What is another year to the mother and sister trees? In the twenty-eight years I’ve known of their existence, they seem unchanged. Once I had thought of the grove as a place of pain, suffering, and death. Now I’m honored to have it as my legacy. But it may be so much more than that. I go straight to the mother tree and caress its bark. Yellow powder comes off on my palms, which I hold out for A-ma to see.
“Do you know what this is?” I ask.
“It’s a gift brought here by our nomadic mothers as they journeyed—”
“Mr. Huang thinks it’s something more.”
Hearing his name, she scowls, turns her back to me, and walks to the edge of the cliff. I keep my yellowed hands before me as I come to her side. Together we stare out over the mountains.
“He says the yellow threads cured Xian-rong,” I say.
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, deliberately avoiding my hands. “The boy was dying when he first came to us. Anyone could see that. I did what I could. I gave him tea from the mother tree and many other remedies.”
“And I made two cakes of tea solely from the mother tree, which Mr. Huang took for his son.”
“I only knew about the one.” I wait for further recriminations. Instead, she says, “Then you helped him too. Not everyone recovers on our mountain, as you know. He was lucky.”
“What if he gets sick again?” I ask.
“Each year when he visits, I look at him. He’s healthy. If someday he comes to me sick, I’ll do what I can for him as I do for every person on Nannuo Mountain.”
“What about when you become an ancestor? What if one of Xian-rong’s children gets sick?”
“You can—”
I don’t let her finish. “I can deliver a baby and help a girl with a pimple. Beyond that? You’re the last woman in our line with your skills. And we don’t know why Xian-rong got better when many others don’t.” I give A-ma time to absorb what I’m saying. Then, “And there’s one more thing.”
I’ll never stop respecting my a-ma. She’s farmed, harvested vegetables and threshed rice, raised and slaughtered animals, cooked for an entire household, spun thread, woven cloth, made clothes, and embroidered them. She’s walked every trail on our mountain. She’s attended births and cared for the weak, ill, and dying. I love her, and having to explain the idea of satellites and GPS to her hurts me deeply. They are as far-fetched to her as electricity, telephones, and television once were to me, and she looks horrified as I come to my frightening conclusion.
“People are looking for this place. Mr. Huang already knows where it is.”
“But no man can see it,” A-ma says, her insistence carrying the weight of generations. “I’ll never let that stranger—”
“Don’t you see? It might not be him.” A choke of understanding grabs my throat as I finally accept what he told me that night at the party. “It won’t be him. He warned us. Consider what that means. The inevitability of what’s coming . . . As uncontrollable as the wind—”
“No man can come here.” It’s agonizing for me to hear her fear and sadness. “They’ll die as your grandfather died.”
This is brutally tragic and terrifying for me too, but I come back at her with the type of reasoning I know she’ll understand. “What happened to Grandfather was fate. It could have happened anywhere.”
“But we must keep this place a secret.”
I raise my palms so she can’t avoid seeing them. “Isn’t it time we learn what this is? Where it came from originally and if there’s more out there? How, and if, it works? If it can be re-created? If it can help—”
“But the women in our line—”
“Yes, the women in our line, including you and me, are linked by these yellow threads. You and the generations before you protected the mother and sister trees from wars, caravans, and nomads that passed across Nannuo Mountain over many centuries. But now people—maybe callous men, maybe evil women, maybe deceitful dealers, maybe ruthless scientists—are going to come here with their GPS whether we want them to or not. Maybe our line has been protecting the mother tree for this moment.”
“I’ll always help the boy,” A-ma says, despairing.
“If you can treat him, then why not those on the next mountain? Would you turn away someone who came to you from Yiwu or Laobanzhang sick himself, with an ailing wife, or a feverish child in his arms? Of course you wouldn’t. If you say yes to someone from the next mountain, then what about people from other parts of China?”
A-ma begins to weep. I’ve cornered her with undeniable facts. Suddenly she looks like a broken, frail, old woman. I’ve done that to her.
