen and hotel letterhead.
Where Waters Meet. Yes, waters. He should not forget the plural. The s was crucial—he could almost hear the sibilant sound, of the finding, the clashing, the breaking, the merging and expanding. The pain. The joy. The s had turned an ordinary meeting into a cosmic event.
A sigh of relief. Now memory was pinned down, and held accountable, in black and white.
2.
Phoenix arrived at Auntie Mei’s around 3:30 in the afternoon. Morning wasn’t good for visiting, as it was Auntie’s recreation time. Chorus practice, calligraphy classes, chess competitions, whatnot, all sponsored by the place she lived in. It was a care facility established for the special needs of retired senior officials. Glorified old-timers, one might say.
Despite a body and a mind that could make people much younger envy and fume, Auntie Mei decided to move to the care facility two years ago (she carefully avoided the term nursing home) because she hated grocery shopping and cooking—she had never been very domestic, even in her younger days. The idea of having a maid in close quarters repulsed her as much, if not more. Yes, a maid, not a domestic assistant, or comrade. Not anymore. Times had changed, bringing in words resurfaced from an older era, when a maid had been called a maid, and a spade a spade.
Another reason for her decision to move was loneliness, a reason she would never admit to herself. Uncle Chen had been dead for years, and she didn’t mind trying out a little new company. But she soon found herself among company that was not exactly what she had desired. The empty-headed, senile coresidents, the frivolous young volunteers who only came for a good reference on their resume, the hastily thrown-together recreation programs totally lacking substance . . . Auntie Mei’s list of complaints could circle the globe three times around, yet she never missed one group activity. She was the busiest lonely old lady.
This hour in the afternoon would usually find Auntie Mei at the peak of alertness powered by a long nap. At eighty-four, she shared few of the health problems that had haunted her sister Chunyu (Rain). The exhaustive annual physical (all paid for) had so far generated a miraculously clean bill of health for her age. Not even cataracts or hemorrhoids. Apart from her fading eyesight and an occasional bout of constipation, she found hardly any need for doctors.
But today, Phoenix noticed a difference as soon as she walked in. The air in the room was stuffy, stale, and overused.
Auntie Mei lifted herself halfway up from the reclining chair to greet her, a listless gesture of welcome—she was not her usual self. Today’s nap hadn’t quite done its duty, leaving her tired and leathery. Having been away for a week, Phoenix suddenly saw the wear and tear of age in her auntie.
Chunyu’s passing seemed to have freed the locks and shackles on Auntie Mei, reducing the indelible shame of her past to a mere plotline in a multi-episode drama. Phoenix brought her mother to Auntie Mei in a metallic urn with an elegant floral design, and Auntie Mei returned to Phoenix a sister in a gory tale of survival. The mother version was familiar to Phoenix, but the sister version was the pearl in the oyster.
But truth had taken its toll on Auntie. The pearl was harvested, leaving behind a damaged oyster.
No more questions today, Phoenix decided, filled with remorse and contrition.
She retrieved the laptop from her backpack, placing it on a little tea table near Auntie’s chair, and started to show her photos from the trip. Auntie had originally planned to travel with them but bailed at the last minute.
The street scenes in East Creek; the site of Grandfather’s old residence, now a high-rise building; the high school the sisters had attended (unrecognizable due to recent expansions); the burial site of the grandparents; and the dinner gathering with the eldest aunt and the fifth one, the only two surviving siblings still living in East Creek.
Auntie Mei watched quietly, with occasional interjections of simple questions about a certain location or name. If there were emotions, they were certainly hidden well. Phoenix felt she was handing Auntie Mei a very old orange, with the parched skin of time peeled off, revealing wedges that resembled little their original shape and texture. A memory spoiled.
“The aunties wish to see you on the next Qing Ming Festival, to pay respects to Grandpa and Grandma’s graves.” Phoenix relayed the message gingerly.
There was a long pause before Auntie Mei responded, in a trailing voice. “Too late now.”
Too late for what? Their invitation? Or her acceptance? Phoenix wondered but didn’t press.
