Page 20

From the diary of Monica Tsai, backed up on three servers spanning two continents

October 29, 2018 (2018-10-29T23:52:26.

651987)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts.

United States of America (42.

3721865,71.

1117091)

I don’t know what will happen next—none of us do—but I am grateful, so grateful, to have been able to experience a day like

today.

My grandparents enjoying themselves, and Louise, just a little clearer to me.

Maybe even a little closer.

By the time I woke up, they were all having breakfast downstairs.

Grandfather had made congee.

A few small plates of various

pickled goods lay out on the table.

“Louise invited us to her volleyball game this afternoon,” grandfather said as I sat down.

He scooped some preserved radishes

into my bowl.

I asked if we were going.

I had never known either of them to be into watching sports, save for the occasional Olympic figure

skating event, and the gymnasium would be a very unfamiliar spot for grandmother.

“Of course we are!” grandmother exclaimed.

“That is how you support your friends.”

I winced, and Louise laughed.

“It’s an away game for us, so it’ll be nice to have some fans,” she said.

“I don’t know how loud we can be,” I mumbled.

“Of course we can!” grandfather said, hitting the table.

Louise and I both jumped.

“Haven’t you heard grandfather in front of the television during the news? You think that isn’t loud?” grandmother said.

She

glanced at my bowl, still laden with pickled radish, and scooped in some pork floss.

“Yeah, but I can’t imagine him getting as fired up over a volleyball game.”

“Hey! Volleyball is intense. You’ll see.”

“Monica, don’t insult other people’s sports.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“No problem. I have to head out to brunch with my teammates now. Thank you for the prebrunch breakfast though. I’ll see you

later at the game?”

She did not meet my eyes even as she smiled.

After she left, I retrieved a long roll of paper from my room, a remnant from some high school project.

I spread it out on

the kitchen table, inviting grandmother over, asking if she would help me.

I passed her a pencil, and together we began to draw.

When we got to the gymnasium, grandmother and grandfather laid down the cushions they’d detached from our kitchen table chairs,

placed them on the bleachers.

I told them I didn’t need one, and soon regretted it, sitting directly on the cold bench.

We

were in the second row even though I was normally a back-of-the-room type.

I didn’t know the first thing about volleyball.

I filled the time before the game reading about the positions and rules, rattling

them off to my grandparents, who sat on either side of me.

Eventually the gymnasium filled up, and even though I kept explaining

the roles of each position, I was sure they could not hear me anymore over the bustle.

“Oh!” grandmother exclaimed when the players started jogging out.

“They’re all so tall!”

“Oh!” she exclaimed again, her hand rapidly tapping my shoulder.

“There’s Louise!”

“Louise, look!” grandfather said, pointing, having not heard grandmother.

I waved to her.

She was average height compared to the rest of the team.

They wore orange-accented shirts, and their black

short shorts made them appear even taller.

She smiled widely and waved back.

“Why doesn’t Louise hit any?” grandfather asked as the teams warmed up.

Most of the team was running up to the net, jumping,

and spiking the ball, while Louise tossed the balls in the air.

“I think she’s a setter,” I said, resorting to English and searching for volleyball warm-up roles.

“Is that an important role?”

“It seems really important.”

“Nice, Louise!” grandfather bellowed.

The few people in front of us turned around, startled, and the spiker Louise had tossed

to completely missed the ball.

“Maybe save that for between points,” I suggested.

“Told you he could be loud,” grandmother said proudly.

“Louise loves it!” grandfather insisted.

And it did seem like Louise’s smile was wider than ever.

Once the game started, I fielded questions from either side of me.

Often, I answered the same one, just facing a different

direction.

It was clear Louise was indeed the setter.

It was also clear the Harvard team had a much larger fan base than Louise’s

team did here in Cambridge.

“Don’t worry,” grandfather said.

He removed his jacket and cap.

His white hair was wild underneath.

“I am experienced at cheering

against Harvard.”

“Quickly, open the banner!” grandmother urged, rapidly tapping my shoulder again.