“Who can we trust to take it out?” she mumbles, her voice trembling. “What’s going to happen to the trees once others know about them?”
I take her in my arms and hold her tight. I don’t know the answers.
A PILGRIMAGE TO THE PLACE OF ORIGIN
We linger at the entrance to the TSA security line. Mom looks elegant in a pair of cream-colored trousers and a peach cashmere sweater. Dad’s wearing shorts and a Lakers T-shirt. I’m in skinny jeans and a hoodie. My hair’s pulled back in a ponytail. In my carry-on, I’ve got my tea cake, laptop, books, and other necessities for the flight.
“I want to meet him,” Dad says for about the fiftieth time.
How many variations of a response can I come up with? He’ll get here. Maybe he’s inside already. Even if he doesn’t show up—which he will—I’ll be fine. This time I try out “I’m sure he’s coming.”
Dad gives me a look, and Mom says, “Now, Dan, stop worrying. Think of the places I’ve gone for research—”
“I don’t like that either, and you aren’t my little girl—”
“She’ll be twenty-one—”
“In the fall. I know. But—”
“Look, you two, I’d better get through security,” I say. “I don’t want to miss my flight.”
Dad sighs. “Are you really going to fly off to China with some random Chinese man none of us have met?”
“Oh, Dad, you’re such a dad! And I love you for it.”
He gives me a weak smile, but truly, why didn’t I introduce everyone when I had the chance? Because I wanted to do this on my own. Prove I was capable. Impress Mom and Dad with my independence. Et cetera.
Mom hugs me and whispers in my ear. “I love you. Be careful. We’d prefer if you’d call, but if you can’t, promise to send an e-mail or text every day so we know you’re safe.” When I start to pull away, she draws me even closer. “I’ve known worry before—those terrible nights when you nearly died and your bad spell in high school—but this is a whole new level. So don’t make me wrong. Your dad would never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I whisper back. “I’ll be fine.” Which is about as far from the truth as I can get, because, despite my brave words, I’m scared half out of my pants. Where is he? How am I supposed to do this trip by myself?
I go through more or less the same routine with my dad. I join the line and pull out my passport, but Mom and Dad don’t leave. Even after I pass through security and start up the elevator to the gates, I see them standing where I left them. One last round of waves and smiles, and then I’m on my own.
When I get to the gate, the first- and business-class passengers have already boarded through a special door. The cattle—of which I’m a part—are funneled down a separate Jetway, so I don’t get to see if Sean’s already seated. My parents’ volunteering—if that’s the right word—to buy me a coach ticket for the flight from L.A. to Guangzhou was just one of the many ways they tried to dissuade me from this trip. They have enough miles to have gotten me a seat in business, and it wouldn’t have cost them a dime. By the time they accepted the fact that I was going no matter what, and they offered to pay to boot me up to business—“It’s the least we can do”—I had to act above it all, as in “Oh, Mom, Dad, thank you so much for offering, but I want to seem like everyone e
lse.” And now I’m squished in with a bunch of strangers, going on an adventure to the “middle of nowhere,” as Sean and the people on the Tufts team have repeatedly described it.
At least I’m on the aisle.
The plane taxis to the runway. The pilot revs the engines, and we barrel along until we lift off, passing over the sandy beach and above the ocean. The plane banks to the right—north. My hands grip the armrests as we hit a few bumps.
I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t met Sean. A year ago, on a whim really, I’d gone to the tea expo at the Long Beach Convention Center. On the first day, I attended a seminar on using the unique flavors of different teas to make artisanal cocktails. “It’s the coming trend!” It was the expo’s most popular event, and I came out of the meeting room more than a little tipsy from sampling Earl Grey–infused whiskey, vodka with hibiscus tea ice cubes, and drinks with names like Tea-tini (with vodka, lavender, rosemary, and chamomile), Sen-cha Flip (with gin, Japanese green tea, and frothed egg whites), and Liber-tea (made with Wild Turkey, honey, tea, and basil). “If I weren’t going to Stanford,” I’d commented to one of the other attendees, “I could open a bar and serve all kinds of drinks using tea, dry ice, spherification, foams, and infusions. Chemistry another way!” The woman didn’t even crack a smile. Those tea people take themselves very seriously.
