Diamond Head by Wong Cecily

Author:Wong, Cecily [Wong, Cecily]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-01-26T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 6

November 1964

HONOLULU, HAWAII

The smell of jasmine and smoke opens Amy’s eyes. She faces downward, her eyes in her lap, and Theresa’s hand is gone. Thick ivory clouds hang suspended in the air, floating sideways, filling the empty spaces of the room and stifling its light. Amy lifts her eyes to the first row of chairs and finds that she cannot make out a single face. She is cloaked in smoke, and so are they.

She follows the haze to her right, to a table at the foot of Bohai’s coffin where Hong is lighting joss sticks, one by one, with a wooden match. In a heavy bowl, lined with gold and filled with grains of uncooked rice, dark incense rises in slim sticks.

“Mom, are you okay?”

Amy turns to her left and sees Theresa still sitting beside her.

“Oh,” she says. “Yes, I’m fine. I needed—”

“I know,” Theresa interrupts. “I told Uncle Kaipo to let you be. I was just asking.”

“I’m okay,” Amy says. “Thank you.”

Beside Hong, a priest begins to chant. He holds a small gong in his hand, beating it in front of him with a bamboo stick, its head wrapped in soft leather. The metallic sound reverberates throughout the room, shaking the smoke, keeping pace with his voice. The song he sings comes from his nose, shrill and beautiful, punctuated by the steady crash of the gong. His words are a prayer for Bohai. He calls out to the spirits, begging them to open the road for his departed soul, to grant him a dignified transition. The priest’s chant, his melodic plea, marks the beginning of Bohai’s journey into the next world.

Smoke oozes from the tips of the joss sticks, rising high in white, undulating lines. They seem to dance to the gong, flitting sideways and breaking in half when the mallet strikes the brass. When the last stick is lit, Hong blows out her match and squats below the table, removing a wooden box the size of a mah-jongg set. She holds it from the bottom with open palms, positioning herself beside the table like an imperial statue, powerful and motionless.

The priest’s song ends with a high note, climbing in octaves, higher and higher until the final strike of his gong. When the ringing halts, the smoke becomes still.

“Let the family approach,” the priest calls. “Let them offer their comforts for the afterlife.”

Almost immediately, Amy rises from her chair. She is the first to do so, and at her new height, she finds that the air is clearer. The fog hovers above the heads of the seated, creating a soft blanket of clouds, separating the earth from the sky. She breathes in the placid air and hopes that the afterlife is something like this. A moment completely your own. A quiet place to breathe. Amy makes her way to the table, and when she arrives, Hong reaches over the top of her box and opens it toward her like a briefcase.

Within the container lie dozens of folded gold

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