The Kitchen God's Wife

  So far, Auntie Helen had kept the news about my medical condition to herself. But this didn’t stop her from treating me like an invalid. When I used to go to her house, she would tell me to sit down right away, while she went to find me a pillow for my back. She would rub her palm up and down my arm, asking me how I was, telling me how she had always thought of me as a daughter. And then she would sigh and confess some bit of bad news, as if to balance out what she already knew about me.

  “Your poor Uncle Henry, he almost got laid off last month,” she would say. “So many budget cuts now. Who knows what’s going to happen? Don’t tell your mother. I don’t want her to worry over us.”

  And then I would worry that Auntie Helen would think her little confessions were payment in kind, that she would take them as license to accidentally slip and tell my mother: “Oh, Winnie, I thought you knew about your daughter’s tragedy.”

  And so I dreaded the day my mother would call and ask me a hundred different ways, “Why did Auntie Helen know? Why did you never tell me? Why didn’t you let me prevent this from happening to you?”

  And then what answer could I give?

  At the dinner, we’ve been seated at the “kids’ table,” only now the “kids” are in their thirties and forties. The real kids—Tessa and Cleo—are seated with my mother.

  Phil is the only non-Chinese tonight, although that wasn’t the case at past family events. Bao-bao’s two former wives were what Auntie Helen called “Americans,” as if she were referring to a racial group. She must be thrilled that Bao-bao’s bride-to-be is a girl named Mimi Wong, who is not only Chinese but from a well-to-do family that owns three travel agencies.

  “She looks Japanese,” my mother had said when we first arrived and had been introduced to Mimi. I don’t know why she said that. To me, Mimi looks just plain weird, as well as awfully young. I guess that she is around twenty, although it may be her dyed orange hair and pierced nose that makes her seem so young. I heard that she was training to be a hairstylist at a trendy salon called Oli-phant’s. My mother heard that what Mimi did mostly was wash people’s hair and sweep up loose clippings.

  Bao-bao has changed his looks since the last time I saw him. His hair is slicked back with pomade. He has on a black T-shirt underneath an iridescent sharkskin suit. Each time he introduces Mimi to the guests, I allow myself to stare at her pierced nose. I wonder what happens when she has a cold.

  “How’s my favorite cuz?” Bao-bao says to me from across the table, then gives me a toast with his upraised champagne glass. “Lookin’ good. I like the hair, short, nice. Mimi, what do you think of Pearl’s haircut? Nice, huh?” He has a knack for handing out compliments like party favors, one for everybody. I wonder sometimes if I would have liked him better if I didn’t already know so much about him.

  “Hey, Phil, bro’,” Bao-bao calls, pouring more champagne. “You put on a few pounds, I see. The good life’s been good. Maybe you’re ready for that new system I told you about. A lot of decibels for the dollar.” Bao-bao sells stereos and TVs at The Good Guys. He’s very good at convincing people that their ears and eyes are refined enough to tell the difference between a standard model and its five-hundred-dollar upgrade. Phil once said that if Bao-bao were turned loose, he could sell Bibles to the Shiites.

  Behind us, at the “grownups’ table,” is a man named Loy Fong, “Uncle Loy.” He turns around and offers a toast of ginger ale in a plastic glass. “So convenient for Mimi,” he says. “All she has to do is add a k to her name to get a husband! ‘Wong’ to ‘Kwong,’ get it?” He laughs the loudest at his own joke, then turns back around to repeat the joke to the others at his table. Next to him is his wife, Edna. These people have been going to the same church for years, but they’re not really that close to either the Kwongs or my family. I think they were invited because Edna Fong is in charge of ordering flowers for the sanctuary, and she’s always bought them from Ding Ho, twenty percent off, of course.

  Auntie Helen is sitting at the same table as Loy and Edna Fong. For this special occasion, she has on a baby-pink sateen Chinese dress, which is too tight for her plump body and already creased at her lap and above her round stomach. Every time she reaches over to pour more tea, her dress strains at the armpits, and I wonder which seam is going to rip first. Her thin hair has been newly permed, perhaps with the mistaken notion that it would look fuller. Instead her hair looks deep-fried, exposing her scalp underneath.

