Life can interfere with one’s plans
JANUARY 23, 2020, EARLY AFTERNOON
Heart pounding, I open the door. Aunty rushes in, bringing along the dewy scent of peony from her favorite moisturizer.
Her eyes scan me from head to toe.
“Are you okay?”
I open and close my mouth a few times but fail to make any sounds. I want to tell her that I’m okay physically, but I’m scared and sad. As usual, Aunty doesn’t wait for me to answer. She kicks off her leather ankle boots and struts into the apartment, keeping her N95 mask on.
“How long has your father left you by yourself?” she calls out from the kitchen. “Do you have any food? What have you been eating?”
“Father’s been gone for just a few days. But he bought me lots of food.” I follow her into the kitchen, glad I cleared all the dirty dishes in the sink.
Aunty opens the refrigerator and surveys the different drawers. She has cut her hair to below her ears and changed her highlights from dark brown to caramel. A plaid shawl is wrapped over the collar of her white cinched-waist down jacket. Mother used to say that there was no need for her to buy new clothes; she could be the most fashionable doctor in the hospital just by wearing Aunty’s hand-me-downs. But I hardly ever saw Mother wear anything Aunty gave her.
“Can I make you some tea, Aunty?”
“No, I can’t stay long.” She closes the refrigerator door. “Pack up your things.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my place. You can’t stay here by yourself.”
As much as I love Aunty, the thought of living in her showroom-like home and following her strict rules makes me wince. Every time I visit, her apartment is sparkling clean. If I live there, I know I will have to make my bed every day, dry my cleaned dishes completely, and keep the kitchen as spotless as a laboratory. I don’t think I can meet her high standards. Most important, I want to be here when Father comes home.
“Thanks, but Dad will be back soon. And he has Mrs. Fong checking on me every day.”
Aunty narrows her eyes, giving me a familiar disapproving look. A cold sweat breaks out on my back. The last time I refused to live with her, she didn’t talk to me for over a year.
“Mei . . .”
“You are my little rice cake, like the morning sun in the sky . . .”
A cheerful tune blasts from her Coach bag. Aunty zips open the purse and searches for her phone.
“Spring arrives again, and flowers bloom all over the mountainside.
I reap the hopes that I sewed . . .”
Wow, Aunty chose “Morning Sun” by the popular rock band Chopsticks Brothers as her ringtone. I thought only teenagers liked them. But Aunty’s tastes are always on trend.
“Hello! What do you mean you can’t find the key?” Her eyebrows knit together. “Of course I have a spare one. I’ll be there soon.”
She drops her phone into her bag and pulls out a set of keys. “I have to go to the emergency kitchen now.”
“The one at my school?”
“Yes—I am the director.”
“Can I come?” I follow her to the door.
“No. I’m in a hurry.” She slips on her boots.
“I know how to cook! I can help you there.” There is still so much I want to tell her. I am terrified that she will disappear again from my life.
Aunty pauses and looks back at me, hand on the door handle.
“I will be right back,” she says. “I haven’t eaten anything all morning.” Aunty pats her stomach and winks at me. When I was little, we used to play a game. She would rub her stomach and act as if she were hungry, and I would run to my toy kitchen to cook for her.
“I can cook you something!”
“I know you will!” Aunty gazes at me fondly and then bolts out.
“I’ll have food waiting for you when you come back,” I call after her.
She disappears as fast as she arrived, leaving only the lingering scent of peony. Ever since Mother died, I have dreamed of the moment Aunty would come back into my life. There were so many times I wanted to call her but feared she was still upset with me. I wish I could have found a way to decline her invitation without disappointing her again, but I can’t abandon Father. More than once, I’ve caught him staring at Mother’s photo in tears when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I walk into the kitchen and look at the veggie clock hanging above the sink. Aunty gave it to me for my tenth birthday. I was so in love with it and spent a long time admiring the twelve vegetables dotting its circumference. I told her that someday I’d cook her a dish with all the vegetables in it. Now both of its arms—a carrot and a green onion—are pointed at the red bell pepper at the top. It’s noon, which means I need to think of something exceptional but quick. A dish that impresses Aunty enough to post on her WeChat Moments, alongside all the fancy dishes she has eaten.
I open the refrigerator and survey the ingredients. I won’t impress her with simple stir-fried rice or noodles with spicy sesame sauce. I spot the chicken breast on the bottom shelf and remember Auntie’s favorite chicken curry dish from the restaurant Little Bangkok. In the last episode of Cooking Delicious, the chef with the caterpillar eyebrows demonstrated how to make Thai red curry.
He went on and on about his top cooking secret. In the end, it boiled down to using coconut cream instead of coconut milk. He could have saved everyone’s time and said it in one sentence. I wondered if he kept babbling on so he could fill the half-hour show. The next day, I picked up a carton of coconut cream on my way home from school, and I’ve been wanting to make the curry dish ever since.
With my eight-inch chef’s knife, it doesn’t take me long to chop all the necessary ingredients, which I arrange in bowls like chefs do on cooking shows. I heat two spoonfuls of coconut oil in an iron pan and sauté onions, ginger, garlic, and red chilies. The warm scent fills the kitchen. I haven’t felt this excited in a long time. I stir in cubed taro root and chicken, add two spoonfuls of red curry paste, and mix in coconut cream and water.
The sweet and pungent smell grows heavier as wisps of steam escape through the glass lid. It reminds me of the happy times I spent with Aunty at Little Bangkok. I can picture her eyes half-closed as she nods in satisfaction, savoring the creamy sauce. After she tastes my curry, she may even offer me a volunteer job at the emergency kitchen.
I let the stew come to a boil. Minutes later, I remove the cover and spoon up some sauce and a piece of the chicken. Like the chefs in cooking shows, I take a small bite. The chicken is just right—cooked but still tender. I sip a bit of the sauce and roll it around my tongue. It’s rich and creamy, but bland. I stir in some salt and then add a few drops of lemon juice and fish sauce. I swish my mouth with cold water and take another sip of the curry. It bursts with flavor. I turn off the heat.
Knowing Aunty, she will inspect the whole apartment when she returns. I run around like a yo-yo, making my bed, organizing the books on my desk, folding the blanket on the sofa in front of the TV, and mopping the kitchen floor. When I glance at the clock, I notice that almost two hours have passed. I will have to warm up the curry when Aunty gets here.
“Food, food, Chinese food! Wok, wok, iron wok. Stir, stir, stir-fry!”
“Hello, Aunty! Food is ready for you.”
“Mei!” Aunty shouts through the phone. “I am outside the complex, but they won’t let me in.”
“Why? Who won’t?” We don’t have guards like at Ming’s fancy apartment.
“I am sorry—it’s a new order from the city!” a man says in the background. “You can’t come in unless you live here.”
“Mei, stay home. Don’t go anywhere!” Aunty sounds frantic. “They set barricades outside your apartment complex. I will find a way to get to you.”