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The first thing I noticed was the eyes. They were anime-character huge, with thick double-eyelid folds, expertly contoured in coppery tones, framed by premium lash extensions, soft and full as a fur pelt. Then there was the hairâsleek yet voluminous, nipple-length barrel curlsâand the skin, poreless and very white. And the clothesâsumptuous silk blouse, patent Louboutins. And, finally, the bagâan enormous Birkin 40 in classic orange. Back then, I wouldnât have known all these details, although, like most people, I knew those bags were absurdly expensive and impossible to obtain. All of this is just to say, the woman standing in the doorway of my neighborhood coffee shop looked rich. Asian-tourist rich. Mainland-Chinese rich. Rich-rich.
Of course I was surprised. Almost twenty years had passed since Iâd last seen her, and she looked nothing like my freshman-year roommate. In fact, she didnât even sound like her. Back at Stanford sheâd had a thick singsong accent. Each word she spoke curled in around the edges like a lettuce leaf. She struggled with the âthâ sound, so mother came out mo-zer; other, o-zer. Now, though, it would have taken me a few lines to figure out that she was from China. On the phone, when sheâd identified herself, sheâd pronounced her last name like the tooth. Ava? Is that you? Itâs Winnie Faaang.
Why on earth did she want to catch up? How did she even get my number? In hindsight, she must have had her private investigator track me down, but when I asked her then, she answered breezily, Oh, I looked you up in the alumni listserv.
I didnât think to question her further. I agreed to meet for coffee, a part of me curious to see what had become of her. Sheâd dropped out of school so suddenly, midway through our first year. None of my college friends were in touch with her, and she didnât use social media, at least not under her real name. Still, rumors drifted in from time to time: we heard sheâd gone back to her hometown of Xiamen and graduated college there, that she moved to Virginia to care for an ailing aunt, that she married an American and quickly divorced. A friend of a friend had run into Winnie while touring one of those pricey Chinese immersion private schools in L.A., where sheâd apparently taught for a spell.
The woman in the doorway caught sight of me. Ava, she cried. She hurried over holding out one arm for a hug, her other weighted down by the duffel-size Birkin. The coffee shop patrons looked up with idle curiosity, probably pegged her for another one of those influencers, and returned to their screens.
Iâd dressed carefully, changing out of my usual leggings for pants that zipped, stippling concealer under my eyes. Now, however, I felt as plain as a brown paper bag.
Winnie ordered a double espresso at the counter and toted the doll-size cup and saucer back to the table.
I asked what had brought her to San Francisco, and she said she was here on businessâhandbag manufacturing, boring stuff. She waved a hand laden with emerald and sapphire eternity bands. To think Iâd left my engagement ring at home for fear of appearing too flashy.
Now I know youâre wondering why I called, she said. She explained that a dear friend in China needed a liver transplant and wanted the procedure done in the US. Sheâd done some research; she knew my husband was a successful transplant surgeon. Might I put her in touch with him? She understood that he was highly regarded in the field.
Again, I hadnât heard from her in twenty years! Misreading my disbelief, she said, I know, I know, since the election theyâve cracked down on transplants for foreigners, but if your husband could just talk to my friend.
I agreed to speak to Oli. She thanked me profusely and said, Now, Ava, how are you? Tell me everything. Itâs been too long.
I ran through the checklist (while she pretended her private investigator hadnât already filled her in): Olivier, with whom she appeared to be already acquainted, husband of four years, half French, half American; Baby Henri, two years oldâdid she want to see a picture? Here he was in our backyard, yes, we lived right up the street.
And work?
I gave the stock answer: Iâd left my law firm when Henri was born and was now considering going in-house, better work-life balance and all that. As I talked, I parsed her transformation. Eyelid surgery, of course, cutting-edge facials involving lasers and microcurrents, quality hair extensions, designer clothes. But it was more than that. Sitting across from me, sipping from that miniature ceramic cup, Winnie looked comfortable, relaxed; she looked like someone who belonged.