  My mother is seated directly across from Auntie Helen. She is wearing a new blue dress she made herself—in fact, designed herself, she told me, “no pattern necessary.” The dress is a simple A-line with pouffy princess sleeves. It makes my mother’s thin body look waiflike.

  “Such a pretty silk,” Edna Fong says to her.

  “Polyester,” my mother proudly informs her. “Machine washable.” Cleo slips off her chair and climbs up onto my mother’s lap. “Ha-bu,” she says, “I want to eat with chopsticks.”

  My mother spins the lazy Susan around and dips her chopsticks into the appetizer plate. “This is jellyfish,” my mother explains, and dangles the quivering strand in front of Cleo’s mouth. I watch my daughter open her mouth wide like a baby bird, and my mother drops the morsel in.

  “See, you like it!” my mother proclaims as Cleo chomps and smiles. “When your mother was a little girl, she said it tasted just like rubber bands!”

  “Don’t tell me that!” Cleo suddenly shrieks and then wails, the half-eaten jellyfish dribbling out from her pouting lips.

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” Auntie Helen says soothingly from across the table. “Look, here’s some fragrant beef, ah? Yum-yummy, tastes like McDonald hamburgers. Take it, you like.”

  And Cleo, still full of indignant sobs, reaches over for the slice of beef and gobbles it down. My mother’s mouth is shut tight. She looks away.

  And I feel so bad for her, that she’s been betrayed by her memory and my childhood fondness for rubbery-tasting things. I think about a child’s capacity to hurt her mother in ways she cannot ever imagine.

  The evening turns out to be much worse than I expected. Throughout the dinner I watch my mother and Auntie Helen getting on each other’s nerves. They argue in Chinese over whether the pork is too salty, whether the chicken is overcooked, whether the Happy Family dish used too many water chestnuts to cut down on the ration of scallops. I see Phil trying to make polite conversation with my cousin Frank, who is chain-smoking, something Phil hates with a passion. I see old family friends who are not really friends making toasts to a bride-and-groom-to-be who will surely be divorced in two years’ time. I smile woodenly and listen to Mary and Doug chatting to me as if we were still the best of friends.

  Mostly I see my mother sitting one table away, and I feel as lonely as I imagine her to be. I think of the enormous distance that separates us and makes us unable to share the most important matters of our life. How did this happen?

  And suddenly everything—the flower arrangements on the plastic-topped tables, my mother’s memories of my childhood, the whole family—everything feels like a sham, and also sad and true. All these meaningless gestures, old misunderstandings, and painful secrets, why do we keep them up? I feel as if I were suffocating, and want to run away.

  A hand taps my shoulder. It’s Auntie Helen.

  “Not too tired?” she whispers.

  I shake my head.

  “Then come help me cut the cake. Otherwise I have to pay the restaurant extra.” And of course, I wonder what secret she’s about to confess now.

  In the kitchen, Auntie Helen cuts a white sheet cake into little squares and puts each piece on a paper plate. She licks whipped cream off her fingers, stuffs a falling strawberry back into its spongy center.

  “Best cake in San Francisco,” she says. “Mary got it from Sun Chee Bakery on Clement. You know the place?”

  I shake my head and keep adding a plastic fork to each plate.

  “Maybe you know something else, then,” she says s
ternly. “About my own sickness?” She stops cutting, and looks at me, waiting for me to answer. I am surprised by her sudden change in tone, because I honestly don’t know what she’s talking about.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she answers tartly, and goes back to cutting more cake. “I already know.”

  And standing in the kitchen like that, she tells me how she had to go to the doctor two months ago. She had fallen down her front steps on a rainy day and hit her head against the rail. And my mother, who was with her at the time, had taken her to the hospital. They took X rays: no broken bones, no concussion, not like Auntie Du, lucky for her. Instead they found a little dark spot on her skull, did more tests.

  “And that’s how I knew,” she says, tapping her head, sounding triumphant. “God touched his finger there and told me, Time to go. I have a brain tumor.”

