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On Sunday afternoon, I scoop ice cream and ring up orders continuously for an hour. It’s good to be busy. When there’s finally a lull, I look around the small shop and smile. There are four families and two couples sitting inside, and another family plus a group of teenagers on the patio. Some are enjoying their ice cream in a cone or bubble waffle; others have it in a cup. Everyone looks happy.
This is what I dreamed of.
A year after my mother died, I was working thirty hours a week as a waitress at an English pub in the downtown core. I couldn’t summon the energy or interest to go back to university. I felt lost, adrift, and the one person I could have talked to about it...she was gone.
I read a bunch of self-help books, which somehow left me feeling even more broken, and then I read one that suggested writing down a list of things that make you happy and working from there.
I wrote “Things that make me happy” at the top of a sheet of paper and stared at it for five minutes. Surely I should be able to write something.
I added “ice cream” and “chocolate” as a joke, so I could at least have something on the paper. Then I stared at those two items for a long time. It seemed ridiculous that I couldn’t think of anything else.
I wasn’t in a good place at the time, and I’d coped by trying to feel as little as possible. I couldn’t make myself entirely numb, but I did my best. I could deal with feeling little joy if it took the edge off my grief, though I still put on a cheerful face in public.
But as I stared at the words on that sheet of paper, I started to feel the stirrings of...something. I’d heard about a new ice cream parlor on Eglinton called Fancy Schmancy Ice Cream, and they made interesting flavors, like pear-vanilla-peppercorn. I went there on one of my days off. It’s a simple place with white walls, pale wood furniture, and tubs of ice cream in a multitude of colors. Somehow, I found a strange sense of peaceful joy while I sat by the window and licked my ice cream cone. I thought of the days my mom would take me to the ice cream parlor in the summer when I was a child. And when I thought of my mother while sitting in Fancy Schmancy Ice Cream, I could smile at my memories. It was tinged with sadness, but I didn’t feel an unbearable ache in my chest that made me want to shriek at the top of my lungs. Instead, my grief felt manageable.
I imagined opening my own ice cream parlor, and even though the idea seemed preposterous, for the first time in ages, I was the tiniest bit motivated. I treasured that motivation—I’d forgotten what it was like to actually want something that wasn’t a hundred percent impossible, like my mother coming back from the dead.
Fancy Schmancy Ice Cream wasn’t hiring, but I got a job for summer weekends at another ice cream parlor, not far from home. I loved seeing all the kids’ smiling faces, but I realized that I didn’t simply want to scoop ice cream that arrived on a truck. I wanted to make my own.
When the summer was over, I begged the owner of Fancy Schmancy Ice Cream for an informal apprenticeship of sorts. Johann is a burly man of about forty who fancies plaid shirts and not shaving, and eventually, he said he would teach me. I have no idea why he agreed, but he did, and I watched—and offered what little assistance I could—as he developed new flavors over the winter. The following summer, he paid me to scoop ice cream part-time, and I helped him make the ice cream, too.
And now, I have my own ice cream parlor. It’s such a happy place. Everyone is always happy when they’re going out for ice cream.
Except for Drew, though I think he’s happy to put a smile on his niece’s face, even if he refuses to indulge in ice cream himself and has a tendency to scowl.
Still, I grin when I think of him.
* * *
It’s five thirty, and we’ll be closing soon. Nobody’s come in for twenty minutes. Valerie is in the back, so it’s just me at the counter when a middle-aged man and woman come in. The woman reads the list of flavors, then looks at me with a puzzled expression.
“Do you have any questions about the flavors?” I ask.
“I’ll have a sugar cone with the chocolate-raspberry.”
“I’ll have a regular cone with the Vietnamese coffee.”
The Vietnamese coffee has been popular today. We’re at the bottom of the tub now. As I’m reaching down with the ice cream scoop, the woman says, “What are you, dear?”
I am a human.
I am a woman.
I am the owner of Ginger Scoops.
But none of those are the answers she’s looking for. Despite the vague question, I know exactly what she’s asking. Normally, I might give one of the above answers, but this is my business and I’m worried she’ll leave a Yelp or Google review that says “rude service.”
I finish scooping the Vietnamese coffee ice cream, hand the cone over to the man, and start on the chocolate-raspberry.
“My father is white,” I say, my jaw tense. “My mother was Asian. Her family came from China.”
“Ah. That explains it.”
“It” being my appearance, I assume. I half-expect her to tell me that I look “exotic.” Barf.
“Do you speak Chinese?” she asks.
“No.”
I think she’s disappointed in me, and I brace myself for a lecture on how it’s important for me to be in touch with my heritage, etc., like it’s any of her business.
But, thankfully, she says nothing more.
