Reclaiming Lily (18 page)

Kai darted a look at the employees, who seemed hypnotized by the television.
Yet at the mention of self-mutilation, those ears will become elephant-sized.
Proceeding carefully, Kai smoothed her skirt. “We must address the . . . confidence you shared.”

Joy would not meet Kai’s gaze. “A confidence you won’t keep, huh?” Though the words were biting, defeat hung on every word.

“You know the answer to that.” The couch sagged as Kai twisted to better see her sister’s face. “Your parents—”

Mr. Moore entered, holding cans of cola, glasses of ice. “I notified the front desk. They’ll call Nicole when the Powells arrive. She’ll bring them in here.”

What had detained the Powells? Nothing short of an emergency would keep Gloria from this daughter she loved so fiercely . . . unless the tornado had whirled the Powells into its cyclone of death . . .

“Shop Rite-Way and start living today.”

Joy lifted her head, as if wooed by the catchy television jingle . . .
Or else she’s avoiding me
.

Perhaps the interruption is best, with this public setting. Besides, my role is to keep an eye on her. What better way than to let the American squawk box hypnotize?

Joy joined the two workers to stare at the TV advertisement. Clerks dressed like candy stripers skipped down grocery store aisles to transform shopping into an amusement park experience.
If only my mood could be so transformed. . . .

“We interrupt this program to bring you a special weather bulletin.”

Kai’s breath caught. If . . . the worst had happened, should Joy hear it via TV?

The screen flashed to a newsroom. An anchorwoman sat at a desk back-dropped by a Doppler radar map. “This is Andrea Phillips with a special report from KTVT, Channel 11, your station for the latest in weather.” A grim smile hollowed the woman’s cheeks. “When we establish contact, we’ll go straight to Meteorologist Chris Turner, reporting live from the touchdown of what’s being described by on-site weather spotters in southwest Tarrant County as an EF-5 tornado.” The woman fumbled with her earpiece. “Chris, can you hear us? Chris?”

Fear gripped Kai. She cupped her hand over Joy’s.

“Chris? There you are. It’s Andrea.” Relief plumped the newscaster’s pinched cheeks and mouth. “What can you tell us?”

Joy sat up straight and cradled her stomach as if to steel against more pain . . . or had PKD begun its insidious creep? Kai edged closer to her sister until their shoulders touched. With effort, she shoved away thoughts of the illness that might be showing its nasty self to Joy. One step at a time, she would help Joy with whatever fate brought. Now it was the tornado. Whatever EF-5 meant, it didn’t sound good. Had Gloria and Andrew, on their way to the doctor, driven into a murderous twister?

The screen split to reflect two scenes: the anchor, still at her desk, and a curly-haired man who gripped a microphone. “This is Meteorologist Chris Turner, standing not twenty yards from where a suspected EF-5 tornado disintegrated a barn.” The camera panned to an untouched telephone pole flanked by a swath of denuded field. “Though the twister blew a herd of goats and two dairy cows to smithereens, miraculously, not one single human life has been lost. At least that’s what we’ve got for you at this point.”

The man shook his head as if trying to convince himself that his report was true. “You have witnessed a modern-day miracle. The twister has whirled itself into oblivion.” The reporter chuckled inanely. “I don’t know what to say, other than the man upstairs took care of things. It’s a miracle. There’s no other way to say it. Though hundreds have suffered property loss, which is estimated . . .”

Kai tuned out the TV and studied Joy. If her parents had been spared, this tornado would prove to be a blessing. Joy had flung off the mask of defiance and exposed her deadly cutting secret.
Another area where she needs counseling. Attention. Help.
Thankfully I have resources.
Thoughts pricked her.
A pastor has resources too, as Gloria so eagerly shared.
Had the Powells suspected Joy’s self-mutilation? Why hadn’t
they
seen the scar? Surely they hadn’t ignored it?

Employees rose from their chairs, trading concerns, punching their cell phones, drifting out the door.
Finally we will be alone.

Only when the door thudded shut did Joy turn to Kai.

