“She couldn’t bear leaving me,” I told Khai, deliberately ignoring the conclusions that we were both reaching.
I stared out the window.
“Was she good to you?” he asked, his voice determinedly neutral.
“She died when I was a little thing,” I said absently. “She was frail, prone to illnesses of all sorts, you know. Her parents raised me.”
They had, where I hadn’t raised myself. I could feel that that wasn’t enough for Khai, so I groped around for something else in the dim toy box that held my earliest memories.
“She … she said I was born in the pig year.”
“You told Bai you were twenty-one.”
“Yes?”
“I’m the year of the pig, and I’m twenty-three.”
My head spun. I remembered Eliza doing a silly little song for me, her hands on her head to mimic a pig’s ears. I could remember her telling me I was born in the year of the pig, which was part of the Tonkinese religion, like the golden statues they worshiped and the food they set out for their ancestors. If she was telling me the truth and Khai was, I was two years older than I thought I was, the same age as Daisy.
“Oh God,” I said with a wet little giggle, “I’ve gotten so old.”
Khai was silent as if he didn’t know what to make of that.
“We’re going to be in town for another month,” he said finally. “If you want to try that again—”
“Not really, no.”
“—I’m staying at St. Curtis Hostel. Maybe if we kept the alcohol out of it.”
“No,” I said again, more strongly this time. “That was the only thing that made it bearable.”
“You almost made a person out of trash,” he said. “Baijiu wasn’t going to make that bearable.”
We had gotten back to Park Avenue. Khai’s eyes widened as he handed me out of the car.
“I live here with my aunt,” I said, before he could say something about me being one of Mrs. Chau’s girls again. They had been all over the papers lately because of the one they had caught with that married judge. She’d turned up dead with vines growing out of her mouth and the rest went into hiding.
“Right,” he said, as if he doubted me, and I stood up straight.
“Thank you for seeing me home,” I said. “Paul won’t want to see you through the doors.”
“Paul…”
“The doorman.”
I reached in my purse and pulled out three crisp dollar bills, folding his hand over them neatly.
“There you go. That’ll get you back to Chinatown, and pay for the alcohol I’ve drunk so very much of.”
He glared at me.
“You know that’s too much.”
“You mustn’t give it back, I’ll be ever so—”
“What are you? Of course I’m not going to give it back.”
He pocketed it, shaking his head.
“I’m here for another month,” he repeated. “If you want to come, then come.”
“You’re so welcoming,” I said stonily.
He let me get the last word, which was good because I was likely going to fight for it. He gave me another dark look and got into the cab, the front seat this time. I turned before I could see him drive off and went home.