The Astonishing Color of After(30)

I chewed fast and swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of my grip on my fork. “I’m not even sure I’ve heard the whole story. When I was little, I used to ask how they met, and they would just say they’d known each other since the beginning of time, for hundreds of lives.”

“Life after life,” said Charles. “Very romantic.”

I smiled, but inside I was wondering if romantic was the right way to describe it. Once upon a time, maybe. I thought of how Dad used to sit on the couch while Mom puzzled out new pieces on the piano. There’d be something work-related in his lap—papers he was pretending to grade—but I knew he was really listening to the music, watching my mother move like a wave. His eyes stayed glued to her, and a soft smile tugged up the edges of his mouth.

That had been romantic. But something had changed in the last several months, the most obvious of which being that Dad started flying off to conferences and things. He was too busy now.

He’d shifted his work toward economic sociology, whatever that meant. He was gaining recognition and being invited to speak, join research projects, be a visiting professor. He was coauthoring a book with a fellow sinologist—it sounded like a big deal.

My mother was so loudly supportive and enthusiastic of everything. It was obvious: She was overcompensating for the guilt she felt whenever he suggested we move to Asia. He’d asked about China and Taiwan and Hong Kong and Singapore, and every time her answer was Maybe in a few years, or What about Leigh’s schooling, we cannot afford international private school, or I moved here for a reason.

“Leigh?”

Caro kicked me under the table. I’d missed something Gaelle said. “Sorry, what?”

Everyone smiled politely like I hadn’t just zoned out.

“Did you ever find out how they actually met?” said Charles.

“Right,” I said. “Yeah. My mom was still a college student in Taiwan, but she came over for a summer music program in Illinois. My dad had just started his PhD there, and both of them got dragged to a mix-and-mingle event. They dated for almost the entire summer… and then kept it up long-distance after that.”

“Wow,” said Mel. “Long distance is tough.”

“Yeah.” I imagined my mother waiting for his call, snatching up the receiver on the first ring.

“And then?” said Charles.

“He proposed over the phone, and she flew to Chicago, and they eloped.”

Gaelle was beaming. “I love it.”

“You would love it if they’d met falling into a septic tank,” said Mel. “As long as they ended up together.”

“Yup, she’s a hopeless romantic,” Caro told me with an eye roll.

“There’s got to be at least one of us in this family,” said Gaelle.

“Lucky for you, there are two.” Charles reached out to pinch his wife’s chin and then her nose. Gaelle dissolved into musical giggles.

I tried to remember the last time I’d seen my mother laugh like that. The last time she’d looked so happy. I focused on Gaelle’s wide smile, the crow’s-feet wedging cheerfully into the corners of her eyes, and tried to mentally transplant my mother’s features onto that carefree face.

As we painted the next day, my brain replayed the conversations from that dinner. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother. My father. About Axel and Leanne.

Caro was lucky to have these amazing grandparents in her life, to be so close they could joke about things like sex. The construction-paper family tree I’d made all those years ago stretched across the surface of my mind. That project was long gone, probably recycled as soon as it had come off the bulletin board, but it lived on in my brain. I pictured it going through a shredder, the kind that spat out squares so tiny they were impossible to reassemble.

“What’s on your mind?” Caro asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been weirdly quiet. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I was so caught off guard by the question I couldn’t even think of a good lie.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” She set her brush down and wiped her hands on her smock. “Come on. Spill.”

“I was just… thinking about your grandparents.”

She didn’t say anything. She just sat there, waiting for me to continue.

“I’ve never met my grandparents on my mom’s side. I don’t even know what they look like.”

“Why’s that?” said Caro.

“That’s the frustrating part,” I said. “I have no clue. My parents won’t offer any explanation for it. It’s just like… a given. That I’ll never get to know them. I don’t have a choice in the matter. I’ll never know if they’re super in love, if they hate each other, if they’re weird, if they pick their noses over breakfast—nothing.”

“No offense,” said Caro, “but that sounds pretty messed up.”

“You’re telling me.” I ran a hand through my hair and realized I was probably streaking paint everywhere. “Even if they’re terrible human beings—if they’re sociopaths or something—I still want to meet them and judge for myself. At the very least I should know why I’m cut off from them.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”