I covered my eyes with my hands. “I can’t believe you all did this. I know I have problems with dating, but this is overkill. You didn’t have to hire a specialist. Most of you are accountants or are married to one. You’re supposed to be good with money!”
“Aiyah, she isn’t happy,” Auntie Gloria wailed.
Ma blushed. She was a senior auditor at the firm. “This is a smart investment, Vanessa. Good matchmaking is a science. Madam Fong’s success rate and statistics check out.”
“Did she have a guarantee clause?” I asked.
“Oh, you can’t ask for that. This is a very complicated process,” Auntie Faye said. She handed her tablet to me. “See. That is her website.”
I frowned. The site appeared professional and the picture of Madam Fong seemed real enough, but the website was in simplified Chinese. “You’re cheating. You know I can’t read this.”
“You trust us.” Auntie Gloria pressed her hand against her chest. “Would your aunties lie to you?”
The room erupted in outraged Hokkien directed toward my mother. The absurdity of this situation would have made me laugh if I weren’t the crux of the joke. I didn’t fault their good intentions: these women would walk through fire for me. Auntie Gloria defended me from a bully at the park when I was in first grade, and encouraged Ma to enroll me in tae kwon do lessons. Auntie Faye snuck me romance novels when Ma banned them from the house.
“You know I love you all,” I declared over the din. “I mean, this is sweet in a weird kind of way.”
“Why weird?” Auntie Gloria asked. “We want you to be happy. We’re only thinking about you.”
I sighed. “I know.”
“Remember, no refund. If it doesn’t work out, then we only paid for the round-trip plane ticket and down payment.” Ma squeezed my hand.
The earnestness in their faces made it much harder for me to disappoint them. I was receiving an expensive gift I neither wanted nor asked for. Had this been a sweater, the proper response would be to thank them, wear the hideous garment once in their presence, and then bury it in a closet, ready to be pulled out to refute any accusations it had been tossed or given away. Perhaps one meeting with the matchmaker could be enough to pacify the aunties.
I placed my other hand over my mother’s. “Fine, fine. I’ll give it a try.”
The aunties broke out into triumphant smiles. Of course they’d be pleased: they got what they wanted.
“Does this mean I’m not getting a mani or pedi?” I asked.
“You said yes, so you will be getting one,” Auntie Faye laughed. “I’ll call the staff. Everyone gets treatments today.”
* * *
* * *
On the morning before I met with the matchmaker, I researched everything I could find regarding the lore. It had a long history in China. Some consulted zodiac charts, some numerology, but the best matchmakers were guided by their intuition and memory. Reading about the subject reminded me of how much it resembled fortune-telling. People yearned for romance and love as much as they wanted guidance; that was why both professions hadn’t died out. I was by no means qualified as a fortune-teller, nor had I any intention to be. The Yu family already had one true clairvoyant: Aunt Evelyn.
Ma provided me with the details for the meeting. She had also gone ahead and sent my picture and description to Madam Fong. This might be the only occasion I didn’t mind her interference. Typing up my own bio, measurements, and whatever strange details the matchmaker needed would have been painful.
I spent part of my lunch break traveling from the firm’s location near the airport to Linfield Oaks in Menlo Park. Surrounded by palm trees and beautiful gardens, the hotel’s classic-style brick and shutters created an old Hollywood feel. The aunties had outdone themselves by hosting the matchmaker at a four-star establishment.
After parking my modest, cherry-red, five-year-old Toyota Corolla, I headed to the lobby in search of the lounge. I knew the layout. Every Yu was well acquainted with every hotel in the Bay Area from the countless family functions: weddings, retirements, anniversaries, and birthdays.
The recently renovated lounge had the aesthetic of The Great Gatsby: gold leaf, geometric art deco walls, painted wood ceiling tiles, and interlocking patterned floors. I found the matchmaker in a plush booth third from the back. Given the nature of our meeting, I was grateful for the privacy afforded by her choice.
Madam Fong was a stern-looking woman in her late sixties. Her ears, neck, and wrists dripped with gold and jade. She had the air of a judge of the Diyu with her sharp features and rigid posture. Her goal appeared to be intimidation: potential parents and candidates had no room to question her proposed matches.
She gestured for me to sit across from her. The bracelets at her wrist jingled from the abrupt movement. I took my seat and set my purse down beside me.
She began speaking in rapid Mandarin and stopped when she noticed my look of incomprehension. The matchmaker shook her head and clucked her tongue. Even though I wasn’t fluent, I did recognize the one term of derision she slipped under her breath. Xiang jiao ren. Derogatory for those who looked Chinese, but acted American. I could have called the meeting off, but Madam Fong was only one of a long line of Chinese who had disrespected me for not being fluent, for not being Chinese enough.
The older woman frowned. “English it is then.”
“Thank you.”
“Your relatives enlisted my services to find you a match. Normally, I make matches between families of people I know in Shanghai. Your case is unusual.” She narrowed her eyes. “You are a strange girl.”
Again, this was a variation on something I’d heard from outsiders. I felt normal, but my peculiar talent for spitting out fortunes marked me as an other. I had spent my whole life wishing to be like everyone else—normal.
“I have consulted numerology, astrology, and zodiac charts, but have come up with nothing. You have no match.” Her powdered brow furrowed. “Are you dead?”
Five
The matchmaker ordered a Macallan 25 on the rocks.
She cradled her drink with her left hand. The ice shifted against the clear glass with each breath. We sat in silence, the steady metronome from her drink marking time. After what felt like an eternity, she reached out and touched my hand. Her heavy rose-based perfume teased my nostrils as a dry laugh rattled off her chest. “Well, you’re not a ghost. I’ve dealt with them before, you know. Are you familiar with the red thread of fate?”
I nodded. When I was a child, over bowls of salted duck egg congee on rainy Saturday mornings when my grandmother and I stayed inside instead of heading to the park, she told me stories like these, of how the gods place a thread connecting two people together as soul mates.