by Ann Mah
Claire was twenty-five, an innocent bride, shy and oblivious to the double entendre in the best man’s toast. She and Tom met through their mothers—a match made at the mahjong table—and he popped the question after only six months of dating. It seemed sudden to me, but no one else was surprised—and, really, who knew Claire best? Not her little sister.
Claire changed multiple times throughout the day (Aunt Marcie’s idea), from a frothy white wedding dress, to a skintight red cheongsam, to a skintight hot pink cheongsam, to a plain black cocktail dress. I wasn’t part of the wedding party—Claire only had one attendant, her pale roommate from law school, Kate Addison, who took one look at the whole roast suckling pig and spent the rest of the day slugging Johnnie Walker Red in a deep state of culture shock—but I helped my sister change clothes, zipping her skinny body into the array of dresses. At one point—I think she was wriggling into the hot pink cheongsam—she lost her balance and grabbed my arm. When I reached down to help her, our eyes met, and the expression in hers startled me. They weren’t filled with the joy of a bride. Instead, they were clouded over with something that looked like resignation.
After the wedding, Claire moved into Tom’s one-bedroom on the Upper West Side and I saw them on my weekend visits home. I wanted to like Tom, but I was nineteen to his thirty, a sophomore at NYU to his investment banker. We were worlds apart and my fragile relationship with Claire couldn’t bridge the gap. At family gatherings he would offer me nuggets of advice in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I don’t know why you want to be an English major,” he declared one evening at the dinner table. “You already speak English. Economics. That’s what you should study. Basically, by majoring in English, you’re setting yourself up for failure.”
“Is that right, Tom?” my mother said, concern wrinkling her brow. “Isabelle, you should listen to him. He’s in business. He knows.”
Claire seemed happy during her first few months of marriage. Or, if not happy, then content. At work, she was on the fast track to partner; at home, she had a drawer full of take-out menus and a husband who liked pizza. I didn’t see a spark between her and Tom, but I simply assumed, like with many arranged marriages, it would come with time.
Except, less than a year after their wedding, it was over.
Thanksgiving. After shooing Aunt Marcie and Mom out to the Pearl Market in the morning, I spent all day peeling and roasting, chopping and stirring. I whipped sweet potatoes, trimmed broccoli, and cubed bread for stuffing. I set the table, polished the wineglasses, and proudly displayed my two pies on the dining room sideboard. I used three pounds of butter, and even managed to hide the wrappers in the trash before Mom and Aunt Marcie returned from their shopping excursion (they have a radarlike ability to detect saturated fat).
Now, alone in the kitchen, I peer anxiously into the oven where the turkey sits, fat and pale—Roast faster! I think—and listen to the murmur of voices in the living room. After dinner last night, the four of us came home and went to bed, choosing to smooth over our harsh words in the traditional Lee family way: by pretending they never happened. Claire left for the office early and returned this afternoon with a calm smile pasted on her face. Mom and Aunt Marcie came home from the Pearl Market playfully bickering about who could negotiate a better bargain. Everything seems back to normal. Except none of us can quite look each other in the eye.
In the living room, Geraldine chats with my mother about Beijing’s modern art scene, while Ed regales Claire and Aunt Marcie with tales of his gap year, spent on an around-the-world trip. “And then in New Zealand,” he says, “I got so drunk I missed my bus to Wellington and had to nurse my hangover in a library carrel!” I hear Claire’s roar of laughter and Aunt Marcie’s disapproving sniff.
“Everything smells great.” Gab comes into the kitchen and refills his wineglass. “I love your Aunt Marcie!” he exclaims. “Her bouffant rocks. I’m thinking of hacking off the dreds and going for something pouffy like that.” He tries to run a hand through his hair but it gets caught in the matted tangle. “Like a mod Kim Jung Il…” he says thoughtfully.
“Really?” I examine his face for sarcasm, but he seems serious.
He grabs a spoon and starts stirring the gravy. “I’m starving. Who else are we waiting for? Wang Wei?”
“Shhhh!” I hiss. “Don’t mention He Who Must Not Be Named at Thanksgiving!”
