I predicted the future on my third birthday. My aunts had been drinking their tea, and Ma had left her cup on the small table beside the sofa. As any curious child would, I imitated the habits of the older women: my two small hands cradled the ceramic of the handleless cup, fingertips not quite encompassing its circumference. I took a sip. As I gazed at the tea leaves floating at the bottom, my vision blurred and my mouth filled with the bitter taste of chewing on a grapefruit rind.
“The Hofstras are moving. Jeff doesn’t love Rachel anymore.”
I fell to the floor in tears, feeling the force of a sadness I could not comprehend. My aunts rushed over to me as Ma held me in her arms. There were whispers in Mandarin and Hokkien, but I heard only the name of my aunt—Evelyn—repeated.
Any possibility of a life of my choosing was extinguished like the candles on my birthday cake.
Every prediction had a taste. The family’s new business venture was savory: a bite of roasted pork belly. A family squabble was bitterness: the dregs of a stale, cold cup of tea. A joyous fortune like Auntie Ning’s pregnancy and baby girl was sweet: the sticky center of deep-fried sesame balls.
My last happy prediction was four months ago, for my cousin Cynthia’s nuptials, which now brought my aunt, uncle, and me to Williams Sonoma to browse through her wedding registry. Three weeks ago, I bought an abstract, mixed-media painting for my cousin at one of my favorite galleries. We had decided it would be perfect in her dining room above the low, minimalistic, bleached birch buffet table she loved. Today, I was tagging along to help my aunt and uncle with their purchases.
Walls of pristine metal cookware gleamed alongside shiny new appliances aligned on golden wooden shelving. None were of any interest to me. I only stepped into this store to buy gifts for others. My preferred merchants peddled paintings, not pots and pans.
Auntie Faye tapped my arm. “I don’t understand why she needs so much cookware. The girl doesn’t cook.”
“Maybe it’s aspirational,” I suggested. “I mean, you can’t fault her for wanting to learn eventually.”
Cynthia and I were both inept in the kitchen; we overcompensated with a library of takeout menus to the best restaurants: digital copies for convenience, paper preserved as trophies.
Although I had predicted this wedding, and I loved my cousin, I felt uneasy. With Cynthia married, I would become the oldest unwed cousin. Being single meant the focus of the attention was on you at every gathering and function. There was nowhere to hide from the probing questions. My cousin Chester described it as “being naked and vulnerable, and none of your relatives will give you a fig leaf.” The joke was tailored to my tastes, and I appreciated it.
Uncle Michael examined a set of pastel Le Creuset ramekins. They shifted in their box with a slight ceramic clink as he lifted them to eye level. “I think these are mostly for Edwin. He can bake a decent Sacher torte. Cynthia invited me over last week to show off her soon-to-be husband’s skills.”
In his midfifties, dashing, and sharp, Uncle Michael was always my favorite. Like all my aunts and uncles, he appeared at least a decade younger. I always likened him to a Chinese Gregory Peck circa Roman Holiday. A lead user experience designer at a large financial corporation in Fresno, he lived three hours away and I never got to see him enough.
“Vanessa,” my aunt began, “now that Cynthia is getting married, you should think about—”
My uncle jabbed my aunt in the ribs.
“Michael!” Auntie Faye held her stomach, feigning injury.
“This is about Cynthia, not about Vanessa.”
A diminutive woman with dark hair swept into an elegant updo, my auntie Fay embodied the ideal salon owner: flawless skin, perfect hair, stylish wardrobe, and the subtle scent of Chanel No. 5. She knew she looked good, and wasn’t the type to hide her assets behind false modesty. I adored her for it.
I moved away from the polite argument between my aunt and uncle.
A South Asian saleswoman in her midtwenties, close to my age, approached me with a smile. “If your parents can’t decide on a registry item, we can definitely explore the gift card option instead.”
I laughed.
The effortless rapport I had with my uncles and aunties often led strangers to misidentify them as my parents. We tended to play along instead of explaining the mistake.