The only thing that remained the same from last night was the jade bracelet. Mother never took it off. I touched the cool stone and asked, “Where did you get this?”

“This was actually my mother’s,” Mother replied. “I had my own, but it broke when it saved my life.”

My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Back home, I went to a party with my friend Che Eng. During the evening, I lost her, and I was left on my own to get home. Luckily, the person hosting the party offered me her bicycle. She told me to just take it; it was an old bicycle. I decided to ride home alone in the dark. I was on the shoulder of the road when a car came up quickly behind me. The car was turning as the road curved, and it hit me. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“You don’t remember anything? Were you hurt?” I asked.

Mother embraced me. “I woke up in the hospital with my mother cursing at me. She said the driver had taken me all the way to the hospital and told my mother that he didn’t know how I could have survived the crash.” Her solemn tone matched the dullness of her eyes and the shabbiness of her nightgown. “The bicycle was completely destroyed, but somehow, I just had a sprained ankle. My jade bracelet had broken in two. But for that bracelet, I would be a ghost. My mother gave me her own bracelet as a replacement so that I would always be protected.”

Every day, the jade bracelet hung from mother’s tiny wrist, swivelling with her daily movements while she washed the dishes or pushed the spatula as she fried vegetables in the wok. It dangled there, sometimes looking like a jewel catching the light, as it did at the party the night before. Other times, it looked like the pavement of a worn road, eroded and dull, like Mother’s face the morning after.

凵Open Box

IN THE MIDDLE OF FALL, Po Po sent us a package. It was wrapped in brown packing paper and looked worn, as if it had travelled all over the world before coming here. Mother told us it had come by ship, and then by train, to Sparwood. Inky postal stamps were scattered haphazardly all over the paper like block prints. Some of them were in Chinese.

Bea and I had only met our grandmother once, when she came to visit for two weeks when I was eight. Although she lived half a world away, we knew about her through Mother’s stories. And there were sporadic phone calls and letters. She had permed short hair and smelled like the prawn crackers she cooked during her visit. She was tall for a Chinese woman but stocky and firm. When she held or carried us, it was with confident authority but also warmth. She did not like to show her teeth when she smiled, but when she did, Bea and I stared at the gold tooth peeking out beside her dimpled cheek. She had brown freckles that we knew she hated because she would point at them and point at our cheeks. Mother translated that she wanted us to stay out of the sun. She could not speak English, and we could not speak Hokkien very well, but she was full of affection, candies, gifts, and laughter. No translation was needed for some of our conversations.