  I gasp, and Auntie Helen quickly adds, “Of course, the doctors did more tests later to make sure. Then they told me it is benign.” She says this word as if she were calling out a bingo slot, B nine. “They said no problem, no need to operate.”

  I sigh, and she continues, “Your mother said, Lucky you, nothing wrong. My children, your Uncle Henry, they all said, Now you will live forever. But what do you think they are really saying?”

  I shake my head.

  “You look. Why does Bao-bao suddenly say he is getting married? Why does Mary say she is flying home, bringing the whole family? Let’s have a reunion, she says. And Frank, he got a haircut before I had to ask twice.” She smiles. “Even your mother. Today she said at the shop, Go, go, you are busy with your son’s party. I can make the wreaths. Why are you shaking your head? This is true!”

  Her face becomes more serious. “I said to myself, Eh, why this big change, everyone so nice to me? Why so sudden? My children now respect me, why? They come to see me, why? Mary calls me Mommy again. Your mother wants to do all the work. You know why? They know. They all know I’m dying. They won’t say, but I think it must be very fast.”

  I’m putting the plates on a tray. “Oh, Auntie Helen, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong. If they said it’s benign, it means it’s—”

  She holds up her hand. “No need to pretend with me. I’m not scared. I’m not a young woman anymore. Almost seventy-three.”

  “I’m not pretending,” I insist. “You’re not going to die.”

  “Everyone wants to keep this news from me, okay. They want to be nice before I die, okay. I can pretend too that I don’t know.”

  I am starting to feel confused. I don’t know whether Auntie Helen is really sick, or only imagining something bad out of her children’s good intentions. It does strike me as strange, though, what she said about everyone’s sudden change of character. It would be just like the Kwongs to pass around a secret and then pretend nobody knows a thing.

  “Don’t worry for me,” she says, and pats my hand. “I am not telling you this so you have to worry. I only want to tell you so you understand why I can no longer keep your secret.”

  “What secret?”

  She sighs deeply. “Pearl-ah, this is too much burden for me. It makes my heart and shoulders heavy that your mother does not know. How can I fly to heaven when this is weighing me down? No, you must tell your mother, Pearl. Tell her about your multiple neurosis.”

  I am too stunned to laugh or correct her mistake. “This is the right thing,” Auntie Helen says with conviction. “If you cannot tell her, then I must tell her myself—before the Chinese New Year.” She looks at me with a determined face.

  And now I want to shake her, tell her to stop playing this game.

  “Auntie Helen, you know I can’t tell my mother that. You know how she is.”

  “Of course,” she says. “For fifty years I’ve been knowing your mother. That’s why I know this is the right time to tell her.”

  “Why should I tell her now? She’ll only be angry that we kept it a secret.”

  She frowns. “You are only concerned your mother will be angry with you? Tst! Tst! So selfish.”

  “No, I mean, there’s no reason to tell her now. I’m fine.”

  “You think you can hide this until she dies? Maybe she lives to be a hundred. Then what do you do, ah?”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t want her to worry.”

  “This is her right to worry,” says Auntie Helen. “She is your mother.”

  “But she shouldn’t have to worry about something that isn’t really a problem.”

  “That’s why you should tell her now. No more problem after that.”

  “But then she’ll wonder why we kept this a secret from her. She’ll think it’s worse than it is.”

  “Maybe she has secrets too.” She smiles, then laughs at what must be a private joke. “Your mother, oh yes, plenty of secrets!”

  I feel I am in a nightmare, arguing with someone who can’t hear me. Maybe Auntie Helen is right and she does have a brain tumor. Maybe it’s eaten away at her brain and she’s gone crazy. “All right,” I finally say. “But you can’t be the one who tells her. I will.”

  Auntie Helen looks at me suspiciously. “This is a promise?”

  “Promise,” I whisper, and even I don’t know if I’m lying.

  She rubs my shoulder, plucks at the fabric of my green wool dress. “This is a good color for you, Pearl. Anh! No more talking now. Let’s go back.” She hoists the tray of cakes.

  “I can carry that,” I say tersely. She hesitates, ready to argue. And then, perhaps in deference to her own illness, she lets me.

