It’s true, Detective, about a month after my trip to Dongguan, I flew to Boston, with Henri in tow, to see my dad. I already know your next question, and the answer is no, absolutely not. I did not mention one word about what I’d gotten myself into with Winnie—not to my dad, nor my brother, nor my sister-in-law.
I know this is hard for you to believe, but Asian families are different from white families. We don’t talk the way you all do. I mean, we talk, of course we talk, but not about our fears, our pain, our deepest, darkest secrets.
When I was little, I envied the kids whose parents served us wine coolers at parties and offered to drive us home. You know, the if-you’re-going-to-drink-I’d-rather-you-do-it-with-us type. My parents were the opposite: If you’re going to drink, don’t. And if you persist, don’t you dare let me find out. I remember Carla telling me freshman year that over winter break her mom had taken her to the doctor to get birth control pills, and being filled with sheer wonder.
Did I wish my parents were more like theirs? More American, so to speak? Of course I did. Who wouldn’t? It’s something I thought about the entire time I was home, as I vetted and hired six new shoppers to keep up with our growing inventory and worried the more we expanded, the greater our chances of being felled—all while insisting to my family that everything was fine, just fine, better than fine.
I’d come home because my dad had finally agreed to put the house on the market and move into a condo in Chicago, not far from where my brother and sister-in-law lived. He needed help packing, and, given that it had been over a year since I’d last seen him, I could not say no. My first night there, once Dad and I had wrestled Henri into bed, we retreated to the back porch with cold bottles of beer. It was the end of August and scorching hot. Above our heads the ceiling fan churned, and I lifted my face to the breeze.
Dad started in with, Have you taken him to a specialist?
My cheeks burned. I pressed the bottle to my skin. Please, Dad, not now.
Okay, no need to get worked up, he said.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I reached down and silenced it. I’d asked Winnie to please only text if it was urgent, but already, in the five hours I’d been home, Dad had commented on my copious phone use.
He took a swig of beer and ran his thumb over the label. Anyway, like I told Mom, Henri doesn’t have to be a genius. It’s more important that he’s a good person. Honest, kind.
Really? You said that? Can I get it in writing? I asked. I didn’t have to remind my dad that my grades were the only thing he’d harped on when I was growing up.
It was his turn to bristle. That’s because you were good at school. We were encouraging your natural gifts.
And look at what all those A’s and A-pluses got me, I said.
What’s that supposed to mean?
I pointed out that being a corporate lawyer was the kind of job one tolerated, endured.
He scowled. I never wanted you to worry about money. At least your law degree got you that.
I gazed into the amber depths of my beer bottle. You don’t have to hate your job to make money.
Sure, and you don’t have to love it either. It’s called work.
All at once, Detective, the bushel of lies I’d lugged everywhere for the past seven months bore down upon my shoulders, threatening to crush me. In my desperation, I forgot who I was and how I was raised. I blurted, I can’t do this anymore.
I lifted my gaze, both terrified and brimming with hope.
Dad’s eyes grew big. He reared back his head and inhaled sharply before he managed to seize control and flatten his features once again. He asked mildly, What do you mean?
Already he’d retreated beyond some invisible barrier, like a dog behind a wireless fence.
And what had I expected? This had always been our way.
Oh, nothing. Henri’s at such a difficult age is all.
Dad’s entire face relaxed. He won’t be two forever.
Thank god for that.
We drained our bottles. The moment passed.
And I’m so glad I restrained myself in time because now, from where I sit today, confessing everything to you, I see what I couldn’t as a child: to share one’s secrets is to force others to bear your burden; to stay silent is to spare them.
I realize I haven’t said too much about my brother, Gabe, but perhaps it’d be helpful for you to know a little about him, to understand my upbringing and how I became the emotionally thwarted person who spent nearly a year under Winnie’s spell.
In many ways Gabe and I are opposites, and because of that I shouldered my parents’ hopes while he floated above the fray. My brother was popular in school, outgoing, a star athlete—regionally ranked in tennis as a junior. He didn’t work too hard in class, earned mostly B’s, got into a small liberal arts college in Connecticut. Upon graduation one of his frat brothers helped him get a job selling medical devices. He ended up being really, really good at it. He’s a managing director now. Also, a stellar golfer.
