“Why should I care what some stranger says? I’ve always had my hair short.”
This was true. In the earliest photos Marigold had seen of her mother in America, Helen had short hair. She hadn’t grown it long again until only recently, after Marigold went to medical school.
Still, Marigold knew better.
“Are you ever going to tell me how you ended up as the cover girl for Peaksoy?”
Helen slid her window shade shut. “I told you before, I needed money. Back then, Peaksoy wasn’t what it is now—or else I’d have asked for more.” She sniffed. “It only happened once.”
“How?”
“I had a friend who knew someone.”
“The same friend who named you Helen?”
A beat. “Yes.”
Marigold tilted forward, propping an elbow over her tray table. “Was it Dad?” she asked.
Helen gave her an indecipherable look.
“Does that mean yes?”
Helen leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were two abacus beads, hard and calculating. “Why did you drop out of medical school?”
Her mother was a master at evading questions, but this was new. An answer for an answer. Marigold wasn’t prepared for that.
“I’m only taking the semester off—to be with Dad. And you.”
“Me?” Helen sniffed again. “I don’t need you watching over me.”
Marigold was too wise to argue with that. She passed her mother the roast pork bun. “I answered your question,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Hong Kong
1950
Chapter Twenty
Yut Ying
Most Sundays when Lily went back to school, Tommy and I would meet by my loquat tree. It was two meters tall now, its trunk slender yet sturdy. After surviving four monsoon seasons, it had finally bloomed, white flowers crowning the top of the tree. Often I’d find Tommy sitting under its canopy, sketching in his book while he waited for me.
This Sunday I was the one who arrived early.
“I need the money from the photoshoot.”
My voice was hoarser than I’d rehearsed in my head. All day I’d been doing mental sums about how much it’d cost for me to take Lily out of Hong Kong, where we’d go, and how long we could survive until I found a new job.
“You’ve good timing, Miss Ha,” said Tommy. He was in a jolly mood and didn’t notice my grimace. “Get on the bike, I have a surprise for you.”
I didn’t budge. “Tommy, the money.”
“It’s related, I promise.”
I climbed behind him onto the bicycle. Each time we met, we explored a different part of Hong Kong. My favorite was anabandoned war tunnel Tommy had found near Queens Road Central. There were dozens of such tunnels across the island, some built by the Japanese to store explosives and ammunition, and others built as air raid shelters. We’d spent the whole afternoon exploring and listening to our voices echo.
Today, we arrived at the junction of Queensway and Hennessy Road, a bustling part of the city where billboard ads quilted the expanse of every building.
