Lovely, Dark, and Deep

  A tiny prickle of foreboding needles me. I push down my concern and forage in the fridge for the carrots and onions I need to dice, which will be seriously risky given how dark the kitchen is, but if I mention this to my parents, they’ll imagine me chopping off my finger and there goes cooking. While some people might classify this as paranoid thinking, I know it to be a real possibility, which is why I haven’t been entirely forthcoming about my final list of colleges. If my parents think it’s dangerous for me to study at Northwestern, in Chicago (“Have you seen the murder rate?”), just wait until they hear about Abu Dhabi.

  I fact-check my father: “You came home from a business trip and started researching light bulbs?”

  “Umm, yeah,” he says as if it is a perfectly logical thing to do on a weeknight. “Maddening. Here we thought we were being so eco-conscious, doing good for the environment, making the huge investment of replacing all the incandescent bulbs with these compact fluorescent ones. Meanwhile, they’ve been poisoning you.”

  “Poisoning is a little strong, don’t you think?”

  A flying saucer crash-lands next to me on the kitchen island, bowling over the flour I’ve set down. The canister clatters, spilling an avalanche of flour. I flinch. “Mom!”

  She tucks her wavy red hair behind her ears, which are the tiniest bit pointy like she’s really part Irish fairy. Mom grins at me excitedly. “What do you think?”

  Apprehension swells inside me. “What is that?”

  “A hat.”

  No, a hat is a cute accessory, known to punctuate sassy outfits worn by little old ladies at our church on Easter Sunday. This is a UFO, its massive wingspan doubling as a wind turbine. Just ask my hair. I brush the long strands off my face and edge away from the flour-speckled island. Who knows what else Mom will wing at me?

  In any case, I should have known to be more specific with a crisis manager who releases facts, and just the sanctioned and preapproved facts. I ask, “What’s the hat for?”

  Mom is careful not to make eye contact with me. Instead, she glances at Dad to sync their response, as they keep to the script: “The One Where We Turn Our Eldest into a Fashion Crisis.” They are a united front of imperturbable, unflappable, unreadable expressions.

  “Protection,” Mom says finally. “We picked it up in Portland. Do you like it?”

  “Protection from what?” I ask.

  “Look,” says Dad, scooting out of the nook so he can stand next to Mom, his Mongolian warrior to her pixie princess. “We updated this house to be all about daylighting design, remember?”

  How could I forget? Thanks to the inspiration of their clean-tech clients, the grand plan was to maximize natural light to minimize our drag on the electrical grid. So now we have eight skylights overhead, picture windows that envelop the breakfast nook, and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, care of a remodel that we pretty much handled on our own. At six, my job was to pick up all the stray nails; unfortunately, I had overlooked one and learned my lesson later about being thorough.

  “Glass doesn’t filter out the UVA rays, and the research says that sixty-two percent of UVA rays come through windows,” Mom says, frowning, as she consults her notepad in the nook. “All the experts agree on that much.”

  “So? What? I have to wear this”—I grab the hat and shake it—“inside?”

  No answer.

  “Even at night just because the lights are on? Seriously?”

  With a single clearing of his throat, Dad’s in Crisis-Manager-Knows-Best mode. “The doctor said to minimize your exposure to UVA rays until we know more after the tests this week.”

  One hundred and eighty pounds of pure frustration stomps into the kitchen. No light—natural or artificial—is necessary to detect Roz’s irritation since her growl says it all: “Did you know that sleep is important for my body to recover?”

  “Munchkin,” Dad says, rounding the kitchen island to hug Roz. In our family, Dad’s a giant at almost six feet tall, and he alone is able to call her by that nickname. “Did we wake you up, princess?”

  “What do you think?” Roz’s pout turns into a sulk when she sees that the Cooking Fairy (c’est moi) is shirking her duty: no freshly made, crisp on the outside, late-night snack waffles? Just as she’s about to express her displeasure, Roz notices the hat in my hand. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, just something Viola’s going to start wearing,” Mom says breezily. “For now.”

  “I’m not,” I say.

