Richmond may be a suburb of Vancouver, but it’s really little Hong Kong. I’m not just referring to all the restaurants serving up every variety of Chinese food from spicy Hunan to Cantonese seafood, and dim sum to donuts—the long, hot, and savory Chinese ones that you dip into soy milk. Almost all the storefronts we drive past are bilingual. Even the church we pull into welcomes its congregants with a sign in both English and Chinese.
The church parking lot is the one place that doesn’t feel congested with people, people, and more people. There’s only one other car in the lot, and Grace pulls next to it. With an hour to go before the service, why do I feel like I’m a lifetime too late?
“Do you want to drive around for a bit?” asks Grace, hand poised on the stick shift, looking ready to drive me anywhere I want to go.
All morning long, I couldn’t wait to get here, but now that I’m this close to meeting a hidden branch on my family tree, I just want to hop into the backseat and watch the scenery pass me by. But watching life roll on without me isn’t what I’m here to do.
“No, thanks. I might sit inside before the service starts.” What I really plan on doing is scoping out a seat in the back of the church where I can leave fast if I need to and remain incognito if I want to be. “Could you come back at two thirty?”
“The service will last longer than half an hour, you know?” When I nod, Grace says, “Okay” like she understands her role as big sister: to be my safety net-slash-getaway car in case something goes terribly wrong. “I could just go in with you.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Uneasily, Grace watches me as I get out of the car. The air is cool and moist, the sky gray but not raining. The gloomy clouds look on the verge of tears.
“I’m going to be fine,” I assure her, but nod to convince myself.
That’s when Grace smiles. “I know you are.”
Even so, I notice she stays in the parking lot until I’m inside the church, and only then, as though she’s reluctant to leave, does she drive slowly away.
From the outside, St. Joseph’s Church looks more big-box warehouse than place of worship. It’s bland and white with zero personality, the kind of building you’d drive past a million times without noticing.
Inside the church’s narthex, the high ceiling should feel imposing, but doesn’t. Somehow, between the benches and planters, the church is warm and inviting, even though no one mans the welcome desk near the entrance, which is a relief, since it saves me from explaining who I am and why I’m here.
Beyond the bulletin boards with notices about bible studies and women’s teas I spot a placard on an easel, a collage of Evie Leong’s world as beloved mother, grandmother, and wife. Pictures of her with all the important people in her life adorn the poster board. I tear my eyes away, knowing that I’ve never been part of even her most insignificant experiences. What I find myself looking at are my thick, heavy black shoes, not the dainty heels Mama would have me wear to school, nor the tattered sneakers I do instead. Just like my imposter shoes, I don’t belong to this world. But then I hear a car honking outside, and remember Grace.
I have Grace.
Another sign announces an open-casket viewing running from one until two. Not for me, no thanks. Rearing away from the door to the sanctuary, I decide a tactical retreat to a bench in the corner is in order. Right when everyone else arrives, I’ll slip inside the chapel. But just for the record, when I die, I want to burn, burn, burn until I’m microscopic ash. Age will know what to do from there, even if he’s still not talking to me then. He’ll sprinkle me from atop Alpental, our home mountain, so I’ll have one last wonderful run.
A woman’s light footsteps patter from the entrance, sounding so much like Mama that I whip around and gasp. Coming toward me is Mama, aged fifteen years and softened with twenty pounds of added weight, wearing her grief in the bend of her head. I gird myself for the inevitable rude questions when this woman finally notices me, questions I don’t want to answer: Who are you? What are you doing here? Don’t you know this is a family affair?
By this time, the woman is so close to me, retreat is impossible. If I needed proof that she may look like Mama and sound like Mama but isn’t Mama, I get it. Her hair is speckled, more gray than black, in a way Mama would never permit. The woman’s head lifts, revealing a face clean of makeup other than poorly applied mauve lipstick. Her gaze climbs up from my shoes to my face. Suddenly, she raises her hand to me, in surprise or supplication, I can’t tell. As though she’s speaking in a foreign language and doesn’t want to make a mistake, she asks me tentatively, “Syrah?”
I nod once and whisper, “How do you know?”
She points. Like a divining rod, her finger leads me to Evie Leong’s board. And there, near the heart of the poster, is a photograph of me and Bao-mu after I won the school spelling bee. I was there all the time, even if I didn’t see it at first.
As I stare, confused, at my photograph, I feel the woman’s hand on my shoulder, and I wonder briefly if, like Grace would do before our détente, she’s going to say something cutting to make sure I know that I’m not part of the Real Family. Or like Wayne does, tell me that I’m not good enough, not pretty enough, and certainly not smart enough. Or like Mama, brush me off because she doesn’t have time to deal with me. Or like Baba, say nothing at all.
But this woman, this perfect stranger, pulls me into her arms like I’m her long-lost beloved, and imprints me onto her body as if she wants to know me by heart.