Girl in Reverse (9781442497368) (15 page)

I lean forward, squint, my stomach a pincushion.
I know these camels.
I have their picture in my purse.

He slides the cloth away, but instead of the hand and toes there are piles of rocks, a scale, a magnifying glass, and logbooks. He undoes a leather tool roll and explains the painstaking process of excavating “the hidden strata below China” using hand shovels, trowels, picks, and paintbrushes.

I recognize the bamboo brushes. I own two just like them.

“We were an international mix of archaeologists, art historians, locals, guides, camels, and grooms. We each contributed our expertise and passion to the search. China in the 1930s was a country in collapse, a victim of endless political turmoil, unequipped to maintain and restore its own treasures. But fortunately, we were able to uncover and preserve those treasures and bring them into the present.”

A slide comes on. Everyone gasps, including me. He walks us through the unearthing of a dead man's hand. It's a close-up of the tips of stiff fingers poking out of the dirt, like five thick plant shoots. “When we unearthed this wooden beauty, we knew we were
there.
The elegant fingers pointing to
nirvana
.”

Each photograph shows more of the hand—
my hand—
as it is dug out of the ground. The next slide is a profile picture of a kneeling woman with a snowy hat pressing the sculpted fingers to her cheek.

I have touched that same cheek with my fingers.

Mamá.

I suck in air and hold it. The crowd falls away. I see the two perfect folds in her eyelid, her soft ear, and the side of her nose—the same view I had when she carried me into this very room.

I touch my own cheek, breathe sandalwood smoke, and stare at the pearl.

A tall lady sitting several rows ahead turns and looks right at me. I look away. I don't know her.

“A school had been built over the ruins of the Buddhist temple that once housed our bodhisattva. But not all our
digging
was done in the ground. We scoured flea markets, grottoes, and ransacked ruins.” He shows the slide of the snow-dusted head with crystal eyes and a hole in the forehead. Another shows pieces of the flame-shaped halo. “Before being researched and labeled, these random artifacts are gambles, intriguing finds, nothing more.

“But here is our
find
, our masterpiece, today! The bodhisattva.” The expert rolls the curtain away, revealing a radiant towering
person
dressed in green and gold scarves and ribbons, with polished skin, elegant hands, wrists wrapped in bracelets, a soaring flowered crown,
and crystal eyes. A golden starburst halo shoots out all around it.

He waits for the crowd to quiet. “Bodhisattvas are spiritual beings who offer compassion to all people. But in this case, the bodhisattva needed
our
help. It lay broken and scattered for a thousand years, waiting to be made whole again—the head, toes, hands, halo, and torso reassembled. Fortunately, bodhisattvas are patient by nature.

“Bo-dee-satt-va,” he repeats, encouraging the audience to say it. I roll it through my mind. I know the word. I have it in the fortune taped in my notebook:

Bodhisattvas surround you.

“Viewing a bodhisattva is like smelling salts, awakening us. The figure is made of wood, but
we
aren't. It enlivens our capacity for love and compassion. I know because bringing these broken pieces together transformed everyone on our team. Please notice the indentation called an
urna
, or heavenly wisdom eye, in the forehead.”

He shows a new slide—the group I thought were gypsies in my picture. The speaker points to a Chinese man with a heavy coat and boots. “Meet Chun Loo, our brilliant archaeologist and Asian art historian from Peking University, and his daughter and apprentice, Lien Loo.”

Chun Loo . . . Lien Loo.

Chun Loo—my grandfather.

He stands next to his daughter, my mother, in the picture. They look alike. They smile alike. I stare at his hand resting on her shoulder. Father-daughter. One glimpse—the camera capturing their connection. Father and daughter. Gone. Past. I weave my fingers, focused on my lap, guarding my heart.

Dr. Benton names everyone else in the photograph—each assistant, guide, and groom. Then he folds his hands and rocks side to side, absorbing the picture. “We walked northern China together examining ruins on top of ruins, armed with our tools, our bargaining skills, our money, our passion, and our cameras.” He announces that the Chinese Temple is dedicated to his former colleagues, the “finding team” in China.

