Chapter Six

THE COBBLES UNDER her feet, solid after the soggy lawn, grounded her. The oversized umbrella snagged on the thorns of the hedge on either side of the path. Nüwa grimaced at the unmistakable sound of tearing. Her father had a closet full of golf umbrellas, but she wouldn’t be able to hide her trip to the maze. Her father. Papa. The indulgent opposite of her mother. She had come out to him first. And been supported, more than supported. Her father’s revelation of his bisexuality had shocked Nüwa, then comforted her. He understood. He knew what it was like to hide, to be closeted, to deny your very essence and existence. In stark contrast, coming out to her mother had been like throwing a match into a puddle of gasoline. Lian had struggled with it at first before becoming her most fierce protector. Lian would go toe to toe with anyone who disrespected her daughter, or husband, and quietly donated to various LGBTQIA organizations annually.

The rain slowed to a steady drizzle. Nüwa closed the umbrella, unwilling to risk further damage. Following the winding path she could walk in her sleep, she moved steadily toward the center of the maze. A stray branch, heavy with water, blocked her path. Thick thorns protruded along its length. Nüwa brushed the leaves back with her hand, searching for a way to move the branch. The tip of a thorn caught her hand. Swearing under her breath, she backed up, wedged the tip of the umbrella under the branch, and held it up enough to cross under it. The sharp edge of pain needled her. She lifted her hand to inspect the damage. Blood welled up from the wound.

Nüwa pulled the paper towel from her pocket and dabbed at the blood. The contrast between remnants of her plum-red lipstick and bright blood made her shiver. She stuffed the napkin back into her pocket. The splash and echo of the fountain drew her forward. As she entered the center of the maze, she stopped. In three areas the cobbles were removed down to the substrate. Each area was marked off with yellow caution tape. Nüwa stared at the opening leading to Julia’s apartment above the garage.

Was she there? What would she do if Nüwa showed up? Her mother’s vile comment and tone had pissed her off, that much was clear. Which was good. She had enough self-esteem to stand up to Lian.

The benches were too wet to sit on so Nüwa satisfied herself with strolling around the pond. A flash of gold and white broke the surface as a koi snagged an insect from the surface of the water. Nüwa stopped at the back of the fountain. She opened the door of the cabinet housing the pump, skimmer, and in a bent and faded metal potato chip can, fish food. Nüwa set the umbrella aside. She opened the tin and removed a handful of the pelleted food. After replacing the lid, she latched the door.

As she circled the pond, she tossed pellets onto the dark water. At first, nothing. The pellets floated and bobbed, driven by the rain and the fountain. And then in a rush, fish, gold and brown, yellow and orange, large and small, broke the surface. Nüwa stopped. She tossed the rest of the food on top of the melee in the water.

Memories of other days swirled and eddied in her mind along with the fish. She once had names for them and into her college years could still remember them. And then, Li Jie’s death, followed by her Van Cliburn win, caused her world to spin out of her control. Her mother had hired Jane, insisted Nüwa pursue a career as a concert pianist. Jane had created an image for Nüwa. Branded her, packaged her as Natalie Zhou, femme fatale. And Nüwa had loved it. Performing for crowds, wielding her music as well as she could a whip. Nüwa had thrived, treasured traveling the world. She had loved the drama, the flash, the costumes, and the pressure. And the power. The heady power to move audiences. They loved her, they hated her, everyone had opinions.

Nüwa had loved reading about herself. She had broken unspoken rules, tolerated only because her talent shut down all the critics mired in what a classical musician should wear or do, or how they should look. Nüwa wasn’t the first woman to break the mold of stodgy male performers but she had certainly contributed to expanding people’s perceptions.

And then Martin. Jane’s murder, and the trial, and now here she was. So fragile taking a short walk to feed the fish required a pep talk and most likely a nap when she returned to her apartment. The fish settled after the food was consumed. Nüwa made a final circle of the pond and stopped squarely in front of the path leading to Julia’s apartment.

Nüwa strode down the cobblestones toward the cottage. Halfway down the path, a fat drop of rain splattered on wet cobblestones, followed by a dozen more. She trotted back to the umbrella and opened it over her head. Thunder rumbled, triggering a shudder. Nüwa ran. Mindless. Unseeing. The downed branch forgotten until her body made full contact. A howl wrenched from her as the sharp thorns cut her skin. She beat at the branch, shoving it aside, tearing her shirt in the process. Fear clawed her back, as terrible as the thorns. The oversized shoes threatened to trip her as she bolted down the maze pathway leading back to her home. As she neared the exit, another rumble of thunder rolled across the field. Nüwa abandoned the torn umbrella, kicked off her father’s shoes, and bolted across the yard.