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It’s too bad about the permanent scowl on his face. Otherwise, the East Asian man who just walked out the door with his niece would be incredibly handsome. At one point he attempted to smile, and he looked like a demented puppet.
It’s too bad about the scowl and his attitude toward ice cream.
Honestly, what kind of person hates ice cream?
Not that it matters. I’ll probably never see him again.
The chimes above the door tinkle, and Valerie walks in, along with Sarah Winters. Sarah owns Happy As Pie across the street, which makes both sweet and savory pies. Ice cream has always been my dessert of choice, but her strawberry-rhubarb pie is to die for, as is her berry crumble pie and her lemon-lime tart and her butter tarts...
Okay, I just really like Sarah’s pies.
The savory ones are good, too. Valerie sits down at a table and opens a box with a steaming braised lamb and rosemary pie—I can tell by the smell—and I groan.
“Don’t worry, there’s some for you, too.” She sets down another box.
Sarah and I join her at the table. There’s no one else here right now, and it’s pouring rain outside, so I can take a break. I moan as I put the first bite of pie into my mouth. The filling is rich and delicious, surrounded by a flaky crust.
“How’s business today?” I ask.
“Slow.” Sarah sighs.
“Same here.”
Valerie stuffs another bite into her mouth. “What about the hot dad I just saw walking out the door?”
I give her a look. “For starters, that was his niece, not his daughter.” Though of course that doesn’t mean he couldn’t also have children of his own, but “Uncle Drew” was what the little girl called him. “Second of all, he ordered a black coffee and refused to try any ice cream. Says he hates it.”
Sarah and Valerie let out faux gasps, as though I said he was the devil.
“With that attitude,” I say, “I bet he has little success with women. Or men.”
“Perhaps he’s a very nice person other than his hatred for ice cream,” Sarah says.
“If he hates ice cream, he probably hates lots of other lovely things, too. Like puppies and rainbows and gingersnaps and”—I look at Sarah—“your decadent chocolate tart.”
She gasps again. “No. He couldn’t!”
I point at the box in her hands. “God, I hope there’s some chocolate tart in there.”
Sarah opens it up. There is indeed a slice of chocolate tart, as well as slices of spiced apple pie and strawberry-rhubarb pie. “You know how we talked about having pie à la mode specials? Let’s try a few things now.”
“Yes!” Admittedly, part of the reason I want to do these specials is for the taste testing.
It’s amazing to have a friend who owns a pie shop that is literally across the street. Happy As Pie has been open for a year or so, and Valerie and I got to know Sarah when we’d pop in for coffee—and sometimes pie, of course—in the months when we were setting up Ginger Scoops. A couple months ago, she started dating Josh Yu, who hired her to cater his Pi Day party.
“Let’s try the spiced apple first.” I put the slice of pie on a plate, then go behind the counter and survey the tubs of ice cream. Ginger?
Yes, definitely ginger.
I add a generous scoop to the plate and grab three forks, then return to the table. The apple pie is still warm, and oh my God, this is an amazing combination.
Next, we try the chocolate tart with a few different ice creams: Vietnamese coffee, passionfruit, and green tea.
“I like it best with the Vietnamese coffee,” I say.
“I agree,” Sarah says. “Although it’s good with the passionfruit, too. I’ve always been a fan of chocolate and fruit combos and—Valerie! Did you just finish the Vietnamese coffee? I was going to have more.”
Valerie looks...not at all guilty.
We eat the strawberry-rhubarb pie with vanilla ice cream and decide we’ll have our first pie à la mode special next weekend. Sarah will give me a pie, I’ll give her some ice cream, and we’ll both sell the special.
Pie and ice cream and friends on a rainy afternoon. Not a bad way to pass the time.
The ice cream-hating customer pops into my mind again, and I push him right back out.
I have better things to think about.
* * *
I clutch my drink and survey the backyard. It’s five thirty, and normally I’d be at Ginger Scoops at this time on a Sunday, but Valerie is closing up by herself today so I can attend my paternal grandmother’s eightieth birthday party.
My father has a large family. He’s one of six kids, and all of them had children. Many of my cousins are married, and a couple have started having babies.
It’s a big contrast to my mother’s family. My mom only had one sibling—my Aunt Anita—and she doesn’t have kids. So I was the only grandchild on my mom’s side, whereas on my father’s side, I’m one of fourteen.
