by Lindsay Wong
“What?” I say. “I’m not pregnant.”
My dad and mom exchange unbelieving looks.
“I’m NOT!” I say.
No one says anything.
“Oh, we are so glad!” my mom finally exclaims in relief. She hugs me again tightly, like I’m a wad of cash. My dad joins in, and for a moment, all our confusion and hurts are temporarily stuffed away. For a moment, we are like a real American sitcom family.
After my visit with Madame Xing, I made my dad phone her for a quick chat, which cost two dollars per minute, but she did tell him that he needed to be reunited with his entire family to brush away the past like “a bad calligraphy painting.”
“Talk in person is better,” she admonished. “How can you see faces on small iPhone screen? How do you know what the other person is feeling? If you care, you will want to see real and bigger faces. Your daughter, Weijun, asked me to help. She knows that your family is full of flower-hearts who get cursed easily.”
Immediately, my dad phoned Uncle Dai and asked him to arrange a family reunion, and my uncle told him about the planned fundraiser. At the end of July, he flew my parents to Beijing in a private first-class cabin, grinning and applauding nonstop when he told me the exciting news over dinner. “Family meeting!” he had enthused, and then ordered us a delicious bottle of Dom Pérignon to celebrate.
Before I can gush about how pleased I am to see both of them, the elevator door dings and Uncle Dai, Auntie Yingfei, and Ruby follow excitedly, with my grandma and grandpa in tow. More awkward hugs are exchanged. When my dad and Uncle Dai see each other for the first time in thirty-plus years, they grin like small, nervous children. Instead of hugging, they shyly shake hands and clap each other on the shoulder.
Then there’s nervous energy between Grandma, Grandpa, and my dad.
My dad, trembling, offers his hand to his parents.
There’s a scary pause that makes me think there’s going to be a fight again. But my grandma starts crying loudly and then my grandpa lets out an elephant-size wail and then my dad is so stunned-looking that he can only sob uncontrollably and blink. Everyone is apologizing nonstop in both English and Chinese. Everyone is shaking hands and not hugging.
“Duì bù qǐ!” my grandpa shouts tearfully at my dad, and I’m shocked that I actually understand that my grandpa is begging my dad for forgiveness in Mandarin.
Trembling, my dad nods and finally embraces his father.
Auntie Yingfei jumps with excitement.
“Our family!” Uncle Dai declares, and everyone starts sobbing again.
We are so loud that hotel guests stop and watch us.
Even the manager of the hotel comes out, but then he sees all of us wailing and he goes back to his desk.
I’m crying so much that I wish I had worn waterproof eyeliner. I’m literally crying black ink like a squid. Even Uncle Dai’s eye makeup is smudged. I’m shocked and touched—he wore makeup to meet his brother for the first time.
We all look like very weepy, hysterical pandas.
Not to mention, we all look exceptionally ugly when we cry.
After everyone is done greeting each other and sniffling tears, Ruby insists that we need to prep before the fundraiser starts in a few hours.
For six weeks straight, Ruby and I have been sending emails to everyone on Uncle Dai’s contact list. He literally has over five thousand contacts in all of China, Malaysia, Singapore, Australia, Taiwan, and the UK combined. Ruby has been on the phone, while I have been sorting out messages and writing English advertisements. While she does most of the work that requires Chinese, I have been fetching her low-fat lattes and organizing the mail and helping book the conference room at the Shangri-La. I’ve even been keeping track of guests and planned the elaborate catering menu.
This is the hardest I’ve ever worked, and the longest that I’ve ever committed to a project that wasn’t about my own facial hair maintenance.
Uncle Dai said that we needed over 700,000 yuan for him to move the hotel and build a school for the migrant workers and their children. The donations have been generous, but I’m worried that we won’t have enough. Last month, I even sent a message to Mr. Chadha-Fu about our Asian celebrity fundraiser. He immediately wrote a check for 5,000 US dollars and broadcast the event to all his friends. I took the money for our cause, but I didn’t want to see any of the Chadha-Fus again, especially Samira, so I didn’t snail-mail their invitation to the fundraiser until it was super late. I also sent an accompanying note, apologizing for my poor planning.
