Page 70 of Vera Wong's Guide to Snooping (on a Dead Man)

She doesn’t quite know what she was expecting from QiangWen, but she definitely did not expect Qiang Wen to sag on his stool as though all of the energy has leaked out of his body. His head falls, and he mumbles, “In all the way that matters, he was my grandson.”

He sounds so broken, so empty, that Vera can’t help feeling strands of sympathy stirring within her. Argh! She is too softhearted, that’s the problem. Jinlong used to say that to her. “You are too generous, too kind, too good. People will take advantage of you.” Too good of a person, that is definitely Vera’s problem. But, no, she must harden herself now.

“You best explain yourself to me. You owe me that much.” Even as she says it, Vera thinks,Does he?He doesn’t really owe her anything. But it sounded good coming out of her mouth, and Qiang Wen doesn’t seem to have the wherewithal to refute her, so she decides she’s glad that she’s played that card.

“I will,” Qiang Wen says. “Take a seat.”

“This better be a good story.”

Then Qiang Wen talks, and it is a good story. Because it is almost exactly like her own story.

Twenty-Two

QIANG WEN

Like Vera, Qiang Wen is an immigrant. And like Vera, his partner died over a decade ago—bone cancer. Unlike Vera, Qiang Wen’s offspring has moved out of the Bay Area. “Too expensive, Ba. You should move too,” she’d said. But he was too scared to leave Chinatown, and so he chose to stay put. He was fine, anyway. He had friends that he met up with twice a week to play mahjong, he did tai chi every morning, and he liked this part of the city.

The thing with being fine, though, is that when things change bit by bit, when life slides lemons to you in tiny little slices—like your mahjong buddies getting older and sicker one by one, so the mahjong sessions go from twice a week to once a week, then to every other week—it happens so slowly, so gently, that you don’t realize it’s happening until one day, there’s no one left to play mahjong with. But because of the slowness of the deterioration, you don’t realize that you’re no longer fine. You continue thinking,I’m fine, and you keep chugging along even though the smallspeck of sadness in your heart has grown quietly into a boulder, without you even noticing. When your kids call, you tell them you’re fine, and because they’re busy and have a million things to do and you’re just one of many things on their list they have to check off, they believe you.

Qiang Wen was fine. Everything was fine.

Then along came Xander. He wandered into the shop one morning, and they started chatting. Qiang Wen often chats with his customers; it’s probably the best part of his job. But Xander was different. As they chatted, Qiang Wen recognized something in Xander. It was the way the corners of his mouth trembled ever so slightly when he smiled, like it took a lot of effort to keep the smile up. And that haunted, empty look in his eyes—Qiang Wen shivered. It was the same look he saw in the mirror every morning. The look of someone who had given up. And that was the moment Qiang Wen realized that he was far from fine.

Xander did not have enough money to pay for his dumplings, which was somewhat strange, given he was wearing nice clothes, but Qiang Wen didn’t mind feeding him. They talked for nearly an hour that day, and Qiang Wen found himself telling Xander about his family and even showed Xander photos of them. Xander told him about his family back home in Indonesia. Then he glanced at the clock and jumped out of his seat, saying he had to go. After Xander left, Qiang Wen felt painfully empty. He shuffled about, doing mundane little tasks to keep his mind off the gaping hole in his heart. The thought pounded in his head:I am not okay. Not okay. Not okay at all.And he had no idea what to do about it. So there was nothing to do but keep puttering on as always.

A few days later, Xander came back. This time, he handed Qiang Wen a five-dollar bill. “For last time,” he said.

Qiang Wen laughed and pushed the note back to him. “Keep it.” Then he served up an assortment of his fattest dumplings.

They talked about everything. It had been a long time since Qiang Wen had held a conversation with someone who wasn’t geriatric, and he found Xander’s world really quite marvelous. Xander showed him the apps on his smartphone and helped Qiang Wen download a couple—a brain challenge game, which Xander said would be good for him, and TikTok, so he could entertain himself on slow days. He didn’t tell Xander that every day was a slow day. The following weeks, Xander dropped by regularly, and Qiang Wen found himself looking forward to seeing him again. Whenever Xander’s head popped into the shop, Qiang Wen got a joyous little glow, like the sun was shining directly on him.

And when Xander started to call him “Ah Gong,” Chinese for “grandfather,” Qiang Wen thought he might die of happiness. A grandson. A grandson who came to see him multiple times a week. A grandson whom he plied with food and fussed over and talked to.

Xander would take selfies with Qiang Wen and post them to his social media profiles with the caption “Hanging with my grandpa.” And Qiang Wen could cry happy tears at how proud Xander was of their relationship. It was too good to be true.

Then, that horrible, earth-shattering day. The argument they’d had.

Qiang Wen did not tell anyone about this. What would he even say? He had a falling out with his only friend? What was he, twelve?

And Qiang Wen had to tell the cops that no, he wasn’t Xander’s grandfather. Yes, he knew that Xander was calling him that online, but no, there was no biological connection between them. And did he know that Xander wasn’t his real name? No, he did not. Did he know Xander’s real name? No.

It seemed that Qiang Wen knew very little about Xander after all, even though Xander knew practically everything there is to know about Qiang Wen.

“Did you give him any sensitive information, like your social security number or birth date or anything like that?” the police officer said.

Qiang Wen had told her no. It wasn’t true, but what did it matter? Xander was dead. And one way or another, Qiang Wen would have to be fine, to keep going.

“Then you showed up,” Qiang Wen says in Cantonese.

Vera has been listening with wide eyes, and when Qiang Wen says that, she lets out a heavy breath. “Oh, Qiang Wen. We crossed paths so many times. We stopped to say hi to each other once in a while, but why did we never talk, really talk?”

“Habit, I suppose.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. Stupid, stupid habit. We were both so lonely, we could’ve used a friend. But, no, we just remained in our little isolated circles, bumping everyone away.” Vera gazes out the window, then turns back to him. “Well, never mind that. We’re friends now, and friends tell each other the truth. Thank you for telling me the truth. But why didn’t you tell me before?”

Qiang Wen looks down at his hands.

“Qiang Wen,” Vera says. “What is it? What are you hiding?”

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