He widens his eyes in mock horror. “Why? If he finds out we’re talking about him, will he swoop down and evict you?”
I swat his arm. “He’s married, you idiot! My mom and Aunt Marcie don’t know about Wang—him.”
Gab slowly shakes his head. “You and Claire have more secrets than the CIA. One of these days you might want to try another approach. Like honesty.”
“Are you kidding? If we were honest, everyone would be all judgmental and angry with us.”
Gab raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pursue it. “Well, if we’re not waiting for anyone, can we start gorging ourselves in the great American tradition?”
“We’re almost ready. Just waiting for Jeff to get here.”
Gab looks at me with surprise. “I thought you said you’d rather shower in a Shanxi village bathroom for the rest of your life than—”
“I know, I know. But I invited him before I knew my mom and Aunt Marcie were coming. I couldn’t exactly uninvite him. He’s never even tasted turkey.”
“Does your mom know?”
“No, but she won’t be surprised. After all, turkey is indigenous to the States and very few Chinese—”
“I meant,” he says with exaggerated patience, “does she know that Jeff is your boyfriend?”
“For the millionth time,” I shake my wooden spoon at him, “Jeff is not my boyfriend.”
Gab choruses the words along with me and then laughs. “I know you keep saying that,” he says, “but then why are you always hanging out together? Hmmmm?”
I heave an exasperated sigh, but before I can explain—again—that Jeff and I are definitely not an item, the doorbell rings.
“That’s probably your man now,” says Gab with a mischievous smile.
Jeff comes bounding through the foyer, all dimpled smiles and flashy good looks. “Ayi, it’s so nice to meet you,” he says, shaking my mother’s hand. “And, here’s the chef!” he exclaims as I enter the room. “Happy Thanksgiving!” His hug lifts me off my feet and twirls me around.
“Um, hi!” I say, a blush rising in my cheeks. I try to disentangle myself from his arms, but he pulls me close. My mother and Aunt Marcie stare at us, their sharp gaze taking in every detail of Jeff’s tousled hair and well-tailored clothes. Why does he always have to embarrass me like this? “Well…” I take a deep breath and try to suppress my irritation. “Would everyone like to sit down for dinner, now that we’re all here?”
“Finally! I thought I was going to faint!” Aunt Marcie says in a pretend whisper.
“Is everyone here, Iz?” asks Jeff with surprise as he slides into the seat at the head of the table.
“As far as I know. Why, were you expecting someone else?”
“I thought Claire just mentioned—” But his words get lost as I go into the kitchen to carry in the turkey.
We pass the platters of food around and Aunt Marcie pokes suspiciously at the stuffing, while my mother helps herself to doll-size helpings of everything—a thimbleful of mashed potatoes, a sliver of turkey, a cube of stuffing.
“Yum!” Geraldine mounding sweet potatoes on her plate. “Everything is delicious, Iz.”
“Brilliant turkey!” Ed gnaws on a drumstick.
“And the mashed potatoes are so creamy!” says Gab, drowning his plate in gravy.
“Babe, the jam stuff is awesome!” Jeff points to the dish of cranberry sauce.
“I like the stuffing,” concedes Aunt Marcie. “You didn’t use butter, did you?”
“Did you make rice?” asks my mother in a quiet voice.
Damn. “I’m sorry, Mom. I forgot
.” Without a daily bowl of rice, my mother feels incomplete. It gives her strength and comfort, like Popeye’s spinach or Proust’s madeleine. I fiddle with my fork, feeling simultaneously frustrated—can’t she let it go for one day?—and guilty. I didn’t mean to forget, honest.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll just…eat…other stuff…It’s quite rich, though, isn’t it?”
“Well, it is a holiday!” I say cheerfully.
“Yes, but that’s no reason to pile on the calories,” she says pointedly. “Those mashed potatoes look just like an arterial plaque.”
I suppress a sigh. My mother’s need for Chinese food runs so deep that she eats it every day, only occasionally deviating into certain foreign cuisines, like those of Japan or Korea (but never France or Mexico). When we were kids, she managed to build her empire of Asian hair salons and have a four-dish Chinese meal on the table every night at seven. She loves Chinese food so much, she’d happily go to Flushing for dim sum after stepping off a plane from Hong Kong. To her palate, Western foods like butter and cream taste too ni—heavy, rich, oily.