And to this day, my dad has never acknowledged Gabe’s success. He views his son as this relaxed, carefree guy who happens into situations and somehow comes out on top. My mom used to say that Gabe was more lucky than gifted—yes, to his face, that’s the Asian way. But you don’t get one promotion after another without working for it, even if it’s (as Dad would put it) only sales.
Once when I was in middle school, my dad berated me for getting a B-plus on a math midterm, and I shouted, Why don’t you ever get on Gabe?
It was the first time I’d ever talked back to him and he shot my mom a dark look before spitting out, Because he isn’t as smart as you, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a compliment.
Gabe must have been at tennis practice, but I scoured the room to make sure.
Dad softened his tone. Everyone has different talents. Yours is school. Don’t waste it.
The adrenaline rush from standing up to him made me combative. I said, It’s not like you yell at Gabe when he loses a match.
Tennis? Dad said, his voice dripping scorn. Tennis is a game, a hobby. Your brother is no Michael Chang, all right? He’ll be lucky to play D-3.
This scathing, clear-eyed assessment shut me up. For the rest of the semester, I worked my butt off to make up for that B-plus, and, in the end, I got my dad his A.
What’s that, Detective? Yes, the phrasing of that struck me, too. I got my dad his A. But that’s how I’ve always felt—like I was living my life for someone else. First my parents, then Oli, and now Winnie. In fact, I was so used to moving on autopilot toward some externally defined goal that I never stopped to consider where I wanted to go in the first place.
Look, I’m thirty-seven years old and, I’m sure we can all agree, way past being able to credibly blame my parents for who I am today. But that, I think, is the point. I’d never really grown up. I was still that nerdy teenager who dared not dream her own dreams, who craved approval from whoever would offer it.
Given Dad’s dim view of Gabe, you may be wondering how he ended up moving to Chicago to live near his son. The decision astounded me, too; I hadn’t realized the sale of the house was up for discussion—nor how much I’d missed in the time I’d been working for Winnie.
Long story short, Dad’s decision was the result of a monthslong campaign waged by Gabe and his wife, Priya. Once they’d discovered that Dad’s chronic knee and hip pains—the result of decades of road running—had intensified, forcing him to give up his daily walks, they decided to take action. Priya found a nice new condo building two L stops away from their town house, next to a gym with a pool Dad could use instead of pounding down the sidewalk. She seeded their conversations with only slightly embellished descriptions of the amenities, making sure to include how much she and my brother wanted my dad to be around to speak Mandarin to soon-to-be-born Ajay and his future siblings, while also promising that they would never coerce him into babysitting. When Gabe and Priya flew out to see Dad on the anniversary of Mom’s death, they made a final push, brandishing evidence from Gabe’s Realtor friend that demonstrated the unit was a good buy and would definitely appreciate in value.
Hearing all this filled me with guilt, yes, but also envy. My warm, plucky sister-in-law had started calling my parents Mom and Dad the day Gabe proposed. Oli, on the other hand, had grumbled when I’d informed him, shortly after the funeral, that I’d hired my dad a housekeeper and planned to pay for it, too.
And Dad said yes? I asked Gabe over the phone. Just like that?
My brother paused. I mean, it took months to convince him, but, yeah, eventually, he said yes.
I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, I said.
Yeah, yeah, he said. Ava’s working, nothing new.
You’ve done so much for Dad since Mom died. I’m sorry I haven’t helped.
Looking back, I hear the plea in my voice. Ask me, I’m saying. Ask me why I’m working so much. Ask me what I’m doing. Ask me what’s wrong.
Thank god he didn’t.
No worries, Gabe said. There’s plenty of time for you to take a turn.
As I’ve already shown, Detective, skirting conflict is the Wong family religion.
