Page 28

RANDALL

It takes me a few weeks to orchestrate the Lunar New Year dinner. First, there were 378 emails about what the menu would be for the dinner. Next, there was a text thread with my aunties who wanted to gossip about inviting the Wu family. Finally, Halmeoni wanted me to help her clean the house until it “shines like a diamond.”

It’s not lost on me that we are bringing both families back together after five years of silence, stares, and gossip. Julie facilitated tea dates between Halmeoni and Ahma to discuss details for the reunion dinner. They were able to tolerate each other for at least an hour. That’s progress, right?

Today is the day. My group text chat pings constantly with messages.

Julie

Tell me that you have enough chairs because my grandmother is worried that she’ll be stuck in a plastic lawn chair???

Mercy

I rented some from the local party supply shop. Nice black chairs with padding.

Julie

Phew!

Mercy

Omg. My mom is bringing our cousins.

Julie

Why?

Tyler

To witness another epic fight?

Me

The guest list is growing beyond what I had originally envisioned—just me, Tyler, Mercy, Julie, and our grandmothers. But relatives keep inviting more so that aunts, uncles, cousins, and even second cousins are joining the Sunday supper.

I’m getting really nervous that I have put together something that will spectacularly fail. Maybe the bond between our families can never be fixed, and I’m forcing them to reconcile like two divorced parents who hate each other.

I voice my concerns to Mercy, who reassures me that the World War III that I am imagining won’t actually happen. But then she texts me that she has our most muscular cousin’s number on speed dial, so that does nothing to reassure me.

I haven’t told Julie any of this stuff. I project confidence and calm about the whole endeavor, especially since she’s worried about the big day. I don’t want to give her my worries too.

Whenever I’m super stressed out, I head out into my garden to work on weeds. I sit down on the ground with my knees on a foam pad to cushion them. There is a line of white dandelion puffs poking through near the raspberry bush.

I like to dig my small shovel deep into the earth and pry the dandelions up so that their roots unloosen their grip on the soil. I hold the weed by the thin green stem to blow on the white seeds. They float out, scattering up toward the sky. I grit my teeth and keep going.

By the time I’m done weeding, sweat has accumulated on my forehead and runs along my cheeks.

I check my plant watering app to see which fruits and vegetables need a drink of water or some fertilizer. I am filling my dark green watering can from our rain barrel when I feel a buzz on my butt.

I pull out my phone to see a list of ten questions from Julie about the dinner. Just the sight of them makes my palms sweat. I tuck my phone back into my sweatpants pocket and continue watering.

“Do we have ssukgat ready? Your aunts and uncles want to take some home tomorrow.”

I look up and see Halmeoni wearing her wide-brimmed khaki sun hat with red ladybugs lining the brim. She’s dressed in her garden clothes—an old white T-shirt that says BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED and loose black sweatpants.

“You’re wearing the gardening apron I got you,” I say with hint of surprise in my voice.

Halmeoni pats the off-white apron on her waist with her name embroidered on it: CHUNG HI HUR .

“Of course,” says my grandmother. “It’s beautiful.”

She surveys the rows of vegetables, bending down low to inspect the cucumbers. She plucks a cucumber with such delicate hands that the plant barely moves. She turns it over in her hands.

“Perfect,” she says.

We wander through the garden together. She points out places where pests have snuck in. We check on the seedlings that we’ll plant in the coming months.

My memories with Halmeoni are tied to this garden. As a baby, she let me crawl around in the dirt rows. She’d teach me how to say each vegetable and fruit in English and Korean. When I was ten years old, she gave me a section of her garden just for me to plant whatever I wanted.

At twelve, when I told her that I felt like a boy inside, I told her in this very garden. I was scared. I knew she loved me, but could she love this part of me?

She was silent at first. She went up and down the rows of veggies while I waited with my heart in my throat.

But then, she took my hand and led me to the fuyu persimmon tree in the back of our yard. The squat orange fruit hung heavy, smelling like honey. We sat on the bench that she used to sit on with Grandpa.

She tucked my hand into her lap. With her other hand, she picked a perfectly ripe persimmon. She held it out for me.

“Do you know why I planted this persimmon tree?”

I shook my head.

“Your grandfather loved to eat them. When they were in season, he’d eat them morning, noon, and night.”

