One day we read that a famous Chinese newspaper editor was decapitated. The Japanese had displayed his head on top of a lamppost in front of the French Concession’s police station. She gestured for her bamboo pipe. I protested, but she insisted, so I had to go to Mother, who gave me the key to the opium drawer.

I didn’t really know what it was at the time, only that my grandmother and Mother would get into terrible arguments over it—that apparently my father did not want her smoking it, and when he was around, he regulated her intake, since she could never quit completely. During her withdrawal periods, she wailed that it wasn’t her fault, that everything hurt—her back, her mind, her feet—and it was the fault of those white devils, the British, for forcing the drug into our country even after they had banned it in their own, before they then carved up our land for their own pleasure and wealth. The only thing that seemed to work was this arrangement: Mother keeping track of her usage and me assisting with the task. My grandmother miraculously cooperated.

If only I could pick and choose which memories to keep! I’d certainly part with these—rolling the tiniest bit of drug between my fingers, heating the needle, dropping the smoking pellet into her pipe. How her whole body would relax, and I’d stash the drug away, leaving her in temporary bliss as I scrubbed my hands clean and she counted down the days until we could do it all again.

After my father’s visit, she took a long break from smoking. A few days after he left, she called me into her room. She was sitting upright, her eyes remarkably clear.

“It has come to my attention that you have learned of a sorcery your mother possesses.” That was the word she used: sorcery.

“Yes, Father told me,” I lied. I had not planned to lie. I had no idea she would bring up such a topic. But it seemed like I spent my whole childhood spewing lies.

She glared at me, long and hard. I met her gaze.

“Your father told you?” she repeated.

“Yes. He had to use Mother’s power to receive a message so he would know where to go next.” I held my breath, hoping I guessed right. “He sent me to deliver the pencils.”

“Hm.” Her eyesight was not good, so I hoped she could not see my trembling hands. “Did you see your mother do it? Or was it that frivolous aunt of yours?”

“Mother,” I invented with eyes lowered.

“Horrible, isn’t it?”

“When did you first see her do it?”