See how much we spend here first.”
“We’re so close. We should—”
At the entrance of a restaurant, Uncle Chun-Kwok gestured toward the double glass doors. He pushed through to hold one side open for us. My aunt and her children waited in the lobby.
I stepped in and felt my heart hammering at the thought of my father being there. I drew a deep breath, saw Ming, and felt a sudden urge to rub my hand against his stubby hair.
I did so, and he spun and stared at me as if I had just snatched the chocolate lava cake from his dessert bowl.
His short hair showed his widely protruding ears and the bulb shape of his head. He didn’t look too different from pictures of me at his age, although the neon strobes flashing in the clear, cushiony heels of his tennis shoes weren’t around then.
I mussed his hair again, and this time, he poked me in the stomach.
I turned to Aunt Poi Yee, who smiled. I watched my uncle, walking with his hand on Jing-Wei’s shoulder. Ming kept craning his head back to keep his eye on me as we climbed the stairs to the restaurant above.
***
At the top of the stairs, the maitre d’ led us through a spacious and formal dining area. Long, vertical plate-glass windows looked out on the bustle of pedestrians and vehicles in the streets below. Groups of patrons engaged in loud, animated discussions at round tables draped in white linen, and no empty stations could be seen.
We passed two huge water tanks, one with an array of live fish, the other crawling in shellfish. Ming stopped to gawk at the underwater creatures, and my uncle nudged him to keep going.
I became conscious of the other diners—men with silk ties and designer wool suits and women in sequin-beaded dresses and flashy high heels—while I wore a T-shirt and jeans. Why, after all these years, did my father bring me to such a fancy restaurant? Had he been in touch with my mom? Did he even know anything about me?
My father was a forbidden subject, like adultery or alcoholism. My mother never mentioned him, as if he didn’t exist, and I never asked.
I fixed on the flashing red lights in the heels of Ming’s shoes and followed them. The host directed us to the middle of the restaurant where a gathering awaited us at a gigantic table. I saw my father, his wispy, thinning black hair, the restaurant’s fluorescent light casting a glow off his forehead’s dove-white skin, his dark eyes half-hidden, almost shuttered by the narrow slats of his eyelids. He wore a pale, oversized button-down print shirt that hung loose on his hunched, spiny shoulders. He got up to greet us, and at full height, he stood a shade over five feet. Still, he was taller than my mom. He pulled out the chair next to him, and the host guided me there.
My mother sat on my right. To my father’s left, a woman with short, straight hair bounced a baby in a fuzzy yellow sleeper on her lap. A toddler occupied a booster seat alongside her. I recognized my cousin Hoy, sporting a white muscle T-shirt and a carefree grin. The man adjacent to Hoy resembled my uncle, but was thinner, with a narrow, jutting jaw and a chipmunk-shaped mouth. Sunken pockets under his eyes made him look tired. Next came a chubby teenage boy with wide bulging eyes, magnified by thick glasses, giving his face the impression of shock or dismay. He sat with another boy, a little younger and thinner. A girl with straight hair parted off center, about the same age as Jing-Wei, remained expressionless by the two boys. And finally, a woman, with flabby cheeks and a mole on her chin, smiled at us. Uncle Chun-Kwok and his family settled into the empty seats near this woman.
I whispered to my mom, “Who are all these people?”
“Maybe that his family.” She stared at the woman holding the infant.
“His wife?”
“Could be.”
“I have a stepmother?”
She shrugged.
My father introduced my mom and me to the others at our table. She greeted each one, and I nodded, smiled, and waved.
Then she said, “The woman with the little girl and baby, she Hoy’s wife.”
Relief swept over me. Hard enough to meet a father I didn’t know. Thank God I didn’t have to deal with a stepmother too.
“The one by Hoy, he Huang Fu. He also your uncle, youngest brother to your father. He one of seven sons in family.”
“Seven?”
“Yes. Your father have two older brothers, number one, number two in China. Your father number three. Number four in China too. Number five die last year. Chun-Kwok, we stay with him, he number six. Huang Fu number seven.”
It felt like the first day at work, when they introduced you to the one hundred and thirty-six people in your department.
She pointed to Hoy. “He the son to Number One.”
I nodded.
“The girl and two boys belong to Number Seven. The woman with, how you say, spot, moling on face? She the one his wife.”
“Got it.” My circuits had long since overloaded. At least I didn’t have to speak.
My father offered a bottle of Hennessy. I shook my head.
He solicited the others. The takers were Hoy and Number Seven. I sipped my orange juice.
My father poured tea, and my mom tapped three fingers in front of her cup to show thanks, so I followed her lead.
She said, “Your father have two sisters, one in Hong Kong, but she not here.”
I asked her why.
“They not invite. For Chinese people, men more important than women.”
She said it as if stating a well-known fact. Strange that my mother, a woman whose very presence commanded the authority of an army drill sergeant, would come from a culture that viewed her as unimportant. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see my father holding a glossy jewelry store shopping bag. He placed it on my lap and motioned for me to peek inside.
My mom said, “I think he give you, so you say, ‘Dojeh’ when he done.”
Not again. What was it about this city and gifts? I said, “I can’t take his presents.”
“He give you in front of family. Look bad if you not accept.”
I scanned the table, all eyes on me. Amidst the clattering of dishes and the buzz of intermingled background conversations, I felt all alone. With reluctance, I reached into the bag and brought out a black leather billfold with an Italian label stamped in silver. I looked at my father, “Thank you, uh . . . Dojeh.”
He pointed to the bag.
More? What about the others? Don’t they get some? I took out a cloth pouch with the word “madler” on it. The contents smelled of new leather. I untied the pouch to reveal a black handbag with an embedded brass “m.”
I extended it to my mother. “It’s a purse. Maybe this is for you.”
A
