The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(18)
“Thank you. But—yeah—tonight’s not good, but definitely next time.” Greta remembered that her parents mentioned they had some papers for her to look at. She’d forgotten that detail since she assumed it was something to do with their will or a DNR, and she’d flatly avoided that morbid discussion, thinking that if she ignored it long enough they’d move on to her aunt or a cousin. How after all these years she’d somehow become the de facto responsible one was a mystery.
“Please, take this in my place.” Greta smiled as she offered Anjalee the robot statuette. “Just make sure he has a designated driver.”
“You sure?” Anjalee asked. “You did all the heavy lifting on the new dating app, that’s why I wanted you up there collecting the award and all the glory. Maybe catch up to us later? I think there’s going to be some utterly shameless karaoke involved.”
Greta smiled an apology and buttoned her coat. “Sing some Sinatra for me.”
* * *
Even before she walked through the front door, Greta could smell the red bean paste and the copious amounts of butter baked into her mother’s nian gao.
“Hey! There’s our Miss Margaret,” her mother said from the kitchen as Greta walked in and took off her coat. “What happened to you? We’d almost given up.”
“I’m sorry I’m so late, Ah-ma.” Then Greta shouted, “Emhou yi si ngo cidou!” to her father, who was in the living room with the volume turned up too high on the television as he watched the Mariners’ Willie Bloomquist strike out against a Yankees pitcher. “Dad! I had a work thing.”
She gave her mother a big hug and offered to help with dessert, but the gao had already been cut into thin slices, dipped in egg, and was almost done being panfried, Cantonese-style, the way Greta liked it. She sat down at the dining room table as her father turned off the TV with a heavy sigh and a serious look on his face.
Greta noticed a folder of papers on the lazy Susan. “How was your vacation?”
“Gah! Shanghai’s too big,” her father said, shaking his head. “Construction cranes everywhere. But still worth it because we made a special detour.”
“Really?” Greta looked at them both, worriedly appraising their weight loss or gain, their gait and general constitution. She’d known other retirees in the neighborhood who’d flown back to China for strange experimental medical procedures that always seemed to be a mixture of Western medicine, Chinese herbalism, and old-fashioned, dollar-driven quackery. Things like consulting a supposedly blind I Ching expert, or trying electric acupuncture on for size, or drinking tea made from powderized rhino horn and dried seahorses—stuff that generally wasn’t covered by Medicare. Then she remembered her grandmother. Maybe they went back to Zou yi’s old village?
“We did make a special trip—you know? Just for you.” Her mother set a teapot on the table. Then a sizzling plate of sweet, fried gao, with the edges perfectly caramelized. She sat down and reached for the folder. “Now, before you say no, just hear us out. Remember, we’re your parents. That means we care about you the most.”
Greta didn’t like where this conversation was headed.
“Look,” she said. “If this is about giving me power of attorney…”
Her father said something to her mother in Chinese, so quickly that Greta didn’t understand. But she noticed that the looks they exchanged betrayed a sense of worry. Or was it strange conviction? That’s when she realized it was the same look they’d had when they fixed her up on a blind date at the Tai Tung restaurant with the son of a family friend, a dentist or a chiropractor or an accountant or something. He was purportedly rich and successful but looked like he’d gone bargain shopping for a toupee and had the personality of an artichoke.
Greta swore never again.
Her mother asked, “Have you heard of the Shanghai Marriage Market?”
Greta’s mouth hung open.
“OH MY GOD, MOTHER! Please tell me you didn’t…”
Her mother opened the folder, took out a file, and Greta saw an enlarged press photo from when she’d been hired at Syren, fifteen pounds ago, when her hair was longer and before she constantly had bags under her eyes from working seventy-hour weeks. There was her résumé too, both in English and Chinese, with an approximation of her salary. Also sheets that listed her grade point averages in high school and college, her measurements from bust to shoe size. Even her cat allergies were mentioned.
Greta covered her face with her hands and let out a horrified groan.
“It was quite illuminating,” her father added. “They have a matchmaker…”
Greta wasn’t listening.
Working at Syren, she’d seen the research from social scientists about the many ways couples were meeting in the twenty-first century. From the popularity of group dates in Japan, to pay-per-hour hotels in Argentina, even the fact that—much to her surprise—there really wasn’t a word for date in the French language. But she’d been positively mortified to learn that a park in Shanghai had been taken over by well-meaning Chinese mothers and fathers who sat at folding tables beneath beach umbrellas, with large photos of their unmarried children on display. They passed out marriage résumés and networked with other parents who were equally desperate for grandchildren.