American Panda: Chapters 20–28

But then when I thought about making up with them, the hole in my chest closed as a cavity opened in my brain, a partial lobotomy. I couldn’t go through life as a shadow. If I gave in to them, I’d lose myself.

“Yes. Same bone structure and delicacy. Your features are obviously from your father, but your base is so clearly her.”

My lips hardened into a line and I acknowledged her condolences with a brusque nod.

As the puff of fog drifted languidly, I wished I could float away with it and leave everything behind.

He laughed, a little mocking and a lot haughty.

Xing stood at the front, dapper in his black suit and red pocket square.

His eyes glowed as if he had seen an angel. How could anyone oppose this union? Staring at him in that moment, I couldn’t fathom a world in which Xing had chosen our parents over Esther.

I thought about my mom and dad’s relationship. A lifetime of arguments, a lack of affection, no communication. Stifled by the predetermined husband, wife, and in-law roles, the unyielding expectations.

I was finally ready to be a part of today. Ready to enjoy my brother’s happiness. Ready to accept whatever repercussions arose from my attendance.

I wanted to stand and announce it was just a ruse to stop the wedding. That this wasn’t even the first time Yilong had accused a family member of murdering one of her parents.

During Esther’s vows, I stared at the resolve in Xing’s eyes. He was completely sure, not an iota of doubt.

A red wall displaying golden phoenix and dragon statues served as the backdrop, and in front, on a dais, sat a sweetheart table for the bride and groom, most likely to downplay my parents’ absence.

In the center, between candles, a paper snake and rabbit—Xing and Esther’s zodiac animals, respectively—stared back at me.

Darren and I loaded up on abalone in black bean sauce, stir-fried lobster, and pork fried rice—the safest options.

The guests chanted amid the chiming of bells, and the discordant sounds mixed to become, somehow, concordant.

Someone wailed in Chinese, “Huílái ba,” over and over, trying to guide Năinai’s soul home. The dissonant phrase, louder, longer, and more urgent than the chanting, broke through my thoughts and returned me to the present.

The room hushed, and the guests filed out the open door into the courtyard to burn paper clothes, mansions, and furniture for Năinai to have in the afterlife. If an insufficient amount was burned, Năinai’s impecunious soul would haunt her family and friends’ dreams in revenge, complaining of hunger and cold.

“So is this all over now? She’s pregnant. Your one objection is moot. And it’s even a boy. The Lu family line will indeed carry on.”

I closed my eyes, and when I spoke, my voice was serrated. “You feel like seeing me, your own daughter, is the same as cheating on your husband? This is so messed up..."

My mother’s face contorted as if she were tasting a lemon. Before, I would have backpedaled, pulled out the Mandarin to wipe the disapproval away, but now I merely sighed, then looked at her with empathy.

Ying-Na can only make money by demeaning herself for laughs.

She moseyed to the microphone and detached it with experienced hands, like it was a daily routine.

Humor isn’t valued. Every time I made a joke, my father would ask, ‘How’s that going to help you get a husband?’ Because, of course, a docile, quiet, obedient woman is easier to marry off than a funny one full of personality.

I turned into the local Chinese community’s cautionary tale: whore, spinster, homeless, whatever that Asian parent’s biggest fear was.

I guess most men are turned off by my hooded eyes, snub nose, and pan face.

“You know, that’s a lucrative business there—matchmaker for the mothers, bouncer for the daughters. Anyone out there interested in investing?”

You know, it’s cliché, but you really can’t put a price on happiness.

Outside the restaurant, I wrapped my arms around her. Beneath her winter layers, she relaxed, and then finally, what I had been waiting for, for far too long, she reciprocated. Two petite arms wrapped around my back. Squeezing.

Her wavy hair was frozen with wayward icicles, and they snapped at my biceps like Medusa’s snakes.

The class-to-class traffic thinned, leaving just the two of us amid a couple stragglers.

I swirled across the linoleum floor in a series of turns, leaps, and waltzes, my shadow dancing on the wall with me, brought to life by the myriad of burning candles lining the perimeter.

I didn’t hear Darren come in, but I sensed his presence when I landed, coming out of my turns into a sweeping pose. His shadow was tall and still, as if he were enraptured by my movement.

I kept her cheesy secret in my back pocket, and it inched toward daylight with every snide comment.

It was a mathematical definition: The opposite of finding the derivative of a function (differentiation) was to integrate it (integration).

I ignored my inkling of jealousy...

“You’ll be taking a shower over my dead body. If you came to Taichung like I asked, then you would be in a confinement center. We would have splurged for you. Two hundred dollars a day for one month is worth a lifetime of health, is it not? Do you want arthritis?”

So Mrs. Wong believed in Chinese fortune-telling, better known as suànmìng—which, literally translated, means to “calculate fate.” A common practice was to use the parents’ birthdays, the current year, and other arbitrary details to calculate the ideal day and time to give birth so that the child would have good luck.

But eventually, after I had reminded her of her issues with my father, we made headway.

I had tried to prepare him as best as I could, but how do you describe the tiny, formidable hurricane that is Mămá Lu?

I smiled at her, a cheek-straining, unadulterated smile I haven’t given her since I was a little kid.