  “Good, because that”—Roz points at the offending and offensive hat—“is social suicide.”

  “But I’d be wearing it,” I tell her, “not you.”

  With a coaxing smile, Mom says, “How about this, honey? Wear the hat tonight with the lights on, and we’ll reassess tomorrow. Before school.”

  Before school. Appearing on the first week of school in a sunbonnet is not the way I imagined my senior year to start. But what if my face becomes as red and blotchy as my arms? Worse, what if my cheeks blister?

  “Fine,” I say, and allow my head to become the landing pad for this UFO of a hat, but not before I catch my parents’ satisfied looks as I run a dishrag over the flour on the kitchen counter. “Everyone out of the kitchen, please. I just need to prep if you want to eat dinner tomorrow night.”

  “What’s that smell?” asks Roz, wrinkling her nose.

  I take a whiff of the flour. Rancid. Light has that decaying effect. I would know.

  A few days later on Souper Bowl Sunday, I sweep through the crowded kitchen with an empty platter, semi-worried that I’m going to seriously injure someone with my wide-brimmed hat. It’s an actual possibility: Our compact, energy-efficient home is as thick with people as it is with the soupy aroma of cabbage and salmon. As much as I hate to admit it, the hat is effective. I haven’t broken out in hives or blisters since I started strategically wearing it at home and driving to and from school. Crisis contained; Abu Dhabi, here I come.

  My stomach growls. I’ve been so on the go since dawn, I haven’t had time to do more than sip and nibble in between bouts of wondering whether Josh will actually show up today. To be honest, wondering ratcheted up to worrying after Aminta texted thirty minutes ago, apologizing for no-showing since she had to talk Caresse through some relationship issues. Talk about relationship issues: My armpits dampen at the thought of being alone with Josh.

  I set the platter down by the last tray of brownies, already cut into candy bar–size rectangles (easier to eat one-handed while socializing), and air my underarms out. Of course Josh won’t make an appearance. He’s one of those “I’ll see you tomorrow” promise breakers. A Persephone illustrator.

  While I give the salmon chowder an expert swirl so it doesn’t scorch the bottom of the industrial-size pot, Dad sidles next to me, or more accurately, next to the brownies. I watch him carefully even as he tries to divert my attention.

  Dad points to the breakfast nook. “Your mom’s playing Cupid again. Your poor Auntie Ruth.”

  “Poor him,” I say, casting a cursory glance at Mom, who’s in deep discussion with the unsuspecting new neighbor (fresh prospect), a silver-haired man who moved into the condo a couple of doors down. More like Cupid goes bad cop, actually: Are you single, stable, and available? Are you gainfully employed or are you looking for a sugar mama? What is your vision for the future? And do you have a weird Asian-woman fetish? That one, I fully approve, because my auntie and I have a healthy suspicion of men with severe cases of AWF.

  Just as I suspected, Dad has edged ever so slightly closer to the brownies. “Yeah,” he says conversationally, “she pounced the moment she noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Pouncing is so overrated.” I body-block Dad from pouncing on my brownies. With a warning look at him, I replenish the dessert platter, reserving a one-inch corner piece on a tiny plate for myself later. Center eaters are a mystery to me. They can talk all they want about the gooey middle of brownies, but the real action is at t
he crunchy-chewy edges. One hundred percent.

  Meanwhile, Dad casts another furtive glance at Mom before he swipes the largest brownie from my perfect display. “Dad!” I hiss as he wolfs down half in a single bite before I can stop him. “Oh, come on, Dad. What are you? Twelve?”

  “What? It’s your fault,” he says, words muffled, as he lifts his eyebrows innocently.

  “I thought you’re not supposed to blame anyone in the first throes of a crisis.”

  “Is this a crisis?”

  “It will be if Mom sees you.”

  “I was just helping you out. Quality control.” He hastily wipes his mouth free of crumbs. “Did I get them all?”

  “As if I’m going to be your accomplice. Do I look like I want to lose my driving privileges?”

  “Let’s just call this what it is: an act of service.” He considers the remainder of the brownie.

  “Dad.”