“I didn’t know that.”

She placed the persimmon in my hand. I felt the weight of it. The slight give of its orange exterior that signals it’s ready to eat.

“When he got very sick, he told me to sit here and think of him. He’d always be with me.”

I look around at the branches above me, surrounded by globes of orange fruit and lush green leaves.

“Tell me what you said again. I want your grandfather to hear it too.”

I hang my head down and stare at the fruit in my hands. “I feel like a boy inside.”

I feel her embrace first. She wraps me tightly in her arms and kisses me on the nose.

“Good. I just wanted your grandfather to know too.”

And that was it. I often find myself staring at that concrete bench with roses carved into it. Our hardest conversations have happened there. When my parents died in a car accident, we sat here and wept, piled on each other like puppies. When the fire consumed my grandmother’s dream, we sat here and held hands, the smell of smoke tingeing our hair.

I can’t think of a better place to talk to her about the restaurant. I reach out for Halmeoni’s hand.

“Follow me,” I say.

I lead her to the concrete bench. We sit side by side. The branches of the tree hang low with fruit. Halmeoni squeezes one fruit.

“Not ready yet,” she says.

I feel the same way. But I clear my throat and tell myself that I can do this.

“Your grandfather even ate the persimmons before they were ready. I’d scold him and he’d laugh.”

She squeezes my hand as her eyes roam over the fruitful tree. I hold onto her hand tightly.

“Halmeoni, do you think you can ever forgive Julie’s grandmother for what happened with the restaurant?”

Her eyes widen. She sucks in her breath. My heart is racing, but I continue anyway.

“I know you lost everything in the fire, but she did too. I remember how happy you were as friends. Maybe tonight you two can talk about what happened all those years ago.”

Halmeoni doesn’t respond. Instead, she lets go of my hand and walks around the tree. At this time of year, the persimmon tree has grown big and bushy, carrying so much orange fruit.

I get up to follow her. She squats down to examine a branch. I don’t push for an answer. Mainly because I’m too scared, but also because I know not to prod her. She hates it.

She squeezes one persimmon. “This one is ready,” she declares.

She plucks it, then pulls out a paring knife from her garden apron. I watch as she effortlessly peels the persimmon with the knife, letting the skin hit the ground. She cuts the fruit in half and offers it to me.

I take it. The fleshy inside is perfectly ripe like a peach. We eat together. A sweet persimmon tastes like juicy cantaloupe with a hint of cinnamon. My grandmother makes the loudest sounds when she eats, so I wait until she’s silent to sit down again.

Our fingers are sticky from the fruit, so I turn on a nearby hose and rinse our hands clean. I hold out the garden hose for her. Her hands are so small and yet so capable. I’ve seen her peel fifty persimmons without breaking a sweat.

She shakes her hands dry as do I. We sit down on the bench.

She turns to me and says, “I trusted Ahma with my life. She was the first real friend I made in America. Her husband and your grandfather loved to watch old kung fu movies together so we would sit around the kitchen table, trading recipes and preparing food.”

Some of this history I know, but the details were lost to me.

“When your grandfather got sick, she was there to feed me, clean the house, and check on me. When her husband died of liver cancer, I did the same for her. In our grief, we both cooked the dishes that brought us comfort. That’s how we ended up eating each other’s foods.”

“The idea for the restaurant was mine. I loved having a purpose again and doing something that I always had dreamed about with my best friend.”

She is staring out at the garden. She is lost to me, drifting back to the past.

“That night with the fire. My heart broke all over again. The dreams I had were turned into soot. She took that away from me.”

Her eyes finally connect with mine. I see the edges of tears. I hold her hand.

“She made a mistake,” I say slowly. “A terrible mistake that cost you both everything, but Ahma and her family kept us afloat after my parents died.”

I don’t talk about my parents’ deaths often. I don’t like to revisit that day in my head. But I do remember the Wu family coming to our house and taking care of us, even helping to handle the funeral arrangements. Julie and Tyler never forced me to talk. We played video games in silence. I’m pretty sure they let me win every race.

“If it wasn’t for them, I don’t know how we would have made it,” I say.

Halmeoni nods. Her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I know she blames herself for what happened. She feels like you’ll never forgive her. But I know she cares about you as much as you do for her.”

