Thirteen
THIRTEEN
OLIVER
It’s hard to believe that he’s finally here, after all these years, inside Marshall and Julia’s house. He’d stayed away for so long, unable to bear the weight of their marriage, the weight of his bitterness and festering resentment toward Marshall. He’s in Julia’s space, after all this time, and he doesn’t quite know how to handle himself. When they were teens, he was the one who spent the most time at Julia’s, hanging out in her bedroom, listening to music and eating sour gummy worms, and doing homework or chatting or whatever. Her parents had trusted him so much that they were okay with her keeping the door closed when he was over.
“It’s because they know you don’t have the balls to do anything,” Marshall had said.
Maybe that was true. Oliver certainly wanted to do all sorts of things, but he never did, never even tried, because... why? He never understood why he didn’t. Maybe because he always worshiped Julia, always saw her as someone so far beyond his reach. Marshall didn’t have any such qualms, of course. Marshall didn’t even seem to realize that Julia existed, not until the night she wore a low-cut top to Bobby Cullen’s party and Marshall couldn’t keep his eyes off her chest. Oliver had a sick feeling in his stomach the whole night, but, of course, he didn’t do anything, not even when Marshall snuck up to Julia with a red cup stinking of cheap booze and that smirk that no girl could ever resist. Oliver had thought it would be just another one of Marshall’s many short-lived flings. But weeks went by and they kept going strong. And when high school was over, they didn’t split up for college. Instead, Julia decided to defer her enrollment at Columbia and instead followed Marshall to Santa Cruz. Oliver lost it then. He told her she was throwing her future away for his asshole of a twin who’d cheat on her the first week of college, and she told him that his jealousy was an ugly thing to see, and that was that. They didn’t talk again for years afterward. When he found out that they’d gotten married right out of college at city hall, he sent a congratulatory card but received no reply. When Emma was born, Oliver popped by at the hospital with flowers and a onesie set, but Marshall told him that Julia was too out of it to see any visitors. He got to catch a glimpse of Emma, so tiny, swaddled in a pink blanket, and then the tears attacked his eyes and he stumbled out of the hospital before he broke down completely.
Over the next few years, Oliver tried to be a good uncle to his only niece, sending her gifts every birthday and Christmas, but received no thank-yous from them. He liked their photos on Facebook and Instagram, smiling quietly as he watched Emma grow from a tiny infant into a chubby toddler. Most of the photos that Julia posted had captions like: “Best daddy ever!” and “I’m so lucky to have such an amazing husband!” so Oliver figured that they were happy and accepted that he’d been very wrong about Julia and Marshall as a couple and that it was best for everyone involved if he kept his distance.
But now, he’s here in their space, and he feels like he’s violating their privacy, like he’s somehow broken their happy bubble. He has no business being here in his brother’s house, standing a few paces away from his wife, watching as she licks custard off her daughter’s arm. He turns away, wanting to give Julia as much privacy as he can, and his eyes rest once more on the pile of trash bags filled, strangely enough, with Marshall’s things. Oliver doesn’t understand, can’t come up with a good enough explanation for the bags. It feels very soon for Julia to have packed up all of Marshall’s things. Just two days after Marshall’s death. Or maybe she’d packed them up before Marshall died? But why? According to Instagram, they were deliriously happy with each other.
Then Emma catches sight of him and freezes in mid-laugh. Oh shit , Oliver thinks. He tries for a smile, but it comes out all wobbly.
“Daddy?” she says, and Oliver could swear that it’s not a happy question but a fearful one, and his heart aches for this little kid.
He watches helplessly as she clings tighter to Julia, cringing away from him. What had Marshall done to this little girl?
“I’m not your dad,” Oliver croaks finally. “I’m your uncle. Uncle Ollie. I know I look like your dad, but... uh. We were brothers. Twins.”
“You remember that story we read, sweetie?” Julia says to Emma. “The one with the twin girls and how people always confused the two of them? But they were really different people, weren’t they?”
Emma nods hesitantly before regarding Oliver with suspicion. At least there’s a little bit less fear in her eyes now. “Not Daddy,” she says.
“Nope,” he says firmly.
“Okay, lunch is ready,” Vera calls out. “Hurry up, everybody sit.”
And with that, the awkward moment is past. Oliver lets out his breath, and Julia pats him on the shoulder as they walk to the dining room. His palms are still sweaty at the way Emma reacted to his face. He hasn’t spent much time with kids, but he’s pretty sure that they shouldn’t be reacting like that to someone looking like their parent. Hatred flares in his belly, white-hot, as he realizes just what a shit father Marshall must have been to her. He tries to shake it off, focusing instead on the moment.
Part of Oliver marvels at how easily Vera has claimed this space even though it’s the first time she’s set foot here. He catches Julia’s eye, and she widens those sapphire blue eyes of hers and gives him a helpless smile, and somehow, just with that one look alone, they’re suddenly back in high school, conveying entire messages with a single glance. He smiles back, and they gather round the dining table, where Vera has somehow produced an entire feast worthy of a Thanksgiving celebration, except of course they’re nowhere near Thanksgiving. Oliver counts at least a dozen different dishes, all of them steaming and looking as delicious as though they came straight out of a cookbook.