  “It looks kind of lonely, doesn’t it?”

  “Dad.”

  “Cover for me.”

  “Dad, don’t.”

  Does he listen to me, the voice of nutritional reason? No. Instead, Dad crams as much of the brownie into his mouth as he can and shoves the remaining corner—a glorified crumb—into my hand. His words are muffled but easy to decipher: “See? I didn’t eat it all.”

  “Hmm.” I don’t entirely blame him for his complete lack of willpower in the face of delicious. Even if I personally go for salty snacks myself, I pop the leftover morsel into my mouth: not too sweet, with just the right touch of smoke from the bacon and heat from a dash of chipotle. Aminta was going to lose her mind over this batch, which is on my short list for Friday. Hello, sell-out bake sale.

  As if I’ve conjured her, Aminta responds to my emergency text: What do I do if he shows?

  Aminta: BE CAREFUL. I REPEAT. BE CAREFUL.

  She doesn’t have to worry. I am not Gretel, laying out a trail of brownie crumbs so Josh can find his way back to me when I haven’t even moved. If he wants me, he’ll have to come to me. Then I’ll be careful.

  “Viola, you’ve outdone yourself!” Auntie Ruth declares as she strides into the kitchen, black hair swinging behind her. She’s holding a mason jar that has approximately zero spoonfuls left of salmon chowder.

  “Try the brownies,” Dad mutters to Auntie Ruth under his breath like he’s doing a drug deal.

  “I’m watching my cholesterol,” she demurs, “unlike some big brothers around here.”

  “Just one bite.”

  “And who’s going to eat the rest?” I frown at Dad, whose doctor did, in fact, lecture him about his eating habits: You do not have the metabolism or clean arteries of an eighteen-year-old anymore.

  “Are you kidding me? These”—she says, succumbing to Big Brother. After a rapturous bite, Auntie Ruth closes her eyes while Silver Fox widens his—“are addictive.”

  “Fatal,” agrees Dad.

  “Which is what’s going to happen to you if you keep eating them,” Mom says, plucking a crumb off Dad’s plaid shirt and holding the damning evidence out to him. “You promised to outlive me, remember?” Then she orders me, “Stop enabling him.”

  “Me? I’m just the cook!”

  “Yeah, it’s the cook’s fault,” says Dad, nodding vigorously.

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “Honestly,” Auntie Ruth says, “I’d hire you to cater my company holiday party if you wanted to earn money for—”

  My eyebrows raise, and I shake my head slightly at Auntie Ruth: Don’t leak our trip details!

  Luckily, Mom interrupts with her fact du jour, “A quarter of new restaurants go out of business in their first year. The food industry is too risky as a career path.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not that I need Mom to recite dream-ending information when I’d gone on my own fact-finding mission on fare wages for food service workers. Last summer, I’d done a (grueling) four-week apprenticeship at my favorite bakery, Ginny, reporting in to oven duty at three in the morning six days a week before I headed to my parents’ office to fill in for their receptionist, who was on maternity leave. If I didn’t love the owner so much, I’d have quit.

  Except Lee & Li do not quit.

  Ever.

  Like me, right now.

  “Earn money for what?” Dad asks, looking from Auntie Ruth to me, then back again.

  “Hey, how’s the hat working?” Auntie Ruth asks me in that rare moment when an entire room falls silent at the same time. I’m conscious of all the people surrounding us, Mom and Dad listening intently, but she ignores everything and everyone as if we were back in the savanna and it was just the two of us in our tent.

  Only we’re not.

  I so do not want to have this conversation in public, but where there’s an opening, there’s an opportunity. So I seize it. “Totally awesome. So we should still be good to go white-water rafting after graduation.”

  There’s the slightest of hesitation before the three adults eye each other uneasily, guiltily, everyone’s muteness damning. As damning as the silence nine months ago when Auntie Ruth invited me to Africa.

