Page 112 of The Pucking Date
She motions to the back. “Come. You’re leaking qi all over the entryway. It’s very messy. And I just mopped.”
Sophie raises her brows. “Did she just say you’re leaking?”
“She did,” I mutter, stepping out of my shoes. “And she’s right.”
Sophie shoots Mom a helpless look. Mom shrugs and sits, already sipping tea, completely settled in for the unfolding drama.
“Damp. Too much emotion trapped in the blood,” she mutters, circling me. “Sleeplessness, nausea, mood swings—your qi’s throwing a tantrum, Xiao Jie.”
She sniffs once, then flicks her fingers toward my arm. “And fear. It’s pooling in your joints. You’re leaking out the edges.” She jerks her chin toward a stiff-backed chair parked beneath a red silk talisman, the kind meant to ward off spirits and bull-headed men. “Sit.”
I move without thinking. Because when Wai Po tells you to do something, you obey. The last time I sat in this very chair, I was sixteen, red-eyed over some AP Chemistry meltdown and the kind of breakup that only lasts until third period. Wai Po didn’t scold, didn’t comfort. Just brewed something that smelled of boiled hope and scorched ginseng, slapped two cucumber slices on my eyelids, and told me I was suffering from “spleen betrayal” and weak boundaries.
“You give boys too much of your shine,” she’d said, patting my knee. “Let them earn it, not borrow it.” Then she burned a paper talisman, chanted under her breath, and made me chew a dried date soaked in rice wine.
I passed my chem final. The boy transferred to Vermont. Wai Po said that was balance restored.
She pulls open a drawer like she’s preparing for surgery—jade roller, steaming water, prayer beads. Wai Po presses two fingers to my wrist and closes her eyes. The clinic stills, steam curling from copper pots, the faint rattle of beads settling into silence.
“You’ve been storing grief in your stomach,” she mutters. “That’s how you get liver fire. And that’s no good in your condition.”
My spine straightens. Silently, she adjusts her grip and tilts her head, eyes still shut.
A moment passes. Then another. “A heartbeat,” she says finally, tone low. “Strong. Stubborn.”
I exhale. The cat’s out of the bag. Her mouth tugs in the slightest smile.
She turns to my mom. “Ming Yu,” she says, crisp enough to cut paper. “You didn’t tell me this was happening again.”
Mom straightens. “I just found out, Mama.”
“The blood remembers.” Wai Po’s eyes flick back to me. “And now it’s your turn.”
I blink. “What’s happening?”
“She means you,” Mom says tightly. “You were a surprise. A very enthusiastic surprise who showed up seven months after the wedding.”
“Yes,” Wai Po mutters. “You came with fire in your spirit and chaos in your timing. And now, you do it again.”
Wai Po shifts her fingers. Stills. Listens. Her brows twitch. A second hum. Deeper this time.
Finally, she opens one eye. “Ah. There you are.”
My stomach drops. “Is the heartbeat good?” I ask, panicking a little. But she just shushes me.
“There’s another,” she says, now fully alert. “Hiding behind the first one. A quiet little fox.”
Sophie’s voice shoots up. “Wait, what’s happening now?”
Wai Po lifts her chin toward my belly. “Two heartbeats. Two spirits.”
I just stare, speechless. Wai Po’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Twins,” she announces, quieter now. “One loud. One quiet. One boy. One girl.” Her voice dips with weight. “This family. Always two sides to everything.”
A beat. “Boy’s leading the charge,” she pronounces. “Girl’s watching him wreck everything. Typical.”
Sophie nearly chokes on her tea. “You’re kidding, Wai Po. Like, actual twins? Two humans? At the same time?”
“She never kids,” Mom says, reaching for her cup.
