But there are some things that you can never get used to. They refuse to feel normal—because they’re sharp and painful every time.
6
“Auntie Cassie, can you please play Billy Joel?”
I’m on the 101, somehow stuck in traffic on a Saturday, headed to my grandparents’ house in Hancock Park. I glance in my rearview mirror at Marcella’s youngest child, Ozzie, a three-year-old girl permanently encased in an Elsa frock. She is currently kicking the back of her mother’s seat from her car seat and Marcella’s hand whips out and stops the movement without a blink.
“Sure, Oz.” I select “Uptown Girl,” and it immediately gets everyone in the car shaking and grooving, including Marcella’s son, Mica, who is seven and usually only responds to Minecraft sound effects. Their dad and Marcella’s husband, Logan, is wedged between the car seats doing a limited-movement dance with his upper body. Billy Joel is always the right move.
“I can’t wait to see what new massage chairs Halmoni has,” Marcella says over the music. The way she says “Halmoni” is so phonetically accurate that I’m always a little proud of my white friend. “I need it really badly.”
Something in her voice makes me look over at her sharply. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says wearily. “Just, you know, opening a new restaurant is sapping my will to live.”
“Is it the clown-town contractor again?”
“Just one in a long line of offensive men,” she says with a groan, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. “I wish someone could knock me out until everything’s over.”
“You for sure get first dibs on the massage chair.”
There’ll be a line of people waiting for it. My birthday dinner involves my entire extended family: Emoni and her kids Josh and Brian andtheirkids and spouses, plus Sunny and Stu, and my grandparents. Mar and Co. are also my fam, so they always come, too. This pre-birthday birthday dinner is a tradition that started when I began bailing town on the actual day years ago.
When we get to my grandparents’ house, Ozzie and Mica are instantly suffocated into big hugs and words of praise from my grandparents.
“Such a beautiful dress!”
“Look at this tall, big boy!”
I don’t bother giving them the “less-gendered compliments, please” lecture because these are old Korean people I’m dealing with. Then Emoni’s grandkids come storming in—ten-year-old Griffin, seven-year-old Hayes, and four-year-old Aidan.
They are definitely more excited to see Ozzie and Mica than me, but their meticulous manners force them to halt in front of me and give me kisses and hugs.
“Why are yousotall?” I complain to Griffin. He can’t even hide his pride as he stands straight on his sock-clad toes. He’s wearing cool skater pants and an ironic T-shirt of some kind and my heart squeezes. I don’t see them as much as I want to. They’re all scattered throughout California—Griffin and Hayes live in the Bay Area with their parents Josh and Lisa, and Aidan and baby Wally live in Orange County with their parents Brian and Wes.
Technically, these kids are the same generation in my family asme. We live on the same height in the family tree. But because Emoni is almost a decade younger than Halmoni, and Mom had me when she was just twenty-two, we’re all a little staggered age-wise. Growing up without siblings, and then later without parents, I never quite fit in with Josh and Brian, technically my second cousins, and then was way too old to connect with their kids except as an aunt figure. But as I ruffle their hair, sniff their necks as I squeeze their little wriggly bodies—all the loneliness feels overshadowed by my intense love for these kids.
Ozzie and Mica are absorbed into this kid-ball as they roll out into the house and Marcella asks after the massage chair.
I walk into the kitchen—a sprawling, tiled dream space with giant casement windows and a view of the pool—where the rest of the family is gathered.
“Happy birthday, Cass!” Lisa, Josh’s wife, says as she throws her arms around me.
A drink is shoved into my hand. “Here,” says Josh dryly. “Numb yourself to the chaos.”
“And the impending four-oh,” Brian’s husband, Wes, says with a grimace. The newest member of the family, eight-month-old Wally, is strapped to him like a baby possum.
Brian swats him with his arm. “Come on.”
It strikes me again: I am the only childless and unmarried family member here. I take a swig of my chilled white wine before kissing the soft downy cheeks of the baby. “I’ve missed you guys,” I coo.
“Not really,” Brian says. “You miss the kids.”
“Why not both, though?” I say with a grin. Halmoni walks in and everyone straightens. Wes and Josh hide their beers for some reason.
“How was the drive?” Halmoni asks me as she pats my back.
“Fine,” I say as I take baby Wally from Wes. “Can I help with dinner?”
