Chapter 31

ROONEY

I see a woman with blue hair lost in the waves,” Mom says. My back faces the artwork, my arms crossed and eyes closed. “There’s an essence of Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa in this.”

We stand in a large white room with paintings dotting the walls of the Museum of Modern Art doing a Walk and Talk. Ever since I could talk, when we went to any museum around the world, Mom and I would play this game where one person turns around while the other describes the piece of art for the other person to guess. In the early days, I didn’t know artist names or titles of artwork, so it was a huge learning curve. Now, with a broader knowledge of art under my belt, the competition has become more intense.

I thought this would cheer me up. I’m in one of my favorite museums where I’ll get to create an installation. Despite losing the auction, I should be on Cloud 9. Instead I feel hopeless because I’m 2,700 miles from Jack.

I furrow my eyebrows in thought. “Drowning Girl. Lichtenstein?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to sound so gloomy about it,” Mom says.

I turn around to see the painting she picked. “Really? You had to pick this one?”

“She reminds me of you,” Mom says with a shrug.

“I don’t look as glamorous when I cry,” I joke.

“Eh, well at least you’re real. How does it feel no longer being Red String Girl?” Mom asks.

I shrug. “In my heart, I’ll always be Red String Girl, but it does feel freeing not to have to hide.”

The nearest window overlooks the street. It’s a bright, overcast February day. People in puffy jackets point up at skyscrapers, seemingly in awe of this city and all that it has to offer. It reminds me of Jack on that first night. I haven’t talked to him in over two weeks since we said good-bye at the showcase. It’s still morning on the West Coast, and it’s Sunday, so he’s probably eating sundaes with his Gōng Gong.

Mom links her arm through mine. “I didn’t know how to step aside to let you burn bright on your own, huh? I took up too much oxygen.”

“The last thing I would’ve wanted was for you to stifle your own light for mine to grow stronger. I lived under a shadow that I created in my mind,” I admit. “We’ll never know what might’ve happened if I had started out as Rooney Gao instead of Red String Girl. Maybe people would’ve seen you… or maybe they would’ve seen me.”

We round the corner to another room, the organized maze of art a comfort.

“You really came into your own out West,” Mom says, turning more pensive. “I—I’m proud of you.”

I stop in my tracks, pulling her to a stop with me. “Thank you.”

“I mean it, Roo.”

“Something I learned recently is that not all missions are successful. Sometimes things go wrong and what you planned for doesn’t work out, but you don’t quit. You persevere. That’s what I’m going to do. One day, I’ll get that video back. So I’m proud of myself, too,” I finally say. “For not giving up.”

Mom smiles. “Good, that’s the only opinion you should let influence you.” She reaches into her pocket. “And now I have something for you.”

Before I have even a second to guess what she might have enclosed in her fist, she turns her hand upside down, palm facing up. In it is a CompactFlash camera memory card.

My jaw drops. Baby Being Born is written in small letters on tape across the top.

“It’s yours,” she says. “I waited to tell you until I had the thing in my hands. They took their sweet time verifying it and getting it shipped out.”

“You won? I thought it went to a museum,” I say, shocked.

“Once it went past your range, I started bidding,” Mom admits. “I saw the look on your face and knew you weren’t able to go more than thirty-five thousand. There was some back-and-forth for a while, which leads me to believe I was up against a museum, but we’ll never know.”

“You let me say all that when you had this in your pocket the entire time?” I ask, covering my mouth in disbelief. My body is buzzing as I try to accept our new reality. The video is back in our hands.

Mom extends her hand closer to me, as though willing me to take the memory card. Like if I don’t, it’ll burn an imprint into her skin. “Are you mad that I stepped in?” she asks.

“Am I mad? I’m grateful,” I say, elation filling me up. I take Baby Being Born from her, examining the piece of plastic. It’s amazing how something so little can hold so much. “I tried. That’s the important part. I didn’t want it to be handed to me, but the last thing I wanted was for this to be public. I’m going to work to pay you back. I mean it.”

“Sure, whenever you can,” she tells me.

“Why would you do this for me, though? You don’t have regrets about this,” I ask.

