CHAPTER

four

I COULD ALWAYS COUNT on Dr. Exi to have some immediate spots available at his office. His appearance might account for his atypical open schedule. I’d grown used to his uncanny features, all sallow skin and dark inky hair, but his likeness to Dracula might have scared off other customers.

Marshmallow, Nimbus, and I didn’t have to stay long in the jungle-themed waiting area before being ushered into an examination room. Unlike the outer reception area, with its curved desk lined with stuffed animals, the room seemed clinical by contrast. The compact, sterile space housed a sink, a computer station, and a centralized table.

When Dr. Exi walked in, he greeted me with a grin, which showed off his Hollywood-straight teeth. “Who’s the adorable new guest today?”

“This is Nimbus,” I said, lifting the kitten and placing her on the examination table.

Marshmallow let out a small chuckle, the only sign of mirth he’d displayed after getting stuck with a new housemate. “That’s what you named her?”

I turned my back on him and faced Dr. Exi. “Of course, you already know the charming Marshmallow.”

Dr. Exi nodded but focused his attention on the kitten, checking her vitals and jotting down notes. Then he touched the place where I’d located the ridge, between the shoulder blades of Nimbus. “Mm-hmm. There’s definitely something there.”

The vet rummaged around the room and pulled out a device that looked oddly similar to a walkie-talkie. He aimed the scanner at Nimbus. Nothing.

Dr. Exi frowned. He angled the device a different way and tried again. “Weird. I’m not getting a readout.”

I peered at Nimbus’s back. “It’s definitely a chip, though, right? Not some sort of medical problem?”

“It’s not organic, like a growth or anything. This cat’s as fit as a fiddle with her bright eyes and beautiful fur.”

The vet darted a glance at Marshmallow and continued, “And it’s not like this little kitty has layers that might muffle the chip’s signal, which makes it all the more puzzling.”

“Humph,” Marshmallow said, twitching his nose.

“Do you have another scanner?” I asked. “Maybe that one’s busted.”

“Good idea. Wait right here.” Dr. Exi popped out of the room. He returned in a few minutes with the same model of scanner. He tried again but still no luck.

In my head, Marshmallow cleared his throat. “I think I know the problem. It’s not set to the right frequency.”

“Dr. Exi?” I motioned to the scanner in his hand. “Could the chip be giving off a wavelength that the device can’t detect?”

The vet stroked his chin. “Possible. Older chips do use different frequencies.”

“Is there somewhere else I can go to get it scanned?”

He nodded. “A rescue shelter could help you. Maybe try the same one where you got Marshmallow.”

“Thanks so much for making the time to see us.”

“My pleasure, Mimi.” He fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck. “While you’re here, though, I have a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“Do you groom other animals besides dogs?”

I did the usual baths for pups (and one precious kitty) but . . . “I’d consider it,” I said.

“Good. I know a bird that needs his feathers trimmed. Can I send the owner to you?”

I hesitated. “I’d need some training first.”

“It’s a cinch. I’ll show you right now. People can even do it at home themselves if they’re confident enough.” He pulled out a dusty stuffed bird from a nearby cupboard. “I’d schedule in more feather trimmings, but I’d rather concentrate on diagnosing actual medical issues.”

Dr. Exi proceeded to explain the difference between various feathers, particularly the primary and secondary ones. I followed along with his lecture and even mock-clipped the correct areas by using my fingers as pretend scissors.

Meanwhile, Marshmallow darted into the shadow of the long examination table, where he proceeded to convulse with laughter.

“You’re a natural,” Dr. Exi said with a pat on my shoulder.

Clipping feathers couldn’t be too difficult, right? “Okay, I’ll agree to help out, but let the owner know that I’m new. You might say I’ll be stretching my wings to do it.” I shot him a grin.

Nobody even snorted at my joke. Then to add to my embarrassment, “Chapel of Love” came blaring from my cell phone. Ma’s special ringtone. I’d reserved the tune just for her since marriage seemed to be her primary goal for me in life.

“Thanks again, Dr. Exi, but I’ve got to take this call.” I silenced the ringing. “See you at Marshmallow’s next shots.”

Marshmallow yowled while Dr. Exi waved goodbye, and I backed out of the exam room with the cats.

In the waiting room, I picked a spot near the back and answered the call. “How are you, Ma?”

“Ah, Mimi. Why you no ring?”

We’d spoken just two days ago. “It hasn’t been that long, Ma.”

“You and Josh date much time. No propose?”

Oh. That kind of ring. “Things are different nowadays, Ma. It’s not like it was with your generation. Love at first sight, engagement within the week.”

She let out a small sigh. “You makan yet?”

My pent-up irritation flooded out with my next words. “Do you plan your entire day around meals, Ma? I’m not even hungry. Ate a big breakfast actually.”

“We lunch today. You and me at Roti Palace. Noon.”

I thought about postponing the meal, but at least I still had a few hours to digest my breakfast. Plus, I’d never hear the end of it from her if I bailed. Though born in Malaysia, Ma often showed her Chinese-influenced roots, especially in regards to filial piety.

