Madam Fong sipped her scotch. “As a matchmaker, I can see these threads, and you, Vanessa Yu, do not have one.”
“Did my mother tell you that I can see the future?”
She leaned back. “No, she did not.”
Ma gave this complete stranger my weight within two pounds, my blood type, my medical history, and probably my net worth, yet she hadn’t disclosed my fatal flaw. Was hers a crime of omission? That leaving out what made me different would change my predicament?
Madam Fong’s long, tapered fingers tapped the table in a cascading rhythm while she again studied my face. “Your mother sent me all the information I asked for, but conveniently left this out. It complicates matters. I’ve matched thousands of couples. Every time I get a challenging case, I meet it and that person is paired: the marriage lasts. But you have no thread.”
There was a morbid sense of relief in having a matchmaker confirm what I already knew and had been told: I could predict the future, but I couldn’t have a normal romantic relationship.
“How your gift factors into this, I don’t know. I need to return to Shanghai and consult with my peers.” Madam Fong frowned. “For now, I’m afraid you and I will have unfavorable news for your mother.”
The aunties and Ma would be devastated. They had invested too much and had pinned their hopes on Madam Fong.
“I’d prefer you tell her that I’m unmatchable,” I declared.
Madam Fong sipped her drink. “That isn’t what I said.”
“I don’t understand. You mentioned I had no thread. Doesn’t this mean I can’t be matched?”
“Right now, you can’t.”
“You’re insinuating this can change?”
She didn’t answer. Her mouth formed a thin line while her dark eyes continued to study me. “Tell me about your gift.”
“There really isn’t much to say other than it’s erratic, embarrassing, and if given a choice, I would want to get rid of it.”
I no longer cared what the matchmaker or anyone else thought. As a child, I often nodded and agreed when family members patted my head and praised my predictions. Why should I receive accolades for something I couldn’t control in the first place?
“Do you believe in fate, American girl?” Madam Fong asked.
Despite spilling others’ fortunes, I refused to believe fate dictated my life. I believed in revolt, in breaking away from what was imposed upon me, and my fundamental rejection of my power proved that I rejected destiny too.
“No,” I replied.
“I thought so. It’s an American mindset, isn’t it? The rebelliousness, the entitlement, the thinking you know everything.” Anticipating my protest, she held up a finger. “It’s not an insult, it’s a fact. You are a Yu. You still have family in China. I can introduce you should you wish to visit. But I digress. Others in your family share this gift. Why haven’t you sought them out?”
“You mean Aunt Evelyn?” I asked. “We talk.”
“Not enough, from what I can see.”
I exhaled before taking another swig of my club soda. The matchmaker had changed into a pontificating auntie, which I never asked for.
“Fortune-telling is a simpler art. With the right guidance and discipline it can lead to true clairvoyance. The masters command respect as they have dominion over their talents. Even in China, we know of Evelyn Yu. Why don’t you want this for yourself?”
I straightened my back. “It has only ever ruined my life.”
“And would you change your mind if I told you they were connected, your gift and your missing thread?”
“You said earlier you weren’t sure if they were.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and then paused, appearing to contemplate her words with care. “I’ll speak with your mother about the state of this match. I leave you with this last piece of advice: Be true to yourself and to who you are. That is the key to gaining control of your life. If you find your missing thread, you find yourself.”
“Thank you, Madam Fong,” I said before making a hasty exit.
* * *
* * *
I wasn’t expected back at the office yet, so I invited Dad to my favorite boba tea shop. It’s Always Tea Time was a modest corner store that offered an array of drinks and Taiwanese fare. The decor was dominated by wood and glass: stained barn boards covered the walls, and indoor ficus plants stood by the entrance and near the glass takeout counter. Low acrylic chairs, with fake wood grain, filled the remaining space.
My go-to snack here was a sweet custard brick toast. The thick, fluffy bread was slathered in custard and then toasted to perfection. A healthy dusting of cinnamon sugar completed the dessert. Biting into the thin, crispy crust gave way to the marshmallow softness underneath.
This time, I ordered lunch, grilled pork rice bowls and two large taro slushes for us. I took a seat at my favorite spot by the large picture window where I could people watch and waited for my father to arrive.
Dad came in with a lopsided grin. His infectious smile always brightened my day. Gray streaked his dark hair, while his wire-framed glasses carried a slight dent in their top left corner from when he whipped them off his face celebrating the Warriors’ first NBA championship in the Steph Curry era. A pressed, lilac dress shirt over tailored dark slacks was his concession to Ma. She insisted on a pop of color. Dad, if he had his way, would choose monotone.
He slid into the seat next to me. “How has your morning been?”
I laughed. His question seemed so mundane given my morning meeting. “Ma would kill you if you didn’t ask how the matchmaking appointment went.”
“That is your business. I think they should leave you be.” He checked over his shoulder and moved to accommodate the incoming server carrying our meals.
“The matchmaker didn’t give me anything I didn’t know already,” I said after we thanked her. “Maybe they’ll now accept that me and long-term relationships aren’t meant to be.”
“I know them. You’ll be lucky to get a six-month reprieve.” My dad hovered his fork above my tea egg, pretending to steal it.
I covered my bowl with my hands. “Oh, Dad, you’re supposed to be watching your cholesterol.”
“I can have one; though, we won’t tell your mother about this. We’ll claim it’s another boring egg white omelet.” He grinned and stabbed his egg with a fork.
I followed his lead and attacked the tea egg in my rice bowl. The creamy yolk disintegrated in my mouth. Tapping the shell during cooking allowed the marinade to seep in, which created a linear pattern resembling cracked glass in the hardened egg white. Ma and I sometimes made tea eggs on weekends where we boiled the eggs in a secret recipe of spices and Yu tea. It was a calming ritual. The hectic game of keeping it hidden away from my father, lest he eat them all in one sitting, was less so.