An awkward silence falls over the table, until only the clinking sounds of our silverware fill the room. I try to think up an innocuous topic before someone else brings up something loaded with minefields. Like Aunt Marcie’s husband. Or Claire’s relationship with He Who Shall Not Be Named at Thanksgiving. Or whether or not Jeff is my boyfriend. Or Gab’s hair. Or—well, the possibilities are endless.
“So, Jeff. What do you do?” Ah. Mom beat me to it.
He turns to her with a brilliant smile. “I’m a hip-hop, R&B singer-songwriter-producer in China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, performing in Mandarin,” he says glibly.
“Really?” She raises her eyebrows. “Is that…stable?” Disapproval creeps across her face…or is it alarm? Our mother envisioned us marrying doctors, lawyers, investment bankers—definitely not pop music sensations, the Lee family equivalent of an axe murderer.
“We had Beijing’s hit single last month. Maybe you’ve heard it? ‘Wo ai ni, wo renshi ni…’” He throws back his head and sings a few bars, strumming on an imaginary guitar.
Mom leans back and regards him with the same expression she gave me in junior high when I brought home a C+ on my report card. “And what are your long-term…goals?” she says finally.
Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know…maybe branch out into acting, do a soap opera or a movie, something like that.”
My mother smiles politely. I realize with a start that everyone has stopped eating and is staring at our end of the table.
“More turkey, anyone?” I ask hastily. “Come on, it’s Thanksgiving! Don’t be shy! Aunt Marcie, more stuffing? No? Sure? Okay, I’ll clear the table for dessert.”
“I’ll help you,” says Claire, stacking plates.
In the kitchen, I sag against the refrigerator while Claire deposits a pile of plates in the sink. “Tough going, darling,” she says, patting my shoulder.
“It’s a disaster!” I moan. “Mom hates him and he’s not even my boyfriend.”
“If he’s not your boyfriend then why is he here?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? We’re just friends!”
“Oh, sure friends! Is that what you kids call it these days?” She giggles. “Well, I guess you can always use a few more ‘friends’!”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
But she only smiles mysteriously.
Jeff pokes his head into the kitchen and flashes a smile. “Whoa, babe, you didn’t tell me it was going to be the Spanish investigation tonight!”
Claire extracts a carton of ice cream from the freezer and slams the door shut. “Inquisition,” she says, and is there just the faintest trace of annoyance in her voice? “Spanish Inquisition.” She finds a spoon and leaves the room.
“Babe,” Jeff cocks his head, “I have to bounce.”
“What?” I reach up for the coffee machine and give him a confused look. “You’re not staying for dessert?”
“I got things to do…can’t stick around…but I’ll call you later, okay?”
“But—”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay?” he snaps. “I said I’ll call you later.” He stalks out of the room and a few seconds later I hear the front door slam. A sigh escapes my lips, but I’m not sure if it’s from anger or relief.
In the dining room, not even pumpkin pie à la mode can dispel the tense atmosphere. When the doorbell rings, I hope it’s Jeff; that he’s changed his mind about dessert after all. But when I look up from slicing pie, I’m surprised to see Claire leading Charlie to the empty spot at the table. Charlie? Why is he here? We haven’t seen each other since the Marine Ball, when…Oh God. I still can’t think about it without feeling absolutely mortified.
Charlie leans down to kiss me on both cheeks and my stomach starts to spin. But when I look into his cool, blue eyes, his kind gaze gives no indication that he feels anything for me. My crush is as hopeless as a schoolgirl’s.
“Um, Charlie! Hi!” I force a smile and start babbling to hide my embarrassment. “Do you know everyone? Let me introduce you. This is my mom and Aunt Marcie…Ed, Gab, and Geraldine…and you know Claire.” I look around the table. “Everyone, this is—” I hesitate. What do I call him? Ambassador Charles Eliot sounds so formal, but how can I call him just Charlie? The embassy protocol team would probably burst through the door and arrest me.
