When water drains, the stone emerges
FEBRUARY 19, 2020, EARLY MORNING
After a sleepless night, I wake up in a cold sweat. In my dream, Father was playing erhu on a stage. Mother and I were sitting in the crowd. When I turned toward her, she was gone. The music stopped. I looked up and Father had also disappeared.
I can’t go back to sleep, so I head to the emergency kitchen early, hoping Aunty will be there. When I step inside the kitchen, a whirlwind of white mist spirals from the stacked-up bamboo steamers, enveloping me like a warm blanket. Aunty runs over and wraps her arms around me. My body stiffens as dread overtakes me. The last time she hugged me was at Mother’s funeral.
“How are you doing, Little Apple?” Aunty pulls back and looks deep into my eyes.
“I’m fine. Do you know how Father is doing?” I try hard not to break out crying.
“Don’t worry, Little Apple.” Aunty looks at her watch.
How can she tell me not to worry? Does she care about what happens to him?
Frustration bubbles inside me.
“Food, food, Chinese food! Wok, wok, iron wok. Stir, stir, stir-fry!”
My body tenses up again. I didn’t silence my phone. I look at Aunty. She gestures for me to answer.
“Mei?” Father’s deep voice echoes through the speaker.
My heart skips a beat. “Father! Are you okay?”
“I am fine. I was just tired. I don’t have coronavirus,” he says calmly. “How are you?”
“I’ve been so worried about you.” I fight back my tears.
“Mei,” says Father, his voice heavy with emotion, “I am sorry I’ve been working so much and not taking good care of you. Your aunty told me you have become a great chef. I loved your dumplings. I’m proud you have grown into such a brave young lady.”
I look at Aunty, who is smiling at me, fine lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. When did she bring Father the dumplings?
“Can you thank your aunty for getting me a COVID test kit? If it wasn’t for her, I would’ve had to wait for days.”
“She is right here.” I thrust the phone into Aunty’s hand.
Like a little kid holding a hot sweet potato, Aunty passes the phone from one hand to the other before bringing it to her ear. “Yeah . . . Sure . . . You’re welcome.”
With the tip of her boot, she draws a circle on the floor. I’ve never seen Aunty act like this. Is she nervous?
“Of course, we are family,” she says, raising her eyebrows. Aunty hands the phone back to me.
Father’s cheerful voice resumes. “Mei, I will be home in a few hours. I have to take care of something now. See you soon.”
“I will cook something for you!”
I turn to Aunty and ask, “You brought dumplings to Father? I thought you didn’t like him.”
Aunty stops in her tracks. “Why do you say that?”
I bite my lip. After a moment of silence, I blurt out questions that have been plaguing my mind.
“You didn’t talk to us for a long time after Mother’s funeral. Is it because you don’t like Father, and you’re angry with me for not moving in with you?”
“O-oh, Mei,” Aunty stutters, then takes a second to regain her composure. “I am so sorry. It had nothing to do with you. I was dealing with my own pain.” Tears glaze over her eyes. “I couldn’t face your mother’s death for so long. And I was angry with your father for working so much and not taking care of you two. But now I understand. He and your mother took their doctors’ oaths to heart.”
She pauses, then pushes out her next sentence. “He did what your mother wanted him to do.”
Like a bitter tea leaf dropped in warm water, any tension I had toward Aunty dissolves.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Father and I were sad too.” Tears blur my vision.
I imagined so many reasons why Aunty didn’t talk to us. It never occurred to me she was hiding her pain. In my eyes, she was always strong and unbeatable.
Aunty takes hold of my hand and looks into my eyes. “You know, you remind me so much of your mother. When you didn’t want to live with me, I felt I had lost both of you. I was selfish and wrong. Your father needs you too. Can you forgive me?”
I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. “Of course, Aunty. We are family!”
“What are you going to cook for your father?” Aunty ushers me to the stove.
“Chef Ma says food is the best medicine. I am going to make kung pao beef with lots of ginger and garlic to restore his chi.”
I heat oil in the wok and toss in a handful of chopped ginger, garlic, and onions. They make a happy sizzling sound. Soon, the tangy smell fills the air. I add a pack of thinly sliced beef and stir swiftly with a pair of long chopsticks. My breathing slows as the meat browns; I know that in a matter of seconds, the meat can change from tender to chewy. I quickly lower the heat, throw in a handful of julienned bell peppers, drizzle in soy-lemon sauce, and stir until the mixture is heated through.
After turning off the heat, I garnish the dish with nuts and green onions. I take a deep breath and feel my shirt sticking to my damp back.
Applause breaks out. Everyone is looking at me, and Chef Ma nods approvingly. I feel as if I have just earned the five-star chef ranking in Chop Chop.