The Year She Left Us (22 page)

“That's ridiculous,” Charlie said. Oldness didn't excuse
that
. “Every adopted child has to come to terms with loss, but you can't make such sweeping generalizations.”

“ ‘China gets clean babies.' You said so yourself. Why do you think so many Western parents want to adopt from China?”

“I never said such a thing! It's offensive. Mrs. Greene, please don't listen to my mother. And please don't judge people based on stereotypes. What if a child heard you?” The racism appalled her. She had cheered when Gran had made friends with the neighbor next door. Now they were like a pair of evil crones stirring their brew together. That they themselves had been the victims of discrimination made their atrocious comments all the more upsetting.

“Oriental mothers are different,” Gran insisted. “They might be poor, but they take care of their babies.”

“It's true,” Naomi said. “I tell your mother: Jews and Chinese always put family first.”

“Believe me,” Charlie said, “there are plenty of bad Asian parents. I see them every day in my work. I've got a client right now who left her four-year-old kid in a car for three hours while she and her boyfriend partied at the casino. I'm shocked at you, Ma, I really am. You and Dad always taught us to treat everyone with respect.”

“Is she Chinese?” Gran asked. “This bad client of yours?”

Charlie glared at her.

“I knew it,” Gran said. “No Chinese would do such a thing.”

“What kind of work does she do again?” Naomi asked Gran.

“I'm a lawyer,” Charlie spat.

“Imagine,” Naomi said. “How can you defend such terrible people?”

“H
er memory's shot,” Gran said, after Naomi left. “It comes and goes like a fever.”

“Let's hope dementia explains her nastiness,” Charlie said.

“It's a wonder anybody talks to you, for fear of getting a lecture.”

“I can hear what she says to her friends about us. ‘Devious, cold, single-minded. They're ruining our economy. They're taking over the world.' ”

“Such melodrama,” Gran said, refusing the provocation. “I'm worried about Naomi. Her son wants to move her to Four Winds in San Jose. He says it's near his tennis club, so he can visit her on his way to getting in a workout. She gave everything to her children—she gave up performing; she was a very good musician—and this is how he repays her.”

“Does she have any help at home?”

“A lady comes in, but her son is determined to drag her off to that place. Four Winds. Who names these outfits? They name the cemeteries, too. They're professional namers, but they have so little imagination.
Haven, Peace, Hills, Forest.
All those words that tiptoe around death.”

Charlie thought of her father, scattered to the four winds. Gran had not wanted to cremate his body, but her father had insisted, and Les and Charlie had arranged it. She overruled him often enough when they were married, Les told Charlie. Let him have his say at the end.

“For my part, you are forbidden to put me in a badly named graveyard,” Gran said.

“Let's talk about something else,” Charlie said. Her mother loved to debate about where she should be buried. Sometimes she said Los Angeles, other times Taipei. Millbrae, she said, was out of the question. Charlie always quickly changed the subject. Her father's death had left her full of sorrow. Losing her mother was unthinkable.

“Naomi's been talking to me about her brother,” Gran said. “She never used to. The strokes are to blame, I suppose. The oxygen supply gets cut off in the brain. He died in Shanghai. It's a very sad story.”

“Like Mu-you,” Charlie said with a hint of spite.

“Naomi's brother got sick,” Gran said. “Mu-you always had the best of care. Father made sure of it.”

“I thought he didn't live with you. Grandpa Wu sent him away.”

“It wasn't like that! In China, in those days, everybody in the family helped each other out. It was safer for Mu-you to live outside of Shanghai.”

“Not that safe. After all, the war got him.”
How can you defend those terrible people?
Let somebody else for a change feel the sting of harsh judgment. Charlie settled herself more deeply into the sofa, though it was sprung so tightly, it threatened to bounce her back.

Gran didn't answer. Charlie's unkindness spread between them like a stain.

“I'm sorry, Ma,” Charlie said.