  After the dinner, we are back at my mother’s house. The girls have done their usual segue of giggling, then fighting, then wailing, and have finally fallen asleep. I had considered asking my mother about Auntie Helen’s brain tumor but decided it was not the best time to have one subject lead into another. I’m exhausted. So after declining my mother’s offers of tea, instant coffee, and orange juice, I stand up and yawn. “I’m going to bed,” I say. Phil offers my mother a good-night kiss, which she cautiously accepts with a stiff upturned cheek. And at last we have escaped to our room.

  “Did you bring your toothbrush?” my mother calls to us through our closed door. “Brush your teeth already?”

  “Got ’em!” Phil calls back. “They’re brushed.”

  “Enough blankets, enough towels?”

  “Plenty,” he says. He rolls his eyes at me. “Good night!” he calls, and turns off the light. It is quiet for about five seconds.

  “Too cold? Heater can be turned up.”

  “Ma, we’re fine,” I say with a little too much irritation. And then I say, more gently this time, “Don’t worry. Go to bed.”

  I hold my breath. There is only silence. And finally, I hear her slippers slowly padding down the hallway, each soft shuffle breaking my heart.

  2

  GRAND AUNTIE DU’S FUNERAL

  My mother left the house two hours ago with Auntie Helen so they could decorate the funeral parlor. And now Phil and I are going to be late for Grand Auntie’s service, thanks to a spat between Tessa and Cleo that resulted in eggs over easy being flung onto Phil’s only good shirt and tie. While we searched for replacements along Clement Street, Phil suggested that we shouldn’t bring the girls to the funeral.

  “They might be disruptive,” he said. “And they might not appreciate seeing someone who is D-E-A-D.”

  Tessa grinned and said in a singsong voice, “Daddy’s saying a naughty word.”

  “Maybe I could wait with them outside in the car,” said Phil.

  “They’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I already asked my mother if it’s closed-casket and she said it is. And I’ve explained to the girls it’s like that time we went to Steve and Joanne’s wedding—grownup time. Isn’t that right, girls?”

  “We got cake after,” said Cleo.

  “All right,” said Phil. “But after the service, let’s make the usual excuses and go home.”

  “Of course.”

  At twenty minutes after two, the f
our of us walk into the reception area of the funeral parlor. My cousin Frank hands us black armbands to wear. As I put mine on, I feel somewhat guilty, this pretense of grief. I realize now that I knew almost nothing about Grand Auntie Du, except that she smelled like moth-balls and was always trying to feed me old Chinese candies and sugared beef jerky, pulled out of dusty tins stored on top of her refrigerator.

  Bao-bao is there to greet us as well. He’s smiling broadly. “Hey, man, glad to see you guys finally decided to make it.” He hands each of us a piece of foil-wrapped candy and a small red envelope of lucky money.

  “What are we supposed to do with these?” Phil whispers. “Offer them to Grand Auntie Du?” He pulls out a quarter from the lucky-money envelope.

  “How should I know?” I whisper back. “I’ve never been to a Buddhist funeral, or whatever this is.”

  “My mom says it’s like insurance in case you pick up bad vibes here,” says Bao-bao. “You eat the candy for luck. You can buy more luck later with the money.”

  “I’m gonna eat mine now,” announces Tessa.

  Cleo waves her candy for me to unwrap. “Mommy, me too, me too!”

  Phil flips his quarter. “Say, if I buy chewing gum with this, will my luck last longer?”

  We turn toward the main parlor. Suddenly we are blinded by the glare of a spotlight. I’m surprised to see Tessa is now walking down the aisle in the manner of a coquettish bride. And Cleo—she’s preening and blowing kisses like a movie star. I can’t believe it: Uncle Henry is standing in the middle of the aisle—videotaping the funeral! Who’s going to watch this later?

  Through the haze of the incense-blurred light, I can barely see my mother. She’s gesturing for us to come sit with her in the second row. Phil corrals the girls. As the camera continues to roll, we walk quickly down the aisle, past what must be only a dozen or so mourners—Mary, Doug, and their children, some people from the church, all Chinese. I also see several old ladies I’ve never met before. They look like recent immigrants, to judge from their undyed cropped hair and old-style brown padded jackets.