Liu Xian

Fifteen or sixteen-year-old Liu Xian was so thin she was practically skin and bones, the kind that poked at you. And so was her personality, or so said the women who worked alongside her. "She might smile a little, but she won't lift a finger to help anyone. Won't touch work that isn't hers! And what a temper, like she's afraid everyone's out to get her. Oh, and don't forget how she's always sucking up to the foreman." After muttering among themselves, they'd add: "Well, it's not like she's got anywhere else to go. What choice does she have? These days, only the rich live well." And with that, the huddle would disperse. Because she was like this, they said, "She's afraid everyone's out to get her." If she weren't, they'd say, "Serves her right if people bully her." She'd take the first over the second. She'd tried the second before. It hurt too much. It made her cry. Later, as time passed and they crossed paths more, the gossipers started asking her questions directly as they chewed on their steamed buns. "Where's your father?" "Ran off." "Your mother?" "Dead." She said it so sharply that it left them stunned, their pity unable to keep up with her bluntness. "Died early. I don't remember her." Every time she said this, their eyes would flicker with understanding. Ah, no wonder. And in those moments, she'd remember that night, the only fragment she could recall... The woman who'd never been kind to her stared at her weeping, babbling incoherently. Liu Xian couldn't understand a word, just watched her fish-like lips open and close without sound. She clutched Liu Xian's hand until her grip went limp. Finally, Liu Xian touched that gaunt face and felt only a single damp trail from her eye. A final tear. Why cry? she wondered. Death must hurt.

Zhang Quan returned from Hopewell Academy's literacy class, clutching a brush, eager to show Liu Xian the new character he'd learned that day. Liu Xian couldn't read. Zhang Quan jumped down from his slightly-too-high stool, tossed the brush aside, grabbed her hand, and traced the character onto her palm: "Mother, Master said this is the character for 'home'." Liu Xian smiled, rubbing her tingling palm. The character had many strokes, so the tingling lingered. Zhang Quan chattered about his day at school: "Mother, Master told us to think about what 'home' means. Isn't home just where Father and Mother are?" But when both parents had been present, Liu Xian had no home. Her only home in this life began at nineteen, on that rainy night when she huddled at the entrance of Zhang's Eatery. What was a home like? She learned from Zhang Ankang, who had learned from his own mother. So Liu Xian learned: "Home is where someone waits to eat with you." "The food on the table stays warm for those who return late." One lesson after another. Then she would learn many, many more. After Liquan was born, she added one more. "Home is where Zhang Ankang and Liquan are. Home is where our Quan can thrive." That was what he taught her. Yet why did those lessons stop applying years later, as Liu Xian stared at their burning shop, at the rioters, picking up bricks, shattered tiles, scattered ingredients? They still applied, only he had two homes. The first one is his home with his mother. The second is his home with her. She only ever had one. Liu Xian knew she couldn't stop him. She'd known long ago that those with one steamed bun must bow to those with two. Was that the only reason she yielded? Her gaze fixed on a smudged corner of the recipe book, the one Zhang Ankang's mother had left behind. Zhang Ankang had once cooked from that book. Now, an outsider in the jianghu studied it for clues about the "Cai" character. Liu Xian's fingers absently brushed the stain, a mother's final tear. A drop of grief from the past.