“Poor Naomi,” Gran said. Her voice trembled. “Sons can be cruel. Daughters are so much better.”

Don't be so sure of that
, Charlie buzzed in her head.

A
fter Gran's, on her way to Va's place, Charlie stopped to buy an iced lemon cake and two big balloons, one for each of the boys. Joseph was a little old for a balloon, but she didn't want to favor Manu. For Va, she bought a pink azalea in a plastic pot, then she drove to Va's place, her mood lifting. Joseph had said he would make a big banner,
WELCOME HOME MANU
, with the paints Charlie had given him. He loved to draw; over the weeks she had brought him pencils and charcoal and a set of fine-tipped markers for his sketches of fingers and hands. He was good at thumbs; he drew them over and over, as if rehearsing for a day when he'd hitchhike down the highway. A young Latina woman at Pen and Parchment helped Charlie pick out the right tools for a budding young artist. And a pen, Charlie said, because he likes to write notes to his brother. The salesgirl showed her the different kinds. She chose one with an angled tip for fancy calligraphy, just for fun. She thought of Ari walking around the store, talking to customers and straightening shelves, but she didn't feel her near. She left with a bag stuffed full and the same emptiness she had carried into the store.

I shouldn't have taken my problems out on my mother
, she thought. To bring up Mu-you was the small kind of cruelty that Charlie had always abhorred. She resolved to be more patient, and to maybe call Les to apologize for leaving lunch, though Les, not Charlie, was the one who should say she was sorry.

J
oseph was outside with kids and adults and Manu.
A welcoming committee
, thought Charlie, glad to see Joseph so happy.

“This is my brother,” he said shyly, coaxing Manu forward, his brown arm around Manu's small shoulders. Charlie knelt to say hello, and she and Joseph exchanged a smile. Ela and her husband had set up a barbecue on the sidewalk, and their two kids were wheeling their bikes out front. Charlie carried her cake to the kitchen, where Va was busy at the sink. Cooking smells wafted invitingly through the open window.

“It's a real party,” Charlie said to Va, looking about for a place to put down the cake.

“Manu is back,” Va said.

“Yes, I know, that's why I'm here. To help you celebrate.” Charlie paused. “Didn't I tell you I was coming?”

Va shrugged. Charlie was confused. She thought they had agreed, after the court hearing, that Charlie would come over the first Saturday that Manu was home. Four o'clock. That's what she thought they had said.

“I brought you this.” She held out the lemon cake. Va nodded her thanks. She moved a bowl to make room on the crowded counter.

“My family is here,” Va said.

“I said hello outside. It's great that you're all together. Is Manu happy to be home? Joseph is thrilled.” She laughed. “He's got big plans for the two of them.”

“Did you need something from me?” Va asked. “I gave the social worker all the information. She says she's the one who'll be making regular visits.”

“Yes, she'll have to do that, as part of the court's order. I—” Charlie stopped. She understood. It had happened to her before. A client got what she wanted and had no more use for Charlie. She had preferred it that way, every single time. It was the only way to get through her caseload. Any defender who took on more than she had to was a fool and a patsy. A bad lawyer, too, if you stopped to think about it.

“I'll just say good-bye to the kids,” Charlie said.

Va looked out the window. “They're riding bikes. I'll tell them for you.”

Charlie turned abruptly. Her eyes burned; if she hurried to her car, she might make it before the tears fell. For the third time in the day, she rushed out, groping. A young guy wearing a black shirt and holding a beer stood talking to Ela's husband.
The boyfriend
, Charlie thought, but she didn't stop to find out. Va wasn't her friend, and Joseph wasn't her problem. She went home and cried until she couldn't feel her face anymore. At midnight, she walked. The wind was up, the trees like hauntings. The sailboats in the marina moved on the black water, their rigging creaking and slapping. In the morning, Ari was still gone.