Halmeoni shakes her head. “So many years have passed. What can I say now?”

“How about I help you? We can even write something down to bring to tonight’s dinner.”

Halmeoni groans and waves her hand at me. “She won’t want to talk about it. Your generation is talk, talk, talk about feelings. But we don’t.”

“We can try. Julie and Tyler were there for me when I didn’t feel like talking. They sat with me. Invited me over no matter how many times I canceled. They were our family when we needed a family the most.”

I let out the biggest sigh. I had no idea that those words were in me.

“The truth is that I miss our two families being together. Our meals and celebrating Lunar New Year. Our parties were the best.”

Halmeoni cracks a smile at the memory.

“I care about Julie a lot. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am. But I also care about her family. I care about what happens to them. And yes, I also miss Ahma’s pork dumplings.”

My grandmother finally laughs, throwing her head back. “I miss them too. Mine never taste the same as hers.”

“Can we try, Halmeoni? It means a lot to me to bring some peace and friendship back to our two families. Plus, it’s Lunar New Year. It’s a time to bury our old resentments and start the year fresh.”

My grandmother considers it for a few moments. Then, she gets up quickly and grabs a basket at the base of the tree.

“Ahma also likes fresh persimmons. How about we give her some?”

With a huge smile on my face, I help hunt for the best ones to share. When we gather enough for the feast, we head inside to cook the dishes for tonight’s dinner.

JULIE

I am absolutely not nervous. I am not overthinking what I’m wearing and I have not changed my outfit five times. I always buy something new that’s red and gold, but this celebration is the Year of the Wood Dragon, which means that I need the outfit of the century. People go all out on dragon years because we believe dragons are the powerful reincarnations of ancient emperors.

The last time I celebrated Year of the Dragon with my family, I was four. I wore my hair in matching buns on my head and wore a poofy red tutu. I shimmy out of a tight red dress. It’s pretty, but I want to be able to breath tonight. I hold up a formfitting gold-sequined jumpsuit that’s lined with a soft black fabric. When I put it on, it feels exactly right, like a pair of sweatpants, but sparklier.

I check my phone. We have twenty minutes until the Lunar New Year celebration. I rush downstairs.

Aunts, uncles, cousins, and people my ahma considers to be family are packed into our living room. The raucous chatter is a mixture of English, Hokkien, Mandarin Chinese, and a smattering of Cantonese. Kids run around as their parents yell at them. I smile at the wildness of it all.

Tyler, dressed in black slacks and a red button-down shirt, nudges me.

“Ready for the insanity?” he asks.

“I think?”

“Steer clear of Auntie Grace. She’s in a multilevel marketing thing and will push you to buy the world’s ugliest gold jewelry,” whispers Tyler.

I glance over and see Auntie Grace with an entire display case of dragon jewelry set up on our living room coffee table. My mom is trapped on the couch as Auntie Grace holds up several gaudy necklaces that I know my mom would never wear.

“I’ve got to rescue Mom,” I say.

“Save yourself,” says Tyler.

I head for the couch. My mom pleads with her eyes for my help.

“Oh, Auntie Grace, I’d love to see the jewelry you have. I’d like to buy something for the person I’m dating.”

Auntie Grace sets her sights on me. My mom mouths “thank you” before she slips away.

“Sweetie, I can give you the best discount. Pick anything on the table and you can get another piece for free.”

My aunt gestures to the array of faux gold jewelry, ranging from hoop earrings to chunky bracelets, emblazoned with fierce dragons. Tyler isn’t wrong. It’s the kind of jewelry that is so loud that people in the next room are blinded by its glare.

But I root through it anyway to amuse my aunt. And I have a silly idea to get something for Randall to remember our families reuniting. I pick up a gold necklace that has a long dragon holding a small jade ball in its mouth.

“Perfect choice!” coos Auntie Grace. “This is my last one left of that style.”

I give it to her and she puts it in a red gift box. She waves her hands over the rest of the costume jewelry.

“Please pick your free piece.”

I take my time searching for the right piece to add to my dress. I run my fingers over a dragon brooch that has green jewels for eyes and red sequins as scales.

“That one is my favorite. It would look beautiful with your dress. See?” She holds the dragon pin against my gold, shimmery jumpsuit. She pins it on my right strap.

