“Tell me if she says something.” Auntie Faye waved and headed for the till. “I’ll just buy a gift card and be done with it.”
I let out a relaxed sigh. “Thank you for the save.”
“You know her. She needs to be the first for any kind of news.” He wrinkled his nose, jarring his glasses a little askew. “How are you holding up?”
“I feel the pressure. I already know Ma’s planning something, but I don’t know what. She is determined that I have a plus-one for the wedding. At least you’re good in that department. How are things with Jack?”
“Good! I think I have prepared him for the family. He’ll be ready for Cynthia’s wedding.”
Jack McCrae stepped into Uncle Michael’s life six months ago after I invited Michael to Jack’s photography exhibit and introduced them. Two months later, I had the formal pleasure of “meeting him” over hotpot. Jack was an energetic and passionate photographer. His photographs left me with an enigma. I wanted to know more about his subjects and the story behind them all. The portraits of my uncle were unabashed love letters: pictures that caught my uncle in his joyful moments. I didn’t need to be present to know the photographer contributed to said happiness: I had witnessed it firsthand on numerous occasions.
This man loved Uncle Michael.
“Maybe you can bring a friend instead?” he asked. “That might placate your mother for now.”
“I have no friends unless you count the cousins. And one of them betrayed me by getting married.”
“The horde” comprised the twenty-seven fourth-generation cousins; not enough for a full football roster, but enough for two teams of softball in the summer. The sports activities were fun, but I preferred the wine and painting nights.
“If you and your aunt haven’t decided where to eat, I know just the place.” He offered his arm and escorted me to the exit, where Auntie Faye was waiting.
* * *
* * *
Uncle Michael chose a quiet Indian fusion restaurant ten minutes away, and while we browsed the menu, I ordered mango lassis for all three of us. My uncle and aunt were engrossed in a conversation about the lavish prizes and ongoing bets on who would win the aunties’ upcoming annual mahjong tournament. The tension eased from my shoulders as I sipped the delicious drink in peace.
Without intention I spied a pattern in the golden droplets clinging to the glass. My stomach churned as the taste of buttermilk pancakes soaked in maple syrup flooded my mouth. A prophecy coalesced like hard, round candy until it pushed against my teeth and expanded.
“Johnny is planning to propose to Andria next Tuesday and she will accept, but only if the proposal involves an inherited diamond citrine ring.”
Auntie Faye leaped from her chair, kissed me on the cheek, and excused herself as she pulled out her phone while heading outside for some privacy—ironic considering she was about to broadcast gossip.
Uncle Michael leaned in and whispered, “Every time that happens, I wonder if it’s painful.”
“It’s uncomfortable. That’s about it,” I replied. A string of happiness danced within me before vanishing like the notes from a plucked harp. They were replaced by a throbbing in my right temple. I hadn’t had a headache in a while. I dismissed it as a sign I was either tired or hungry.
“There’s no guarantee when it’ll happen,” I continued. “Ma and the aunties have tried more than enough times to compel it out of me. Of course, they failed. I’m just happy it’s not something horrible this time.”
“Have you talked to Evelyn?”
Aunt Evelyn was a member of the San Francisco Yus: the more prosperous branch with the tea import-export empire. My limb of the family tree, the Palo Alto Yus, operated the accounting firm that supported the tea business. A respected clairvoyant, she and I disagreed regarding our “gift.” We last spoke after I had invited her to the Andy Warhol exhibit at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. We hadn’t left the lobby before quarreling. She went home. I walked through the museum alone.
“I don’t think she’s happy with me. I spent my whole life avoiding her attempts to educate me. Every time I try to talk to her about it, we argue. You’d think, of all the people in the world, we’d be on the same page.” I sighed, and traced the rim of the empty glass. “All she cares about is the rules and how we need to follow them.”
“I think you two have more in common than you realize. As for this prophecy, it’s going to be complicated. If the ring is what I think it is, Johnny will need to grovel.”
I stifled a giggle.
Auntie Faye returned and sucked in her lips. “Aiyah, this is not going to be easy. What kind of ring again?”
I repeated the description.
She tapped her temple. “We have to find this ring. We know Johnny can’t do better. The girl is a catch, and we can’t let her get away from the family.”
I glanced over to see my favorite uncle attempting to hide his amusement.
“Auntie Faye, maybe you should ask Uncle Michael?”
“Michael, who owns the ring?” she demanded.
“Ning. It was bequeathed to her by Great-Auntie Nancy three years ago.”
Auntie Faye’s indignation peppered the air along with a litany of Hokkien and Mandarin curses. My fluency with the dialect was pidgin, limited to food and numbers. The previous generation’s enrollment in Chinese school cemented their command of Mandarin, while their parents spoke Hokkien at home. The cousins and I were spared language education, but not music lessons. Uncle Michael once joked that if our generation wanted to form a symphony, we could.
“Ning can’t stand him. She won’t give him the ring,” Auntie Faye hissed. “Remember the family picnic at Mitchell Park? She couldn’t stop complaining about him, saying that he has more metal on his face than a Honda Civic.”
Uncle Michael smiled. “The solution is easy. Have him take her out to dinner. Upscale and French. He needs to shave first and borrow something fashionable from Chester’s closet. Also, buy a bottle of pinot grigio in the fifty-dollar range. Ning loves her wines. It’ll help sweeten the pot.”
“Ah, Michael, you’re so smart. This is why I love you.” Auntie Faye patted his cheek, then turned to me. The heat from her focused gaze caused a bead of sweat to trickle down my temple. “Now that Johnny is getting married . . .”
My time was running out.
Two
Yu formal family functions are a symphony of chaos, and weddings were no exception. Nuptials ranged from traditional to Western with a scandalous elopement or two. Every Yu injected a quirk of their own, and Cynthia was no different: she rescheduled the tea ceremony with the groom’s family to after the ten-course reception dinner. Cynthia would have moved the entire wedding ceremony to the evening if her mother, Auntie Gloria, hadn’t threatened to kill her youngest daughter. Only after Cynthia stated that she would be late to her own wedding did her mother agree to delay the tea ceremony. Cynthia did rack up the most tardies despite living ten minutes away from her high school.