I passed one end of the banner to grandfather and the other to grandmother.

Each side was held up by long sticks grandfather used to keep his plants upright.

“Yes! Yes!” grandfather bellowed when Louise set the ball to her teammate on the far right who spiked it into the opponent’s

court.

Grandmother cheered too, in a way that could only be described as ululating.

I helped them raise the banner.

They shook

it wildly, their movements rippling the huge tiger we had drawn, its body stretching and lunging above our heads, its tail

pointed, its head in the beginning of a snarl.

It seemed like the entire gymnasium quieted.

I wanted to quiet down, too, seeing everybody staring at us.

Grandmother and

grandfather continued their banner waving and cheering, and I would not abandon them.

Still, my stomach twisted, wishing people

would look away.

But Louise’s team gathered, pointed to us, and cheered right back.

Louise stood in the middle of them all.

Her eyes were wide, her lips just barely parted before breaking into a smile.

Both

her hands came to her mouth and then extended outward, a kiss blown in our direction.

I wanted to shrink away, now for a different

reason.

I was delighted and would rather have harbored this feeling of joy alone for a moment.

The game ended not long after, with Louise’s team winning in straight sets.

Grandfather’s voice was hoarse, and grandmother

had not stopped waving her end of the banner, even when it was lowered by our feet.

Louise jogged over afterward.

Grandmother began cheering all over again, her hands waving as if a celebrity were approaching.

Louise took her hand in both of hers.

“You all are amazing,” she laughed, looking between the three of us.

Then she looked only at me.

“Thank you.”

“It was all them,” I murmured.

“I’m not very loud.”

“Oh, come on.” I could see the sweat along her forehead.

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“I—” Grandmother nudged me with her elbow.

“Yeah, I guess so. Grandmother did the drawing though, I just outlined it. And

grandfather—”

“Take the credit, Monica,” grandfather huffed.

“Yeah!” Louise crossed her arms.

“You’re always doing such nice things for me. I don’t know why you’d bother.”

Another nudge from grandmother.

“I—well, I like you,” I managed.

She tilted her head.

I tried to make it sound casual.

Had she seen right through me, though?

Would she talk about me with

her teammates afterward, and would they all laugh at me?

“I like you too,” she said gently.

“I’ll grab my stuff, and then we can head back together?”

“You’re not going to celebrate with your teammates?” I asked.

“Nah, I already spend too much time with them.” She ran off, waving behind her.

“She likes you!” grandmother exclaimed in a whisper that everybody around us definitely heard.

“We’re friends,” I mumbled.

“Hmmmm.”

On our way home, grandmother and grandfather swiped their senior passes on the bus scanner with gusto.

They asked Louise questions

about plays they saw earlier in the night—my answers had clearly been unsatisfactory.

There was a lot of pantomiming of volleyball

moves, praise for Louise’s clever thinking, and curses for the opposing team, who grandfather was convinced had played dirty.

“Ah, Monica!” Grandmother tried to draw me into the conversation.

“Maybe you can learn to play volleyball too!”

“I don’t think I’m tall enough.” I smiled.

“Ah, you are probably right.” Grandmother sighed.

“Louise is much taller than you are. Louise is like an asparagus. And you... you are more like a button mushroom.”

“I—I’m not that short!”

“Mm, I love mushrooms, though!” Louise grinned.

“They all have their strengths,” grandfather placated right before pressing the button for our stop.

When we were outside of the house, Louise tugged my jacket sleeve.

“Want to walk a bit more?”

“We’ll go in first and prepare dinner,” grandmother said awfully quickly.

Grandfather followed grandmother dutifully, fumbled

in his jacket for the keys before they both disappeared inside the house.

“Where did you want to go?” I asked.

“Anywhere.”

We headed toward the river.

The neighborhood from our house to the Charles River is a quiet one.

The only other people out

were dog walkers and the occasional passing car.

After we walked in silence for a block, I could not hold it in any longer.

I asked if she was feeling alright.

“Huh?” The sun was setting, and she looked so soft in the light.

It hurt, how she glowed.