“Sit!” Vera barks. “Don’t just stand there gaping, later the food get cold.” She turns to Emma, who’s clinging to Julia’s neck. “You,” she orders Emma, “are my assistant, so you must sit next to me.”
“Oh, she’s—” Julia begins, but stops in surprise when Emma unwraps herself from around Julia’s neck and nods.
“I sit there,” Emma says, pointing to the baby chair that’s been set next to Vera’s seat.
“Okay,” Julia says hesitantly, but Oliver can read her expression, even after all these years, and she doesn’t look unhappy about it. More like pleasantly surprised. She places Emma gently in the high chair and clicks the buckles into place, then hovers uncertainly behind her.
“Sit,” Vera demands, pointing to a chair two places away from Emma with a wooden spoon. Julia meekly does as she is told, and Vera turns her laser gaze to Oliver. He feels his pores open up and start to sweat under that stare. “You, sit there.” Between Julia and Emma.
“Um... okay.” He does as he’s told and wedges himself in the seat between his niece and her mother, who he’s very much trying to not have feelings for.
Sana and Riki are told to sit next to Julia, and when Vera is satisfied with the arrangement, she harrumphs. “Okay, now eat.” She stands, grabbing a serving spoon, and starts doling out food onto everyone’s plates. “This one is black pepper beef, you eat more of this, Julia, you look very pale, very anemic, you must have more beef. And you, Riki, you look very constipated, so I cook this one for you, steamed cod with black fungus.”
Poor Riki turns red and sputters, “I’m not—um, I’m not constipated.”
Vera simply tuts as she serves up an extra-large portion of fish and black fungus on Riki’s plate. “I can always tell just from looking, you very constipated.” She turns her attention to Sana, who visibly shrinks back in her seat. “And you, you seem very chilly, too much yin. You should have more heaty foods, that will increase your yang. Here, spicy garlic tofu, will warm you up.” Sana sighs, probably relieved that Vera isn’t talking about her bowel movements. Vera side-eyes Oliver, and the back of his neck prickles. “And for you, Oliver, I make rice wine chicken with glutinous rice. Very comforting. I think you are needing some comfort food, yes?”
His stupid throat closes up at that, because, yes, Oliver does need comfort food, and a Chinese version of chicken soup sounds like something he would kill for right now. He nods as she spoons fat chunks of chicken, so tender that it’s falling off the bone, and rich broth into a bowl. It smells heavenly. Like coming home, Oliver thinks, inhaling its rich, complex scent.
For little Emma, Vera serves up a bowl of stewed beef noodles, and from somewhere in her pocket, Vera produces a pair of child’s chopsticks. The chopsticks are attached to each other at the top, so they’re easier to use. She places them in Emma’s hand and says, “Now you eat like a big girl, because you are my assistant, okay?” Emma nods and spears the chopsticks into her bowl, using them to shovel the thick noodles into her mouth.
Everyone digs in, and for a minute, the only sounds around the table are of cutlery clanging against bowls and plates. Vera is busy serving up more food onto people’s plates. Oliver has just taken two bites of his chicken stew when a pile of braised pork belly appears on his plate, alongside a mound of garlic-fried bok choy. He can’t remember the last time he gathered with other people and ate together like this. He can’t remember the last time he had food this good, food that doesn’t just fill you up, but also nourishes you, body and soul. With every bite, Oliver can feel the love and care that have gone into the preparation, and both his stomach and his heart are being fed right now.
“This is so good, Vera,” Sana says. She spears a chunk of tender pork belly and inhales its scent, closing her eyes. “Oh my god, this is amazing. It’s just got that home-cooked taste that you know you’ll never find at any restaurant. I feel like a kid again.”
“Mm.” Riki nods, his mouth full of cod. He swallows and says, “To be fair, I’ve never had black fungus before, but I know what you mean. This food tastes familiar somehow. It’s kind of addictive, actually.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Julia says. “It tastes like food your grandma would make you.”
Vera smiles a quiet, knowing smile, then turns to Emma. “How is my sous chef doing? Wah, you almost finish it already!”
Emma grins and opens her mouth, showing a mouthful of half-chewed noodles. “I eat the yummy noodles.”
“Close your m—” Julia starts to say, but Vera says, “Oh yes, very good. You eat the yummy noodles,” and Julia’s mouth snaps shut. She stares at Vera. For a second, Oliver wonders if Julia is annoyed at Vera for the interruption, but she doesn’t seem irritated. She seems more... curious, looking at Vera in what Oliver can only describe as wonderment.
When Vera stands to give Emma a second helping of noodles, Julia mutters, “I’ve never seen her eat so well before. Usually I have to spoon-feed her, and she’ll be screaming and throwing the food everywhere.”
Oliver raises his eyebrows at her. “I guess not even two-year-olds can say no to Vera,” he says under his breath.
She laughs, and it’s a familiar laugh. For a moment, she looks just like the teen he was best friends with so many years ago. “I can’t imagine anyone saying no to Vera,” she whispers.