The following day, an email from a fashion journalist appeared in my personal account. She’d come across our eBay store and was so impressed by the inventory that she wanted to interview me. I didn’t know how she’d tracked me down, given that I’d paid a service to scrub all personal information off the internet. I deleted the message without responding and checked the online forums.
Overnight, it seemed, our eBay store had risen in prominence, spurred by handbag fanatics who raved about our Bottega Veneta Pouches and Dior Book Totes and Valentino Rockstud bags. The forums teemed with questions about how we managed to procure the latest styles so quickly. Users speculated that our store traded in factory overruns or even stolen goods. (By the way, Detective, overruns are a myth. As I’ve already mentioned, the brands demand that every millimeter of raw material be accounted for—no factory is running off ten extra bags without Saint Laurent immediately figuring it out.)
A text from Winnie arrived, crowing about yet another style that had sold out. I wanted to hurl my phone on the ground. Why couldn’t she see the problem bubbling beneath the surface? She’d built this business on anonymity; this was way too much publicity, too much buzz.
In the midst of all this, my brother and sister-in-law arrived from Chicago—Priya, thirty-six weeks pregnant and glowing; Gabe, tanned and smiling beneath a Roger Federer baseball cap.
My brother and I spent the afternoon packing things in boxes and trying to convince Dad to sit in front of the television and rest his creaky joints. Meanwhile Priya and Henri dug holes in the backyard with old spatulas, since the new owners were going to tear up the lawn anyway.
How’s Oli? Gabe asked. Still working like a maniac?
Always and forever.
The question would have annoyed Oli. Why is that the only thing your brother ever asks? he’d say, to which I’d explain that Gabe didn’t really know what his job entailed (and didn’t really care). Oli found Gabe and Priya conventional and unambitious, basic. But I didn’t see it that way. To me, their most striking quality was their utter contentment with what they had. They weren’t strivers, and it seemed a wonderful way to be.
After we’d packed up the last of the study, Gabe and I stood by the window, watching Priya and Henri traipse around the backyard in search of treasure.
How much maternity leave does she get? I asked.
Three months, and she’s taking it all and quitting right after.
No! I said.
Yes!
Down below, Priya and Henri settled on a pair of gardening stools and filled a yellow pail with dirt.
Good for her. She earned that leave. I couldn’t help adding, But maybe she shouldn’t burn all those bridges. In case she ever needs a reference.
Gabe playfully flicked my forehead, which infuriated me as much now as it had when I was a kid. I flicked him on the cheekbone, and he twisted my arm behind my back.
Ow, I said.
He laughed and let go. Thanks for the advice, nerd, but she’s never going back. Her lifelong goal is to be a stay-at-home mom.
Priya called Henri’s attention to a butterfly flitting around the bushes, and he squealed and gave chase, flapping his spatula about his head.
They really are best buds, said Gabe.
I didn’t answer, distracted by the chiming of my phone. I reached into my pocket. Another email from that same journalist, informing me that if I didn’t agree to talk to her, she would go ahead and write the article outing me anyway. This time I forwarded the email to Winnie with the subject heading: PROBLEM!!!
What are you working on that’s so urgent? Gabe asked. You haven’t stopped checking your phone.
From the next room my dad called, Kids, get in here. You have to see this.
We looked at each other and went to the den. Mouth agape, Dad pointed at the TV screen, where a downed airplane smoldered on a runway.
You must remember this crash, Detective, the one at SFO. The plane was carrying seventy Shanghainese students who’d enrolled in a San Francisco summer camp to learn English, as well as five of their teachers. At the time, I had yet to discover the role that counterfeit plane parts had played in the crash, but I recalled those da kuan sitting around the table, boasting about sending their kids to pricey camps like this one, in between oblique references to their other illegal dealings.
Together my dad, my brother, and I watched that plane land just short of the runway, striking the seawall, severing its tail as cleanly as a hot knife through butter.
According to the CNN reporter, two high school girls, best friends, had been ejected from their seats—their seat belts hadn’t been fastened. They died almost instantly. A shot of the school hosting the summer camp filled the screen. It was the one on Noe and Twenty-Fifth, blocks away from my house. How many times had I passed the colorful welcome banner shrouding the gate?