I questioned every one of my own

feelings.

“Yes, of course. I’m really quite happy.”

I swallowed.

“I just feel like things got weird between us after our git rebasing.”

“Ah. That’s—” She threw her volleyball up and caught it deftly.

She did this a few more times before answering.

“That’s not

your fault. I was thinking too much.”

It took me another block of colonial brick buildings to make myself press for more.

“About what?” I asked.

She, too, took her time.

Throwing her volleyball up again, the same way I would tap at my keyboard.

“About you, I suppose.”

“What about me?” I braved.

She paused again.

We had made it to the riverbank, the Boston skyline shining.

She set her volleyball on the ground and perched

on top of it.

She gave me her gym bag to sit on.

“About how different your family is from mine,” she said finally.

I was disappointed.

I was also certain, even from the few in-person interactions we’d had together, that she was lying.

“My

family is quite different from most people’s, I think.”

“But it’s so loving. It’s such a... family.” Then she told me about her older brothers, who were both doctors, and how

her parents had expected the same from her.

“What a cliché,” she laughed.

When she was in elementary school and only scored

the average on math and science tests, her parents had begun to lose hope.

“I actually think maybe I’m not bad at math,” she said.

“But for pretty much all my life I thought I was worse than my brothers.

My parents instilled that story in me, whether they meant to or not, and just like that I didn’t believe I could do many things.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to tell them about your change in majors?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She began to rock on top of the volleyball.

“They still don’t know. They’re going to freak out. They’ve settled for

economist. But your grandparents never told you there was something you couldn’t do, right? They seem so supportive. And that’s

why I’m struggling to understand you. Someone who has had that much love and affirmation—I guess I’d expect you to be more...

confident. Arrogant, even. More like the white boys in salmon shorts at Princeton.”

“I didn’t get into Princeton,” I said seriously, and she laughed.

“That’s not a problem. We met regardless.”

I hugged my knees.

“My parents left when I was really young. I think that messed with my self-esteem.” I had never really talked to anyone about my parents’ situation before.

When people asked about them, there were always assumptions involved.

That my parents must be so proud, how could they miss this, why did my mother never volunteer for school activities, it seemed a little harsh that my grandparents were shoveling snow?

But in the quiet of the setting sun with only her to listen, it was easy to talk about.

“My mom left first, and my dad went to Shanghai to work when the stock market crashed here. He rarely comes back. I guess

that’s why I’d do anything for my grandparents.” I nestled my chin between my knees.

“They didn’t have to raise me and treat

me so well.”

Louise turned to me suddenly.

“Let me try reframing your story.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s some research that shows if you change the way you see your own story, there can be profound benefits. Therapists

sometimes use this technique to help patients dealing with trauma see their own life differently, to help them come to peace

with their past. Reframing is one way to put it, you might also see it called story editing, or—”

“Or git rebasing?”

She laughed.

“I think only you would call it git rebasing. But yes, you know what? You’re right. Let’s git rebase your commit

history. Actually, scratch that. I’ll reframe my story. Then you reframe yours. It’ll be a good exercise, you’ll see.” She

cleared her throat.

“My original story: I was never as good at anything as my brothers. I didn’t win any of the awards they won. I only got into

Princeton because they both went there. I’m going to disappoint my parents even more once they find out I’ve changed majors.

They’re going to say I’m wasting their money. But I’m the helpless youngest child, so they’ll grudgingly continue paying for

my degree, as long as they can still tell their friends that all of their children went to Princeton.”

“Can I rebase your story?” I asked suddenly.

I hated hearing all the ways she talked herself down.

“Oh, yes. Please do.”

“Your new story: You weren’t as good at math or science as your brothers, but you were good at talking to people and making

friends. You won awards for volunteering and for your essays in history class.” The words came easily.

“You got into Princeton

not because of your brothers, but because you were interesting—you had a drive for storytelling and uniting people, and you

could join the volleyball team to boot. Your parents were confused when they found out about your change in major, but it

made sense to them since you were always asking for stories. They were reluctant to show it, then they became interested in

these stories and new histories you’re uncovering and archiving, and it helped them learn more about themselves too.”

