Finally Seen: Chapters 1–12

I looked over at my lao lao, craning her head eagerly to catch snippets of our conversation.

I gaze out the window at the wispy clouds.

The Los Angeles houses sprawl across the land, stretching all the way to the shimmering blue sea!

But at seventy-two, he had a stroke in the taxi on his way home from work.
We didn’t believe it even when we were sitting in the hospital waiting area.

Luckily, Millie is too busy dancing to notice. She prances around my luggage cart as we push it toward the exit.

To think that in Beijing I was able to converse effortlessly with Lao Lao’s doctors on the phone and take down complex medicine combinations. Here, I can’t even order a water without my little sister.

Millie gawks at my hand, like What are you doing?

I furrow my eyebrows.

Millie seems to always be moving. If she were in China, the teachers would definitely label her a zuo bu zhu, or can’t-sit-still kid. Definitely not the best kind of apple, but still redeemable with a little work and discipline.

“Yes, an organic farm! It’s pretty amazing. Actually, it’s also a regenerative farm,” Dad says proudly.

But over the years, as the locusts ravaged the land and the droughts sucked the soil dry, folks went in search of new opportunities in Shenzhen and Shanghai, leaving behind young children with grandparents.

My heart lurches. Who are my parents??

There’s a long trail of village children behind me. We make a giddy, squealing dragon as we run around the field, dodging Lao Lao.

I scream, which prompts Millie to scream back.

I look around, disoriented for a minute. My parents must have carried me in while I was sleeping.

She could have just used tape! As my mind runs through millions of other possible adhesives, a powerful scent wafts up my nose—lavender.

My heart leaps at the prospect of stir-fried eggplant.

“Y’all talking about the rent moratorium?” he asks.

I watch her expertly pick up the delicate vegetables with her steel fork.

“But also to launch my new career,” Mom says emphatically.

“But also to launch my new career,” Mom says emphatically. “As an entrepreneur! Being in charge of my own destiny! And the great thing is, this is something we can do together.”
“I’m Mom’s head of product design,” Millie brags.

I feel a twinge of jealousy that my sister’s beat me to that role.

Since Mom and Millie have only been doing this a few weeks and have been preoccupied making the bath bombs different scents and colors, they haven’t gotten around to designing a logo yet.

I stare at Mom, shocked that she would swap her beautiful Chinese name that Lao Lao lovingly gave her—which means “trailblazer”—for nail gel.

Now the problems lather in a thick goop on top of my head.

She’s always going out of her way to help her neighbors, picking up extra bundles of green onions or a couple of cucumbers for Li Tai Tai, because she knows Li Tai Tai is on a tight pension.

I push my palm deep into the thick carpet and watch the imprint disappear.

“You just have to keep trying. As for Millie, you’re sisters. You don’t think your mama and your aunt Jing fought? They were like two squabbling phoenixes...but you know something?”
“What?”
“They always made up,” Lao Lao says.

I look at the beautiful photos of glistening bath bombs. Underneath the photos, there’re about five long sentences of description. I try to read the words, but there are too many I don’t understand. Words like shimmer and lustrous and fizzy and hand-crafted.

Back in Beijing, I never won any award. That’s because Lao Lao could never afford to load me up with after-school tutors, which was the prerequisite to do well in math.

English used to be mandatory in Chinese schools. But that all changed when the government decided to prioritize Chinese.

We’re inside Second Chance Clothes, a thrift store in Winfield, the next town over.

And I follow reluctantly, dodging the burning stares from the snickering girls, who watch me and my mom with glee.

“You’re the daughter of first-generation immigrants. Do you know what that means?” Mom asks.
I shake my head.
“It means your blood is made of iron will and determination. Your backbone is built from the sacrifices and impossible decisions of all those who walked before you. You have a duty to them to protect your heart. Never let yourself be treated that way, over ice cream. It isn’t worth it. You understand?”

Tall eucalyptus trees and rose gardens line his lush front lawn.

“Took you long enough!” he hollers at her. “This isn’t day care!”
Mom’s face flushes.

I look out the double glass doors at the gorgeous expanse of green.
Pete’s organic farm is massive.

She plops down and starts yanking on the little stubborn weeds that dot the garden.

I follow her gaze to Pete, sitting on his deck, surveying his land, clutching his cane like a wooden scepter.

“Quit yakking in Chinese! Speak English.”