What had she done with the plump, earnest girl whoâd entered our dorm room lugging a pair of scuffed hot-pink suitcases, filled, I would learn, with acrylic cardigans and ill-fitting polyester cuffed trousers? Right away, itâd been clear that we could not be friends.
Why, you ask? For all the usual superficial reasons that matter to teenagers. She was awkward, needy, fobby. No, f-o-b-b-y. Fresh off the boat.
Look, I wasnât cool then, either, but I wasnât a lost cause. I knew the right friends could buoy me and the wrong kind would sink me, and there was only a small window of time in that first year of college to get it right.
You see, Detective, it felt like Iâd waited my whole life to get to Stanford. Growing up outside of BostonâNewton, to be exact, if you know the areaâI was one of those quiet, nerdy kids everyone ignored. I mean, the teachers knew me because I had excellent grades, although they constantly confused me with Rosa Chee. She was my friend, along with all the other quiet nerds, but to the rest of the school, to the normal kids, I was invisible.
You want an example? One time my brother was home from college, and we went out for ice cream and ran into Mitch Paulson, his former tennis doubles partner. Gabe and Mitch slap palms, thump shoulders, and I kind of wave. I swear, Mitchâs face goes completely blank. Gabe says, Thatâs my sister, Ava, sheâs a junior, and Mitch says, perfectly pleasantly, Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you! Iâd watched at least a dozen of their matches. I knew who Mitch had dated all through his senior year, and who heâd dated before her. He had no clue who I was.
Stanford was full of kids like me. I had new contact lenses. Iâd grown my hair long enough to braid. I was ready to be seen, and if I couldnât have a blond ponytailed jock roommate, I wasnât going to let the one I did have get in my way.
In my defense, I tried to be civil to Winnie. I squelched my impatience and answered her countless questions. Mostly basic things, like where to get a student ID and how to figure out her mailbox combination. But she also had this annoying habit of treating me like her pocket dictionary, asking me to define words she didnât know, and complicated ones, too: doppelgänger, verisimilitude, conceit.
Come to think of it, given that the vast majority of our interactions in college involved her asking for my help, perhaps I shouldnât have been so taken aback by this, her most recent request, to aid in arranging her friendâs medical care.
Through the course of the afternoon, she disarmed me by commending my life choices, saying things like, It doesnât surprise me at all that you married someone both brilliant and handsome. And, Iâve always thought that half white, half Asian babies are the absolute cutest. And, Of all the girls at school, youâre the one I envied most. Basking in her flattery, I failed to notice that sheâd had me pegged from the start, while Iâd completely misjudged her.
Winnie was feigning interest in the story of how Oli and I had met when an unmistakable cry pierced the air. I turned, along with Winnie and the other patrons. There, lying flat on his back on the sidewalk outside, his face a red ball of rage, was my Henri. Crouched beside him was Maria, bless her heart, talking quietly, a look of calm determination in her eyes.
For a split second, I considered claiming ignorance. (And before you accuse me of being heartless, Detective, you must understand that back then, the tantrums were never-ending.) At the next table over, two men in stylish glasses exchanged smirks, and I snapped out of it, explained to Winnie that the shrieking child was my son, and rushed out the door.
What happened? I asked Maria. I bent down to still my sonâs wildly kicking legs. He cracked open one eye, saw it was me, and went right on wailing.
Maria sighed. Nothing, the usual, poor thing.
I stroked Henriâs sweat-matted hair. Oh, Cookie, whatâs wrong? Tell Mama whatâs wrong.