“Thank you, aiyi. How much for the necklace?”

“For you. Twenty dollars,” says Auntie Grace with a big smile.

“Venmo good?”

“Yes, yes.”

I send her the money. She pats me on the back and then looks for the next family member to accost.

I find my mom in the kitchen, sipping a glass of red wine. Her cheeks are ruddy red—what my brother and I affectionately call her Asian glow.

My mom grabs my arm. She lowers her voice. “Thank you for rescuing me. I started to feel like I’d be covered in gold necklaces in a minute.”

I laugh. “I got something for Randall and myself.” I point to the brooch.

“Very cute.” My mom peers over my shoulder at the clock on the wall. “We need to go.”

My mom whistles loudly. Immediately, everyone goes silent.

“We need to go. You’ll find the directions in our family group chat. I need you all to carry a dish or two in your car. Let’s go!” hollers my mother.

Tyler directs the traffic to the line of dishes we’re bringing to the party. I hand out the warm containers covered in aluminum foil to family members. By the time we’re done, we’re already late.

I text Randall. We are finally leaving my house!

Tyler, my mom, and I head to our car with several containers and a cooler full of drinks. Ahma is still chatting with some of her friends.

“Ahma, we should go now,” I urge.

“Coming,” she says.

We rush out to the driveway, then pile into the car. I carry the pan-fried mushroom and spinach dumplings in my lap, along with the nian gao that I steam baked this morning. I inhale. The car smells so good.

Tyler drives. Ahma is in the passenger seat. Her short gray hair is perfectly in place. She wears a gold necklace with a single red teardrop jewel. She holds a small gold clutch in her lap that goes beautifully with her sleek red pants and matching short-sleeved sweater.

Ahma stares straight ahead. I can tell she’s nervous by the way she taps her black flats on the car floor. In years past, I remember her always on the phone with Halmeoni talking a mile a minute about the preparations for the Lunar New Year party.

I lean forward, careful to keep the dumplings balanced in my lap, and reach for my grandmother’s shoulder. I squeeze it gently.

“You look sui,” I say.

Without looking back, she reaches for my hand and says, “thank you.” She exhales loudly like a balloon releasing air.

“I’ll be right by your side,” I say.

She looks at me through the rearview mirror. “I would like that very much,” says Ahma.

When we arrive at the Hurs’ house, it looks exactly the same as it did five years ago. Ahma is the last one to get out of the car.

Tyler offers his hand to her. She gingerly gets out of the car and walks with him up the cement path to their front door.

My mom whispers to me, “Give her some time to adjust. This is hard for her.”

I nod. Ahma stands at the front door. Her hand is frozen in front of the doorbell. The three of us watch her and wait.

I can hear the familiar sounds of kids screaming and the loud chatter of relatives brimming behind the red door. I place my hand against Ahma’s back.

“We are here for you,” I say softly.

She pushes the doorbell. It clangs loudly. A rush of footsteps toward the door.

Randall answers the door within seconds. He smiles at me. He’s wearing a simple black hanbok that ties in the front with matching loose-fitting pants. For a split second, everything feels like it’ll be okay.

RANDALL

Ahma looks so serious as she grips her gold clutch that for a moment I forget about the raucous celebrating happening around me. Tyler and Julie’s mom look equally frozen, like they’re playing freeze dance.

Julie and I exchange timid smiles. She hands me a glass serving dish full of dumplings. I can smell their delicious garlicky goodness. Julie clutches the round nian gao sweet rice cake to her chest like it’s a life preserver in an ocean of sharks.

“Come in!” I wave them in. I try to smile like a reality show host to help Julie’s family feel welcome.

Of course, it doesn’t help that the moment they cross the threshold, the entire house suddenly screeches to silence.

They freeze again. I reach for Julie’s hand. It’s cold so I squeeze it to bring her back to life.

“They’re here!” I shout to break the awkward moment.

I pull Julie forward. She moves closer to me like I’m a safety cage in this shark-infested ocean. Tyler, Ahma, and Julie’s mom move in a clump with us.

I try to ignore the stares from my relatives as we push through this gauntlet of gossip. When we make it into the kitchen, my grandmother is stirring a pot of tteokguk.