She did not say anything for a while.

By then, it was too dark to make out her expression, so I stared at the river.

The wind

of the late October evening was picking up, but I wasn’t cold, not next to her.

“You’re good at this,” she said eventually, a softness to her voice that wasn’t there before.

“Thank you. Now let me try you.

Tell me your story.”

I struggled to start.

She had rattled hers off so easily.

But it was not so different from writing a journal entry.

“My mom left before I can remember, and no one has ever told me exactly why,” I began.

“I think she didn’t get along with

my grandparents. I do remember my dad leaving. He and my grandfather fought terribly. So it was just me and my grandparents.

I guess I did wonder if my parents didn’t care enough about me to even visit. It’s not like they’re dead, they’re just living

their lives elsewhere. But I didn’t wonder that much. My grandparents were always more than enough.

“I worked hard in school, but I didn’t have many friends.

I always felt like I should be helping my grandparents, since they’re getting old and sometimes their English falters.

I studied computer science because that seemed like the quickest way to make money without a graduate degree.

I wanted to make sure they wouldn’t have any financial problems.

Now my grandmother is losing her memory, so I’m trying to spend more time with her, to help my grandfather, but also to understand her better, before it’s too late.

I’ve spent my whole life with them and yet I barely know anything about them.

And part of me is scared to ask.

”

She placed her hand on mine and squeezed.

“Alright,” she said, taking a breath.

In the dark, there was only her voice, soft and assured.

“Here’s your rebase message:

You grew up beloved by all of your family except for the selfish ones who ran off for their own purposes. Your grandparents

were hurt by your parents’ leaving, but they will never stop thanking the day they were left with you. They delighted in how

quickly you learned everything and how you helped them embrace modern technology in a way that made all their friends jealous.

Whenever they pulled out a phone and sent off a text message, their friends would exclaim, ‘Wow, you know how to use one of

those doohickeys?’ and they would say, prouder than any parent, ‘Yes! My granddaughter makes sure we keep up to date and that

we are protected from malware.’ It was no surprise to them when you got into one of the best colleges in the country and studied

computer science, something you’ve always had a natural inclination toward. You didn’t have many friends because your concerns

didn’t align with most high schoolers, who cared only about popularity while you cared about your family.

“In college you found people you could call your friends all while continuing to make your grandparents proud.

Technology

is still something you love, and you can’t wait to work in a burgeoning field where you can quickly make a difference.

You

want to use your skills to help.

You already have, by using your project to reunite your grandmother with her cousin.

You

have always been about help and support, first to your grandparents, then to your friends.

And your friends, even if there

may not be many, are so grateful.

“But wait, there’s more!” she exclaimed when I tried to interrupt her.

“You understand the value of stories, and maybe that is because it is in your very blood. You come from a long line of pencil makers, and though nobody in the family makes pencils anymore, you have taken over the mantle in some way. Isn’t technology—typing, writing, blogging—the new pencil?”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” I finally managed to interrupt.

“I’m still going! Tech is a means to connect with others, and you did not want your grandparents to be left behind. You are

the latest in a series of story preservers and sharers and enablers, and you are carrying that on whether you know it or not.

Does that scare you?”

I sighed.

“It does.” My voice shook, taking me by surprise.

“I’m scared because I know they won’t live all that much longer. And with

grandmother it will be even sooner. Even if she is alive, it won’t be long before she can’t remember. Today was a really good

day for her. But most days... Soon she might not even remember me. I guess I should be grateful for what they have already

given me. I know they’re older than many people live to be.”

When she did not say anything, I glanced over at her.

I could just make out her smile.

“What?” I asked, replaying what I had said.

“You accepted your reframed story. That’s a huge step.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Totally!” She threw her hands in the air.

“But I was tricky about it. I reframed your story and then asked you a question

that you could only answer if you had accepted the story as yours. Clever, right?”

I hid my smile in my knees.

“Yes, very clever. But I’m not convinced that believing in my story is going to change how I go about things.”