But he couldnât tell me, and that was the root of the problem. Even at the age of two, he was deeply thoughtful, profoundly empathetic. More than anything he yearned to convey the feelings he had no language to describe, and who among us wouldnât find that frustrating? And so he erupted for the most innocuous reasons: being put in his stroller, being taken out of his stroller, having his hand grabbed before crossing the street, being toweled off after his bath. Anything could set him off. Those first few years, he cried so much, his voice was perpetually hoarse. Oh, but listen to me, going on and on about my happy, healthy kid. Heâs doing so much better now, even if he still sounds like a mini Rod Stewart. Itâs rather endearing, really.
That afternoon, however, my son went right on shrieking as Maria and I cycled through our repertoire of tricks, stroking his tummy, rubbing his scalp, tickling his forearms, pinning his ankles together. A woman walking a golden retriever clucked sympathetically at us. A nanny ordered a pair of twin boys to stop staring.
The only thing to do was to hunker down and wait it out, Maria and I making loud soothing sounds like a couple of white-noise machines. After a long while, Henri tired. His kicking grew less frantic; the muscles in his face slackened. I reached out and tickled his belly, which was sometimes enough to get him to relinquish the last of his rage. Not this time. The instant my finger poked his soft tummy, his jaw dropped, releasing a neck-pinching scream. The crying started up again at full force. I fell back on my haunches, exhausted, ready to tell Maria to peel him off the sidewalk and drag him home.
From behind me, a low, warm voice sang a Chinese childrenâs song. Liang zhi lao hu, liang zhi lao hu, pao de kuai, pao de kuai.
I whirled around to find Winnie standing there bent over with her hands on her knees, singing intently about a pair of tigers, one without eyes and one without a tail. Zhen qi guai, zhen qi guai. I recognized the tune from the after-school Chinese classes of my youth.
Abruptly the crying stopped. Without breaking song, Winnie unclipped a gray fur charm dangling from the handle of her Birkin.
I blurted, Donât give it to him, youâll never get it back.
But she held the furry ball out to Henri in the palm of her hand.
I hope thatâs not real mink, I warned.
Henri seized the ball and squealed with delight. A thick rope of drool landed on the soft fur.
Oh dear, I said.
Winnie laughed and patted Henriâs head, and he purred sweetly.
This is Auntie Winnie, I told him. Can you say thank you?
He rubbed the mink across his saliva-soaked lips.
I explained to Winnie that although he understood everything, he didnât yet speak, and Oli attributed the slight delay to his being bilingual.
Smart boy, said Winnie.
I was too embarrassed to go back inside the coffee shop, so when Maria managed to strap Henri into his stroller without incident, I suggested we head home.
There, Winnie settled at the grand piano and played âTwinkle Twinkle Little Star,â singing to Henri in Mandarinâyi shan yi shan liang jing jingâteaching him to make blinking stars with his plump little paws.
The backs of my eyes began to smart. At that point my mom had only been gone six months. She was the one who was supposed to teach Henri Chinese. She was supposed to rub my back and tell me it was normal to be so tired I nodded off while brushing my teeth. She was supposed to talk me out of putting Henri on a strict diet of elk and venison because I was convinced the hormones and antibiotics were to blame.
Winnie saw the tear winding down my cheek and lifted her hands from the keyboard.
Whatâs wrong, Ava?
Henri tugged on his earlobe, signaling growing agitation.
Nothing. Keep playing.
She dropped her hands to her lap. Henriâs wail started as a low, chesty rumble and then gained force, rising through the scale to full police siren.
Maria, I called.
She darted out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans, scooped up Henri, and hefted him to his bedroom.
I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my cheeks. Oli says itâs a phase.
Sure, Winnie said. All babies are like that.
I didnât want her to think I was despairing over my son, so I told her about my momâs passing.
She clamped a hand over her mouth. She remembered my mom from when sheâd visited Stanford all those years ago.
Oh, Ava, Iâm so sorry. She must have been such a good grandma to Henri.
I told her that for the first three months, she, Henri, and I had shared a room. She woke for every feeding, changed countless diapers, promised me that someday heâd stop crying. Sheâd dropped dea...
