Page 22

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

October 30, 2018 (2018-10-30T19:10:16.

747097)

loc: Cambridge, Massachusetts.

United States of America (42.

3721865,71.

1117091)

Louise has left, and the house is quiet once more.

Things didn’t go the way I hoped for her last day.

There’s nothing I can

do about that now though.

She had a train to catch.

She’s back on her path, and I’m back on mine.

That’s how these things

go, I guess.

I had planned to wake up early to make us breakfast.

So when I heard footsteps behind me, I assumed it was grandfather, usually

the earliest riser.

I jumped when it was Louise’s voice behind me, her mouth right next to my ear.

“How can I help?”

“Don’t!” I exclaimed.

I had never felt more like grandmother than in that instant, wanting to drive her out of the kitchen

and yell at her for sneaking up on me, while also strangely pleased she was there.

She peered over my shoulder at the still-rising dough and asked what I was making.

I told her it was a secret, that she should

go back to bed.

“Can’t sleep. Keep seeing mahjong tiles in my head.” She glanced around the kitchen.

“I was hoping your grandmother would be awake so I could interview her before I left.”

I told her grandmother always sleeps in after mahjong nights.

I tried to focus on the dough.

Rolling and brushing on sesame

oil paste, rolling again, layering, Louise’s gaze warm on me.

Grandmother had taught me the recipe a few weeks ago.

Hers had

turned out perfectly rectangular while mine were looking more trapezoidal.

I flattened each trapezoid into a plate of white

and black sesame seeds.

“You’re making shaobing,” Louise said, still behind me.

“Stop peeking.”

“I need a spoon for my oatmeal.”

I was indeed blocking the spoon drawer.

Right as I was about to back up to open it, I felt two light touches on either side

of my waist, followed by the gentlest of nudges.

I stepped aside, clearing the way.

Even so, Louise’s hands lingered.

I opened

my mouth to say something but could think of absolutely nothing to say.

Her hands left my waist and opened the drawer, pulled

out a spoon, and popped it in her mouth.

She smiled, teeth reflecting off the metal surface, her eyes crinkled.

“Your shaobing?” she reminded me, taking the spoon out of her mouth and plopping it into her bowl.

I turned back to my raw dough.

“Maybe you should stay another day,” I said, clearing my throat and turning away.

Only the heat from the open oven door was

able to match the heat in my face.

“My grandparents seem to enjoy having you around.”

“Just your grandparents?” Louise leaned over the counter, stirring her oatmeal.

I had never felt so much desire this close

to oatmeal before.

I managed to avoid answering by shoving the tray of shaobing into the oven.

“I wish I could,” Louise sighed.

“But my parents weren’t happy about me spending this much of my fall break away from them.”

“Ah, of course.” I wished I had never blurted out such a request.

Of course she would be in high demand, and of course her

parents had priority.

Louise sat at the kitchen table with her cereal as I tried to cut the soy-sauce-braised beef.

Grandmother had been braising

it for days—probably longer than she intended to—and it would be all the more delicious.

Typically, we only ate the beef with

rice.

On special occasions, though, grandmother would rise early and make shaobing from scratch, flaky flatbread that wraps

around the cold beef perfectly.

It was not long before grandmother came into the kitchen, as if she could sense there was

some bad knifework going on, and shooed me away from the cutting board.

She took over.

Something about using a knife seems

embedded in her muscle memory, and she cut us perfectly thin slices.

By the time grandfather came down, the room smelled like warm bread.

He took a few deep breaths, opened the window, and declared

it perfect soup weather.

He pulled out the leftover soup from the night before and stirred some eggs into it.

The shaobing came out perfectly.

All different shapes, yes, thanks to my amateur rolling pin skills, but their coloring was

beautifully golden and the smell of the toasted sesame irresistible.

We ate at the table, warm bread, cool salted meat, cutting the shaobing open with a pair of kitchen scissors, washing it down

with grandfather’s tomato and egg drop soup.

Louise let out a contented sigh.

“I never want to leave.”

“What plans do you have today?” grandmother asked.

Louise glanced at me, then back to grandmother.