I hold my breath, arms wrapping my waist. Now the secret door will open and they'll step onstage. I am twisted so tight I'm numb. The expert clears his throat and explains in a voice mechanical and sad that they lost contact with Chun Loo after their collaboration and that his daughter, Lien Loo, who had planned to come study in the U.S., remained in China.

I cover my mouth.
WHAT?

The tall redheaded woman twirls around again, her eyes locked on me. The speaker fades. I look from Gone Mom on the screen to the dragon pearl and back.
Why is he saying that?
Tears leak down my cheeks. I clutch my
purse, shrunk to nothing, heartsick, confused, and . . .
relieved
.

“If you think a bodhisattva is a strange
heathen
from across the sea,” Dr. Benton says, “think again. Bodhisattvas represent what is best in us. They are beginning points and ending points too, like the miracle of this evening.” The speaker holds his hand the way a crossing guard would stop traffic. “This hand gesture is called a
mudra.
” He turns to the bodhisattva, matches palms. “It means ‘go in peace.' What better message could we hear tonight?”

Happy ending point? Really?
I could walk up there, open my purse . . .

I'm startled by strains of zither music and the scrape of chairs. Everyone is inching to the front to congratulate the speaker and view the bodhisattva up close, except the lady who is heading back to me.

Sister Evangeline!

Evangeline has switched from black and white to color! She wears a gold necklace and green plaid dress with a scoop neck. Her purse sways as she sits on the edge of the chair next to mine. The nun is gone, but not her voice.

“I hoped you would come tonight,” she says.

Really?
I don't say that she is the last person I expected to see. She is the last person I expected to see ever again!

Evangeline looks at the bodhisattva, then turns to me. She reaches to my cheek, then curls her fingers back. Nun training. Most of the audience has moved into the main room now. The expert, Dr. Benton, converses with Mr. Chow in Chinese.

“My birth mother used to bring me here to look at this dragon pearl,” I say, pointing up. “It must have reminded her of home.”

Evangeline raises her eyebrows. Nods. I cannot take my eyes from the matching curves of her collarbones, the elegant upward sweep of her neck. We each sit waiting, it seems, for the other one to talk.

“She was the Chinese archaeologist's daughter.” My voice is raspy. I clear my throat. “Did you know that?”

“Adoption records are sealed.”

“The speaker said Lien Loo never came to America. Why would he say that? It's a lie.” A tunnel of silence stretches between us.

“Perhaps you should ask him,” Evangeline says.

I glance at the dragon pearl collecting candlelight. “I thought the pictures in that box were clues to help me find her, that she might be here and I could show them to her and, if not, I could at least show them to someone.” I take a deep breath, knit my hands. “Idiotic. After all this time, but . . .”

She glances at my purse. “Did you bring the slipper?”

“No! It's too fragile, and I don't know . . . I . . .” I fiddle with my purse strap, glance up at her. “I came back the next day. I needed to talk to you.”

She looks off. “There are restrictions for sisters who leave. I couldn't . . .”

What restrictions?
“Joy took me on a tour. Sister Immaculata can't hear. Joy's food was dried out, her water was frozen, and the new nun is allergic to cats. Joy was curled up on your bed when I left.”

Evangeline lowers her head. I wish I hadn't said it. I wish I had Kleenex. “I'm sorry, Lily. Leaving was terribly difficult.” She stares at her lap. “I grew up there.”

“You
did 
?”

She straightens her back and chin. “Yes.”

“But . . .”

“I became one in the stream of souls going out the door.”

“Y . . . you left that day, after the shed, didn't you?”

“It was time. My work was finished. The Mercy Home saved all our lives—yours, mine, my mother's, and both of your mothers'.”

I sit back, picturing my mothers. So strange to think Evangeline actually knew both of them. The Sisters of Mercy saved Mother?

“How did it save my adoptive mother?” I ask.

Evangeline looks puzzled, as if this is something I should already know. “Maybe you should talk to
her
about it.”