Next I’d gone to a panel on the science of tea. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t a rundown of studies going on around the world looking at the purported health benefits of something I’m interested in for personal reasons but don’t drink myself, except for boba milk tea that I buy in the San Gabriel Valley, which is all about the tapioca balls anyway . . . and now, maybe cocktails. Or that even in a seminar like that one, they were going to serve tea. These scientists from Tufts University, the Tea Research Institute, and a place called the Antioxidants Research Laboratory (whatever that is) started in with all this data about a particular kind of tea called Pu’er that reportedly can help with diabetes, lower blood pressure, prolong longevity, and produce palliative outcomes for everything from altitude sickness to gout to symptoms of HIV/AIDS. Talk about a buzzkill! I thought, Some people will believe anything. I hate people who prey on the weak or sick, giving them false hope when they should be relying on medicine and science. So I was doing a whole pat-myself-on-the-back thing—I’m going to Stanford for real science—when they start showing slides like I’m in a chemistry or biology class.
Randomized Double-blind, Placebo-controlled Clinical Trials (RCT) Effects of Tea on Body Weight, Energy Metabolism, and Recovery from Stress
Beverage formulated with green tea catechins, caffeine, and calcium: increased 24-hour resting energy expenditure (REE) by 106 kcal (4.6%) in 31 young, lean individuals.
In 12-week RCT, with green tea extract (GTE, 750 mg) containing 141 mg catechins to 60 sedentary and overweight (BMI:27.7) individuals: increase in REE and decrease in body weight, despite no change in food intake.
In 6-week RCT with black tea, 76 males divided into two groups. Half receive caffeinated beverage made from tea; half receive caffeinated placebo. Both groups presented with challenging tasks, with cortisol, blood pressure, blood platelet, and self-rated stress levels measured pre- and post-. 50 minutes after completion of tasks, cortisol levels drop 47% in tea group compared to 27% given placebo.
Suddenly, I felt on much firmer ground. They showed slides with chemical percentages, dosages, and study methodology for different age-groups, sexes, and countries in studies that covered glucose tolerance, cardiovascular disease, bone density, cognitive function, neurodegenerative disease, and, of course, various types of cancer. Outcomes ranged from “compelling” to “equivocal at best.” Not exactly ringing endorsements, but I was intrigued and I sure couldn’t blame it on the second sample of Sen-cha Flip I’d drunk earlier. At the end of the presentation, I asked for cards from all the participants, one of whom was Dr. Barry, who later agreed to let me work on her study.
Feeling a bit giddy, I walked down the aisles of the show and it was much like any expo, with a whole range of vendors—from the English tea-cozy ladies to Kenyan tea-plantation promoters, from Japanese women in kimonos doing a formal tea ceremony to Portland hipsters with flower-based products. I stopped for a moment to watch a man—Chinese, handsome, and five or so years older than I am—pouring tea for a group of people, letting the liquid slosh over the rims of the cups. It was truly messy and completely unlike the elegance in the Japanese booth. The man caught me observing him and called, “Join us.” When I hesitated, he beckoned me with what had to be a Chinese proverb. “Every passing moment is the passing of life; every moment of life is life itself.” Who says that to a random stranger? It certainly wasn’t a line I’d heard before, so I entered the booth and sat down. He introduced himself as Sean Wong.
“Here,” he said, pouring tea from a glass pitcher into a white porcelain cup, “I want you to sample my Pu’er.” The first sip of liquid blossomed in my mouth—bitterness bubbled away by sweetness. He watched my reaction, smiled more to himself than to me, and then proceeded to brew several more vintages of Pu’er, each one better than the last. One tea had such strong huigan—what he described as the overwhelming effect that this tea has on breath and opening the chest—that for a moment the world went dizzy. “That’s because you’re drinking history,” he explained.
