It has been a year since my brother texted me early in the morning to share the news of our half-sister’s passing. Even though I had not been in touch with her for years, the news still saddened me.
Her name was Green Star. When in her early twenties, she was very ill with tuberculosis. Dad brought her to Taiwan hoping the warmer climate would be good for her health. After our parents met, mom began taking her to the free clinic at the Anti-tuberculosis Association. She gradually regained her strength.
Dad said that she was born in the year of rabbit. If true, she would have been four years younger than mom. Her only daughter, nicknamed 寶貝 (Baobei, Treasure), was about three years older than me. Even though she always lived on the other side of our house, before I was old enough to understand the intricacy of the relationship, I used to identify her as “Baobei’s mom.”
A very attractive and always in style, she was forever an enigma to me. As a child, I observed her from a distance. Unlike the rest of the family, socializing was an important part of her daily life. Chattering of visitors often came through the thin wall, separating her apartment from the rest of the house. Often, she played mahjong with friends for long hours.
She was a connoisseur of food. Some years, she would make her own black bean sauce (Doubanjiang, 豆瓣醬). She would bring sealed medium-size urns with steamed and seasoned soybeans out to the garden. During the long fermentation process, she would, occasionally, unsealed the containers to check on the condition and the consistency of the paste. The sweet and salty smell of the paste would float into the house. Her oyster omelets had the perfect amount of salt and scallions. The texture was just right: not as runny as the ones from the night market and not too dry. But it wasn’t often that we ate together.
For years, she wanted to be a Chinese opera star. She even had a stage name 安寧 (An-ning, Tranquility). Several times a week, she rehearsed at home with a fiddle master—very much like an opera diva with her personal coach/accompanist. When she was a teenager, she ran away with a theater troop. Dad reported her missing and eventually brought her home. She never forgave him for having stopped her career potential cold. I remembered that a few times she had strong arguments with dad. I was little and they were speaking Zhèjiāng dialect, so I didn’t really know what was wrong. Vaguely, I remembered mom trying to keep me and Robert away.
After her divorce and other challenges in life, her attitude towards dad softened. When dad was in and out of the hospital during the last years of his life, she took good care of him. Later, with the younger generation away from home, she and mom got closer. They would have meals and watch TV together. Occasionally she even participated in some family get-togethers on mom’s side. Robert and I, however, never kept constant contact with her.
By the time I heard about her death, Baobei had taken care of the funeral and burial. There was never a chance to say Good-bye. After all these years, having gone on to pursue an artistic life with the blessing of my parents, I finally began to understand her life-long frustration. However, I missed the chance to share my thoughts with her.