Picture Us In The Light(44)
But I’m already out in the living room with my tape. “Not listening!” I call back. They’re all Chinese; obviously they’re all going to bring something. “Can’t hear you!”
At five-forty (which is basically five, Asian time) the doorbell rings. “Aiya, Daniel, the door,” my mom cries from the kitchen, rushing to the hall mirror with her lipstick. The Lims and the Chius come pouring in, their arms weighted down with the pink bakery boxes and oranges and Saran-Wrapped platters of spareribs and noodles and braised abalone my mom insisted they wouldn’t bring, and everyone’s greeting each other in the hallways when the Pons come, too (also, for the record, bearing food), and with them that flood of goodwill that makes me feel a little safer in the world.
My parents’ friends’ kids are all younger. I’m four years older than Harold, who’s the next oldest. The Huang kids brought iPads and plop down in the living room, and Chelsey Lim and Anson Chiu crowd around to see what they’re doing. I sprawl out on the floor and talk with Harold, who’s in seventh grade now, about whether his school’s robots club is a sham (spoiler: it is; the advisor keeps trying to tell him drones aren’t robots and as far as Harold’s concerned, all credibility has been lost). Harold’s this nerdy kid with giant glasses that keep slipping down his nose and a total lack of social awareness, and he’s a genius. He takes practice SATs for fun. I get a kick out of him. Sometimes when I think about the kind of kid my parents would’ve chosen, if it worked like that, I think Harold is who my dad would’ve picked, and I wonder if my sister would’ve turned out that way.
My mom comes to recruit me to help her in the kitchen, the counters overflowing with steaming plates and bowls, and in between her hurried orders—get a cup for Mabel a yi, put Lin a yi’s cake in the refrigerator—the aunties descend on me, chattering about how big and handsome I’ve gotten (sure, I’ll take it) and asking a million questions about RISD. They pinch and pat me and plot out a future in which I’m famous and rich and successful until my mom pulls me aside, her smile gone.
“Go find Baba,” she whispers, which is when it occurs to me that ever since the doorbell rang he’s been in the back of the house. “Tell him to come back out here.”
I assumed he would be doing—what, exactly? Getting ready or something, but when I find him he’s lying on his bed watching TV. My hope flattens a little, loses dimension. I say, “Uh, Ma wants you to come out there.”
He kind of grunts and pretends to be watching really intently. It’s a commercial. “Are you coming?” I say. “What are you doing in here?”
He waves his hand. “I’ll come out.”
“She said—”
“It’s okay. I’ll come right out.”
I close the door behind me. When my mom sees me come back without him, something in her expression collapses. An image of the two of them next year, the space without me here echoing between them, floods me with sadness. I wrestle the sticky rice into a serving dish and joke around with Uncle Benson and Uncle Fred. Convincingly, I think, even though in truth I have a sick feeling that maybe I should’ve tried to talk to my dad, or tried to alert my mom.
It’s ten or so minutes before my dad comes back out. I see him coming down the hallway before he sees me, his face drawn, and just before he comes into the living room he plasters on a smile, folds himself into the back-clapping and loud exclamations of his friends. He relaxes, I think, a little bit. Christmas is back on track.
And it stays that way until my dad’s pouring drinks and Uncle Benson asks, “So how is the lab? When will you move up to professor?”
Auntie Mabel makes a jerking motion with her head at him. My dad starts to answer and then stops, and then waits a beat too long, and then the silence stretches out until you feel it around you like a cloak. My mom’s smile slips away. Auntie Mabel and Auntie Lin exchange a look. I realize, when they do, what happened—my mom already told the aunties what happened, but the uncles don’t know yet.
“Why isn’t he answering your question?” Calvin asks. He’s five. Auntie Mabel motions at him to be quiet. Calvin frowns. “But—”
“Calvin.”
“But you said—”
Auntie Mabel smiles apologetically around the kitchen. That could’ve been my dad’s out; he could’ve made some joke about kids, or something. But he fumbles, isn’t sure what to say, and then that awkward silence rears up again.
“Well, that’s all right,” Uncle Benson says loudly, realizing, I think, why his wife was trying to motion to him to shut up. “Always next time, right?”
“Right.” My dad clears his throat, and stretches his lips over his teeth. “Yes. Next time.”
Everyone leaves early. I can feel my mom frantic to keep them there, frantic for everyone to be having a great time, but as soon as presents are opened and red envelopes handed out the parents all quickly gather their kids, making excuses about getting everyone home to bed. When they’re gone I find my mom sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly at the mound of dishes and the chicken carcasses strewn all over the counters.
“I’ll do these,” I say, trying to paint brightness into my voice, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach. “You should go rest.”