“I was hoping I could spend some time interviewing you,” she began.

“About your time in Shanghai during the war. And afterward.”

Grandmother took her time answering.

I tensed.

She was chewing in a harsh way, perhaps fiddling with her dentures.

“Did you hear Louise’s question?” I asked, hoping she had not, that she would agree without an argument.

Grandmother nodded.

“Why do you wish to know about that time? About Shanghai?” grandmother asked.

She always said “Shanghai” a little differently,

a remnant of her Shanghainese she could not abandon entirely.

“It’s a fascinating time period,” Louise said, sitting up straighter.

“And there aren’t many people around who lived through

it that can still remember.”

“Maybe they don’t want to remember,” grandmother suggested.

Louise swallowed.

“It’s one of the greatest migrations in human history. When so many people fled Shanghai. With all the...

immigration issues we’re facing today, I think we would be able to learn... from that time period—”

She was speaking in Chinese, and for the first time, I heard the faults in it, the imperfections from not having grown up

entirely in the language.

It was still better than mine.

She faltered, though, and made what should have been an impassioned

argument seem clumsy.

“I’m sorry. I would rather not share.” Grandmother finished her soup and handed her bowl to me.

“But you said you would be okay with it earlier,” I reminded her.

“Did I?”

So she did not remember our conversation or she had changed her mind.

I took the bowl and stacked it on top of my own empty

bowl.

I bit my lip.

“Maybe the retelling would be good for your memory,” I ventured.

“There is nothing that can help my memory now.” She said it in a way that made clear the argument was over.

But Louise did not have that same experience reading her.

“Meng shared with me. She said she thought you would too.”

Grandmother frowned.

“If Meng told you her story, then you know mine as well.”

“Everyone has their own story—”

Grandfather cut in.

“Monica, why don’t you take Louise to find some Boston souvenirs to bring home to her parents before her train?” He took the

bowls to the sink.

“Maybe some, ah, what do you call them, with the cream?”

“Cannoli,” I said automatically.

Grandmother took that moment to leave the kitchen.

Grandfather stacked the other dishes in the sink and followed her out.

“Oh fuck,” Louise breathed once they were out of earshot.

“I really messed that up.”

“It’s alright,” I said.

“She’ll forget about it soon enough.” I had meant it as an offhanded comment, not anything specific

to her disease, and only realized the weight of my words after I spoke.

Louise groaned, covering her face.

I did not know how to reassure her, so I grabbed the dishrag from the sink and wiped all

the stray sesame seeds from the table.

“Oh fuck,” she said, and looked away, pushing out her chair.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

“Don’t worry about it,” I attempted, limp dishrag in hand.

“Really. They like you.”

“Surely not anymore.”

“Yes, they do. You gave them so many good memories in the last few days. I don’t think I ever saw them as excited as they

were at your game, not for a long time. And then you played mahjong with them. That’s their favorite.”

“That was before I messed everything up. There’s no reason they would still like me now.”

“Yes, there is. They still like you because I like you.”

“You still like me?” Her face was unreadable.

“Yeah. You’ve really helped me this semester.” I paused, fidgeting with the rag.

“Your prying may have bothered grandmother just now, but without you, I would be going through all of this by myself. You’re... you’re the only one I’ve opened up to, the only one I’ve wanted to open up to.”

Louise sighed, stuffing her hands in her pockets.

“You’re so kind.”

I shrugged and retreated to the sink.

“Should we get some cannoli, then?” I asked.

“Is it close?”

“Yeah. Can’t go a mile here without running into a place that sells cannoli.”

She gave me a weak smile.

An hour before her train was set to depart, she hauled her duffel bag and cooler of cannoli to the front door.

I called for

grandmother and grandfather even as Louise protested.

They came down to say their goodbyes, hunched over by the door, hands

behind their backs, smiling.

“Come again whenever you like,” grandfather said, attempting to help Louise with the bag before she grabbed it herself, thanking

him profusely.

“Yes, please do,” grandmother echoed.

Louise blinked at her, then broke into a smile.

“Thank you all so much for having me. I had the best time.”

“Let’s go, then,” I said quickly, ushering Louise out the door.