Whatever hold had taken control of Ahma seems to loosen. She walks over to the pot, inspecting what’s cooking. A look of recognition overcomes her face.

“Tteokguk. My husband’s favorite. He always looked forward to it on new year,” says Ahma.

Halmeoni pours some into a bowl and thrusts it into Ahma’s hands. “His photo is up in the living room. Bring it to him.”

They exchange a soft, tentative smile. Ahma carries the kimchi stew to the table we’ve designated for deceased relatives. Julie follows Ahma so I go with her.

The dark brown dining table is full of gold-framed photos. Surrounding them are bowls of oranges, perfectly round mountains of steaming white rice, and sticks of burning vanilla incense. Tealight candles illuminate the photos. Thick bouquets of yellow chrysanthemums surround my grandfather’s portrait. Julie finds her grandfather’s photo and points to it. Ahma places the steaming bowl of tteokguk in front of her husband’s photo. She leans close to his picture and whispers to it.

Julie mouths a thank-you to me. I feel the tense knot in my chest loosen slightly.

Julie lets go of my hand to pay her respects to her grandfather with her mother and brother. I watch her place a small Chinese martial arts figurine and the steamed brown rice cake in front of her grandfather’s portrait. Her mom stands next to Julie. Her shoulders shake. Julie wraps her arm around her mother. I stand slightly away to give them privacy.

I can hear my cousins whispering behind me. I catch words like, “Why are they here?” and “The nerve!” I don’t turn around just yet because I’m not ready to deal with the onslaught of questions.

Once Julie’s family is finished, I lead Julie back to the kitchen. The kitchen feels safe because our grandmothers always convened here. It was their coffee shop, therapy session, and culinary school wrapped into one.

Halmeoni is chopping a large pile of skinny cucumbers. Ahma grabs a knife from the chef’s block and joins my grandmother. Side by side, they wordlessly chop and toss the cucumber slices into a large ceramic bowl.

Tyler and Julie’s mom busy themselves with unwrapping and placing their homemade meals amongst the buffet banquet.

Julie is by my side. She tentatively reaches for my hand and I wholeheartedly take it.

“It’s going to be okay,” I murmur.

We watch our grandmothers cook together. Something that was so common that, as kids, we’d dart out of the kitchen to play tag or video games. Now, we both are mesmerized by how they fit together like no time has passed at all.

“Everything smells so good in here,” says Julie.

“Go eat,” says Halmeoni with a flick of her wrist. “We have so much food.”

She’s not lying. We have four large fold-out tables full of food. Traditional dishes that we reserve for Seollal, Korean Lunar New Year. I hand Julie a paper plate and a pair of chopsticks. We circle the tables, piling on food as we go.

“I have missed this,” says Julie.

“Me too.”

I’m staring at her, so I don’t have time to warn her when she accidentally steps on the large yut nori game board on the floor. Several older aunties and uncles hiss at her. Julie immediately jumps back.

“So sorry!” blurts out Julie.

My cousin Gene, who’s holding the four yut sticks to roll out, does a double take when he sees her.

“Julie Wu?” asks Gene.

“That’s me.”

“I thought your family—”

“Enough talk, Gene! Throw the sticks,” chides my uncle.

Gene wastes no time in shaking the wooden yut sticks. He tosses them down.

“Mo!” he shouts. His team cheers triumphantly.

“Ooh, can I play?” asks Julie.

I grit my teeth. She should not play this game. Maybe she can telepathically get my message. We haven’t played since we were kids and my family is ruthless in winning, especially during new year. It’s practically a blood sport in this house.

Gene smirks and hands Julie the sticks. “Be my guest. We’re the red pongs.”

His tone is pure attitude. I can’t stop Julie from playing, but I stay by her side to coach her along.

Julie rattles the sticks together and tosses them. They land on the huge canvas board with the circles and lines. She gets geol.

“You can move three spaces,” I whisper.

“Awesome,” says Julie.

She reaches for a red pong and bounces the piece forward, landing on top of a yellow pong.

“Aye!” grunts another uncle.

“Did I do something wrong?” asks Julie.

“Now the yellow team has to take that piece back to the home base and start all over,” I say.

The entire yellow team with mostly aunties and uncles groans and curses.