His laugh made my heart race. And honestly, I could barely take my eyes off him. His cheekbones were sharp, his eyes seemed wary, his hair shone like lacquer. He was friendly and obviously some type of tea connoisseur. The careless way he poured the valuable teas, letting them overflow their little cups to show abundance, was oddly entrancing. Why he’d set up a stall at the expo wasn’t and still isn’t clear, but I’d gone to high school with plenty of girls like him and now I was surrounded by his ilk—guys and girls—at Stanford, who are part of the People’s Republic of China’s wealthy and international jet-setting elite.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I mentioned my tea cake. Bragging, I guess. Or wanting to prolong my time with him. He was immediately intrigued.
“They say that the most valuable tea will be found right here in Southern California,” he said. “It would have come with a sojourner a hundred years ago, been given as a gift, or received as payment for something.”
“How valuable?” I asked.
“Last year a cake of Pu’er, weighing three hundred and ninety grams—a little under a pound—sold at auction for one point two million Hong Kong dollars. That’s about one hundred and fifty thousand U.S.”
“My tea cake can’t be worth anything like that,” I said.
“How do you know?”
The next day, I brought my tea cake to see if he or someone else could tell me about it. People offered exorbitant sums to buy it, but Sean had the most tempting offer: “Just as a person is searching for tea, the tea is searching for the person. Come with me to China for a week. We’ll make a pilgrimage to your tea cake’s place of origin. Put yourself in my hands. I’ll take care of everything.”
A pilgrimage to the place of origin . . .
“I’ll be going anyway,” he added. “You may as well take advantage of me. My expertise, I mean.”
Okay, so I wasn’t completely forthright with Professor Ho, my parents, or even myself. Sure, I’m totally into the project I got Professor Ho to advise me on. I’ve also got the Tufts project on my laptop, and I’ve looked at plenty of tea samples for Dr. Barry in the lab, which will help create a baseline for my research. When I’m in China, I’ll meet farmers and collect my own tea samples. I’m going to win that Stanford award! But there was—is—something about Sean, besides having an on-the-ground guide who speaks the language, that made me say yes to his offer.
I went back to Stanford, and we communicated by e-mail. We met at his house once when I was home for winter break to go over plans for the trip. I’d figured he was rich, so I wasn’t surprised by the address in Pasadena practically aro
und the corner from Hummingbird Lane. It turned out to be a little more than a “house,” however. It was a grand old mansion built back in the day by some mucky-muck. I figured it must have cost $15 million, give or take, which means that Sean isn’t just rich, he’s superrich. The grounds and the house looked beautiful and well maintained from the outside; inside, it had been gutted down to the studs. We wended our way through the construction to the old housekeeping quarters. The rooms were cozy and warm. One thing could have led to another, but he was all business, and so was I. And we need to keep it that way. We have separate rooms booked for every stop. I have the e-mails to prove it. Besides, nothing can happen if he isn’t on this plane . . .
As soon as the seat belt sign is turned off, I walk toward the front of the plane. When I reach the curtain that divides coach from business, I pass through, trying to look like I belong. Most of the people are Chinese. About half of them are drinking champagne. A flight attendant asks, “Is this your cabin?” Busted.
Back at my seat, I pull out my laptop and try to work. I’ve gathered a lot of material about where I’m going and want to see if there are differences in how the various hill tribes use tea in rituals and folk medicines, as well as how they process it for drinking. Down the rabbit hole . . .
About an hour later, a man’s voice says, “You should have told me you’re interested in Yunnan’s ethnic minorities.”
It’s Sean. He perches an elbow on the seat in front of me, with his hand languidly hanging just inches from my face. He looks unbelievably elegant, which is not a word I’ve ever used about a guy.
“I thought you might have missed the flight.” I try to keep my voice even, but I’m not sure it works because I’m so relieved he’s on the plane I can barely think.
His mouth comes up at the corners. Not a smile. Not a smirk. I have no idea what’s in his mind.