Anyway, Ruby is supremely confident that we can pull it off.
But just in case, I have a secret backup plan.
All in all, we’re an effective team. Despite her sometimes sarcasm and eye-rolling, she’s been way nicer to me since we’ve discovered that we both love money. She loves investing yuan, and I love to spend it. We’ve even been taking turns sleeping in the maid’s quarters, since it’s only fair. Ruby keeps saying she’s “the CEO” behind the event and I’m “an entry-level worker.”
Actually, I’ve been giving her lots of advice on talking to boys in person and she’s been instructing me on my Mandarin language skills. She has been working on being less scary, less sarcastic, less mean—her cover-up for being socially afraid.
“What are you really scared of?” I once asked her, and discovered we were both afraid of not being liked and being rejected. It turns out that we have opposite ways of dealing with our similar fears.
I think we can say that we are both improving, or at least practicing.
“If you have nothing nice to say about a person,” I tell Ruby, “just compliment their shoes or ask them if they like dogs.”
“Think more, work harder, fun later,” she tells me constantly, and shockingly, I try.
We’ve also been spending all of our free time and weekends in the migrant workers’ districts. The conditions are even worse than an outhouse at a construction site: garbage bags blanketing broken windows, and so much trash and sewage sprawled on the streets. I used to think that Bradley Gardens was the worst place on earth, but my parents’ extra-large McMansion could house a family of five in each room. My walk-in closet could actually be someone’s bedroom.
During our visits, Ruby and I bring containers of our grandparents’ chewy rice candies and soft peanut cookies for children, who are so thrilled to see us. I teach them to say “Hello, my name is …” in English, and they teach me to say “xiè xiè” (“thank you!”) in Mandarin. It feels really nice but strange whenever someone runs up to me and hugs me. In fact, I feel a lot like a celebrity on reality TV. Honestly, I never expected that I would be regularly visiting the poorest districts in Beijing. In fact, I haven’t been to a shopping mall for at least three weeks and I barely miss it.
Due to our hard work, Uncle Dai unexpectedly surprises us with formal gowns while we’re getting ready. At first, I decline and say that I will just wear one of Ruby’s frocks, but he insists on giving me a floor-length dress made by a celebrity seamstress, in my own size. It’s a lovely lilac backless A-line gown with lace embroidery and a high-neck collar.
It’s breathtaking, and I love it because it looks like a traditional Chinese dress, a qipao. Ruby is also given a dress in bright fuchsia with gold sequins. I love it too, but she refuses to let me try it on.
“You look like a beautiful tropical bird!” I say when I see her in it.
She shakes her head. But she laughs. And twirls in it.
I take a ton of photos of us and upload them on Instagram. Twenty-nine likes from my former Bradley Gardens classmates within two minutes. Even Samira likes my photo. Then a message from her: Hey dude, how are things? We haven’t talked in a while <3<3 <3 Heard from Dad you are still in China? When’s the big fundraiser?
At first, I ignore the message. I’m not sure whether I’ll reply.
But then another message pops up: I went to the movies with Peter last night and we were saying how much we miss you. Can’t wait
for you to get back and the three of us can hang like old times! xoxoxo.
My eyelid spasms.
Why am I letting Samira bother me so much?
And how much does my ex-BFF value me as a human being if she can continue to treat me this way?
It seems that my friendship with Samira has reached an expiration date.
It used to be fun and fluffy, like eating an entire bag full of multicolored marshmallows. Now it’s just sad and stale. Our decade-long friendship is a bag that has been shoved into the back of my cupboard, and I can’t even make peanut butter and M&M Rice Krispies squares out of it.
Determined to tell her exactly how I feel, I send a quick message.
Iris: How can you pretend we’re still best friends??? You’ve done so many shitty things.
Samira Chadha-Fu: Iris, my nearest and dearest, what are you talking about?
Iris: Goodbye, Samira. Please don’t contact me again.
