Page 21 of The Good, the Bad, and the Aunties

“Aduh, my son taken hos—host—hostake,” Ma cries, “and you all go bed? How can? We call them now.”

I nod in agreement.

Fourth Aunt frowns. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?” Ma and I say in unison.

Fourth Aunt stares at us like we’re complete idiots. “It’s themiddle of the night? Everyone will wonder what the heck is going on, and we’d have to explain, and my guess is that our friend Abi and Julia Child would rather this whole trade involving the title deed be kept quiet.” She side-eyes Abi, who jumps to attention.

“Ah, yes.” He grimaces. “Sorry, but yes, it’s imperative that the trade involving this plot of land is kept under wraps, otherwise we might uh...”

My eyes are so wide they can’t possibly open any wider. “Otherwise? What, you might get assassinated by another mafia family?”

Abi laughs weakly. “Of course not! But ah, well, it’s sensitive. Very sensitive.”

“See?” Fourth Aunt says with a smug smile. “And,” she adds when Ma opens her mouth, probably to protest, “if we call everyone, waking them up in the middle of the night, it’s so rude. We will lose face.”

There is a horrified silence. Because worse even than the threat of death by mafia is the threat of losing face. Ma immediately sits back, nodding. “Aduh,” she mutters, “this is true. Will lose face.”

If not for the fact that Abi is being so cryptic about the actual consequences of not being discreet, I would’ve imploded right then and there. Because really, who cares a whit about losing face when Nathan is a hostage? But even as I think that, the exhaustion catches up with me. What little remaining adrenaline was left leaks out, and I feel like I could fall asleep on the kitchen floor. I’m only half-conscious of climbing up the stairs to the bedroom and murmuring good night to Ma and the aunties. I can’t even bring myself to change into my pajamas before slumping into bed. A single tear drips from my eyesas I think of Nathan, my sweet, loving husband, alone in that big house, surrounded by danger. I close my eyes. We’ll get you out. We will...

A knock on the door jerks me awake. I blink, confused by the sunlight streaming in through the window. What? I don’t get it. It was nighttime only moments ago. I grope about for my phone and unlock the screen. Good gods, it’s already seven in the morning. Somehow, I’ve slept for five hours. The knock comes again, and I call out, “Yeah?”

Ma’s voice floats through the gap in the door. “Meddy, bangun,” she says, even though I’m clearly awake already. “Come down and eat, ayo cepat.” She knocks again, for good measure, before I hear her slippers slapping down the hall.

I bound out of bed and quickly wash up, slipping into a shirt and jeans and tying my hair back into a ponytail. I shake my head, trying to clear it, trying to get myself fully present in the moment. Last night couldn’t have been real, could it? It felt like a nightmare, a horrible figment of my asshole imagination. But a glance back at the empty bed confirms it. No Nathan. The thought slams into me like a steel anchor. Or whatever metal anchors are made of these days. My stomach immediately bunches up into a tight fist. We’ve been in Jakarta only twenty-four hours and already I’ve lost my husband. I grip the edge of the sink and glare into the mirror.

Get. A. Grip.

Today will be the day we get him back. And how hard can it be, honestly? We’ll call each and every single person who was here yesterday and find the title deed in no time. Actually, come to think of it, chances are, whoever it was whose kid got the title deed would probably call us this morning and go, “Yo, you gave our two-year-old a title deed to a plot of land. Whatthe heck?” Then we can be like, “Ha-ha, that was such a silly mistake, LOL. Give it back now. Now. Give now.” And we’ll speed all the way to Julia Child’s house, fling the title deed at her, grab Nathan, and speed away. Easy peasy.

Taking deep breaths, I stride out of my bedroom and down the stairs. To my dismay, the rest of the house is already awake, and the dining room is full of my cousins and aunts and uncles and nieces and nephews, all of them engaged in merry, raucous conversation as they have their breakfast. Argh!

“Good morning!” Jems is way too perky for seven o’clock in the morning. I hate him. But then he pours me a cup of freshly brewed coffee and I find that I hate him a little bit less.

“Meddy, ayo makan!” one of the uncles shouts. Why do Chinese-Indos always have to be so loud? I manage a weak smile as Auntie Wati grabs me a bowl.

Today’s breakfast is a typical Indonesian fare: Bubur ayam. It’s rich, thick congee topped with shredded chicken, roasted peanuts, fried onions, fried youtiao, and scallions. Auntie Wati ladles the porridge into my bowl and then tops it with so much chicken there’s more chicken than porridge. She adds the other ingredients with a heavy hand, and by the time it’s done, my bowl is basically a precarious mountain of food. She squeezes fish sauce, sesame oil, and a squirt of fresh lime on top of it and plops it down on the table in front of me. “Makan!” she orders.

The last thing I want to do is to eat, but Big Aunt catches my eye and gives me a small, sure nod, and the tightness around my chest eases a little. She gets it. She understands my anxiety to get out of the dining room and launch into action.

“Eat, Meddy,” she says. Then she lowers her voice and adds, “We have interrogate the kids here. They are clean.” I get aflash of Big Aunt interrogating my little nieces and nephews CIA-style, but the children seem perfectly happy, so I’m guessing she hasn’t waterboarded them or anything. Next to her, Ma nods. Second Aunt and Fourth Aunt glance up from their various conversations to also nod (well, Fourth Aunt winks), and I almost burst into tears then, because as always, these women have my back. They’re all having their breakfast and chatting with the others, but at the back of their minds, they’re fully aware that they’re about to get down to business right after this to help get Nathan out of Julia Child’s house.

I sit down and prod at the tower of chicken and fried dough gingerly. I have no idea how to even start eating without accidentally pushing the entire mountain all over the table.

“Did you sleep okay?” Elsa says.

“You guys came up really late,” Jems adds. “I heard voices down in the kitchen after midnight.”

My breath catches in my throat. Excuses crowd inside my mind, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

“You guys must be so jet-lagged, huh?” Sarah says.

I nod quickly. “Yes, we are!” Jet lag, of course. “We all came down for a midnight snack.”

Elsa gives me a sympathetic smile. “Ugh, jet lag’s the worst. We got it really bad when we went to Vancouver last year, didn’t we?”

Jems nods. “Yeah, that was rough. The kids’ bedtime routine was completely destroyed. I almost started crying when the little one woke up at two in the morning.”

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