CHAPTER 22

LES

T
he caller on speakerphone was yelling so loudly that Tony, the bailiff, could hear the guy's voice through the door.
Poor bastard
, Tony thought, chuckling. The judge'll eat your lunch in a minute. Maybe she'd yell back; maybe she'd soothe him. All the guys around the courthouse agreed with Tony: Judge Kong had great instincts.

At her desk in chambers, Les let the man rail. His name was Jeffrey Greene. His mother, Naomi, lived next door to Gran. “Your crazy, lunatic, interfering mother,” is how Jeffrey Greene had phrased it. She remembered seeing a photograph of him and his wife and their two young children in Mrs. Greene's apartment when Les and Gran were invited to tea. Her son was an investment banker, Mrs. Greene had bragged. The photo was outdated—the son a junior partner, not as rich as he was now, not as self-righteous—but still there'd been a certain cock to his smile that Les had recognized. His wife was surprisingly ugly, a point in the man's favor. Remembering that, Les decided on extra patience.

It seemed that Gran and Mrs. Greene had been in a minor accident, with Gran at the wheel of Mrs. Greene's expensive car. They were headed to a concert in San Francisco, but they didn't get past Millbrae. Les was annoyed at Gran but admired her determination to keep doing the things she loved. Nobody was hurt: Les ascertained that right away. Gran had backed the car into a U.S. mailbox, scraping the fender and cracking a taillight. What had Jeffrey Greene jacked up—she heard his words smacking; she could picture the spittle flying—was the future increase in his mother's insurance premiums and the potential liability, should, on one of their excursions, Gran mow somebody down. “I'll sue the shit out of you fuckers,” was the way he charmingly put it.

He paused for a millisecond to gulp air.

“I do apologize, Mr. Greene,” Les said. “You're absolutely right that your mother's health and safety are the most important considerations here. I really sympathize with you. I know how hard it is to take care of elderly parents. You and your wife have two kids, too, if I'm remembering correctly. Your mom has told me how proud she is of her grandchildren. You've got your hands full. It isn't easy.”

“She's a menace!” he said. “Where does she get off driving my mother's car? She's as old as my mother is. Older! The whole point of the thing is to get these old drivers off the road. I've told my wife a hundred times we should have my mother give that car to our son, but she won't let me. She's worried about drunk drivers. What she should be worried about is your mother, who somehow has convinced my mother that she shouldn't move to assisted living. I'm only trying to do what's best for her. She can't live on her own anymore. I've got the place all lined up; I've fronted her the deposit. But your mother's throwing roadblocks left and right. I've got a big problem, and it's your mother's fault. If something happens to my mother, I'm coming straight for you.”

“I understand,” Les said. “We do worry about our parents.”

He suddenly stopped. Probably he noticed on his clock's digital readout that he'd spent twenty precious minutes, a full third of an hour, on this ridiculous matter. “Unless we reach some kind of satisfactory agreement,” he threatened, “I'm calling my lawyer today.”

Les sighed to herself. She would have to do this in person. On the other hand, it would be kind of fun to play lawyer herself for an hour. She missed the thrill of mano a mano. Judging required fairness and balance. Lawyering was what you could get away with.

She made an appointment to meet him at his office in San Jose. That would give him a sense of command and control. She fully intended to pay no more than his mother's deductible and a pan of her celebrated brownies. She wasn't worried. She had all sorts of arguments to make: permissive user, comparative fault, liability coverage, no emotional distress. But she wouldn't have to go there. He'd tipped his hand while his blood pressure spiked. She had guilt to play with.

Y
an told her employer, Mrs. Hsu, that she would be right back, then went down to the lobby and called the older daughter. Her mother was fine, Yan said. A little sore in the neck from when she twisted around to look, nothing to worry about. She had put on an ice pack and made her a special medicine tea that stopped pain and tension. Mrs. Greene wasn't sore at all. The two ladies had laughed about it the whole afternoon. Mrs. Hsu said the mailbox didn't matter since nobody used the post office anymore.

“Oh, Yan,” Les said. “Thank you so much. I knew you'd call as soon as you were able.”

