Page 6 of Four Aunties and a Wedding

Photographer

Stop weiting around, we’re here for all your weidding needs!

I chomp down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

“That’s not a typo, by the way. It really is spelled with ana,” Staphanie says.

I meet her eye. “I relate very hard to this.”

“I knew you would, Meddelin,” she says somberly. “When your mom texted me your name, I was like, ‘Okay, I need to meet her. She’ll understand what it’s like to grow up with an unfortunately spelled name.’ ”

“I do!” I laugh. “I really, really do. Oh god, you poor thing. I’m guessing you get lots of staph infection jokes?”

“Mhmm. And coupled with my Chinese name, Weiting? Forget about it. ‘I’m wei-ting for my staph infection to clear up.’ I hear that one at least five times a day.”

I’m still laughing as we sit down next to each other.

Big Aunt clears her throat and Staphanie and I go quiet. When all the attention is turned to her, Big Aunt gestures at me. “This Meddy, the bride, and that one Nathan, the groom.”

The elderly woman nods and smiles in a very grandmotherly way at us. “Wah, cakep sekali ya? Will give you so cute babies,” she says to Ma. Ma simpers, and the elderly woman continues, “You must have babies right away, okay, not be like these modern people nowadays, waiting and waiting, later your womb will dry up.”

“Ama!” Staphanie scolds. She turns to us. “I’m so sorry. This is my grandmother, she’s just, uh, she’s—”

The sight of Staphanie’s mortification about her family warms my heart. Finally, someone who truly understands what it’s like growing up with my family. “It’s okay, I understand,” I tell her.

“Oh, you so right,” Ma says to Staphanie’s grandmother. “Yes, I don’t know why all these young people they want to waiting, waiting, until they too old to make the baby!”

Nathan places a comforting hand on my back. I can tell he’s struggling to bite back his laughter. I’m glad he finds Ma funny, at least.

“Please, eat,” Staphanie says, placing a har gow on my plate. I quickly reciprocate by spearing a char siu bao and putting it on her plate. Around the table, our families are doing the same, rapidly picking up dumplings and placing them on each other’s plates—a battle to show which family is more well-mannered. Nathan is used to this by now and jumps in with gusto, giving Big Aunt the biggest siu mai and Staphanie’s grandmother the fattest cheung fun. Cries of “Aduh, don’t mind me, you eat, you eat,” and “Wah, you such good boy,” fill the air, and soon, everyone’s plate is full and the battle ends in a draw. Now we can finally start eating.

Staphanie takes a small bite of her bao. “So, to give you an overview of our company...” She gestures at her family. “Like yours, ours is a family-run business. My ama is the wedding organizer—”

“Oh, wow.” I don’t even have to fake the amazement in my voice. “That’s really amazing, Tante.” I say, using the formal Indonesian term for Auntie. “Wedding organizing is so complicated, especially when it comes to Chinese-Indonesian weddings.”

Staphanie’s grandmother nods with barely restrained pride. “You can call me Ama.”

Calling someone else “Grandmother” feels like a betrayal of my late ama, but there’s just something about Staphanie’s grandma that is so grandmotherly. I totally want to call her Ama, even though we’ve just met.

“Okay, Ama.” Nathan gives her his boyish smile. She beams back at him, and I know then that we have found our wedding organizer.

“Ama is known for having the sharpest eye in the industry,” Staphanie says. “She doesn’t ever miss anything.”

“Ooh, that very important,” Big Aunt says, nodding her approval. “Yes, sharp eye very important for wedding, because this and that, need to keep track, ya?”

Ama nods and smiles politely.

“Ama used to hunt when she was younger. She has the keenest eye in the industry and doesn’t miss a single detail, so don’t you worry, you’ve got the best wedding organizer in the biz,” Staphanie says.

I don’t bother hiding my amazement. “That’s so cool.”

Ama does that pursed-lip thing people do when they’re trying not to grin too hard, which looks adorable.

“And this is Big Uncle,” Staphanie says, gesturing at the man sitting next to Ama. “He does the flowers and decor.”

“Hi, Om,” I say. Om is Indonesian for “Sir” or “Mister.”

He waves me off and says, “No, no, you call me Uncle James.”

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