I unfriend her on social media. I block her number and email address.
Then I turn off my iPhone.
And nervously, I start prepping the hotel staff.
After the caterers have arrived, I stand at the front of the banquet hall with an electronic checklist on my iPad. A stunningly dressed Frank/Paul arrives early, and he watches me sheepishly. He refuses to make eye contact. I haven’t seen him since he showed us his apartment. We have communicated briefly through text messages, but he has mostly talked to/through Ruby, who has been sending him mandatory fundraising updates.
We both agree that Frank/Paul is a humongous heap of steaming dog shit, but the cause is more important than whether or not we personally like and respect him.
“Zhī jǐ zhī bǐ, bǎi zhàn bù dài,” Ruby told me, quoting from her all-time favorite book, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. “If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can win a hundred battles without jeopardy.”
I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but Ruby ordered me the English version and said that it would dramatically improve my dating life. She uses The Art of War to strategize all her doggy-grooming pageants.
Honestly, I’m just grateful that my cousin is like a relentless pit bull, and that she’s finally on my side.
I never want to be on opposing sides with Ruby again.
“Iris, how have you been?” Frank/Paul asks.
I pause.
Then … finally! A group of guests have just arrived, and I dash away to check them in. I pretend that I haven’t heard him.
“Huān yíng guāng lín!” I shout joyfully at a gaggle of women in couture evening gowns. “Welcome, welcome to our event.”
They smile politely at me, which means that I must be pronouncing it correctly.
Excited, I practically scream “Huān yíng guāng lín!” fifty more times at random groups of people, including the waitstaff.
Peeking over my iPad with the guest names, I secretly observe an animated, smiling Frank/Paul. He’s dressed in the bright red designer tuxedo that Ruby picked out and sent over. Of course Ruby has excellent taste in fashion, and the fit makes Frank/Paul look like a lead spy from an international thriller and a fire hydrant at the same time. The loud, garish color also reminds me of a North American stop sign. Was it intentional?
Was Ruby helping by sending me an unsubtle message?
Whenever Frank moves through a crowd of guests, there’s not a chance of me missing him. The color of his suit is literally screaming STOP! STOP! STOP!, and even a student driver could see the resemblance. Frank and the danger-suit keep creeping into my peripheral vision. Should I stay away?
Doesn’t Ruby know that I’m naturally drawn to lying boys and danger?
It’s just a symptom of being flower-hearted.
Despite his ulterior motives and his hot and cold conversational skills, I still can’t hate Frank/Paul. I understand why he did what he did, but I don’t feel ready to face him yet. I don’t feel ready to acknowledge him as a human being.
But why should I?
What do I gain by bringing him back into my life?
Don’t I deserve someone who is at least honest about important things like sharing their real name?
As if on cue, all the twenty-plus journalists and media people from the New York Times Asia and Vogue China arrive, and I insist that they speak to Frank/Paul about the importance of migrant workers’ rights and access to basic education. After all, he’s the expert and he can speak passionately into microphones and cameras. He enjoys giving lectures and has the personal experience to back up his points.
Mostly, I’m just glad that they’ll be covering our event in tomorrow’s news!
Gliding over to me, Ruby triumphantly points out a few soap opera stars and minor Beijing celebrities, including a rising politician and a fifth-place pageant queen. We have 4,508 guests in total. This was the entire population of my high school. Guests swarm the conference room, greeting and hugging and kissing each other, while a professional photographer takes their photos.
“I told you!” Ruby whispers excitedly. “Didn’t I say they would all come?”
I don’t know who these people are, but they all seem to know Ruby, Uncle Dai, and Auntie Yingfei. They all seem to eat at the same restaurants and dance in the nightclubs in Beijing while also frequenting the same spas in Paris and ski lodges in Switzerland.
Everyone is so beautifully dressed and groomed. It’s like a red-carpet night at the Oscars.
Not one but two local television stations will be covering the event and asking for more donations.
