mother pried the shell from a jumbo shrimp. “She say some people want find new job, but they scared. You help them try something new, but not easy do that.”
I gave an appreciative nod to my aunt, who smiled.
I turned to my mother and said, “What does my father do?”
“How I know?”
“Do you know anything about him?”
She didn’t reply.
“Can you ask?”
My mom hesitated, but did so. My father regarded me, refilled his glass of cognac, and responded.
She said, “He work at nightclub, do bookkeeping.”
“Does he like it?”
Another exchange. “He say it make money.”
“Where does he live?”
He took a drink, then answered. Again, she paused. “He live close by. He say can show us later.”
“All right.”
She told him, and he smiled at me.
“What about Hoy and his wife? What do they do?”
My mother spun the serving wheel and stopped it with the fish tray in front of her. She used chopsticks to bring some fish to her bowl. “I know he work, build houses. She take care the baby and little girl.”
“And Number Seven?”
A long response from him. She said, “He own restaurant, is outside, but he making good money.”
“Outside? An outdoor café?”
“I think so.”
“His wife works there too?”
“They have three kids, so she stay home.”
Of the four women at our table, three were housewives. Maybe that was the Chinese way. How did my mom, twenty-eight years ago, care for me, maintain the home, support my father, and still have the foresight to buy a house in this culture?
Number Seven said something, and I prepared for another of his stories. Instead, he patted his oldest son’s head and took out papers to show everyone.
My mother put down her chopsticks, received the papers, thumbed through them, and made comments. She passed them to my father, who shuffled them to Hoy’s wife.
“They report cards. He say the son do very good in school, but to me, he not look so smart.”
It must’ve been important for Chinese people to brag about their children. Uncle Chun-Kwok swelled with pride when he talked about Jing-Wei and Ming, and now, Number Seven was handing out transcripts. Funny, but my mother never did that with me. In fact, she went to the other extreme in comparing me to her friend’s son, Jason. Chinese, my age, and perfect in every way, he helped his parents, boasted stellar grades, and spoke flawless Cantonese. I hated him. Whenever I messed up, my mother would break into a chorus of “Jason not talk back to parents.” Or “They never have to tell Jason take out trash.” Or “Jason never get ‘C’ in school.”
I pleaded with God to inflict Jason with just one flaw, a wart on his eyelid, a fear of potato bugs, sweaty armpits, anything. I resented not only Jason but also the expectation to achieve. Graduating high school with honors wasn’t enough. My mother demanded I go to college, earn a degree, and vault into a prestigious, high-paying career. I chose social services. I wanted to do something meaningful, but at least part of the reason I entered such a low-paying and little-recognized field came in direct response to the intense pressure to succeed.
I turned my attention to Number Seven’s other children. I said to my mom, “What about the other boy and the girl? Are their grades good, too?”
“He not have report cards for them. Maybe he like the older one more.”
The grade slips circulated. Number Seven studied me and made a remark while pointing to his jaw.
“He say he know how to make rash better. He have tea at home for you.”
Great, now everyone was staring at my complexion. On the flight from L.A. to Seoul, my chin and neck had broken out like a bad case of mumps. “Tea?”
“That what he say.”
“How’s tea going to help my skin?”
“He say have to clean inside the body first. Tea good for that. If not do, it come back.”
Nodding and cajoling, he waved at me with his chopsticks. While I contemplated, my father, swirling a glass of cognac in hand, spoke to my mother.
At first, she listened, but as he continued, she shrank into her seat, motionless.
A pall descended on our group. Even Number Seven grew quiet. Around us, things appeared normal. People chatted and ate, waiters served, busboys rattled dishes, diners followed the maitre d’ to empty seats, and patrons got up to leave. But at our table, everything stopped. It reminded me of The Twilight Zone.
All attention shifted to my mom and her sudden, eerie silence.
I had never seen her like this. Stubborn, calculating, and spiteful, yes, but always in control. I didn’t know what to make of this shell-shocked form next to me.
In time, the focus returned to her eyes. She looked at me with a vacant vestige of her usual demeanor and said in a quiet voice, “He ask you go to China. He want you meet his brothers and family. He want you go see . . . the place how you say for people die?”
“Cemetery? Grave?”
She nodded. “He want you go see grave of his parents.”
A few days ago, I didn’t know this man. Now he was inviting me to accompany him to China to meet more of his family and see his parents’ graves. My mother’s reaction and the silence at our table spoke to the importance of his request. “How do you feel about this?”
It took her a moment to answer. “Okay. No problem for me.”
“You want to go?”
“He ask you.”
“I can’t even talk to him.”
My mom remained quiet.
I peered at her. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
She regarded me, then stood and walked across the restaurant toward the restrooms. I started to get up, but saw Aunt Poi Yee already headed in that direction.
Many minutes later, they returned. Without looking at anyone, my mother sat in her seat. She said, “Okay. No problem. You go, I go. We go together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No have to worry.
