The funeral was set for the third day after her mother's death.
Song Qingci told no one. She found a Chinese funeral home online and booked the cheapest package—twelve hundred dollars, including cremation and an urn. She chose a blue-and-white porcelain-style urn because her mother had loved that pattern.
The funeral home was in Flushing. A faded sign hung at the entrance, a "Full Service Funeral" advertisement pasted on the glass window. Not many people came: Rachel, the supermarket owner, a coworker from the Chinese restaurant dishwashing job, and a few friends her mother had made at church.
Song Qingci wore a black sweater bought from a thrift store for five dollars. Her hair was pulled back. She wore no makeup; her lips were dry and chapped. She stood before the memorial hall, looking at her mother's portrait.
The portrait was an enlargement of her mother's green card photo. In it, her mother was fifty, her hair still black, her smile slightly awkward. It had been taken three years ago, before the chemotherapy, before the hair loss, before she knew she would die at fifty-four.
Rachel stood beside her, a pack of tissues clutched in her hand.
"Let's begin," Song Qingci said.
The funeral home attendant nodded and played a recording of funeral music. The speakers weren't great; the sound was a bit harsh, like a radio not quite tuned to the right frequency.
Song Qingci stepped forward and picked up the microphone.
"Thank you all for coming to see my mother off on her final journey." Her voice was calm. "My mother's name was Chen Yulan. She was from Shaoxing, Zhejiang. When she was thirty-eight, she brought me to America. She didn't speak English. She had only two thousand dollars. She washed dishes at Chinese restaurants, operated sewing machines in garment factories, worked the register at supermarkets—three jobs to put me through school."
She paused, taking a deep breath.
"In her whole life, she never had a single day of happiness."
Someone in the memorial hall was crying. The supermarket owner, wiping tears with her apron.
"The morning she passed away, she said something to me. She said, Qingci, live well. Stand in the brightest place."
Song Qingci's voice began to tremble, but she held back.
"I will, Mom. I promised you."
She lowered the microphone and bowed deeply.
Just then, the door of the memorial hall opened.
Everyone turned.
Lu Yan stood at the entrance.
He wore a black coat, his hair windblown, a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in his hand. He stood in the doorway, looking at the portrait at the center of the hall, his expression unreadable.
Song Qingci's fingers tightened.
Rachel was the first to react. She stood and blocked his path. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't look at her. He walked straight toward Song Qingci.
"I came to see her off."
"You don't deserve to." Rachel stood in front of him. "You didn't come when she was alive. What use is it now that she's dead?"
Lu Yan stopped and looked at Song Qingci.
Song Qingci didn't look at him. She looked at her mother's portrait, her voice soft. "Rachel, step aside."
"Qingci—"
"Step aside."
Rachel clenched her jaw and stepped back.
Lu Yan walked to Song Qingci and placed the white chrysanthemums on the offering table.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Song Qingci finally turned to look at him.
She looked at him for a long time.
"Lu Yan, did you come because you thought you should, or because you really wanted to?"
Lu Yan didn't answer.
"You came. And now what? What do you want me to say? 'Thank you'? 'It's okay'?"
Her voice was calm, as if discussing something that had nothing to do with her.
"Six forty-seven the morning she died. You were at a Chelsea art exhibition with Lin Weiyue. I called you three times. You didn't answer. I texted you. You didn't reply. Do you know what her last words were?"
Lu Yan's throat moved.
"She said, leave that man." Song Qingci's voice finally trembled. "Those were her last words to me in this life. Not 'I love you.' Not 'Be happy.' 'Leave that man.'"
The memorial hall was so quiet the static of the funeral music was audible.
"Lu Yan, you don't deserve to be here. Not because I hate you. Because you have no right to stand here. You didn't come to see her when she was alive. You didn't ask about her once when she was sick. You don't even know her name—her name was Chen Yulan. Do you remember?"
Lu Yan said nothing.
"You don't deserve to be here." Song Qingci repeated, her voice soft but each word like a nail. "You don't deserve to stand here, to look at her portrait, to call her aunt. Please leave."
Lu Yan stood where he was, unmoving.
"Leave." Song Qingci's voice rose a notch.
Rachel stepped forward, placing herself between him and Song Qingci. "Did you hear her? Leave."
Lu Yan looked down at Song Qingci. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying. Her back was straight as a taut string.
Finally, he turned.
At the door, he stopped, not looking back.
"Song Qingci, I'm sorry."
The door closed.
Song Qingci stood where she was, looking at the bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
She walked over, picked them up, and threw them in the trash.
"Let's continue." She returned to the microphone, her voice steady again. "Where was I? Oh, yes. When my mother worked at the garment factory, she ran a sewing needle through her fingers three times. She never told me. I found out myself. Once, when she was doing my laundry, there was blood on a white T-shirt. I asked her what happened. She said, 'Nothing, the fabric dye must have run.'"
She smiled, a faint smile.
"My mother spent her whole life lying to me. Telling me she was fine. Telling me she wasn't tired. Telling me she wasn't in pain. Her only wish was for me to be okay."
She looked at her mother's eyes in the portrait.
"Mom, I will be."
After the funeral, Song Qingci was the last to leave. She stood at the entrance, looking back at the memorial hall. The offering table was empty. The white chrysanthemums were in the trash.
Rachel waited for her outside.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm okay." Song Qingci tucked her hands into her pockets and touched her student ID. "Let's go. There's an exam tomorrow."
"You're taking an exam tomorrow?"
"Yes. Quantitative Trading. Final."
"But you just—"
"Rachel," Song Qingci interrupted her, her voice calm, "my mother wanted me to stand in the brightest place. That place isn't in a funeral home."
She walked out, sunlight falling on her.
The black sweater absorbed the light. Her shadow stretched long on the ground.
Rachel watched her go and suddenly felt that this woman was different from three days ago.
Not stronger.
Colder.