It should have been lots of fun to have so many cousins close to my age, and at times it was, but I always felt a bit separate from them. All of my father’s siblings’ spouses are white; my mother and I stood out. Now that my mother’s gone, it’s just me.
My grandparents were always polite, though a little distant, with my mother. They didn’t voice any disapproval over my parents’ marriage—not to my knowledge, anyway—but there was something different in how they interacted with my mother in comparison with their other sons- and daughters-in-law. Me, they treated like their other grandchildren, more or less.
Sometimes I get annoyed with myself for feeling like I don’t belong. They’re not just my dad’s family; they’re my family, too, even if they don’t look quite like me.
I assume it’s normal to feel like you don’t fit in anywhere when you’re biracial. You’re both, and yet you’re neither. But shouldn’t I at least feel like I belong with my own family?
I have no Chinese family in Toronto. My maternal grandparents are dead, and Aunt Anita lives in New York City and hasn’t visited in years. With only white relatives here, I feel like my Chinese heritage is slipping away from me, and I’ve had an identity crisis of sorts since my mother’s death.
But how much connection did I have to my Chinese heritage before? I don’t speak the language. In the absence of that, there’s the food, but I can’t cook much of the traditional fare I remember my Chinese grandmother making so many years ago.
All I have is the shape of my facial features to suggest that I’m not quite white.
A few years ago, I tried reading books about Chinese history and learning Mandarin, but it didn’t give me what I was looking for. My mother had never been to China, and my family didn’t speak Mandarin. They spoke Toisanese, but there are no Toisanese classes in Toronto.
I push those thoughts out of my mind and take another sip of my drink as I look around the backyard. My grandparents bought this large house in Forest Hill many years ago, and it must be worth a fortune now. My grandfather passed away a few years ago, and my grandmother lives here alone. Although it’s her birthday and she shouldn’t have to cook, she insisted on supplying half the food. Right now she’s putting out a “salad” with lime Jell-O, pineapple, whipped cream, and cream cheese. I loved that stuff as a child but don’t particularly like it anymore; I eat it just for the nostalgia factor.
My cousin Lillian walks toward me. She’s the cousin who’s closest in age to me—she’s ten months older—so we spent lots of time together as kids, but I haven’t seen her in a while. She got married a year ago, and I notice her stomach is curving outward just a bit. Maybe she’s pregnant...or maybe she’s not, and it would be horribly awkward if I ask.
Knowing Lillian, she’ll say something within the next thirty seconds anyway.
She envelops me in a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”
“You, too. How’s married life?”
“Great.” She pats her belly. “We’re expecting.”
I hug her again, and we talk a little about her pregnancy and how she’s started craving lime Jell-O salad.
“I actually made some last week,” she says, and we laugh. “Terry wouldn’t touch it.”
“I just saw Grandma putting it out.”
“Excellent. Before I forget...” She pulls her phone out of her purse and shows me a picture of a clean-cut blond dude. “What do you think?”
“Um, he’s handsome?” I think that’s the response she expects, though why, I’m not sure.
And although he’s handsome, his smile doesn’t do as much for me as Drew’s scowl.
Hmph.
“Can I set you two up?” she asks.
“What?”
I wasn’t expecting that, but perhaps I should have.
“I don’t know why, but I have a feeling you’d be perfect for each other,” Lillian says. “His name is Cody, and he’s an engineer. One of Terry’s friends.”
I have a feeling my happily-married cousin is going to keep trying to set me up.
“I’m not interested in dating,” I say. “Sorry. I’m trying to get the ice cream shop off the ground, and I don’t have time.”
“We were going to pop by yesterday, but then there was all that rain... Soon, I promise. I saw your pictures on Facebook—it looks amazing! But back to your love life. You can’t just swear off men completely.” She pauses. “Men or women, I mean.”
In addition to being the only non-white person in my dad’s family, I’m also the only one—to my knowledge—who isn’t straight.
I shrug. “It’s not a priority right now.”
“What if Catherine Zeta-Jones divorced Michael Douglas and moved to Toronto and came into your ice cream shop one day?”
“Leave Catherine Zeta-Jones out of this!” Though, oh my God, it would be super cool if she came to Ginger Scoops.
