The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 43–47

There’s absolute silence after I finish translating Gōnggong’s story. It’s my story, too, and I’m struck by the thought that it’s the first one I’ve told out loud since the night I babysat for Tiffi and made up the disastrous fènghuáng tale.

I look over at Logan and Liam to see their reactions to the story. To my surprise, they’re staring at each other in what must be the “twin telepathy” mode that other people talk about. They both raise their arms simultaneously and bump fists.

I look over at Logan and Liam to see their reactions to the story. To my surprise, they’re staring at each other in what must be the “twin telepathy” mode that other people talk about. They both raise their arms simultaneously and bump fists.

"...My phone is toast. Liam, you got any bars?”
Liam flips his phone over, and the beam from the flashlight swings wildly around the mausoleum. “Nope. Still no reception. Battery’s low, too.”
“The walls are probably too thick,” Logan muses.

"...My phone is toast. Liam, you got any bars?”
Liam flips his phone over, and the beam from the flashlight swings wildly around the mausoleum. “Nope. Still no reception. Battery’s low, too.”
“The walls are probably too thick,” Logan muses.

I join him outside and stare up at the name carved above the heavy bronze door: FLOWERS. The English translation of my own family name. It can’t be a coincidence. Thank you, I breathe, to Tao, to Mr. Shellhaus, to Nǎinai. Somehow, they led us here. They helped us find Gōnggong and get us all to safety.

Bàba waits until Gōnggong is helped down from the ambulance and sitting in the wheelchair. Then he goes to kneel in front of him. He takes one of Gōnggong’s hands and only says, “Bàba,” but the anguish on his face reveals so much more.

The emergency-room doctor releases Gōnggong after taking his vital signs and telling him to drink lots of fluids and get more rest, but then she takes Bàba and Māma aside and says something that makes their faces turn somber.

The tree. My dragon tree. Logan’s walnut tree. Its great trunk lies diagonally across our yards, the fence and Gōnggong’s new garden crushed underneath. A tangle of roots and dirt rises out of a gaping hole, like a giant bristly beast climbing out of the underworld.

Liam scrambles up and stands on the tree trunk, looking down at me and Gōnggong. “Hey,” he says. “Isn’t this cool?” He adopts a superhero pose, feet apart and hands on hips, as if he toppled the giant tree with his super strength.

Logan appears around the side of the root ball just as I reach the flattened fence. He navigates the distance between us and stops, looking down at one of the split rails. “Never liked this fence anyway.”

Two weeks later, the hubbub after the storm has died down and we have settled into our routines at the Cliff.

Mist was appalled at being humiliated in public even though many of the kids congratulated us for rescuing Gōnggong.

“You’re probably going to get called to Foxman’s office today,” Liam informs me. At my shocked expression, he holds up both hands. “Relax, you’re not in trouble. I confessed.”
Logan smirks. “Yeah, he hasn’t been able to sleep since Gōnggong revealed he knew who the true culprit was.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Mrs. Perry appears, looking apologetic. “Ms. Brown is here. She says she’d like to speak to you.”
“Not now,” Foxman snaps. “Tell her I’m in the middle of speaking to Melanie.”
“She says it’s about Melanie, sir. She’s quite insistent.”

She turns to me. “Melanie, please give Mr. Reynard the highlights of your interview and research.”
What? Mist recoils. But Ms. Brown is gazing at me encouragingly, and Foxman is glaring at me with his boiled sap eyes and wrinkled snout.

Even though he’s a fox demon, I see that he’s carrying around a lot of weight, including the pain of what happened to his uncle. He’s Basket in his own life, too. My Basket accepts, while his lashes out. Will he ever recognize that? Is he capable of seeing what we have in common?

I take his hand and stare at the cuff of his uniform. It’s frayed and shiny where the fabric has worn thin, revealing the sleeve of his blue dress shirt. Blue. Another one of my names, my variations, but maybe not for much longer. I have friends now — Logan and Anita and maybe even Liam.

I glance up into Gōnggong’s warm brown eyes and feel the gray mist, the bamboo strips of the basket, and the creeping tendrils of blue swirl around me like my own personal tornado. The variations of me spin and weave together, coalescing into a shimmery human-shaped form. A me-shaped form. I know what to do. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, breathing in the silvery shape until it fills all the corners of my body.

I stand on the stage, visible and vulnerable but also proud. I am not alone. And I know who I am. I am all of the meanings of lán and more.

Growing up in Massachusetts, we studied the history of the Wampanoag Nation in school and learned that the story people like to tell about Pilgrims and Native Americans celebrating the “First Thanksgiving” was mostly just that — a story, invented by colonists to cover up a more gruesome history.

“Hi, Meilan! I listened to my Māma and Bàba’s conversations, just like you asked, and the only thing I found out that was interesting was that they were going to start a new business but now they aren’t.” Her cute voice reverberates around the room.

“Hi, Meilan. How are you?” It’s Xing. The other flower of our family. She sounds so normal. As if we haven’t been on opposite sides of a vast ocean of silence for months.

“Meilan? Are you there?” Now Xing sounds hesitant, nervous. I must make some sort of sound, because she continues. “I just...I wanted...You know, I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving.”

Logan and Liam are here. Logan cannot decide which pastries to get, and Liam is asking for free samples of everything.”
I laugh and head to the pastry case. Logan and Liam are bent over it, bickering about what to buy.