Page 74 of Dial A for Aunties

After an eternity, I shake my head. “I don’t blame you.” See, that’s not totally accurate either. I blame everyone, including myself.

Ma utters a sob, and immediately all of my aunties, including Fourth Aunt, catch her by the arms. They coo soothing words in Indonesian at her.

“It’s okay, she’s just a child, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“My Hendra used to say things like that too, it’s okay.”

“These kids, they’ll only understand what we’ve given up after they have children of their own.”

This is what always happens when one of my generation dares to talk back to our parents. They band together and reduce us to kids having a tantrum, dismissing our words so we can’t pierce their armor. Part of me wants to kick crazily at the ground andscream until they listen, but of course that’ll only confirm their belief that I’m nothing more than a silly child.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath before speaking. “I’m sorry, Ma, I don’t mean to hurt you. Just—please. Don’t try to help me here. Go back to your rooms and I’ll handle this. I love you all, but it’s time for me to grow up and clean up my own mess.”

Ma’s eyes meet mine, and despite the hurt creasing her face, I see understanding dawn in her eyes. But it’s underneath a blanket of sorrow and anger. She doesn’t say a word, merely shakes her head in disappointment and lets my aunties escort her away. Big Aunt glares at me, Second Aunt is busy cooing over Ma, and even Fourth Aunt doesn’t have anything mean to say to Ma, which is how I know for sure that Ma’s heart is broken.

Still, I harden myself against going after them. Because I’ve always gone after them, and then I end up apologizing and assuring them that I’ll be a less shitty daughter, and that’s how I find myself at twenty-six still living at home and spending my weekends shooting huge weddings and pretending I love the whole production.

No. I have more pressing things to attend to. Like Nathan. The thought of him fires me up even more. I stride toward the main building, climbing the impressive stone steps up to the lobby. There, I corner a receptionist and ask where Nathan’s been taken.

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am,” he says smoothly, but I catch a glimmer of hesitation in him. Unbidden, an image of Big Aunt comes to mind. Big Aunt, who carries herself with her back ramrod straight and her chin always up. Big Aunt, who always manages to get people to listen to her. What would she say? I lift my chin and glare at him imperiously. “I’ve been in touch with LAPD and they’ve said that the sheriff has no jurisdiction to arrest anyone. I am not going to stand aside and let that idiot make a mockery of the justice system, and neither are you. You’re not going to obstruct me. Now lead me to where he’s keepingNathan.” Obviously I don’t give a tiny rat’s fart about the justice system, but it seemed like a good term to throw in.

After a moment’s hesitation, the receptionist says, “He took him upstairs. To Mr. Chan’s office. Said the storm’s getting too bad for him to drive in.”

“Good. Take me there. Now,” I add, when the receptionist opens his mouth.

“Right away, ma’am.” He hurries out from behind his desk and nods at me to follow him. As soon as his back is turned, I sag a little. I can’t believe it worked. I channeled my inner Big Aunt, and now I’m being led to Nathan. Phew, I should try that more often. This feeling is honestly pretty addictive.

He leads me through a side door to an employee elevator. We get inside, and he uses his key card to get to the top floor. I try to keep looking imperious, which is a lot harder to do in the dead silence of the elevator. I have to stop myself from sighing with obvious relief when the doors finally whoosh open.

The top floor is taken up by numerous offices. I’ve never been to this part of any hotel before, but I guess it makes sense that large resorts would have offices to oversee the running of things. The receptionist leads me past half a dozen offices until he gets to the end. There’s a security guard standing outside. When he sees us approaching, he shifts his stance so that he looks like he’s standing to attention.

“Hey, Dave,” the receptionist says. “This is—uh—”

“I’m Meddy, Nat—Mr. Chan’s lawyer.”

The guard’s eyes widen. “Thank god you’re here,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t even—why was I asked to guard his office? I don’t believe for a second that Mr. Chan did it.”

I nod at him, take a deep breath, and stride through the door.

Sheriff McConnell’s seated behind Nathan’s desk, with Nathan perched on a chair opposite him.

“What’s this?” Sheriff McConnell says, eyeing me from top to bottom with a languorous leer that makes me want to take a long, hot shower.

“This is Mr. Chan’s attorney,” the guard says.

Sheriff McConnell’s eyebrows raise. He looks me over again, but this time, the look is several degrees less lecherous and shows more disbelief, as in how the hell can someone who looks like me be an attorney? I’m about to be affronted when I realize that, welp, I’m still in my all-black photographer’s outfit and I’m as wet as a drowned rat. My hair is dripping water onto my towel. Ugh, Ma and my aunties were right. I need their help. I have always needed their help. They haven’t been holding me back. I’ve reached my potential. This is it, this is where I peak—as a wedding photographer for the family business, always protected from the world by my family.

But there’s a glimmer in Nathan’s face. Something I’ve seen before, so many years ago, when he asked me to go east with him. Just a flicker, but it’s there, still. Fierce, naked hope.

My cheeks burn. Even after all this time, even after everything, he still has hope for us. And I—

I feel it. Fluttering from deep inside my chest, as though waking up from a deep slumber. Hope. I’ve squashed it down for the last four years, shoved all thoughts of being independent to the side, told myself I’m being stupid, or selfish, or unrealistic. Unrealistic—that’s always been my mantra, passed down from Ma and my aunties. “Don’t be unrealistic,” they’d say. They had to be pragmatic all their lives; there was no room for dreams or idealism. Just look at Fourth Aunt, Ma would say. She chased her dreams all the way from Indonesia to Los Angeles, and look where it got her. This is what happens when you’re unrealistic, when you let the dream take over.

But everything that’s happened the past few days has beenunreal. If ever there was a time to use the word, it’s now. Ma pretending to be me online, that’s pretty fucking unreal. Me accidentally killing my date. I mean, how much more unreal can it get? And all the domino pieces falling over one by one—the body getting shipped here, the body ending up on the altar—none of it has been anywhere near realistic. Why am I still trying to play by realistic rules?

My back straightens, my neck lengthens, and I stare down at Sheriff McConnell and see him for what he truly is: a fish out of water, completely at a loss as to what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened on this island, and he’s torn between the sudden rush of power and a whole ocean of fear. I pounce on that fear.

“My name is Meddelin Chan, and I’m an attorney. What have you charged my client with?” My voice comes out like an iron fist, thudding onto the desk.

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