When Three Flowers first opened, they had started with five pastries: bak tong gou—a fermented white sugar cake that was Philip’s favorite—pork and cabbage steamed buns, wife cakes, cocktail buns, and egg tarts.
The egg tarts were the most popular with customers, but the cabbage buns were Helen’s favorite.
“This is what I grew up eating in Tunglam,” she’d told her daughters. “Before the war, your po po would steam mantau every morning and stuff them with cabbage, sometimes minced pork and a boiled egg, too.”
“Will we ever get to meet her?” Rosie asked.
“I tried looking for her when you were little. It was impossible.”
“What about now?” said Peony. “President Nixon went to China, they say Mao is opening up to the West.”
Helen looked uncertain. “I don’t know . . .”
Peony persisted. “We’ll write to the Chinese consulate. We can get the address at the library.”
Marigold was quiet. Eight hundred million people lived in China, and the majority had no record of existence. The odds of locating a single woman were worse than finding a pearl in a clam. They needed to narrow it down.
“Why don’t we write to the churches?” she heard herself suggest.
Helen shook her head. “I’ve tried. The Red Guards destroyed all the ones near Tunglam.”
“Maybe Po Po moved farther away. Let me try.”
So she did, writing letters whenever she had a spare moment. Eight months later came a letter from South Church in Guilin.
Their mother was sitting in the bakery with two regulars—Aunty Yip and Aunt Florence, who were daring each other to get a perm. Three Flowers had become a local hub for middle-aged and elderly Chinese: Uncle Ng in the corner reading an Old Master Q comic and cackling, his wife trying to set up her sonwith Rosie, and Aunty Yip and Aunt Florence bending Helen’s ear about how pretty they’d look with curls.
Helen saw the return address, and her eyes widened. “Mrs. Yip,” she said, her hands shaking. “You read it.”
Aunty Yip reached for a pair of scissors to cut open the envelope. Her Chinese was the best of anyone’s, and she wore a bright red smile as she scanned the letter.
“Helen, Helen!” she cried, her pitch rising. “They found her!”
Aunty Yip read the letter aloud, but Marigold listened with half an ear. A black-and-white photograph had slipped out of the envelope, falling onto the checkered floor.
She picked up the picture carefully, examining the fragile print. It showed an elderly woman on a wooden bench. Strings of gray hair clung to her cheeks, the rest tied into a loose bun. The flesh on her face drooped soft, full of lumps and pleats; she bore little resemblance to Helen. Yet she wore a faraway look that Marigold recognized.
“Mom,” Marigold said, tugging her mother’s sleeve. “Is this Po Po?”
Helen had been smiling. She still was when she looked down. “She’s old now.”
Then, as she reached for the photograph, her body went rigid and her hands shook. Marigold saw her skin glimmering like crystal facets under the sun, every pore catching the light.
“I’ll be right back,” Helen said, hurrying toward the back of the bakery.
Marigold followed her mother through the door into their home, pausing inside the vestibule leading to the kitchen. The Yuens used it to store sacks of flour and sugar and an industrial-sized bucket of rice, but Marigold had always appreciated the space it provided between the bakery and the kitchen. It let her spy.
In the kitchen, Helen sagged against a tall cabinet, leaning her head back against the Chinese tear-off calendar. Her whole body was trembling—no,flickering.
No, no, no,she seemed to mouth. She hugged herself, rubbing the gold bracelet on her wrist, then she went to light the stovetop.Click,Marigold heard the lighter switch on. A small orange flame darted to life, but before Helen could ignite the burner, her arms disappeared, and in a blink, so went the rest of her.
Marigold burst into the kitchen.
There was no one there. The only sounds were the birds chirping outside, the honks of cars at the traffic light.
It had become cold in the kitchen. Marigold felt goosebumps, and a wave of nausea surged in her throat. She usually loved the smell of the kitchen, of the sponge cakes rising in the oven and the sweet, marinated char siu hanging from above the counter dripping oil into a bowl.
“Mom?” she cried. “Are you here?”