“It's no problem,” Yan said. “She thinks I'm taking out the garbage.” The older daughter always remembered Yan at Christmas with a thousand dollars and a huge fresh wreath that came by special delivery. At first, Yan had thought it odd that Lesley gave the money early, a whole month before Lunar New Year, and in a stiff white card instead of a nice red envelope. Yan didn't know what to do with the wreath: she was a Buddhist; Christmas was a workday, like any other. But she had grown used to Lesley's different ways and every year looked forward to the check that Lesley quietly slipped her. Nobody else in the family had the eldest daughter's brains. The younger daughter was kind and friendly but had never given Yan any money. She was a bad mother; her daughter hated her, as daughters often did. Yan had hated her own mother and had been glad to leave her country village, her mother weeping and wailing as Yan skipped away. She had a different name then: Ju-hua, meaning a kind of flower, but it was an ordinary flower and a typical country girl's name, and she couldn't wait to get rid of it when she got to the city. She was lucky to be hired by Mrs. Hsu. When the old lady was dead, Yan was going to take everything that she had saved and go back to her village and spread her money around. She liked to look through Nordstrom catalogs to pick out the outfits she would wear.

“What else is happening at home?” Les asked.

“Your auntie Yifu called,” Yan reported. “They had a long talk; your mother got very upset.”

“Were they fighting?” Les asked.

“It was some kind of argument,” Yan said. “I heard them talking about Mu-you.”

“Mu-you? Are you sure?”

“Her brother, Mu-you. Do you know who I mean?” Yan said.

Yes, the older daughter said, she knew. Yan thought it very sad that there was a dead brother, but there were so many dead brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers during the war and after. One couldn't stop to mourn them all. They joined the ancestors, watching over the family's fortunes. Yan's only regret at having left her village was that on Qingming, she couldn't sweep her family's graves. Sweeping the graves and making the proper offerings brought good fortune the whole rest of the year. Still, this year on Qingming, she would light the incense as she had last year and the year before that, light the incense and put fruit on the altar that Mrs. Hsu let her keep on the balcony outside. Her ancestors would understand that that was the best she could do.

“I'll come down to see her soon,” the older daughter was saying. Yan quickly made a mental list of the ingredients she would need to serve a nice luncheon. She liked cooking for this daughter, who appreciated the finer things in life.

I
should call Charlie to tell her about the accident
, Les thought, but she didn't. They hadn't spoken for more than a month, ever since Christmas Day. Before that, the last time they had talked was at that bad restaurant. She was still annoyed at Charlie for flouncing out in a huff. She wondered if Ari was checking her e-mail; Les had written her several times but gotten no response. She missed her niece's company. Only Les really appreciated Ari's acid tongue. She liked people with sharp edges. She remembered Ari as a little girl, and how, on lucky days, she had crawled straight to Les. Les had loved the glorious feeling of Ari's weight in her lap.

She looked at the clock. She had briefs to finish reading before the afternoon session, but she pushed the work away. Let the lawyers rattle on; she could fake it from the bench. She tried to rub the stiffness from her shoulders. She hated to admit it, but her mother had been right. Ari's return to China had been an invitation to trouble. Whatever had been brewing in her had boiled over there.

You're your own worst enemy, Burrell sometimes told Les, and Les always replied that it was a family trait. A stitch of regret tugged at Les's heart. To be a Kong woman was to be drawn straight into battle—sometimes with others, more often with oneself.

H
is desk was black and polished, clear of even a single scrap of paper. Twenty-four acrylic tombstones stood in rows on the credenza behind him like a Barbie graveyard, each one a marker of the killer deals he had done. Les's chambers were lined with volumes. In this office, there wasn't a book in sight.

“You see my problem,” Jeffrey Greene said.

“I do. I do,” Les said.

“My siblings are all in agreement.”

“That's good,” Les said. “It helps when the whole family is pulling in the same direction. It isn't an easy transition. My mom told me that you've chosen Four Winds for your mother. I've heard great things about it. A friend of mine, a judge, his father moved there last year. It has a great staff-to-resident ratio.”