I hand over her cone with a rigid smile, then ring up their order. Once they head out into the sunshine, the tension in my body slowly begins to dissipate. I don’t understand why white people think I owe them answers to such questions when they don’t even know my name.
Valerie comes out from the back room. “You look like you need a drink.”
“I just got asked ‘What are you?’ again.”
I used to assume that I got these questions because I’m mixed race and slightly ambiguous-looking, but a few years ago, I discovered that Asian people who don’t look like they have mixed ancestry get this, too. I don’t understand why it’s of critical importance that a stranger know whether someone’s family is from Japan or China.
“Ugh,” Valerie says. “You should have said you were an iguana or something.”
I chuckle. “Why? Am I green and scaly today?”
“No, you look good. For real. Your boobs look great in that shirt.”
“Why, thank you.”
“And you’ll get to pour alcohol down your throat real soon.”
Sarah, Valerie, and I sometimes get together after we close our stores at six o’clock on Sundays. Monday is the only day of the week that Happy As Pie and Ginger Scoops are closed, so Sunday night is like Friday night for us.
By seven thirty, we’re sitting around Sarah’s kitchen table, drinking large glasses of red wine and eating chicken pot pie and curried lamb pie. The pie is courtesy of Sarah, of course. These are today’s leftovers from her shop.
“That shirt looks really good on you,” she says to me. “The burgundy suits you, and it makes your boobs look great.”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Valerie laughs. “Too bad Drew comes in on Saturdays, not Sundays. Although, come to think of it, I didn’t see him yesterday. Or did he come in when I was having lunch, and you didn’t tell me?” She looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“He didn’t come in. Yesterday was his niece’s birthday party.”
“How did you know that? He told you last week?”
“No, he came in on Wednesday and bought some pints for the party.”
Valerie and Sarah exchange a look. I stuff a bite of curried lamb pie in my mouth, then wash it down with some wine.
“He’s just a guy,” I say.
“A super attractive guy,” Valerie says. “And he keeps coming back, even though he hates ice cream.”
“Because his niece likes it.”
“I think it has something to do with you.”
My face heats. “I, uh, discovered why he hates ice cream. His ex-fiancée wrote that Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich book that’s been getting so much buzz.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Valerie says. “There’s a book called Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich? What the hell is wrong with people?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Sarah says. “My mother told me to read it. I told her no, but that if she found a book called Embrace Your Inner Pie Filling, I might be tempted.”
Valerie turns to me. “You’re the one who reads self-help books. Have you read this one?”
I shake my head.
I’m no longer desperately trying to figure out my life. Instead, I read books about running a small business and stuff like that. Occasionally, if I have time, I read novels.
“Anyway,” I continue, “Drew’s ex—who left him at the altar—skewered his personality in the book, so he doesn’t have good associations with ice cream anymore.”
Valerie doubles over in laughter.
“You have to change his mind!” Sarah says. “Time for the ultimate ice cream seduction.” She pauses. “Or maybe his personality really is that bad.”
“You haven’t dated in a while, Chloe,” Valerie points out. “No men, no women.”
I raise my eyebrows and attempt a mischievous smile. “That’s what you think.”
It’s easier to pretend I might have a secret lover than to tell her the truth, which is that I don’t seem to be able to do intimacy anymore, that I never feel fully present in any kind of relationship.
I have the same problem with friends, too. I’m friendly, and I reached out and got to know Sarah earlier this year. But even when I’m enjoying wine and pie with Sarah and Valerie—seriously, who wouldn’t enjoy this?—I don’t feel like I can give a hundred percent of myself. Like I always feel a little isolated, even when I’m laughing and having fun.
With my family, it’s the same way. There’s this barrier that prevents me from being fully there, though with them, there’s the race issue, too.
I never truly feel like I can talk to people, if that makes sense.
Though the other night when Drew came into Ginger Scoops, I felt a sliver of connection that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
“Chloe!” Valerie says. “What are you hiding from me?” Although she doesn’t say so, I can tell she’s a little miffed that I might not be telling her everything about my life. I’ve known her since we had grade nine French together.
“I’m just kidding,” I say. “I don’t have time for Drew. I’m focused on making Ginger Scoops a success.” That’s what I always say.
“Wear that shirt next Saturday,” Sarah says, “Just in case. Though perhaps you should read Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich and see exactly what his ex says about him.”
“Frankly,” Valerie says, “I wouldn’t trust anyone who talks about embracing their inner ice cream sandwich. She sounds flaky to me. Even flakier than this delicious pie.” She points at her curried lamb pie with her fork, then turns to me. “But you don’t need to fall in love with him. Sex without love is better. Love is messy—I don’t need that shit. Men are pricks, but they have their uses.”