Then came a photo of a battered old bungalow with stone exterior and tiny windows that looked like holes knocked into the wall. It’d obviously been abandoned for years, bearing various scars of repair and disrepair. One could sniff out the mold and rust by merely looking at it.
Phoenix paused, unsure whether the image of the placard fixed on the wall had registered with Auntie Mei, as her eyes brushed past the photo.
PROVINCIAL HERITAGE SITE
OLD JAILHOUSE BUILT AROUND 1790
IN EMPEROR QIANLONG PERIOD, QING DYNASTY
Auntie Mei’s eyelids fluttered, like the wings of a startled moth. Abruptly she jumped up from her chair, and with the agility of an eighteen-year-old, leaned over the laptop, slapping it shut.
“She doesn’t need to see that!” she shrieked.
“Who?” Phoenix was flabbergasted.
Auntie Mei pointed, waveringly, towards a corner of the room, trying to work down a catch in her throat but was too exhausted by her sudden eruption.
Mother’s urn in the closet, Phoenix suddenly understood.
3.
“Auntie, how did you find the Communist forces after your escape? We didn’t quite get to that part, did we?”
Phoenix was surprised by her heartlessness as she decided, despite herself, to continue with her delving. Certain questions had to be asked. There would be plenty of dutiful naps Auntie Mei could take in the future for her to recover, but time was running out for Phoenix. Shortly after the New Year, she would fly back to Toronto with George. Long-distance telephone conversations could never be trusted.
“Not much to talk about.” Auntie Mei spoke half sleepily, propping herself against a cushion on her reclining chair.
“I found a classmate who’d always talked about running away, her cousin was a gangster who knew every man and every dog around. He led us to a guerilla camp that had a connection with the New Fourth Army, a lot simpler than I thought. The biggest trouble was before that, when I tried to get your grannie’s jewelry box back from the neighbor. The old bitch denied everything, lied through her teeth and kept a big fat straight face too. Never thought she’d be such a natural actor.”
Auntie Mei seemed to have picked up some steam as the conversation rolled on.
“How did you get it back, in the end?”
“The rotten bitch had a half-decent pup, her son was ashamed.” Auntie Mei snorted.
Phoenix couldn’t help but be amused. Auntie Mei seemed to be going through a glorified process of regression, her tongue running a lot looser and her speech more juvenile as her body aged.
Regression.
That was the word. Did Mother go through it too? Yes, she did—now it all became clear in retrospect. All the weird, erratic, and childish behavior in the last years of Ma’s life was just the small steps of her regressive crawl backwards to her youth, a dark alley of shame and fear.
The fear had always been there, now that Phoenix came to think of it, but it had been drowned out for a while by the perpetual distraction of raising a young family in a turbulent time, and then returned, in full force, when Ma grew old, her mind becoming less occupied.
A blessing; now the fear couldn’t touch Mother anymore. Death had wiped clean all slates.
“Ma said you were always big on the Communist thing, all your friends in school caught in the frenzy,” observed Phoenix.
“How much did she know about me?” Auntie Mei gave a little laugh, with a touch of scorn. “I just wanted to see the world. What chance did I have at home? Your grannie would never loosen her leash, not even an inch. The town bored me to tears. Besides, you have to be a fool once when you are young. Wising up is an old man’s business.”
Phoenix was taken aback. As best as she could remember, Ma had talked about Auntie Mei more than anybody else, perhaps, in the world. Mei’s passion, Mei’s belief, Mei’s elation at the conquest of Shanghai, Mei’s big ideas about changing the world . . . When did things start to change for Auntie Mei? Or was it a sham all along, and Ma just didn’t have the nose to smell the rat?
“Tell me a little more about how you met Uncle Chen, will you?” Phoenix tiptoed towards the topic, as if approaching a land-mine zone. She had noticed, on her first visit, that there wasn’t an inch of space in the room that held a memento of Uncle Chen. Not a picture, not a war medal, not a grain of dust carrying his smell. Uncle Chen didn’t exist.
