氏Clan

MY FATHER’S OLDER SISTER AUNTIE CHOO NEO placed chicken satay sticks on the backyard barbecue. She shot a dirty look at Mother. Auntie complained that Mother didn’t cook the way Father liked and often referred to her as “Father’s light-skinned child bride.” She told Mother to stop playing and start cooking. Mother rolled her eyes behind Auntie’s back. My little sister, Bea, and I laughed with her.

Auntie Choo Neo came over every weekend to cook dinner. It stung Auntie that we lived in the Heights. She and Uncle Stephen had bought a small bungalow near downtown Sparwood, a more modest house than ours given that there was just the two of them. She visited weekly, hoping her presence in Sparwood Heights would elevate her status, our Mother whispered to Bea and me. I asked Mother why Auntie needed more stature when she was already tall, with broad, sturdy shoulders. Mother replied that status was more than just physical, that Auntie wanted to appear rich, powerful, and all knowing. Whenever she came, Auntie Choo Neo proudly wore her kebaya Nyonya, a brightly coloured, fitted, embroidered blouse paired with a batik sarong.

I hopped off the swing and ran over to Auntie Choo Neo. Although she picked on Mother, she was my elder, and one of the few people I had known my entire life. The oldest of Father’s siblings, she loved to lecture, correct, and order Mother around, but not me. Auntie would let me hover, but she kept a careful distance. If I inched too close, to rest my hand on her or hug her, she would pull away as if afraid she would catch something.

The turmeric in the marinade must have brought Auntie some warmth that spring day in 1987, as she taught me how to make satay. As she was preparing the sauce that accompanies the skewers, she told me, “The secret to this recipe is to allow the nutty spices to make space for one another.” She permitted me to dip my fingers into the dark, rich sauce, to savour the flavours dancing in my mouth.

“Lily!” Mother bellowed. “Stop sticking your fingers in the bowl!” She was sitting at the picnic table, rubbing her ankle, tracing her fingers around the bones on both sides of her foot. She had told me she had injured it as a teenager in a bicycle accident, and it was never the same after that.

“Ayoo, Swee Hua,” Auntie Choo Neo scolded. “No need to yell at Lily. She is learning how to make satay from the best.”

Mother’s eyebrows furrowed and her eyes narrowed, like a cat watching its prey. Then, as though retreating on soft paws, Mother dutifully set the table.

Auntie Choo Neo reminded Mother to set an extra space at the table for those who could not join us. My cousin, her son, Winston, was the only missing guest. The only person who defied Auntie Choo Neo, he chose not to come to Canada despite her efforts, and now she talked of Winston as if he were dead. I had heard Mother describe Auntie Choo Neo’s “eulogies” as if she were kao peh kao bu, crying about dead parents.