Sarah, who is happily dating Josh, looks like she’s about to protest, but then—wisely, I might add—decides otherwise. I’m not in the mood for one of Valerie’s rants.
She has good reasons for feeling the way she does, though.
“I bet Drew will be up for a one-night stand if you ask real sweetly,” Valerie says.
My face heats, both from embarrassment and desire. It does sound rather appealing, even though one-night stands haven’t done it for me lately.
I decide to wear the burgundy shirt next Saturday.
“Alright,” Sarah says, “time for dessert.” She takes a container of my green tea ice cream out of the freezer and brings over half a pie.
“What kind is this?” Valerie asks.
“Coconut.”
“Mm,” I say. “That sounds good.”
“Yeah, I really think this will work.”
For whatever reason, Sarah has been keen on finding the perfect pie to accompany my green tea ice cream for our pie à la mode specials.
“Do you want to dump all the ice cream on the pie and eat from the pan?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, this sounds amazing, and I’m determined to have my share. I don’t want to risk Valerie eating two-thirds of it.”
“Hey!” Valerie says. “I’m not that much of a pig.”
“Remember what happened the last time we ordered pizza?”
“Fine, fine,” she mutters, waving her hand away from her.
Sarah cuts the pie into three equal pieces, put them on plates, and scoops green tea ice cream on top of each.
“Oh my God,” I say after the first bite. It’s not quite as good as the chocolate tart and Vietnamese coffee ice cream, but pretty damn close. I turn to Sarah. “This hits the spot. I was in a bad mood at the end of the workday because a customer came up to me and asked, ‘What are you?’”
Sarah frowns. “What was she referring to?”
Right. Sarah is white. She’s not familiar with that question.
My father is probably unaware that it happens, too, despite marrying an Asian woman, despite his biracial daughter.
“She wanted to know my racial background,” I say. “Some people ask where I’m from instead. When I say ‘Canada,’ they ask where my parents are from, and I say ‘Canada,’ again. It completely blows their minds that not all Asians are immigrants.”
“People are dumb,” Sarah says simply.
“Tell me about it,” Valerie says around a mouthful of pie.
I’m about to tell my friends about the time my father told me he never thought of my mother as Chinese, but instead I stuff my mouth with green tea ice cream. I don’t even know how to articulate all my complicated feelings, plus it seems like a stupid thing to be sensitive about.
I pour myself more wine instead.
* * *
My father deposits a steak on my plate, and I help myself to some grilled asparagus and peppers. It’s Monday, my day off. I’ve gone to his house—my childhood home—for dinner. Just the two of us, filling only half the kitchen table.
“How’s work?” I ask him.
He tells me about one of the cases he’s working on, and I pay enough attention so that I can interject questions here and there. His job is a safe topic.
Mine? Not so much.
But, inevitably, we come around to that subject.
“How’s the ice cream business?” he asks.
“It’s doing okay,” I say.
“What’s your bestselling flavor?”
Ah, such a nice, innocuous question.
“Vietnamese coffee. I have to make another batch tomorrow.”
“Huh. Vietnamese coffee. Maybe your grandmother would like that.”
“Are you going to bring her soon?” I ask.
“Actually, I suggested we go on Saturday, but she said she was busy.”
“Busy? What on earth is she busy with, other than church?”
“I don’t know.” He smiles faintly, and that makes me smile, too. For once, I can pretend there’s no distance between us. I can pretend he isn’t completely vexed with my life choices.
To my surprise, he doesn’t bring up dentistry at all. Not during dinner, not when we have tea and half-heartedly watch the NHL playoffs afterward. Not when he shows me how well the lilac tree in the backyard is doing.
But I don’t kid myself that he’s changed his opinion on what I should do with my life. It’s nice to not be arguing with each other, but it seems a little fake.
When I’m ready to leave, he gives me a couple containers of chickpea salad “so you don’t end up eating ice cream for lunch.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I never eat ice cream for lunch.”
He gives me a look.
“Really,” I say. “Though sometimes I eat pie. My friend owns a pie store across the street. She has curried lamb pie, chicken pot pie—things like that.”
“Make sure you get enough iron. Your mother had problems with anemia, and I don’t know if that’s hereditary, but—”
“I know, you’ve told me before.”
Dad never used to check up on me like this—he left that to my mother—but now it’s just the two of us.
“Are you going to the cemetery on Sunday?” he asks.
Sunday would have been my mother’s fifty-sixth birthday. I’m a little surprised he said something about it.
“No,” I say.
“That’s fine.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever works for you. You can grieve however you need to grieve.”
I swallow. I wish he had that opinion about other parts of my life.
“Are you going?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. I went for our wedding anniversary.”
That was at the end of April, and I feel bad that it totally slipped my mind. I should have called him.
We say our goodbyes, leaving so many things left unsaid.