“I can send you the research papers. Or rather, let me give you an example.” The energy in her voice was palpable.

“I used to be really mediocre at volleyball, or at least that’s what I thought. But then one day, before a big game, I overheard one of the older girls talking about the team. She said, ‘The underclassmen are either athletic and lazy, or diligent and not athletic. Except Louise. She is both athletic and diligent—we’ll need to keep an eye on her.’ And I’m telling you the truth—before that point, I really did not think I was good at any part of volleyball except showing up to every practice. Once I realized somebody was seeing my story in that way, the confidence boost was incredible. We won every game that season.”

“That sounds great,” I said.

“But I don’t think that has happened to me before.”

“Just wait.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I’m afraid of what I might learn about my grandmother,” I admitted.

“That’s why I haven’t tried to learn to Reforge. Whether

I learn about it through pencils or EMbrS or you asking for her story—I’m afraid.”

“That’s not unusual,” she said gently.

“But perhaps another question you can ask yourself is, will you regret not learning

about her?”

I didn’t know the answer to that.

At one point, even a few months ago, I would have responded yes, of course.

But for the

first time, I was questioning the need to know everything.

Questioning even EMbrS and its need for data, questioning Prof.

Logan’s radical sharing philosophy.

Not everything needed to be shared, did it?

Or was it merely blissful ignorance I chased?

“I would give anything to know about my grandparents,” she said quietly.

“Even if it was horrible. That’s how we learn to

be better, isn’t it? And I think you would want to hear her side of the story, wouldn’t you?”

She had a way of making things seem so logical, obvious.

I was about to tell her so when my phone buzzed.

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“We have to go home.” I stood and picked up her gym bag.

“Is everything okay?”

“I think grandmother just realized we have four people here.”

“Is that bad luck or something?”

“It means we have the right number of people for mahjong. Have you played before?”

“No.” She stood up and kicked the volleyball into her hands.

“My parents told us to stay away, since it’s gambling.”

I grinned, suddenly eager to not be the straitlaced one.

“C’mon. I’ll teach you. Or rather, my grandparents will teach you by winning all of your money. It’s okay! They’ll let you

use Monopoly money for now. It’s rare that there are two other people around for them to play.”

“I don’t know.” Even so, we began to walk back.

“What if I become addicted?”

“It’s good for keeping your mind active. They always say that’s how they’re still sharp at their age. All their former mahjong

partners have passed away over the last few years.”

“Ah, you’re cruel to bring that up! Fine, let’s go.”

After dinner, we played deep into the night, grandmother insisting on playing a full set.

The game moved slowly at first,

as they explained the rules to Louise, but after the first round, tiles were flying.

Louise ended up with only a minor loss, while grandfather and I both lost a significant chunk.

Grandmother came out on top,

her stack of neon Monopoly money piling up throughout the night.

“I was so close to winning that last round!” Louise sighed.

“We can play again tomorrow,” grandmother said smugly, counting her fake money.

“Yes!”

“You’re not addicted, are you?” I asked.

She cast me a sly grin.

“Your fault if I am.”

“You two can play together when you’re old,” grandfather said.

“Keeps your mind sharp. Mr. and Mrs. Lee stopped playing with us, and that’s why they died so soon.”

“They died in a car accident!” I exclaimed.

“Because their minds couldn’t think fast enough when it happened,” grandfather insisted.

“Mahjong prevents that.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to that when we’re old, Monica.” Louise grinned, finding my hand under the table.

Now here I am trying to record all that has happened before I forget a single detail, my head full of stories.

What they mean

and how they can change, even the ones from the past.

How we rewrite and revise, how we see ourselves, how EMbrS might see

me.

My head is full of a girl who has worked her way into my closed-off life and somehow pried it open, one who can be the

fourth leg of our mahjong table, one who I cannot stop thinking about, who pulls me in and pushes me away in the span of a

smile.

And it’s full of simple gratitude, for grandfather’s cheers, and the way grandmother comes into my room and says good

night, it was a good day today wasn’t it, sleep well, my little mushroom.