“Do . . . do you really think my parents are okay?” Joy’s thin shoulders shook.

Kai’s stomach clenched at the thought of more pain inflicted upon this youngest daughter.
Joy needs hope. Something better than what fate offers
.
So do I
.

Forcing a smile, she gripped Joy’s shoulders. “You heard the same thing I did. The man upstairs has taken care of things. No deaths have been reported.”

“The man upstairs?” Joy’s eyes glazed over. “Ha!” She tossed her head in disgust. Her mouth seemed torn between curving into a sneer, widening in surprise. “Tell me, do
you
believe in God?” Joy edged so close, Kai felt her ragged breath. “Does our family?”

Kai swallowed. Since Joy’s parents were Christians, Kai must find a way to not insult them, yet be honest with Joy. Kai went through the motions of smoothing her hopelessly wrinkled skirt and begged the right words to come.

Answer a question with another question
.

Kai raised her head on the strength of this voice. Whoever, whatever kept coming to her aid, she owed them a thank-you. How could you thank a spirit? A memory? Something a computer program, a lab experiment, could not explain?

“What I believe is of no importance.” Kai’s voice sounded flat. Void of the hope that faith would provide. Still, she pressed on. In this situation, there was nothing else to do. “What do you believe? That is the question.”

“What do I believe? You wanna know what
I
believe?”

Thankfully Kai had been trained to listen, for this sister of hers had much to say.

“That first Christmas in America, I stole Baby Jesus from the manger set up on our coffee table.” Though employees slipped in and out of the break room, Joy ignored their comings and goings. “That little plastic baby got me past, like, the orphanage nightmares. Babies shrieking, like, 24/7. Babies with harelips and like, crooked backs.” Joy sniffled. “They’d bundle ’em up and whisk ’em into this room down the hall.” Joy waved her arms with abandon. “They never returned! Did you know that?”

Revulsion made a mess of Kai’s stomach. Developing nations like China strained to care for healthy babies, much less those with special needs, but a dying room . . . Kai battled images of tiny emaciated limbs. Neither First nor Third Daughter had breathed a word of it. They could have done nothing anyway.

“I thought stained clothes, chapped bottoms, and canker sores were the norm. I went from wearing plaid tops, striped pants—whatever they gave me—to frilly pink outfits smelling like powder, not pee and vomit.” Joy scrunched up her nose. “We’d go to church and read about Baby Jesus, talk about Baby Jesus, pray to Baby Jesus.” Despite her pained expression, tears had dissolved the last trace of makeup, leaving a window into Joy’s psyche.

“I was only ten, but I knew Baby Jesus got me outta there. That was all I cared about.” Joy buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God,” came out muffled. “Cookies and real milk. No screams at night, just prayers to Jesus. I even asked Him into my heart.”

Kai murmured understandingly, though she was as perplexed by this statement as she had been the first time Cheryl used it.

“How could I not? He loved all the little children of the world.” Joy raised her head. Strangely, her lip curled in sarcasm. “At first it was enough.”

“So what happened?” Kai pressed on, seizing this chance for a keyhole peek into Joy’s soul. At any minute, it could close.

“Our church sponsored some Vietnamese. Our church—Christians, right?—puckered up at the boat people’s soy and fish smells.” Joy bounce-kicked the leg that rested on her thigh. “But they were clueless! Like kids, wanting to please the big white Americans and begin their American dream.”

Boat people? Clueless? Kai’s nausea swelled. Surely Joy hadn’t lashed out against fellow Asians. Surely prejudice had not stained the heart of a Chang.

“The Vietnamese got baptized, giving these crazy grins, like those girls at school who get invited into these stupid clubs. They bought the whole fellowship-of-believers thing. Then they camped out on one side of the church with the whites across the aisle. Someone asked Mother why our family didn’t sit with the other Chinese.” Joy’s chest heaved. “Can you believe that? They thought Hoc Nguyen and Bau Tran
were
Chinese!”

American carelessness, soothed with time.
“Surely you understand their confusion.”

“Confusion? No way. It was prejudice!”