His mouth and nose twitched. “I'm talking about the money.” His demand was five thousand dollars. He'd eventually spit out the number, after complaining again about Gran's reckless behavior. The figure was outrageous, as she'd expected. The repair would cost two thousand. The deductible was five hundred. He claimed increased premiums and emotional distress to his mother. And there was the time he'd himself put into it over the past week. That, Les understood, was the most valuable thing of all.

“We'd need a release,” she said thoughtfully, eyes lowered, as if talking to herself, then she looked at him directly. “Signed by your mother, releasing my mother from any further claim. It's awkward, I know, especially since they're such good friends, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be much of a lawyer if I didn't at least ask for that.”

He fiddled with a pen. “Is that really necessary?” So he didn't have his mother's permission to make his greedy demand. He probably hadn't even discussed it with her.

“I'm afraid so,” Les said. “And what shall we tell them about whether my mother may drive the car in the future?”

His face reddened. “No,” he said. “No, no. She may not drive the car in the future!”

“That's too bad. They really enjoy their outings, and my mom always does the driving. She doesn't mind taking your mom to her doctors' appointments, either. She likes to be useful. It's good for them to get out once in a while.” She gave him a helpless look. “You're probably like me, always knee-deep in work. It's hard to find the time to get everything done.”

“I visit,” he said coldly.

“There's a sculpture garden at Stanford that's your mother's favorite. They often go there to walk and have lunch at the little café. Do you know it?”

He didn't.

“Your mother loves it there. My mother drives them. She's current on her road test, by the way.” Les reached into her briefcase and showed him the DMV paperwork because documents spoke louder than words. “She's the best driver I know.”

“So she has a car, right?”

“Yes,” Les said, “a really nice one.”

“So what was she doing driving my mother's car in the first place?”

“Ah,” she said, embarrassed. “That was for your mother's . . . comfort.”

“You just said she has a really nice car.”

“A Benz,” Les said, nodding.

“A Benz. So why aren't they going in your mother's car?”

“A
Benz
,” Les said. “Which, as you know, being German-made, your mother would prefer not to ride in.”

Jeffrey Greene's mouth fell open. “My mother never told me that.”

“She confides in my mom a lot,” Les said.

His cell phone rang. His assistant came in as he took the call.

“Can I get you anything . . . Your Honor?”

“A cup of tea would be terrific,” Les said. “Thank you!”

The tea came before the call was finished.

“Thank you,” Les mouthed again to the assistant, who beamed back and silently shut the door.

“Sorry about that,” Jeffrey Greene said—a reflex.

“No worries,” Les said. “I'm in no hurry.” He looked at his watch. She sipped her tea. “I don't know,” she said. “I'd love your advice on how to speak to my mother. Four Winds sounds so great—wouldn't it be nice if they moved there together? How did you convince your mother that it was time for a change?”

“That's still under negotiation. Your mother isn't helping.”

“I know what you mean,” Les said. “If your mom is anything like mine, she's got a mind of her own.”

“She's worse than a two-year-old,” Jeffrey Greene agreed, and they shared a joke or two about their mothers' stubborn ways.

“So she's not going to move,” Les said.

“Oh, she's moving,” Jeffrey Greene said. “We're all in agreement. We're getting her out of there in the next sixty days.”

“What are the units like?”

“They're beautiful. It's like a Westin. A big room, lots of light.”

“Will she feel isolated, do you think?”

“They have more activities than a college frat house,” he said. “There's a shuttle service that runs every four hours. She can go on her own to her doctors' appointments, shopping, the beauty parlor, whatever.”

“She won't have to worry about driving anymore,” Les said.

“Nope,” he said. “And I won't have to worry about her getting hurt or cracking up that beautiful car. She never should have bought it. It's too much for her to handle. She shouldn't drive anyway, with these little strokes she's been having.”