“Forget them! Way to go, Julie,” shouts Gene. The rest of the red team claps for her.

She blushes. Her cheeks glow from the cheering. We sit down next to Gene to continue the game.

It’s going well at first. Julie quickly gets the hang of it.

While the yellow team strategizes their next move, Gene turns to Julie. “So what exactly are you doing here?”

She stammers and utters, “Uh…”

“Julie and I are dating.”

I swear it’s like my voice is a megaphone because everyone stops talking.

Gene’s black eyebrows raise up. Around me, there are stares. Even the little kids stop messing around to watch. A squiggly feeling worms its way through my stomach. I take a deep breath and seize the opportunity to clear the air.

“I hope you all can welcome Julie and her family like Halmeoni and I have, just like we used to several years ago.”

No one says anything. Julie clears her throat.

“I know our families have had a strained relationship the past few years,” says Julie.

“That’s putting it mildly,” says Gene. A few people laugh in response.

“But we’re hoping to put the past behind us and start anew this Lunar New Year. Especially during such an auspicious Year of the Dragon,” says Julie.

I see a few people nod. The squirming feeling settles a little. I place my hand in Julie’s hand.

“Dragons are a respected creature in Taiwanese culture. They are seen as powerful and independent, but also desire support and love,” continues Julie.

The same uncle from earlier shouts, “Enough chitchat! Finish the game.”

We shut up and play the rest of the game, but this time we continue to hold hands.

The red team wins. Julie jumps up and down in excitement, high-fiving my relatives, like they just won a championship.

It’s good to see my extended family accept Julie, even if it’s just for a short while.

Julie clears her throat.

“My family and I burn wishing papers to send money to our relatives who have passed on. I’d like to take this year…” She glances at me. I squeeze her hand to give her courage. “To write new wishes on my burning paper. A wish for the Wu and Hur families to come back together again and let go of past hurts and resentments.”

Julie pulls out a thin piece of cream-colored paper with red and gold Chinese characters on it. She holds it for the room to see. On the back of the paper, she’s written her wishes. She passes me a sheet.

“If anyone wants to join me,” I say.

I’m greeted with blank stares. Out of nowhere, a hand shoots up. “Count me in!”

Tyler weaves his way toward us. Mercy raises her hand too. Julie hands them the wish papers.

“Give me one,” says Gene. I smile as Julie passes along a sheet.

Before I begin to write anything, we are interrupted by Halmeoni. “Everyone, come outside.” Julie and I look at each other quizzically. We bring our papers and pens with us as our families flood into the backyard.

We hung string lights all around the trees. Red lanterns sway in the breeze. The firepit in the center of our patio furniture is ablaze. Our families squeeze together.

Halmeoni emerges from the crowd with her own wishing paper in hand. She clears her throat. “For the past five years, I stopped talking to my best friend because I thought she shattered my dream. But tonight, my dear Randall helped me see that my bitterness toward her was going to eat me up. We both lost that night. I hope she can forgive me.”

Ahma comes forward. “I can.”

Ahma reaches for Halmeoni’s hand. Instead, my grandmother envelopes her friend in a hug. They hold each other for several seconds. Julie wraps her arms around me. Her chin rests on my shoulder.

Tyler and Mercy join us. The four of us hold hands.

Halmeoni wipes tears from her eyes. “Time to send our wishes up.” She drops her wishing paper into the firepit. It instantly ignites, then burns black, shrinking to nothing.

Ahma adds hers. The wishing paper curls into a tight ball before turning into flames. Julie and I go next. We drop them in at the same time. Tyler crumbles his into a ball before tossing it in. Mercy gives her sheet a kiss before placing it into the flames gently. One by one, Wu and Hur family members come to the pit to toss in their own wishes for the coming year.

Ahma and Halmeoni are arm in arm. They watch and wait until everyone is done adding their papers.

“Come inside. It’s time to eat!” hollers Halmeoni.

Around us, the silence is broken with giddy laughter and kids hollering for their parents. Julie tugs my hand.

“Can you believe this?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She kisses me hard. I taste spicy gochujang sauce on her lips. I pull away slightly. “Your lips are burning mine.”

“Good,” says Julie.

“Let me write another wish.” I scribble my hope for our families to finally be at peace, then drop it into the firepit.