  …

  “You know this is my tradition with my nieces and nephews, and you know this is what Amos wanted since we couldn’t have kids. What he stipulated in his will,” Auntie Ruth had explained to my parents after I opened the birthday gift I’d been hoping to receive: a book set in the exact spot in the world where she wanted to take me, the same way she’d announced the Seventeenth Birthday Adventure to each of her nephews. “A work-and-play trip on the eve of their adulthood. So first, Ghana for a one-week internship, then Tanzania for a fully supported safari.”

  “Yes, of course, and it is so generous of Amos and you,” said Mom, smoothing her hand over Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing before turning it facedown on our kitchen table. “But you took your nephews to places like Ireland and …”

  “Switzerland,” prompted Auntie Ruth with a fortifying sip of her after-dinner coffee.

  “Not exactly places known for danger,” said Dad.

  “Ghana and Tanzania are probably safer than some places in the US,” I pointed out, not that my parents acknowledged my argument.

  Instead, Mom nudged the book to the side and asked, “What happened to Japan?”

  “My friend from Ghana called,” Auntie Ruth had shot back. “It’s not every day that things could change because of a documentary.”

  “Don’t you want me to witness history?” I asked, inserting myself more forcefully into this conversation, knowing better than to ask the question I really want: Don’t you want me to seek the truth? This was, after all, my secret ambition since fifth grade, when I wrote a letter to the editor of The Seattle Times after former congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was shot in the head. The editor actually called me before publishing my letter about rational gun control and told me that I should consider being a journalist. That prospect so horrified my parents that after instructing me on the death rates of journalists, they instituted my internships at their office: See, honey? You can seek the truth safely behind a desk. Isn’t it fun making an impact?

  “We do. Absolutely,” Dad said with a reassuring clasp of my hand. “It’s a great opportunity.”

  Little ripples of warning tripped down my spine. Our family vacations are vacuum-sealed in Disney, all calibrated adventure and controlled risk. Just as I knew, my parents launched on the classic tag-team approach to thwart a bad idea.

  …

  THE REDIRECT IN 3 EASY STEPS

  Step 1: Support the general idea. “We think it’s great that you want to end human trafficking,” Dad said, looking first at Auntie Ruth, then me. “It’s one of our top priorities this year at Lee & Li, too.”

  Step 2: Deny the specific implementation. “And while the trip to Africa sounds phenomenal,” added Mom, “we were thinking you should be open to other locales.”

  Step 3: Redirect to a more palatable outcome. “Yes, like research the trafficking problem for us this summer. And
then, if Auntie Ruth really wants to support her friend this year, you can join her on another trip next summer,” said Dad, nodding his head at me, willing me to change my mind on my own.

  …

  Just then, I had a flash of inspiration. “You know, I could write about this in my college essay. It’s a crisis, it’s a humanitarian problem, and it’s a solution. Georgetown would love this.”

  Georgetown: the magic key to unlocking my parents’ objections. My dad’s dream school that he wasn’t able to attend. Executing on their plan for me to take over Lee & Li one day meant Georgetown—double majoring in their top political science and business programs, a match made in crisis-management heaven. With an acceptance rate of near-impossible, a killer essay was critical. We all knew it.

  Dad leaned forward as if this was a boardroom table, not our kitchen one. “Ebola.”

  I said, “Not in Tanzania. Or Ghana.”

  “Not to mention terrorists.”

  “Dad, not in Tanzania. Or Ghana.”

  “Malaria.”

  “I’ll take meds.”

  “I’ll make sure she does,” promised Auntie Ruth.

  “Maybe we should consider this,” Mom said slowly. “Georgetown.”

  But Dad didn’t say a word.

  “History won’t repeat itself, Mick,” Auntie Ruth whispered.

  There was a collective intake of breath around the kitchen table. Mom placed her hand on top of Dad’s. No one ever so much as refers to the freak accident that killed my grandparents on their first vacation together since their honeymoon. Dad was seventeen, and Auntie Ruth was just seven. Their uncle may have taken them in afterward, but even I can see how Dad treats Auntie Ruth like she’s his kid, not his kid sister.

  So I knew what it must have cost Dad to say, “They went away and they never came back.”

  “I know,” Auntie Ruth answered quietly.