Author: Jessie Chen Title of Work: Grandpa 1. Shame
I toss an egg absentmindedly between my hands, feeling the stone-smooth curve of the egg shell beneath my thumbs. My feet itch to sprint out of the kitchen into my room, where I want to be playing Minecraft with my friends, but something glues them to the floor. My grandfather would call it a feeling of obligation, the comfort that warms your chest while settling into routine. But my ten-year-old self knows it is more than just duty; I stay to avoid the scolding.
It comes anyway. I was supposed to cook tomato egg rice before Grandpa came back from the supermarket, but I have barely prepared the ingredients before I hear the door of our apartment creak open. He steps onto the welcome mat, switches his brown, old-man loafers for indoor slippers, and lugs the grocery cart in behind him. In the kitchen, I scramble to turn on the fire and oil the pan before he assumes I have been goofing around.
“Come help your elder,” Yeye says, and I do. His scent envelops me and a mix of cigarette smoke and dust fills my nostrils. He pats my arm with a tangible aura of self-congratulation, and I know something good has happened.
I never get the opportunity to ask, because when he enters the kitchen, I feel his frustration crackle like water in a pan of hot chili oil. I know what’s going to come. Why didn’t you finish cooking? How could you neglect your familial duty while I strain my back bringing home groceries? What were you doing instead? That iPad of yours is corrupting your brain.
“Mei guan si, mei guan si,” I rush to reassure Grandpa in an overly anglicized accent. “I just don’t know how to start.”
He sighs, breath rasping and chest groaning, and regret trickles down my body and pools at my feet.
“Useless, ungrateful boy,” he spits. “Crack the egg in first, mix the rice in while the eggs are still runny, and add tomatoes last.”
I try to hide my hurt and shame as I carry out his instructions. He storms out of the kitchen, and I am left clenching a broken eggshell, runny whites dripping down my arm.
no i’m sorry please come back
2. Anger
I had waited ages to hear these words: “Congratulations, you’re being promoted to head chef!”
I would receive a higher wage while I went to business school, avoiding a worrying avalanche of student debt. I hadn’t told Grandpa yet that I was going to apply, but I know he’d prefer business to culinary school.
That day I prepare an extra dish during work: duck congee. Grandpa’s tastes change every day now—I guess being older makes you pickier—but congee was always his favourite. When I was a child, we would eat it so often that I absolutely hated the sludgy, white mixture. Couldn’t we eat something not bland? He would sigh and blame my too-white upbringing for ruining my tastebuds.
I leave the building, cradling the styrofoam takeout cylinder to prevent spills. Grandpa would appreciate the gesture.
Everything starts smoothly when I return home. Grandpa even accepts the glass of red wine I offer him. But when I proudly announce the news, he stares at me in silence. Then he erupts.
“Stupid boy! What happened to your dream of becoming a businessman as a child? I didn’t work this hard to raise you just so you could cook all day!”
My hand is frozen, clutched around the glass.
He shakes his head. “I believed you were meant for something higher, but look at where you are now.”
I want to open my mouth and say that he’s right. I am going to apply to business school. This job is helping me support myself, that’s all. But I sit still, speechless.
Grandpa goes back to eating. I stare at him, and the longer I watch, the more frustrated I become. He has the audacity to scold me while he sits here savouring my food, in the new house that I bought with my money.
I yell. Why are you always complaining? Why can’t you be satisfied with who I am? How do you know I’m not still reaching for my goals? But I restrain myself and the words remain hovering on the tip of my tongue.
Instead I say, how can you criticize me for being a chef when you’re the one who fostered my interest in cooking as a child?
He frowns. “I never did,” he says stonily.
I’m not sure whether he’s making one last retort or if he really doesn’t know. We finish the meal in silence.
The next morning Grandpa wakes up early to make my favourite breakfast: blackberries on pancakes. He transfers his berries to my plate, claiming he doesn’t like sugary foods.
The blackberries are not sweet at all, only the tartness of his tacit apology tingling like lemon in my mouth.
3. Regret
The diagnosis came too late.
Though business school takes up most of my time, I still visit Grandpa in his retirement home. Each week I allow myself to dream, and each week my hopes are dashed like broken glass crumbled under boots.
“Yeye?” I whisper. “It’s me, your grandson.”
He peers up at me, brows knitted in hazy confusion. I wait for the recognition to strike, for his grin and approving nod. When he exclaims, “Nurse, come help me up,” my heart splinters for the thousandth time.
As his thin arms wrap around my back, I feel awkward, older, as if I am the parent and he is the child. I hold him longer than necessary.
I am transported back to the kitchen in fifth grade, his bony hand clutching my arm as he holds me for support. But this time, his instructions are no longer there to guide me.
no i’m sorry please come back