“You cooked?” I ask. This is unexpected. What’s he up to?
“Over at my place, so you don’t need to clean up or anything,” he says. “If you already ate, no problem. I love leftovers.”
“A good boy,” Mom approves. “Let me wash my hands. Luling, you too.”
Rafe’s navy T-shirt carries the faint smell of cooking, those homey scents of garlic and onion and oil, and I lock up behind Mom. The two of them chat casually about the flight and how Missy and Eddie Jin are doing. I relax. Rafe and Mom have known each other since he was a teenager, and between them is a mellow ease.
He lets us in. I’m not sure if it’s my neighbor’s natural style or what she thought would work best for a place that’s rented out half the time to strangers, but the decor is very old Hollywood. Framed posters from movie classics line the far wall in a tidy grid of mirrored frames, and there’s what I hope is a fake zebra-skin rug on the floor. The furniture is gilt and red velvet, but with knitted throws made of an ivory yarn so thick the needles must have been the size of a wrist. They also look like they would snag at a touch.
Rafe follows my glance. “I’m too scared to use them in case I wreck them,” he says.
Dinner is already on the black-lacquered table, family-style with covered dishes. “Wine?” he asks, already pulling out the water because he knows Mom never drinks.
“Thank you, yes,” she says.
This isn’t the Hua Meilin I know. Rafe and I share glances, but he fills both their glasses. Not mine, because I know myself. It’s better to not drink at all than risk having the first glass that leads to another three or four because of tension and stress.
Rafe serves a simple meal of rice, braised chicken thighs and tofu, and green beans. “The shops are finally getting fresh spring vegetables in,” he says, handing Mom a plate.
That starts a conversation about produce seasonality that lasts a good ten minutes. Which is convenient, because although Vancouver only has a three-hour time difference, the strain of the last few days, plus the jet lag, is catching up to me. I listen in a half doze as they chat, only occasionally adding something. Mostly I observe.
Although Rafe and Mom are familiar with each other, it’s clear they’re both skilled at drawing out the other person’s opinions to keep a conversation going. From vegetables, they turn to Rafe’s work and then Toronto and Vancouver real estate prices. She quizzes him about costs per square foot for the different neighborhoods here. I bite into a green bean, which Rafe has cooked so it keeps the snap, and try not to think about thereason for all the questions. Mom is here to help with my moli, not expand her empire, which Eric seems to think is almost bankrupt.
How well the store is doing is something I’ll have to bring up with her during her visit as well, and it’s another conversation I’m not looking forward to having. Luckily, I might not have to. If I have my moli, any problems she’s having will be solved. I nod to myself. Another reason to get to the bottom of this.
Rafe brings out dessert, with fruit for Mom after she refuses the burnt-toffee ice cream, and then we wish him good night.
“Rafe turned out to be a very good cook,” Mom says as she goes into my room.
“He is.”
“Very handsome too. He looks like his mother.”
“I suppose.” He did look good tonight, with his dark hair a bit messy and the casual outfit that he filled out to perfection. I had to look away when I found myself staring too often.
“I’m glad you two are talking again. Missy and I often wondered what happened.”
She’s in my room, so her voice comes to me like a disembodied judgment. “I guess we grew apart,” I say. I don’t want her in my personal life at all, let alone in my business about Rafe, and talking to my mother about relationships is embarrassing at best.
“You’re prickly to deal with,” says Mom. “I’m sure it was over something that you blew out of proportion.”
“Thanks.”
Mom comes out holding a small toiletry bag. “Are you together?” she asks.
It takes a moment for me to recover from her asking me this. I can’t believe she has the nerve, and right after blaming me for the estrangement.
“We’ve started talking since you managed to get him living down the hall, if that’s what you want to know.”
“It would be easier to have a relationship if you moved back to Vancouver,” she says.
“No need to worry about that.” I grope around for a way to change the topic, because Mom will be in my space for a while and I don’t want to deal with more negativity than I need to.
“We’ll start looking at your moli tomorrow,” she says in answer before she goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I sit on the couch, wondering why all conversations with my mother are like this. Why can’t she accept that I have a life away from her and Yixiang? I wouldn’t be surprised if she maneuvered Rafe here in another line of her multipronged attack to get me back home. If guilt failed, she’d rationalize, maybe love would succeed.
I text Rafe to thank him for having us over.