On a last-minute whim, I invited Madame Xing to do specialty face-readings at our event, and I’m thrilled when she arrives late with her assistant, Hollie. Madame Xing is also part of my secret backup plan. When she sees me and I check her name off my electronic list, I grin and flash her my extra-long red acrylic nails. She laughs and shows me hers. We match perfectly.
I finally have my own Tiger claws, filed down to extra-sharp stiletto points for protection. Whether I need them or not.
Am I destined to be as fashionable and mighty as the formidable Madame Xing? Could I be a world-class entrepreneur, if not a successful fortune-teller? I seem to be a horrible judge of character. Don’t business and fortune-telling require reading the personalities of people around you?
“Iris, how is your heart?” Madame Xing asks, and I say that it’s still banged up but improving.
She smiles knowingly.
“If you have a flower-heart, it can still grow back,” she offers. She places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.
I introduce her to my parents in the crowd, and my dad immediately reacts as if he’s meeting a legendary historical figure. His eyes widen. He beams. He doesn’t know if he should bow or shake her hand or both. It’s as if he’s meeting Confucius for the first time. My poor dad is practically speechless, and I can see that he wants to ask her so many questions about his past, present, and future.
As Madame Xing sets up shop in the center of the room for face-readings (65 percent of the profits will go to our cause), my dad eagerly follows her. My dad keeps pointing at moles on his face and arms and legs and asking her to explain what they all mean.
She patiently answers all his questions at first (“Good job with Tiger daughter! The Dog wife is an excellent choice!”), but after his tenth question about a raised birthmark shaped like Arizona on his lower back, she becomes seriously annoyed. In response, she smacks my dad on the back of the head.
“Sometimes a spot is just a spot,” she finally says, and my mom and I start laughing. We turn away when my dad gives us a confused, shocked look.
Her answer was not exactly what he was expecting.
Nothing in China is what it seems, apparently.
When it’s Uncle Dai’s turn, Madame Xing peers down at his round features and massages his smooth high forehead. She counts his wrinkles: exactly twenty-four.
“You’re a very powerful Dragon,” she says, which causes Uncle Dai to grin.
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She then closes her eyes and hums. I wonder why she doesn’t make him spit in a cup.
“A high forehead means remarkable intelligence, like your daughter,” she explains, pointing at Ruby. “Sometimes, though, you need to use your heart and think about what’s right.”
“What do you mean?” Uncle Dai asks.
“Your family will not stay together if you don’t build a school,” she warns. “Bad things will happen to those you love.”
“More protestor?” he asks, looking serious.
“Sometimes our countries and hearts are more worth it than profit,” she says, and Uncle Dai doesn’t respond. He looks deeply lost in his thoughts. But his eyes water nonstop, and he pretends to check his phone, while asking Auntie Yingfei for allergy meds.
Madame Xing winks at me.
A professional photographer suddenly snaps our photo.
We gather for another shot, but this time, we pose formally and smile. I put my arms around my parents. I have honestly missed them while I have been away. No longer furious and frustrated at them, I’m just incredibly happy that they will be staying for a few weeks. In our WeChat group, we’ve already planned to visit Shanghai, Jiuzhaigou National Park, Zhangjiajie, and Baofeng Lake. While my mom and I shop, my dad, Uncle Dai, and my grandpa will spend some time getting to know each other and trying to forgive each other for the past.
Then Ruby and her mom will go on the Europe trip together.
Even though I would love to whirlwind across Paris, Italy, and Spain, I know Ruby wants this time with her mother. Just like I want one-on-one time with my parents. As I promised Uncle Dai, I will begin interning at the front desk at Feng Construction Corp and maybe learn about coffee making and email writing. Uncle Dai will pay me a minimum wage of 24 yuan/hour ($3.50 US). After talking with my initially stunned parents, we’ve agreed that I will slowly pay them back for my overdue credit card bill of $6,512.96.
I even spoke to Uncle Dai about allowing Ruby to continue participating in the Creative Dog Grooming Contest after her duties were finished at Feng Construction.
“She’s really good!” I insisted, and he promised to go to one of her shows.