Peixuan was surprised when I turned up with just a couple of suitcases, but I’ve gotten used to this nomadic life. Everything I own—hair straighteners, iron, speakers—are the smallest possible model. All my perfume comes in testers, and I try to choose items that serve many functions: multi-tools that open wine and beer bottles, as well as tin cans; chargers that fit my phone, laptop, and camera; lotion for both face and body. Like a dieting woman, I try to take up as little space as possible.

Of course, Peixuan doesn’t understand. She lives alone in a big house in Ohio. She doesn’t even have her parents living with her—they’re in California, and her dad hasn’t been well. He had a stroke two years ago, so he hasn’t been back to see Grandpa.

The day after I moved in, she brought up the documentary again.

“Just say a few words on camera, that’s all.”

I was beginning to realize it didn’t actually matter what I said, the important thing was that I appeared. Grandma and Dad were dead, while my uncle and aunt couldn’t travel. That left me and Peixuan as his only family members. Peixuan didn’t tell the producers I hadn’t spoken to Grandpa in years.

“Isn’t one granddaughter enough?”

She stared at me. “But you’re his favorite.”

I laughed. “Impossible. He never got on with Dad.”
“Sure, but he likes you. Don’t you know that? It’s because you look just like your mother.”

“Can we stop talking about it?”

She actually did stop, though Grandpa remained between us. I remember during the three years I lived with them both, we each had our own mugs, marked with our names written on bandages on the handles, to prevent the spread of hepatitis. I once used Peixuan’s, hoping to give her my cold.

In Peixuan’s open-plan kitchen, the tiled wall by the sink had several towels hanging from hooks, each marked dishes, table, hands and so on. The thing is, she hadn’t used labels or Post-its, but the same narrow bandages as on the mugs, reeking of antiseptic. Anyone who’s ever worked in a hospital probably has a houseful of these—your aunt must too—though likely few found as many uses for them as in Grandpa’s household.

Peixuan had also adopted Grandpa’s near-fascist regime, though she called it “discipline.” As soon as she woke up, she jumped right out of bed, and if we’d said we’d watch half an hour of television, she’d ruthlessly turn it off after thirty minutes, even if the program wasn’t over. She wore a retainer, though her teeth were straight as mahjong tiles.

One day, she came home from the supermarket with two bottles of wine and said we could have a little evening drink. I was happy that we’d finally found a common interest, but then she carefully wiped the glasses, put them side by side on the table, and poured exactly three centimeters of wine into each, like measuring cough syrup. Turns out we had very different understandings of “a little drink.” I waited till she’d gone to bed, and went to pour myself some more.