Hot In Here. Susan Lyons
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rules are crazy, but you’re too young to figure everything out for yourself. I’ve been where you’re at—” She broke off and laughed ruefully. “Okay, I’m still there. Talk to me, I’ll help you figure out what’s best.”
“Cool.” Her sister gave her a hug that almost reassured her.
The kitchen was spotless, the dishwasher running. Jenny was about to escape to her room when her grandmother, Yan Yan Lee—her mother’s mother—called, “Girls, you come in and sit now. We talk.”
Jenny and Cat exchanged glances, rolled their eyes and obediently went back to the table. Granny, tiny as she was, was the boss of the household.
They took their places across from Granny and Auntie, who, as they aged, looked more and more like identical twins.
Dad, at the head of the rectangular mahogany table, pushed up his wire-framed glasses and sent Mom, at the foot of the table, a can I get out of this? look.
She shook her head ever so slightly.
“Cat-rin,” Auntie said, “you get all homework done?”
“Almost,” Cat said. “I still need to finish a paper that’s due tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you say you and Emily were doing homework together all day?” their mom asked, her brown eyes piercing. “You still aren’t finished?”
“We were working on math and science today. The paper’s for English.”
Math and science? Nah, she’d bet Cat and Emily had really been cruising Robson Street, on the lookout for fun shoes and cute boys. Jenny kept her mouth shut; the sisters never spilled each other’s secrets.
“Well, then, what you doing sitting here?” Granny made a shooing motion with both tiny hands. “You go finish work.”
Jenny sent her sister a lucky you sideways glance as Cat murmured, “Yes, Granny, I’ll do that right away,” and got up to leave.
“I have a story to finish,” Jenny said. “It’s due tomorrow.” Hey, it had worked for Cat. Why not give it a try?
“You always have story late,” Auntie said. “Need to organize life better and then—”
“Yes,” Granny broke in. “Get organized, then you have time to find good husband.” She leaned forward beside her sister, shaking her finger at Jenny.
Two gray-haired birds, fighting over their turns to peck at her.
“I’m too young to be thinking about that,” Jenny said, as she’d said about three thousand times before.
“Twenty-three not so young,” Granny said.
“Not in your day and age, but now it is.” Jenny turned to her mother. “Tell her, Mom. Western women often don’t get married until they’re in their thirties.”
Her mother nodded. Understated yet classy in her tailored Edward Chapman blouse and skirt, she wore her long black hair in an elegant chignon. “This is true, but I think it’s wrong. A woman needs a partner in life, and so does a man. And it’s better to have children when you’re young, healthy and strong, so—”
“You pretty girl, Jenny,” Auntie interrupted. “Look like me when I your age, and you—”
“No, more like me,” Granny broke in. Then she frowned, as if she’d let herself get distracted. “And you finish university now, have good job and prospects.”
Her mother nodded. “Jenny, I agree this is the ideal time for you to find a husband. I don’t know why you’re so resistant to meeting nice young men.”
“I’m not.” Actually, she’d love to find a Chinese guy who was handsome, intelligent, sexy and fun. Who’d respect her intelligence and her right to pursue her own career. A man she could fall head over heels for, and want to have kids with. A man like that would solve all her problems. But to date, her family’s taste had never matched up with hers, so she’d grown wary of their arranged dates. “It’s just that I’m so busy.”
“You have time see those white-girl friends every week,” Auntie pointed out. “No value spend time with white people. And more value see boys than girls.”
If her family ever lined her up with a boy who was half as much fun as her Foursome pals, then maybe she’d see more value in arranged dating.
Jenny sighed. “I suppose you have someone in mind?”
Auntie pulled a piece of paper from the long sleeve of her Chinese brocade top. “Here. Gilbert Wong. Accountant. Son of Mrs. Wong, who I know at mah-jongg parlor. He just break up with girlfriend because she too flighty. He need good steady girl.”
Me? Jenny’s eyebrows asked the question. Good and steady? Yuck!
Her aunt stared her down.
“I talk to Mrs. Chew at tea store,” Granny said. “Her son, Benny, just back in town. He study law in Ontario, now come home to work with big firm downtown. Successful boy. Just right for you.”
Great, they’d be Benny and Jenny. Obviously a match made in heaven.
Her father, who to this point had been silent, cleared his throat. “Jenny, we’re happy to have you at home with us—”
“Chinese girl must live with family,” Auntie broke in.
Yeah, like she’d never heard that before. Every time she suggested getting her own place or moving in with a girlfriend, her family went into a major panic. Good Chinese girls didn’t leave home until they got married. Until then, they remained under the family’s supervision and control.
Playing good Chinese daughter, she bowed her head and kept quiet.
Her father leaned forward. “Your mother is right, though. A woman should be married, she should begin a family. That’s how things are meant to be.”
Jenny didn’t necessarily disagree, but every time she thought about marriage she got a serious pain in her gut.
She was a modern Canadian woman. Second generation. Thoroughly Westernized. She didn’t want to do the good– Chinese–girl thing and marry a family-approved, nice, successful Chinese boy. Not unless she was attracted to him, and loved him. But, so far, she’d never been attracted in that way to a Chinese guy.
Rebellious though she might be, she wasn’t about to diss her folks. They were good people and she loved them.
But she really, really didn’t want to enter into a semi-arranged marriage with a guy she wasn’t passionately in love with.
Catch-22.
And, in the meantime, she juggled the parts of her life. On the one hand, she tried to respect and protect her parents. On the other, a girl had to be true to herself.
“If the accountant and lawyer don’t appeal to you,” her mother said, with a tiny glint of humor in her eyes, “how do you feel about an architect?”
An architect? He might have a creative bone or two in his body. Maybe even a creative boner.
Resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave the table until she’d agreed to date one of the latest offerings, Jenny asked, “Who is he?”
“You may have gone to school with him,” Mom said. “Marty Fong? His mother came into the travel agency and we got talking about our children. The family had moved to Toronto for a while but now they’re back. Marty’s studying architecture at UBC and working part-time at an architect’s firm.” Her mother gave her a pointed look. “His mother says he never seems interested in dating, either.”
“Sounds perfect,” Jenny said wryly.
Sure, she remembered Marty, from elementary school. Poor boy had been even shorter than she was, which meant he got teased something fierce. Wimpy, too, which hadn’t helped. But