“The price of my work just went up. I’ll need to finish that new collection now,” Mom says, looking pleased. Her expression levels out as she adds, “I know you think I became famous on my own, but success didn’t come until I gave birth to you. You were right there with me. I know there were ugly moments captured on that video. There were also beautiful ones that I’m forever grateful live on, because that was the moment that brought me you. I may not regret my own choices in life, but I do regret anything that caused you pain.”

Tears fill my eyes, the heavy drops not wasting any time before rolling down my face in long streaks. “Thank you. So much. This means more than you’ll ever know.”

I wrap my arms around her in a tight, forward-facing hug. It’s unusual for both of us, and somehow that’s okay. We’re getting used to new things. “I know you don’t like getting gifts, but I figured this might be an exception,” I say.

Mom looks at me suspiciously.

“Turn around,” I say, rotating Mom in the opposite direction as she huffs in protest. “There are letters. Giant ones. The subject is iconic, but also easily forgotten. A big risk that the artist wouldn’t have been able to take without her mother.”

“Roo—” Mom says before I cut her off.

“The beginning of something great, even though it doesn’t exist anymore,” I continue.

“Oh, I’ve heard of this one,” Mom says, spinning to face me. “The artist had it in her all along. I can’t wait to see what she does next.”

I hand her a snow globe with the Hollywood Sign inside.

She smiles as she shakes it. “Snow in Los Angeles. Now that would be something to see. I’m glad I had Baby Being Born. That would’ve been awkward to not have had anything for you. I’ve missed you, kid,” Mom says, her voice taking on its usual edge.

“I’ve missed you. And I’ve missed these Walk and Talks.” Ahead of us is a new painting that I don’t remember seeing before. “Okay, turn around again. One last piece of art to guess.”

Mom does as she’s told, covering her eyes with both hands.

“I’m a flower bud or a womb, split in half because no sides of me are the same,” I say, first describing the mood of the piece.

“Go on,” Mom murmurs.

I take a moment with the painting. “I’m not what I appear. I look like watercolor, easily altered, but I’m oil, once hardened, unchangeable.”

“Oh, Abstraction Blue. Georgia O’Keeffe. You know she’s one of my favorites,” Mom says.

“You’re a little too good at this,” I say.

“What do you know about this piece?” Mom asks.

“Not much,” I say, looking at it again.

Mom smiles. “This one in particular is pretty powerful. It represents a time when Georgia rejected the traditional way of painting that she had been taught. She transitioned to abstraction, developing her own form of expression. She tore herself from how she had been influenced to accept her own way of thinking.”

“Did you read the card?” I ask, covering it with my hands.

“I happen to love this one. There’s room for growth in all of us.” She gazes at the blues and pinks of the painting. “It was strange not having you around,” Mom says, her tone softening. “It’s always been you and me.”

“I’ll always be your person.”

“Yes, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” She wraps her arm over my shoulders.

“This is a different side to you. I don’t know how to handle it,” I joke, side hugging her back.

“The other day I woke up with a smile on my face. Isn’t that sickening?”

“Is that because you finally created the best Chinese tea egg recipe or because Dusty was cuddled up next to you?” I clarify.

Mom thinks on this. “A little of both, I think,” she says, nudging me. “And you’ll be happy to know I’ve made use of our time apart by perfecting milk bread. It’s very fluffy.”

“Just like you deep down,” I tease as Mom groans and waves off my accusations. “Do you think Dusty’s your… you know.”

“The man on the end of my string?” Mom asks. “Who’s to say, but I know I’ve been waiting for perfect circumstances, and those don’t exist. It could be that he’s my stringmate for right now. And maybe that will turn into forever. We’ll see.”

“It probably helps that you didn’t work with him,” I say. “You were right about Jack, but I wasn’t careful. I told him what he meant to me, and he made his choice clear. You know I met him a year ago today, on the night of the Lantern Festival?”

Mom nods. “Tonight’s full moon is supposed to be spectacular.”

“It feels like a different lifetime. We haven’t spoken since the show.”

Through the window, we watch dry brown leaves swirl around the sculpture garden after a strong gust of wind blows through.

“There were no signs in my life that told me I’d have you,” Mom says. “Or maybe I missed them, ignored them. I really thought children weren’t in the cards for me. Sometimes I think maybe the signs weren’t even there, and that I just made every other sign up. But then you happened. Obviously.”

I pat myself down. “Yep. Still here.”