The longer I sat in front of the television, the more convinced I was that this story was personal, that it somehow belonged to me. Maybe it’s because this was every mom’s worst nightmare. Or maybe it’s more abstract than that—I’d gained a window into China and the way the whole country barreled ahead at breakneck pace, ignoring the cracks, and something about that ethos told me this plane had not crashed by chance.
When my brother suggested changing the channel, I voiced my dissent, unable to look away from the parents gathered in some nondescript Shanghai meeting hall, waiting to hear what had become of their children. All across the room, couples collapsed into each other’s arms, whether from grief or relief, it was impossible to tell.
But I apologize, Detective, this is getting off topic. I think we’ve covered the essentials about my visit home.
What’s that? You have my brother on record saying I told him about my work selling counterfeits? In the car when we went to pick up dinner?
No, that’s a complete misunderstanding. He didn’t mean it that way. It’s true I tried one last time to tell him, but he didn’t believe me. The whole thing sounded so outlandish he took it as a joke.
Let me explain. The same day we learned of the plane crash, Gabe and I went to pick up a couple of pizzas for dinner. We were in Dad’s car when another message from Winnie made my phone buzz.
Don’t worry, she wrote. I’ll take care of it.
I knew that she’d already sent her private investigator to dig up dirt on the journalist—anything that would coerce her into abandoning the article. I pictured a tenacious young woman, a year or two out of journalism school, hungry, eager, making barely minimum wage.
When Gabe asked who was on the phone, I was too weary to lie.
Winnie, I said. Remember her?
Winnie who?
Winnie my freshman roommate.
The one who cheated on her SATs?
That’s the one.
You’re still in touch?
I told him I worked for her now.
Oh yeah? Doing what?
I watched my brother check his blind spot before switching lanes. He still drove with only one hand, torso leaned all the way back in his seat, the very picture of a man who was pleasantly surprised by how well his life had turned out. And right then, Detective, I longed for even an ounce of his security, his ease.
Heart battering my chest, I said, Importing counterfeit designer handbags.
His head jerked toward me.
My vocal cords spasmed but I continued. It’s a whole scheme where we return fakes to department stores and sell the real bags on eBay.
I felt my facial muscles contort into a gruesome rictus, an effort to interpret the conflicting signals of relief and terror lighting up my brain.
My brother’s eyes bugged out, his forehead creased, and then he exploded with laughter. Good one, good one, he said. You’re a regular Bonnie and Clyde.
You got it, I said.
When he’d calmed down, he asked, What do you really do?
Contracts for her handbag manufacturing business. Boring stuff.
He turned into a strip mall and parked in front of the liquor store he’d frequented as an underage teen. I fumbled with the seat belt buckle. My fingers felt stiff and sore, as though stricken by arthritis.
Oh god, remember this place? he said, already moving on. Remember when Mom found that six-pack under my bed?
So, you see, Detective. Even though, yes, technically I confessed my crime to Gabe, there’s no way he absorbed what I’d said. In fact, I’m certain that he wouldn’t have recalled that part of our exchange if you hadn’t probed him.
Now if my mom, not Gabe, had been in the driver’s seat that day, then perhaps things would have unfolded differently.
What did you just say? she’d ask, deadly slow, after I’d spat out my confession.
Unable to backtrack, I would race through the whole repugnant story while she listened, first uncomprehendingly, and then gradually growing enraged.
Did this so-called friend of yours hold a knife to your neck and threaten to kill you if you didn’t comply? she’d demand. No? Then you weren’t forced. You chose to do it. You wretched girl, you stupid child. I’ve always had a bad feeling about that Winnie.
I would let my mother’s words pummel me; I’d submit to every one of her blows. And in that moment, despite her anger and disappointment, I’d no longer be alone.
I’ll take you to the police myself, she’d say, and my whole body would release.
Turn yourself in and face the consequences.
I know it took a bit longer than it should have, Detective, but I did finally listen to her, and I’m here now. What else can I tell you? What more do you need to know?