The Many Meanings of Meilan: Chapters 33–37

I have even less of an appetite after the spectacular failure of my call with Tiffi and my conversation with Bàba, but to make him happy, I eat the buckeye pie. It tastes like dust and disappointment, which I don’t tell him, of course. I force the last forkful down and say, “That was delicious, Bàba!”
He gives me a genuine, full-face smile.

“Everybody loves dessert. Nice to see them enjoy it. Not like before, when everybody just buy pastries and leave, take away to eat somewhere else. Good to learn new recipes here. I have also been thinking about experimenting, combining Chinese and American pastries. Samantha tells me this is called ‘fusion.’”

Bàba actually likes Redbud, I realize, and the pie in my stomach sours. All my planning and scheming is never going to trick him into moving back to Boston.

At dinner on Friday, the last day of my suspension, Gōnggong actually talks. He’s happy that the garden is finished. He describes the flowers that were planted. He says, “Neighbor boy very nice, very helpful.”
He means Logan. From Basket’s load, a brick of grief and loneliness disintegrates, and the weight on my shoulders lightens a tiny bit.

“No, Gōnggong, it’s not about the jiālí jiǎo.” I nudge Logan’s foot under the table.
He clears his throat. “What Lan’s trying to say is, there’s a project we have to do in school, and we need your help.”
Well, there goes trying to be subtle. Gōnggong’s eyebrows wrinkle as he thinks about this. “Project? What project?”

I try to grab for a silver lining, a bright spot, a gleam of gold. “The project is for Veterans Day, Gōnggong. There’s going to be a celebration at school. All the veterans are invited.” I don’t tell him that Foxman has specifically not invited him.

Logan taps on his phone, then says, “Whoa. Wikipedia says Taiwan has mandatory military service. All guys have to enlist when they’re nineteen. It’s been that way since, like, 1949.”

Gōnggong picks up the plate of curry pockets and offers it to Logan, who seizes one and takes a huge bite. Flakes of pastry rain down on his plate and the table. He looks sheepish but thrilled.
“That was awesome,” he says when he finally manages to swallow.
I roll my eyes. Gōnggong looks amused, too. He slowly eats a pastry, savoring it, and finishes with a sip of tea.

“That sounds important. Were you ever in combat? Like, fighting against an enemy?”
Gōnggong’s proud face immediately turns somber again. “Vietnam War. Bad time.”

Basically, the two parts of Vietnam, the north and the south, were fighting against each other for control of the entire country. The North Vietnamese ruler, Ho Chi Minh, believed in communism and was supported by Russia and China. The leaders of South Vietnam were backed by the United States, which wanted Vietnam to become a democratic country.

“Squadron. Black Bat Squadron.” Is it my imagination or does a small gleam enter my grandfather’s eyes? “We top-secret group,” he says with a trace of smugness. “Work with CIA.”

Logan is wide-eyed, too. “Top secret, huh?” he says. “Like covert ops? What kind of missions did you do, or are you not allowed to tell us?”

From Gōnggong’s expression, he doesn’t understand most of what Logan says, either, but he gets the gist. The part about top secret for sure.

My grandfather’s eyes, dark and brimming with unshed tears, meet mine. Oh no. This is what I was afraid of. “Forty-nine Black Bats. Ten plane shot down, everybody die. Many my friends. We get medal, but for what? We not heroes. No winners in war — everybody lose something...."

And then, in the middle of the night, I’d heard the sounds again. Gōnggong’s nightmare sounds, but worse this time. Garbled words. Hoarse shouts. But I hadn’t woken Māma up to comfort him. Instead, I had been selfish and pulled my blankets over my head to muffle the awful noises. I was too afraid of being blamed for Gōnggong’s pain.

The faintly sweet scent of sticky rice wafts out of the rice cooker. A pretty tablecloth covers the worn surface of the kitchen table. Māma has already set the table, with the ceramic chopstick rests in the shape of arched carp and the dark wood chopsticks with the silver caps.

“Today is the first anniversary of Nǎinai’s passing.”
Nǎinai. It all comes together. The beef noodle soup, the steamed zòngzi, the ingredients for Eight Treasure Rice Pudding. I glance at the small altar set up on a shelf above the television. Sure enough, there are new offerings in front of the small photo of Nǎinai — a bowl of oranges, a bowl of rice, and new incense sticks.

It’s not a celebration. It’s a ritual feast to honor my grandmother, to pay her our respects and show that we are still devoted to her, even though she is gone.

It’s not a celebration. It’s a ritual feast to honor my grandmother, to pay her our respects and show that we are still devoted to her, even though she is gone.

I can’t believe a year has flown by already. Nǎinai’s death is still so fresh in my mind, like it happened just a few days ago. I can still hear the chanting of the monks at her funeral and smell the incense clogging my lungs. I can still feel the roughness of the tissues against my swollen, crying eyes.

“Storm?” Her voice raises. “Bad storm? Lightning thunderstorm?”
I try to downplay it even though I think I just saw a flash of lightning. “No, no, I’m sure it’s just a quick shower. I’ll pack a jacket and umbrella for him.”

The rain pours down while we wait for Liam to reply. He’s not wearing a jacket, and his hair and clothes are soaked. Anger crosses his face, replaced by resignation. He walks past us to stand under the awning of the next store and beckons us over.

“Fine,” Logan says. “We’re all to blame. Now stop wasting our time and go home. Lan and I will find him.”
“Let me help.” Liam’s voice is belligerent, but his eyes are pleading.

“No!” Liam insists. “It’s not like that at all. He was...nice to me. He made me see that I might’ve gotten some stuff, uh, wrong.”
“Yeah?” Logan’s voice is incredulous. “How’d he do that? I’ve been telling you the same thing for months!”

“Yeah, I guess. He was so happy to see me...I mean you. He waved me over and showed me all the plants he bought. I actually enjoyed it. That’s why I thought I’d pretend to be you for a little while.” Liam looks thoughtful. “I didn’t expect it to feel so different. People like you,” he tells Logan with a tinge of jealousy. “They respect you...."