“Here,” she’d fly me a magazine. “Have a Vogue place mat.”
When Moira wanted to try a medicinal tea, I knew I had to talk to Mom. And when I finally made the call home, Mom immediately offered to help. She contacted relations, who then called cousins, and I went to Chinatown with an introduction. How un-American, how un-independent, how I hated that clannish stuff, but now I knew Moira would get the best ingredients. With Mom’s connection, I bought 30 packets, as much as I could carry, absolutely sure they were filled with magic. Its brewed pungency and raw, tree-twiggy breeziness seeped into everything.
Moira wanted to know more about the herbs, so I called home again. Mom kept trying to tell me how to make good, nutritious congee—about free-range, fresh-killed chickens, ginkgo nuts. “Tell me what the herbs mean! Tell me what she needs! What else?!”
But something happened. Mom was quiet in a way that made me stop. Behind the quiet, I heard a breath. And then my diaphragm bloomed and I felt my own breath reach deeper. My words came out softer. I was calling to my mother like when I was a child, afraid.
Answering, my mother’s voice was firm, but kind. She said two Chinese words. The first word meant peace. I didn’t know the meaning of the next, so I asked.
“Hold. Embrace. Protect. Nurture. Soothe.”
Comfort.
The first time I made congee for Moira, she asked about the herbal prescription. I could only repeat what Mom had said. “Oon-wei.”
Moira was quiet. “That sounds like ‘one way.’ ”
We laughed softly. When the congee was cooked, I took it out to her in her favorite green bowl.
Moira’s last day, we all knew. Moira had a peaceful night, and I went home to walk my dog, Idaho. Strangely buoyed by exhaustion and fear and expectation, I wandered, walking from the Village toward the east, past the apartment she shared with her husband on Eleventh Street, then down First Avenue. Then I was in Chinatown, then at Big Wong’s.
I heard my order repeated in one word: “Walking.”
And I walked for Moira, revisiting all her places of meaning, where she married, where she had her first show, where she painted. I walked to my apartment. I barely greeted Idaho but went straight into the kitchen, laid out the food on the kitchen counter, foil tin next to plastic tub.
Then I ate. I ate to feed my departing friend.
I ate the duck with my fingers, bit into the dark, rich breast. I sucked the crispy joint on the wing, the aged soy on the drum. I spooned mouthful after mouthful of smooth congee. I remember the textures, crisp and moist, the warm swallow of congee. I ate with an urgency to feed the body, not out of hunger but for farewell, the ritual need of the living.
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