The Many Daughters of Afong Moy(19)

“Now, before you say no,” her mother said as she took out a photo from another file and held it to her chest as though it were a closely guarded state secret.

Greta kept repeating, “No. No. No. No…”

“This is Sam. And he’s from Seattle, but he’s been living in Shanghai for five years. He teaches English and Sanshou—the Chinese boxing your father watches.”

“He’s quite good. His parents are very nice, we had lunch with them. Both doctors,” her father added, tapping the table twice for emphasis.

“I’m. Not. A leftover woman!” Greta protested, knowing that was the hideous term for women in China who reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven without being married. She scrunched up her face and closed her eyes as though this were a bad dream or the premise for a reality TV show called The Chinese Bachelor: Old Maid Edition.

Greta opened her eyes and stared at the plate of warm mochi, realizing dessert was the bait and she’d fallen for it. “Ah-ma, I’m single because I haven’t met the right person, okay? I work—constantly. And believe it or not, I’m happy.” Or at least okay, Greta thought, the next-door neighbor to the gated community of happiness. I’ll find my way in there someday. Either that or I’ll become the mayor of Okayville.

Her mother showed her the photo. “We know how shy you can be. Just give him a chance, Margaret, who knows?” She said who knows with the smile and guile of a seasoned politician. “What do you have to lose? You might be surprised.”

Greta shook her head. She hated it when her mother called her Margaret, and was about to remind her of that fact. Then she saw the photo and couldn’t say a word.

The young man appeared to be mixed-race—Blasian—half-Asian, half-Black. About her age, which was a small relief, because the mechanics of all of this was uncomfortably reminiscent of picture brides, a century earlier, who were generally married off to men twice their ages. However, this fellow didn’t look like he’d have any trouble finding a wife, or a date, or a harem. To Greta’s hormonal astonishment, he was distinctly handsome in a way that reminded her of classic poems from high school. Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove. She hated herself for having such a shallow reaction to a set of high cheekbones, a strong chin, and a welcoming smile. To the steely opalescence of his eyes, the curls of his long dark hair that reached his broad shoulders. There had to be a catch. Why was he single? Why were his parents trying to set him up? What crimes had he possibly committed? Greta searched for the asterisk, the fine print, the part that said batteries not included, some assembly required, may be a choking hazard.

“Well,” her mother asked, “what do you think? He’s very handsome.”

Greta thought about the early planning meetings for the Syren app. How she fought to create a way for women to make the first move, to protect their identities and not become part of an online rotisserie of push-up bras and sorority smiles. Instead of hooking up with guys on a trash app like Tinder, whose mission statement, Greta thought, should have been True love is just a dick pic away?. Greta’s all-nighters had been spent in a cubicle where she created an algorithm that let women self-select the inner workings of a person. By their clever answers to unique questions, their reactions to pop culture references, their fears, their hopes and aspirations. Their physicality was an afterthought, a validating proof of identity, but not a definition of that person. Looking at the photo in front of her, though, her entire body wanted to swipe right.

Then she thought of all the times she’d been disappointed by boys, by men, by men who acted like boys. “It doesn’t matter what I think, he lives in…”

“Ballard.” Her father shrugged. “A half hour away, depending on traffic.”

“Wait, what?”

“He’s in Seattle for one month, at least. And I think you would be good for each other. Don’t be mad, but I told Sam he could pick you up for lunch tomorrow. I know you work every weekend, so I gave him your company’s address.”

“Ah-ma!” Greta felt herself dividing in two. Half of her was furious that her parents were playing matchmaker again, without her consent. The other half was upset that it was a week before her period and she felt bloated and she didn’t have anything to wear. She brought the two sides back together and said, “Fine, but this is the last time.”

She saw both of her parents smiling with relief. Then her mother handed over the file with the rest of Sam’s biographical information. “You should read for yourself.”

Greta reached for a piece of fried gao and took a bite. She tasted the crispy edge, the warm, chewy, glutinous middle. She stared at the file and sighed, briefly satisfied, but knowing that gao, like people, can look sweeter than it is.





6 Dorothy




(2045)

Dorothy dropped Annabel off at preschool with a container of fried gao that her daughter could share at snack time. “Be good, Baby-bel.” Dorothy snuck a piece and took a bite. It was still warm on the inside and chewy. “Your mommy makes the best, huh?”

Annabel nodded, took a nibble, and smiled. Then Dorothy gave her a hug and watched as an employee took Annabel’s hand and led her back.

The school worker at the front desk, a young Japanese woman named Toshiko, said, “She’s our favorite little artist, that one.” She regarded Dorothy for a moment. “You know, Mrs. Moy, while I have you here, do you mind if I ask you if there have been any significant changes at home? Annabel’s been acting a bit strangely since the last storm, and I’ve been meaning to check in with you or your husband.”