Imperfect Triangle

Chapter 1

Two distinctive kinds of smells linger in my flesh; herbs and coffee. They fight over the territory on my hair, my sweater, and my fingertips. They take turns in winning.  To any strangers who walk past me on the streets with their eyebrows furrowed, I'm either an ailing person or a coffee snob. I'm not. They're just part of my jobs.

I pour the last batch of the herbal tea, which I brewed last night with plantain leaves, into a steel barrel. The tea is boiling hot. I turn my face away to avoid the fuming steam clouding my eyes. My hands are less sensitive to temperature after years of practice. They cling to the edge of the pot tightly withstanding the heat.

The barrels are brimful: Plantain, Self-healing Spike, Chrysanthemum and Twenty-four-flavors.

The names don't matter. It's their magical healing effects that keeps my little shop alive. In the realm of Chinese medicine, heat and dampness accumulated in our bodies are toxic and herbal teas help getting rid of them. The more bitter it gets, the more effective it will be.

Soon after the appalling medicinal aroma numbed my nostrils, I push up the roller shutter of the shop with all my strength to welcome fresh air. This aging neighborhood is as quiet as a still lake.

No one is awake; except myself and the old man who sells newspapers at the corner of the street. I I step out and wave to him. He nods back. 

I notice the iron rust rimming the edge of my nails so I leave the shop unattended as usual and race up the stairs to my home, more like an attic. Grandma Ying is stirring her bowl of porridge with her eyes fixed on the 13' TV.

"Grandma! Distraction is not good for digestion," I yell as I scrub my nail tips with an old toothbrush by the basin in the kitchen.

"I'm not hungry." She pouts, pushing the bowl away.

I rinse my hands and dry them with a ragged towel. "Don't make me feed you. You know I won't be gentle."

Grudgingly, she takes a spoonful of the porridge to her mouth. It's my fault that I made it too watery and bland. There wasn't enough time for me to prepare the breakfast this morning as I overslept.

I sit by the table and watch her munch until she scrapes the bottom of the bowl.

"Do you remember what date it is?" she asks as she wipes her mouth with a napkin.

"Of course. It's Jin's 24th birthday." Jin is her only grandchild, but he has not been home for more than a year now.

Last time we saw him, he returned with bruises all over his face and few stitches on his left eyebrow. Grandma Ying was so angry that she threw him out. What happened that night was a piece of vivid memory:

Down the slippery stairs, I ran after him without giving a second thought. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes hollow and lifeless. I kneeled, caressing his bruised face with my thumb. There was no doubt that he dragged himself into another brutal fight. That was his thing, and worrying about him was mine. He staggered to his feet and pushed my hand away as though I was a plague to him.

Like a puff of smoke, he left. I never got the chance to ask what had happened to him.

"You think he will call?" asks Grandma.

I shake my head. The disappointment shown on her wrinkled face aches me. I should have lied, but I can't. Jin did not call even on Grandma's birthday. Why would he call on his? We thought he would come back soon. He had never disappeared for that long.

I've tried every possible way to look for him, but my efforts are in vain. He changed his number, so it's up to him to call us.

"I have to go now. You call me if you need anything, okay?"