“Charlie Eliot,” he says, smoothly filling in the silence.
Ed chokes on a bite of pie. “It’s such an honor to meet you!” He turns to Claire. “I can’t believe the—”
“It’s an honor to be here!” says Charlie, adding quickly, “Mmm…the pies look delicious. Did you make these, Iz?”
“The what?” says my mother sharply. Her expression looks wary, like Charlie might be a well-known American fugitive or something. After all, we’ve already introduced her to a man who slept off his hangover in a library carrel, a musician-singer-song-writer, and a guy who hasn’t washed his hair in three months. I can see her bracing for the worst.
“He’s the American ambassador,” says Claire quietly.
“The what?” Mom leans over the table. She’s always been a little deaf—war damage, she claims, though I maintain it’s from overexposure to the high-powered hair dryers at her salons—but, really, couldn’t she be a little discreet for once in her life?
But Charlie seems unperturbed as he walks around the table to my mother’s chair. “I’m Charlie Eliot,” he says with a friendly smile. “The U.S. ambassador to China. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lee.” He reaches out and shakes her hand.
“Please. Call me Grace,” my mother whispers faintly.
Suddenly, everyone is sitting up a little straighter, eating a little more politely, the conversation resumes a little more quietly. Aunt Marcie takes a sip of water and extends her pinky.
“The pie looks delicious…” Charlie casts a meaningful glance at the golden wedges.
“Oh!” I remember my manners. “Would you like some? We have apple with a cheddar crust, bourbon pecan, and pumpkin.” I pile a plate and hand it to him. “What are you doing here?” I ask, under the murmur of conversation. “Er, I mean, it’s such a surprise to see you!”
“I ran into Claire in the lobby yesterday and she asked me to stop by. How are things going with your mom’s visit?” He raises his eyebrow conspiratorially.
“Let’s just say we could use a hefty dose of diplomacy around here,” I blurt. Oops. Maybe I’ve had too much wine.
“Don’t worry, Iz. You’re in the hands of a professional.” He winks at me, and I feel a tiny jolt in the bottom of my stomach. Which is ridiculous because there is no way Charlie could ever be interested in me. Obviously.
Later that night, as I pile leftover mashed potatoes into a Tupperware dish and stack our dirty plates in the dishwasher, I’m still not sure how Charlie did it. One minute we were all stiffly eating pie and talking awkwardly a
bout the Korean peninsula nuclear crisis. The next minute saw us sprawled on the living room couches, opening another bottle of wine and laughing hysterically. But not because of Charlie. Because of my mother.
Had I forgotten her skill at storytelling, or had I never known? Whatever the case, we hung on her every word as she described her salon’s oddest clients. Like the woman who insisted on dying her Pekinese lapdog’s fur the same exact blond as her own. Or the balding man who surprised her one day with his new hair plugs. “I didn’t know what to say!” she exclaimed as we roared with laughter. “Should I mention the lush hair springing across his head, or pretend that nothing had changed at all?”
I’m still not sure how the conversation turned more serious, how we started talking about my mom and Aunt Marcie’s childhood during Japanese-occupied Shanghai.
But as they shared their memories, I snuck a glance at my friends’ faces, which were somber. And riveted.
“During the war, we barely had enough to eat,” said my mother. “Our mother would give up her bowl of rice for us, so we could have a little more food.”
“Sometimes she’d make soup out of a spoonful of lard, a drop of soy sauce, and hot water. That was it,” added Aunt Marcie.
“We’d be lucky for the vegetables we could scrounge from the market. Cabbage, cabbage, and more cabbage.” My mother shuddered. “To this day, I can’t stand the sight of da bai cai.”
“How did you leave Shanghai?” asked Charlie gently.
Mom and Aunt Marcie exchanged a glance. “Our father was a banker. Before the war we lived in a beautiful house, an Art Deco in the French Concession with a garden for us to play in,” said my mother. “By the end of the war it was crumbling to bits. We had the money socked away, but no way to fix it.”
“And when 1949 came,” Aunt Marcie added, “our father knew all that talk of communist revolution did not bode well for him. He decided to move to Hong Kong.”