I did not want her to realize grandmother was in one of those

states where she didn’t actually know what was happening and was merely following grandfather to be polite.

“Ah!” Louise cried as the door closed behind us.

“We didn’t take their senior cards to use.”

In that moment, I knew that whatever was happening between us, whatever I had been fantasizing about or hoping for, was real.

That I hadn’t, in my isolation, invented this longing or somehow overglorified her virtues.

That even if I were a lost network packet, and grandmother and grandfather were too, that she, at least, was looking for us, remembered and cared for us.

I wanted to wrap my arms around her, to touch the cheeks that were beginning to redden in the cold, and savor how they might feel against my fingers, how soft her hair must be, bunched against her scarf.

She was turning back when I reached for her shoulder and stopped her.

“I bet they’re already in my pocket,” I said and fumbled inside my jacket.

Sure enough, two senior cards with grandmother’s

and grandfather’s smiling faces came out in my hand.

Louise shook her head, smiling.

“I’m in awe of their hustle.”

“We have to hustle now too,” I said regretfully.

It was only a short subway ride to the train station.

I fought with myself the whole time.

I should tell her how I feel, but

the very thought of it sent my heart hammering.

Or I could at least show her how I feel.

It wouldn’t be so weird to take her

hand, or place a hand on her knee—no, something that intimate should involve explicit consent, I scolded myself, partly in

relief.

Perhaps I could ask her first—ah, then what kind of moment would that be?

And what if she said no, or worse, asked

why?

She was silent throughout my internal crisis, staring out the window as our train crossed the river.

When we arrived at the station, the terminal was already announced and passengers boarding.

Louise fished out her phone and

pulled up her ticket.

At the same time, my phone buzzed.

Once I saw the message, I quickly pocketed it again.

“Your grandparents okay?” Louise asked.

I nodded, touched that she had figured out what I was doing.

“Please tell them I’m sorry.” Louise pulled at her sleeve.

“I just—I really wanted to know—”

“It’s fine. She’s already forgiven you.”

“I don’t believe you. Asian mothers hold grudges like none other.”

“That’s true. But I can prove that she’s forgiven you. If you really want.” I reddened even thinking about it.

I could not

bear to see her torture herself.

My heart beat painfully fast.

Louise glanced at the clock on the wall.

Her train was set to depart in a few minutes.

She locked eyes with me.

“Alright, what’s the proof?”

I unlocked my phone and opened it to the latest message from grandmother.

I held my phone out in front of me, screen facing

her, heart bursting.

If I could not muster the courage to say something, this would be the next best thing.

It took Louise forever to read the message.

If grandmother had written it in Chinese characters, there would have been a chance

she wouldn’t be able to read it, a chance we could revert to normal.

But grandmother had written in her usual combination

of not quite pinyin, scattered English, and emojis.

zui hou yi ge chance !

!

Louise stared at it for a long time.

Then she smiled, a smile that widened so slowly until it became impossibly large.

“Does she ship us?” she laughed, a hand covering her mouth.

“I—yeah, I guess she does,” I murmured.

I locked the phone and stashed it away.

“That is the cutest thing I have ever seen.”

I cleared my throat.

“Well. Anyway. She would never have said something like that if she didn’t like you.”

A last call for boarding.

Louise glanced at the train tracks and began to move toward them backward, still facing me.

“How can you know me so well?” She shook her head.

She was backing away faster now, hands gripping the shoulder of her duffel

bag, twisting its strap.

“Thank you.”

And just like at the volleyball game, she brought both her hands to her lips and blew me a kiss.

She hopped onto the train,

seconds before the doors closed.

I lingered, watching her leave on the well-traveled tracks.

Even now, she is cryptic, and I wonder if I’ll ever fully understand her.

For the first time, though, it doesn’t bother me.

A few months ago, I would have asked EMbrS to show me everything it could find about her, to understand all we might have

in common.

But now?

I don’t really know.

It hasn’t been entirely joyful, discovering her, unearthing her truths, and seeing

her tears.

But there has also been joy, and that’s what I cling to as I try to frame this into a story that feels true.