The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(17)

Louis was sound asleep, lightly snoring on the far side of their sectional sofa. He’d taken a sedative to get through the storm, but Dorothy passed on that idea. She didn’t want to be medicating her parental responsibilities for a few hours of sleep.

Dorothy looked around, searching the dark forest of silhouettes their furnishings had become. “Annabel,” she whispered as she looked toward the guest bath, then back in the direction of her daughter’s room.

In the calm, Dorothy heard echoes of thunder rolling in the distance. Everything was quieter now, the wind reduced to an occasional light whistle, the rain and hail had stopped. The air was warm and stagnant, almost musty. She reasoned that they must have passed through the eyewall of the storm and were now in the center, an oasis of calm, with the bulk of the tempest now swirling all around them. She knew that as the storm rolled over the contours of the land it would lose its power.

The worst could be over. Just more rain, and Seattle was built to handle rain.

Then lightning flashed and she saw Annabel.

She was still wearing the footie pajamas Dorothy found for her. Her hair still in pigtails. Annabel was standing on the cushion of a window seat in the living room, a reading nook Dorothy had custom-built that offered a breathtaking view. Annabel stood in the darkness looking out over the city and the roiling black waters of Elliot Bay. As electricity discharged inside distant clouds, Dorothy could see her again, hands on the cold glass, staring up into the darkness, waiting.





5 Greta




(2014)

Greta Moy stared up at the enormous projection screens that flanked the elevated podium of the Westin Hotel’s Grand Ballroom. As the nominees were announced, one by one, she tried to look calm, wishing she had checked to make sure there wasn’t lip stain on her teeth or pineapple curry on her blouse. She held her breath through the presenter’s dramatic pause, filled with the beating of her anxious heart. Then she heard her name called and a roar of applause as her nervous, wide-eyed expression—thirty feet wide and twenty feet high—was splashed on the monitors for all to see.

“The award for GeekWire’s App of the Year goes to Syren!” The emcee held up a statuette of a fat robot with a bow tie and welcomed her to the stage.

Greta felt her cheeks redden as “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” by Queen boomed throughout the event space. En route to collect her award, she shook hands with smiling people she didn’t know, received hugs and air kisses from colleagues she did but whose names were momentarily lost in the fog of pride and embarrassment, modesty and astonishment as two thousand people—the beating heart of Seattle’s tech community—cheered, politely clapped, or offered forced grins that were more smirk than smile. A handful of attendees, including some of her coworkers, whispered to one another with knowing looks and conspicuously raised eyebrows.

Greta held up her award and posed for a photograph as she surveyed the crowd. She understood the gossip. After all, it wasn’t every day that such an honor went to a dating app created by a young woman who’s been notoriously single for as long as anyone could remember. But she also wondered how the audience would react if they found out that Syren, a feminist dating platform designed by women, for women, was funded almost exclusively by a man rumored to have paid off women who’d accused him of sexual assault. That’s when Greta noticed Anjalee, the company’s CFO and one of the founding partners, standing and clapping, pausing to raise a single finger to her lips.



* * *



An hour later Greta’s face was tired from having to smile so much and her pockets were filled with business cards—from potential employers, business reporters, or hopeful strangers looking to hook up the old-fashioned way—she really couldn’t tell.

“Hey, so I heard this weird rumor that you’re not going out with us tonight? What’s that about?” Anjalee caught up to Greta as she waited in a coat-check line. “We’re all going to Knee High. They have this fabulous new retro drink—I think you’d love it—it’s called Absinthe Minded. You should let me buy you one, or two, or five. That way you’ll be too hungover tomorrow to ask for a raise.”

Greta winced. “I’m so sorry.” She’d never been to the Knee High Stocking Company, one of Seattle’s trendy speakeasies, and had always wanted to go. “I wish I could join everyone. I really do. But… I just can’t.” She traded a small plastic token for her coat. “Truth be told, I’d planned to sneak out early, after the winners were announced, because—and I kinda hate to admit this—I didn’t think in a million years that I’d win. Also, my parents just got back from Shanghai and I haven’t seen them and I promised I’d stop by their place over on Beacon Hill and…” Greta looked down at her phone. “Oh God, I’m already two hours late. My mom made my favorite dessert, which takes all day to cook. If I stood them up now that would be the end of me. Rescue workers would find me buried under an avalanche of guilt.”

“Why not just tell them you won a big award?” Anjalee smiled with Botoxed sincerity. “Or better yet, bring ’em along! I’d love to meet your family.”

Greta envisioned her parents reluctantly showing up in matching knockoff Adidas track suits they’d haggled for at some stall in the Qipu Road Clothing Market. They’d shake their heads in disapproval and speak to her in Chinese as her coworkers ordered round after round of bougie, eighteen-dollar cocktails made with Strega and grapefruit bitters. Her parents had retired with a bit of money. Her dad even bought a new Honda last year, but on the way home he stopped at Walmart because there was a sale on toilet paper. The car was packed with bathroom tissue even before it had plates.