The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties (Aunties, #3)

by Jesse Q. Sutanto

To my readers. Thank you for adopting the aunties as your own.

I joined the chess club. I was the worst member in the club because I wasn’t actually into chess, but there wasn’t a possibility of an errant projectile hitting me and making my head spontaneously combust, so there was that.

There are too many skeletons in our closet for anything to be okay.

Argh, what is it about Ma that makes me want to hug her even while she infuriates the heck out of me?

By the time we hang up, Ma is still beaming and muttering “Aiya, shouldn’t have wasted money” over and over. It’s like she’s stuck on a loop, torn between sheer joy and the Asian tradition of scolding your kids for spending money on you.

It’s the Chinese-Indonesian way; traditionally, most children live with their parents, even after they get married, so you’d often get three whole generations living in a single house. Most Chinese-Indonesian families are huge, comprising more than six children, so usually some of the children would move out after they got married, but more often than not, at least one or two of them would remain in the family home.

I can’t help but feel judged whenever I tell them that no, it’s not actually part of our culture to move out of our parents’ house, because nine out of ten times, people would react with shock/horror and make comments about how infantilizing our culture is.

Her words act as a signal for the other aunties and uncles to swarm around me and pile food onto my plate, all of them telling me I need to eat more so I can give my poor, long-suffering mother the chubby grandbaby she deserves.

Bai nian, done during Chinese New Year, consists of going round to relatives’ homes or congregating in the house of the oldest relative to wish everyone a happy new year.

I hate surprises. People often say they hate surprises, but see, the last time my mother and aunts surprised me, I killed that surprise, so when I say I hate surprises, I really mean it.

“Aw, he’s a romantic,” Nathan says, wrapping his thick arms around me. I lean back against him, taking comfort from his warmth. “He’s a mafia lord,” I remind him.

I love batik, I adore how every piece of batik cloth is unique, each one hand-painted with painstaking detail.

“Gong xi fa cai! Hong bao na lai!” Wish you a prosperous year! Give us our red packets! Growing up, this was my favorite part of the holiday. Married couples have to give out red packets filled with money to unmarried people and children. My cousins and I had a ton of fun going around wishing people a happy new year before demanding our red packets. The grown-ups would purse their lips and tell us off for being rude, but no one could resist our cuteness, and we would end the day by opening our red packets and counting the spoils of war.

This time, there are a lot more desserts than usual, because sweet foods signify a hope for a sweet year ahead.

There is a mix of Chinese and Indonesian sweets. Lapis Surabaya, a notoriously rich Indonesian layered cake that uses no fewer than thirty egg yolks per loaf; nian gao, a caramel-brown sticky rice cake that’s been cut into thin slices and deep fried to crunchy, chewy perfection; fried sesame balls the size of my fist; and about a dozen other sweet dishes, each one more decadent than the last.

Why does even an innocent question get the kind of reply that makes me feel chastised?

This can’t be happening. It can’t be. But wait, what is happening?

Atop a grand sofa sits a woman in her late fifties. She’s striking, her hair an icy silver that makes her look fresh and alert instead of old. It’s puffed up, of course, in the usual huge Chinese-Indo hairstyle that defies gravity. Despite the fact that it’s nearly midnight, her makeup is flawless, her lips colored in perfectly and her eyelids lined so sharply they could cut someone. She’s giving me serious Michelle Yeoh vibes, including Michelle Yeoh’s deadly martial arts ability.

It’s as though my body and mind are at an impasse; one wants to dive back into bed, the other one is a caged animal throwing itself onto the bars of the cage, roaring with frustration and anxiety.

Using the threat of embarrassment, and therefore losing face, against Ma and the aunties is like stealing their ultimate weapon and then pointing it back at them.

“Sorry.” It’s the least sorry of all sorries. Something inside me breaks. The cruelty of her.

Literal wars have been fought, countless lives ended, over sillier reasons. Love is perhaps the only thing worth fighting over.

He has the kind of intensity that tears away at your confidence, because it’s obvious when he looks at you, he’s fully listening, absorbing not just everything you say but all of the minute details of your movements, reading your body language like a book.

But no, they’re all looking at me with hope shining in their eyes, filled with utter confidence that I’m about to solve everything. And knowing that bolsters that little kernel of defiance inside me.

Kristofer’s cynicism has nothing against me, because I’m about to tell him the most valuable thing anyone has ever given him. I’m about to tell him the truth.

It’s a smile that speaks of years of loss, when we were both apart from each other. A smile that speaks of confidence.

“Ah, I’m a Denzel in distress and you are my knight in shiny armor,”

Our breath collectively releases as one, as though the earth resumed its exhalation.

It feels like the atmosphere has lightened, the weight of a storm breaking and sunlight finally streaming down on us. The heaviness on my chest releases, and I can finally take in a deep breath. I feel as free as a bird.

Usually, the younger members of the family go to the house that belongs to the highest member in the family hierarchy to bai nian. Traditionally, this would be the oldest member of the family.

“We’re all just businesspeople. We do a bit of everything. Trade, manufacturing, land development.” The problem with that is my brain immediately goes: Manufacturing=Creating drugs/firearms/whatever other illegal goods. Trade=Selling aforementioned goods. Land development=Pablo Escobar-esque development of forests into hidden drug factories.

But when has anything gone to plan, especially when my family is involved? Frustration scratches at me, but then I take a deep breath and let myself fall into this moment, embracing all of it.

And this is just the way it’s always going to be in my family. No secrets from one another.

But then when I look back at them, these women who have spent their lives raising me, doting on me and making a fuss over me, it hits me that I don’t want any different for my child.