“Fine. What if cartoon fox Robin Hood came to life and was a human but somehow still a fox at the same time—”
“Like, he was a fox shifter?”
“Yes! A fox shifter. Exactly.”
Lillian and I used to watch the Disney movie all the time when we were kids.
“Alright,” I say. “If cartoon fox Robin Hood comes to life, or if Catherine Zeta-Jones divorces Michael Douglas and moves to Toronto, I will consider dating. Until then, no.”
Being busy with Ginger Scoops is the reason I give everyone for why I’m not interested in relationships, even though it’s not really true. Yes, I’m busy, but having some work-life balance is important—as I told Sarah when she was having doubts about dating Josh.
Up until this year, I actually did a fair bit of dating. Mostly men, occasionally women. Different races, different ages. But I couldn’t quite connect with anyone. I feel like I don’t belong when I’m with my family, and that’s also how I’ve felt on every date I’ve gone on since my mom died. I even had a boyfriend for four months last year. I kept seeing him because he really liked me and he was such a sweet guy, but I still felt an uncomfortable distance with him. I kept thinking that would go away soon, but it never did, so I ended it.
It’s like something is preventing me from truly feeling close to anyone. It used to be easy for me to feel a real connection with someone, but ever since my mom’s death, it’s been different.
Will I always be this way?
I hope not. Maybe in a few years, I’ll try dating again, but for now, I’m not going to worry about it. I won’t bother going on dates.
Not with clean-cut Cody, or any other person Lillian wants to set me up with.
Not with Drew.
Why on earth am I thinking about Drew? He’s just a guy who came into my shop yesterday, nothing more.
I can’t seem to get him out of my mind, though. His niece, too. She looks so much like me when I was younger that it’s almost uncanny. I feel an odd surge of affection for this girl I don’t know at all, just because she probably has the same background as me.
A bony hand touches my shoulder.
“Chloe!” Grandma says. “Here, have a deviled egg.”
I take one off the tray. “It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be walking around and serving food.”
“What else am I going to do? Sit on a throne draped in red velvet and stroke my cat while one grandchild feeds me grapes and another rubs my feet?”
Lillian and I stare at her.
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” I say.
She laughs. “Your father was telling me about your ice cream shop the other day. He says you have green tea ice cream. Where did you get that idea?”
“It wasn’t my idea. Lots of places serve it.”
“I’ll have to try it one day. I’ll get John to take me there.”
I know what will happen when my grandmother tries green tea ice cream. She’ll say, “Well, that’s interesting,” and she’ll smile...but she won’t like it. It’ll be too weird for her, and she’ll go back to her meatloaf and deviled eggs and “normal” ice cream flavors like chocolate and butterscotch. Still, I’ll be happy to see her at Ginger Scoops.
“And you.” Grandma turns to Lillian. “Is pregnancy agreeing with you?”
Lillian smiles. “It’s going fine.”
“Maybe you’ll be like me and do it six times.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“It’s too expensive to raise six kids these days,” Grandma says, “but look at the large family I have to celebrate my birthday.” She sweeps one arm around the yard.
Most of us are here, though I haven’t seen my dad yet, which is odd. He’s usually early.
Just as I think that, he comes around the side of the house, wearing his ugly brown hat. He approaches us and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Mom. And happy Mother’s Day.”
I stiffen. How did I forget that today is Mother’s Day? It’s usually hard to forget, what with all the ads telling you to make it a special day for your mother. The flowers, the cards. I guess I’ve been so pre-occupied with Ginger Scoops that I managed to push it out of my mind.
Now I feel a little guilty for not going to the cemetery.
Because that’s what Mother’s Day is now. Go-to-the-cemetery day.
Dad looks my way. He nods and gives me a small smile, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that has become familiar in the past five years.
“Well,” he says. “Shall I start the barbecue?”
* * *
When I get home that evening, I’m stuffed with burgers and pasta salad and cake. I’d been expecting a cheap vanilla sheet cake, but instead, my aunt bought three cakes from an expensive bakery, and God, they were good. The red velvet was my favorite. I pretended that I needed to try all three as research for ice cream flavors.
At least, that’s what I told Lillian, and then I laughed at my own joke—I was desperate for laughter.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to celebrate Mother’s Day again.