“Prejudice?”

“There was a fire.” Joy’s face shone with an eerie light. “The sanctuary and back hall got roasted.”

“Oh, how awful” was all Kai could think to say.

“The authorities said arson. By wax candles. Can you imagine that?” Joy screeched and bounced that leg. “But not just any wax candles.”

Kai gripped the couch arm, unsure where this conversation would lead them.

“Candles made for one thing: to burn in Buddhist shrines.”

“Surely an investigator could not determine the make of a wax candle.”

“When they contain herbs found only in Saigon, they can. The candles had been jammed in a brass Buddha and arranged on the communion table.”

“Someone placed an altar to Buddha in the sanctuary of a Christian church?”

Joy nodded. “The poor folks insisted they worshiped only Baby Jesus. You shoulda seen them, quaking in those black slipper thingies. They swore they didn’t set up the altar. I believed them.”

“So . . . what started as an act of worship ended in an accidental fire?”

“Investigators said the altar cloth and sanctuary carpet had been doused with diesel.”

Kai felt her face pucker, as if she smelled gas fumes. Refugees had set fire to those who had provided them sanctuary? Never in her life had she heard such a tale, especially about the peace-loving Vietnamese. “Why?” she finally asked.

Joy began to drum a beat on the couch arm . . . and thudded pain into Kai’s heart.

“Why would they try to destroy a church?” Kai repeated.

The irritating beat intensified. “They denied it, Kai. Like I said, they claimed to worship Jesus. They claimed to have left their incense and statues in Saigon.”

“So they lied,” Kai said dully.

“That’s what everyone thought. Of course. Blame the gooks.”

Kai winced. Why did Joy have to be so . . . in-your-face, as Americans would say?

“Daddy didn’t believe it. He stood by the new members. A committee was formed. It sucked! Meetings, motions . . .”

Though she disdained Joy’s language, Kai clucked sympathetically. This part she understood. To think pastors dealt with committees, just like doctors.
Poor Andrew . . .

“I became guilty by associ-Asian. Churchies blackballed me from their stupid play groups. I got shuttled from one class to the next like a lumpy stuffed animal. Finally Mother kept me with her in the thirty-somethings group. You think I cared?”

Kai shrugged to hide what she longed to say:
Yes, dear one. I think you cared dreadfully. Otherwise your chest wouldn’t be heaving, your arms waving
.

“Well, I
didn’t
care. I didn’t care at all. In fact, I was glad to see how phony the whole thing is. Like Santa Claus, American pie, the whole spiel they feed you. It’s a crock, you know it? I’m not buying it.” Joy swabbed at her spewing mouth. “Just like I don’t buy the football games, the Friday-night dances. I’m not buying any of it!”

“You certainly aren’t,” Kai said, and then wished she had bitten her lip. Why fuel resentment? Hate? Hopelessness? Joy manufactured enough on her own . . . and might soon explode, right here. “So what happened, Joy? What did the committee decide?”

“Like I said, guilty by associ-Asian.” Joy lifted her chin. Looked Kai full in the face. “They were wrong, you know.” The eyes, so like First Daughter’s, filled with tears.

Kai touched her sister’s cheek, though what she longed to do was pull her close. Oh, to understand this child caught between two worlds! “Who was wrong, Joy? Why? Tell me!”

“Another church burned. Another. They had one thing in common: Asian refugees.” A toneless quality had taken over Joy’s voice. She looked past Kai, as if seeing her life, up in smoke. Kai shivered. Joy, too, was haunted by things from long ago . . .

“The police set a trap. Undercover cops posed as neighborhood drunks.” Joy dabbed at her eyes. “Fourth time was the charm. They caught him. Guess what? No slanty-eyes! The fire-lover was a vet, angry at gooks who’d killed his buddy. North Vietnamese, South Vietnamese, Chinese, anything-ese, they were all the same to him.”

Kai settled trembling hands in her lap. No wonder Joy harbored deep-seated grudges. “That happens everywhere, Joy. People want an easy answer. A quick fix. Surely you understand . . .”