Is she crazy? My mother is the last person I could talk to.
I check my watch. Eight thirty. An hour to get home. I say the dumbest out-of-the-blue thing. “So you're just plain
Evangeline
now?”

Her cheeks crinkle. “Just plain.” She stands. “I understand the art experts will be here for a few weeks. Their story is certainly a fascinating and important one.” She gives me a serious look. “Good evening, Lily.” Evangeline weaves out
of the temple opening and through the reception crowd, catlike, mysterious.

I sit with my head tilted back. “I came,” I whisper to Gone Mom, “and even Sister Evangeline came. Where in the world are you?”

Beyond the rows of empty chairs the bodhisattva glows on its lotus flower throne. Its smile is calm and simple. Its scratched crystal eyes remind me of Evangeline's somehow—with every bit of life they've witnessed leaving a mark.

The bodhisattva's raised finger catches the candlelight. How has it not been broken in a thousand years? I weave through chairs, pulled to the front of the room, and stand so it is pointing right at me. I reach up and touch fingertips with the bodhisattva.

God and Girl.

Lien and Lily.

*  *  *

I dodge the photographers and Elliot James and exit the museum petrified that a picture of my fingertip will be on the front page of the Sunday paper. I cross the lawn and sit down by
The Thinker
. The full moon has washed his bronze face in milky light.

Sometimes things come together and sometimes they don't. I came for Gone Mom and I left with a lie. And what did Evangeline mean about the orphanage saving all of us?

“Mr. Howard said you might be out here.”

I whip around, nerves unzipped.

Elliot!

“God! What're you doing? You scared me to death!”

“Sorry.” I can't see his face, just his flappy horse blanket of a coat.

I hear car engines in the circle. Voices. Horns. Elliot and I stare at the other member of our trio—
The Thinker
, the only one of us without clothes.

He sits, asks why I came tonight. Garbled words rush from my mouth—I have become interested in various aspects of Chinese culture because I don't know very much and I . . . that my
brother
is doing a Boy Scout merit badge and tried some interesting mirror angles to see the Chinese artifacts that . . . bodhisattvas are good inspiration and . . .

This would be the perfect time for Elliot to rescue me, acknowledge that something is painful and weird and help out by changing the subject. But when he's not holding a pencil or paintbrush, Elliot's personality can shred down to nothing.

“
The Thinker
and the bodhisattva are opposites,” he says finally. “
The Thinker
's all clenched, wanting answers to everything, and the bodhisattva's just calm, like he knows there aren't answers.”

I unclench my jaw, drop my shoulders, breathe, breathe
again, and for a tiny moment unhook from the world. It feels heavenly.

“Two statues,” Elliot says. “Same size. Same museum. Opposite message.”

“Yeah.”

“So do you need a ride?”

“Did you drive your car?”
Stupid. Stupid.

“No. A camel.”

I turn, debate his offer, and while I debate his offer, Elliot leans over and kisses me. No warning. Just boom! Lips on . . . lips off.

Instant heart attack. Inability to speak. Wobbly world.

He stands and stretches. Since my brain is blank, I stand also,
wobble wobble
, and follow him like a tethered camel to his turpentine car parallel parked by the curb. The rusty door squeals open—
squeeeeek! Leeleeeian got keeessed!

During the drive my purse comes alive on my lap. It has responded to
the call
. It has provided a focus, an activity to get through the next few immensely awkward minutes. The flap flips up, and the purse flips over and spills itself into the murky never-never land on the floor of his car. I hear my lipstick roll under the seat.

We stop under a streetlight in front of my house. By instinct I glance at my parents' bedroom window. Not home yet, but Ralph's light is on.

Elliot leans toward me. I lean toward the car door. The
top of his head is a tangle of curly brown hair. He swipes his hand over the floor mat, fishing for my stuff. I move my feet. I don't dare bend down.

He has hooked a few Chiclets and a photograph—the one of the camels and grooms. He looks from the picture to me. “What's this?”