“I taught you about the Red Thread of Fate not to keep you from living and loving but to remember that there are bigger things happening in the world beyond ourselves. That we can influence the world, but that the world can also influence us. Damn, put that on a poster,” she says. “This is all coming out because you’re back and need guidance.”

A laugh escapes. “Uh-huh, it’s not because you’re in love,” I say.

“Nope. Dusty’s just a body to keep me warm at night,” Mom says, suppressing a smile. “I get not wanting a plan to guide your life, trust me. I went as far as the creative winds took me and never looked back. Even when you have a plan, though, unexpected events will still present themselves and surprise you.”

“Like me.”

“Like you. Like Dusty. Like your newfound appreciation for Los Angeles.”

“It’s still no New York City, but it grew on me,” I admit.

Mom tilts her head toward me. “And yet this city was your forever home.”

“As far as I know, it still is.”

“You can continue reading into signs and letting fate decide your life for you, or you can own up and show up for the decisions that you can make yourself,” Mom says.

I exhale as I think, my thoughts wrestling one another. “It’s not like I’m completely dependent on signs and fate to function.”

“For the big things, though, like work and love, what you decide matters,” Mom says. “What you choose for yourself matters. When you make the choice to do something because you want to, not because something greater does, it feels rewarding. Like how you felt when you owned up to the world about who you are. Whether something is a success or a failure or is just in progress, there’s satisfaction in knowing you made whatever it is happen. I’ve experienced both, and only one of those things makes me feel invincible.”

“I don’t think I could ever not believe in the Red Thread. It’s deeply engrained in who I am. It’s a big part of my work. I’m in too deep.”

Mom raises her eyebrows in thought. “Look, the Red Thread of Fate is not meant to control you but to add a little magic to a world that can often seem bleak.”

I tug at the ends of the scarf draped around my neck. “I always thought it was romantic to be tied to someone, that your lives could be on different trajectories but you could still end up at the same place. I guess that’s not enough. Jack wanted to be a choice.”

“And what’s so wrong with wanting to be chosen?” Mom poses. “Maybe true love has no strings attached. That one’s more of a bumper sticker than a poster.”

I swallow any form of defense I can think of because, deep down, perhaps I know she’s right. My pulse quickens at the thought of having tangled everything up to the point of no untangling.

“Tell me the truth,” Mom says. “If your stringmate walked up right now with a glowing red string on his ankle that was attached to yours, would you forget everything, everyone, and be with him?”

I imagine the scenario: the shortening of the string between me and a stranger, the thread bouncing up and down as it untangles and straightens out after decades of journeying, the man clasping his hand in mine telling me how happy he is to have finally found me.

It’s admittedly an exciting thought. A romantic one, in a way. Truth is, I don’t know that man kneeling in front of me. I don’t know if he likes Times Square or making freeze-dried ice cream or if he’d know that butterflies run cold. He wouldn’t have the sliver of a moon on his bottom lip and probably wouldn’t know why the northern lights shine like they do. He’d probably not call me a lobster and let me touch anything I wanted in the clean room. And what good is that?

The fact of the matter is, the hypothetical man whose string leads to me, well, he wouldn’t be Jack.

And if he’s not Jack, I don’t want him.

“No,” I say firmly.

“No what?” Mom asks.

“I wouldn’t. I would want Jack. I would choose Jack over him,” I say, fully feeling the meaning behind the words that escape my mouth. It dawns on me how delicate the distinction is between fate and having a choice, how lucky we are to be able to have both in our lives. To let greater forces play a role while still guiding our own path. Maybe it’s time that my belief in the Red Thread of Fate gives way to something like… Red String Theory.

Mom wraps her arms around me. “Don’t wait around forever being an observer in your own life.”

I lean into her rare embrace. “I need to tell him that I choose him,” I say, a desperate urgency taking over. It’s not a solution to the work problem, and it might complicate us keeping our distance, but at the very least I have to tell him that he’s the one I choose.

I find his name in my phone and tap it.

He doesn’t answer. What if he’s moved on?

“I have to get back to LA. I need to do something. I don’t know what yet exactly. It’s not like I have a plan here!” I say to Mom, a laugh fueled by adrenaline escaping. “All I know is that I need to find Jack before it’s too late.”