Anyway, I didn’t have many scheduled appointments at Hollywoof today. I could probably dash out during the shop’s typical hour-long midday closure.

The remaining time before lunch passed by with the prearranged beauty treatments. While Nicola took care of the cash register, ringing up purchases of homemade biscuits, doggie pouches, and collars, I offered grooming services to the clients. Owners came in wanting a quick nail trim. Or the more glamour-conscious ones asked for pedicures with puppy polish, embellished with stick-on rhinestones or dipped in glitter.

At noon, I left Marshmallow and Nimbus in the trusty care of Nicola. As I drove toward my lunch date with Ma, I started feeling more enthusiastic. I actually had been looking forward to trying out this new local restaurant, Roti Palace.

Like the name suggested, the restaurant served roti canai, an India-inspired flatbread, often eaten in Malaysia for breakfast or as a snack. I salivated in anticipation of the layered dough.

Inside, the restaurant took on the atmosphere of a large open-air food court. It even had an immense glass ceiling that let in rays of lazy sunshine. The sun shone down on the dining room full of colorful plastic chairs and tables.

I spotted Ma at a neon green round table. She wore her lucky gold sweater symbolizing fortune and waved me over. “Good you come, Mimi. Talk in person.”

“Sure, Ma.” I hoped she wouldn’t grill me on potential wedding venues right away. To delay her, I examined the menu. “Look at all these choices of roti and dipping sauces. They even have an Americanized version with ham and cheese stuffed inside.”

Ma closed the menu. “Everyone know plain roti canai is best, satu.”

“That’s my number one pick, too. With curry sauce.”

She leaned back in her chair, looking satisfied that she’d raised me right.

I signaled to the waiter, and we placed our identical orders.

“It’ll take a few minutes to cook,” he said. “If you like, you can watch them making it around the corner.”

Ma and I looked at each other and pushed our chairs back at the same time. We skirted around a potted sago plant buffering a sharp corner and came across the large window that let us peek into the kitchen area. Through the glass, we could see workers rolling the dough balls and then stretching them into discs.

“In KL, I eat roti for breakfast every day,” Ma said.

Though I’d never set foot in Malaysia, I knew “KL” stood for Kuala Lumpur, the country’s capital. “Yum,” I said, licking my lips. “How much did it cost?”

“Cheap. Less than one ringgit.”

“That’s, like, a quarter in American money.” I bet Roti Palace charged at least a few bucks for each flatbread.

In the kitchen, one of the workers stretched the dough out farther. He spun the disk in the air and then smacked it onto the table multiple times, creating a rhythmic drumming.

Ma got a faraway look. “I take your daddy eat at best stall. Roti there shiok.”

“You must have won him over with food,” I said.

“Sup sup sui. Very easy.” Ma smoothed down her golden sweater. “Happy stomach make happy heart.”

The worker shaped the dough into a spiral, creating splendid layers. A few minutes later, he rolled it into a disk again. After adding clarified butter, he placed it on the griddle to cook.

We decided to return to our seats at just the right time because soon after we’d settled back at the table, our orders arrived. I tore a piece of the thin flaky bread and dipped it in the accompanying curry.

Too busy devouring the roti, I didn’t notice the silence at our table until I’d eaten half the disk. I looked up at Ma and wrinkled my nose.

She’d taken only a few bites and seemed lost in thought.

“Ma, is everything okay?”

She pasted on a smile. “Fine. How your Val-en-tine?” She enunciated each syllable.

I proceeded to tell her about my trip to Naples, Long Beach, and the gondola ride. When she didn’t fish for more details, particularly about any velvet boxes, I grew concerned.

I studied her face, which looked quite sad. Her mouth even drooped. “Ma?”

She sniffed and blew her nose on a napkin. “Way should be. Romance for young people.”

I shook my head. “Did Dad forget about Valentine’s again? He never remembers, Ma. Don’t take it personally.”

She waved away my comment. “He stuck at golf. Whole day.”

“His going golfing all the time isn’t about avoiding you. It’s just that retired life really agrees with him.”

She pursed her lips.

“Or maybe he’ll make it up to you on your anniversary,” I said. My folks had married on Leap Day. Dad joked that the date of February twenty-ninth had saved him so much money over the past few decades. “That’s a big deal. It only comes every four years after all.”

Ma dunked a piece of roti in her curry. Chewing it, her eyes misted up. “Probably no.”

Maybe Alice or I could sneakily give Dad a hint to do something. But Ma would reprimand us if she got wind of us attempting to influence him. She insisted that Dad take the reins on initiating anniversary celebrations. For her, it didn’t really count as special if we kids—or worse, she—had to remind him of the anniversary in order for him to remember.

For the rest of lunch, I steered the conversation to safer topics. And under no circumstance would I divulge how Alice and I had discovered a dead body at the school.

Instead, I shared about a few mishaps from Hollywoof, including the time a customer had accidentally purchased a dog biscuit—and ate it, thinking it was a traditional cookie. She giggled at my story, but I still wondered about her well-being when we left. I’d have to check in with Alice to get her take on things.