Oliver’s about to answer when he feels something wet tap his forearm. He turns to see that Emma has placed a noodle across his arm.
“Eat,” Emma says in that very serious way that only two-year-olds can muster. “?’S good for you.”
“Oh my god, Emms,” Julia says, wiping her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.” And it really, truly is. It’s the first time Oliver’s received a gift from his niece, and he does not intend to refuse it. He pinches the noodle between his thumb and index finger and says, “Hey, thanks, Emma.” Then he slurps it up with exaggerated noise and goes, “Mm-mm. You’re right, that was really good.”
Emma nods solemnly, and Oliver feels a fierce wave of love for this little kid who looks so much like Julia. It tears him up that he’s already missed out on so much of her life. Then Emma grabs another noodle with her bare hand and places it on Oliver’s open palm. “Eat more. ’S good for you.”
Maybe he should’ve thought twice about slurping up that first noodle.
···
Oliver can’t remember the last time he’s felt so stuffed. Happy too. Full and satisfied and warm. Emma went into a food coma after her third bowl of noodles, and Julia picked her up and put her in her bedroom, so now there’s just the four adults plus Vera, gathered around the coffee table. They’re all wearing slightly glazed expressions, their brains only half functioning after the feast.
And that’s when Vera goes, “Okay, so now we talk real business. Which one of you here kill Marshall?”
It seems as though everyone not only stops talking but stops breathing as well. The air in the room freezes and it’s dead silent. Then someone coughs. Riki. He gives a choked laugh before clearing his throat. “Vera, come on.”
Vera deadpans him. “You think I’m not being serious? Why?”
“Wha—” Riki gestures helplessly. “Because—I don’t know, it’s ridiculous. And it’s kind of disrespectful of you to go to his widow’s house and accuse someone of murder?”
“Disrespectful?” Vera blinks, as though she’s just been slapped, and Oliver gets it. In Chinese culture, respect only flows in one direction, from the younger to the older, like a river. The older generation doesn’t owe the younger ones respect; if any is given, it is done so out of kindness and generosity, not necessity. So for someone as young as Riki to tell Vera that she’s crossed a line is inconceivable. Oliver is so torn. Part of him, of course, agrees that Vera has indeed crossed a line, coming into Julia’s house and openly accusing one of them of killing Marshall. But the other part of him, the one that’s been raised by two very traditional Chinese parents, is squirming with discomfort.
Before he can respond, Vera turns to Julia and takes her hand. “My dear,” Vera says, “I am sorry. I don’t disrespect you. I just want to solve your husband’s murder, is okay?”
“Uh...” Julia’s mouth opens and closes, and no words come out.
“Maybe you should leave it up to the police,” Oliver suggests.
Vera shoots him such a withering look that he feels his soul shrivel up and hide. “Oliver, I already tell you, the police are useless. Now,” she says, turning back to Julia, “you don’t have to worry, okay? I will do everything.” She squeezes Julia’s hand before letting go. Then she stands, chin raised high and chest expanding. Her aura fills the room. “One of you,” she intones, her glare sweeping across the group, “is Marshall killer.”
White-hot fear surges through Oliver’s entire body.
“What makes you say that?” Sana says. Oliver can’t help but notice that Sana’s hands are clasped together so tightly that her knuckles are white.
Vera starts walking around the living room. “I have deduce that the killer will come back to my teahouse to look for something.”
It feels as though ants are crawling down Oliver’s back. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter what,” Vera says. “All four of you have never been to my teahouse, but after Marshall die, you all pop up, one by one.” Her sharp gaze stabs into each one of them, and they all shrink back. “Now, we all know that Marshall is not good person. No offense, Julia.”
Julia, who’s been staring slack-jawed, manages a small shrug. Oliver isn’t quite sure what the shrug is meant to convey.
“That means you all probably have reason to kill him. So now, I am going to ask you, where are you on the night that Marshall is murder?”
They’re all gaping at Vera now, torn between shock and anger. “We don’t have to tell her anything,” Riki says. He looks at the others desperately. “We don’t.”
Sana nods slowly. Oliver wills his heart to stop thumping. Wills his brain not to go there. To the night that Marshall died. But, of course, it hurtles there with lightning speed. He sees what he did. The drugs in his hand. The way they rattled. All their lives, Marshall got away with everything. He just wanted to make sure Marshall wouldn’t get away this time. Payback for all the times throughout their lives that Marshall slithered away, snakelike, out of trouble. He almost throws up then and there.
“It was a weird day,” someone says.
Oliver’s head snaps up. It takes a moment for his mind to catch up and register that Julia is speaking. Everyone is staring, wide- eyed, at Julia, sweet, fierce Julia who was always so full of wild ideas about traveling everywhere and taking in as much of the world as she could. And Oliver wants to tell her to stop talking, to protect herself, but as usual, he stays quiet.
“Marshall and I had split up the day before,” Julia continues in a shaky voice. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. When she finally looks up from her lap, her eyes land immediately on Oliver’s, and it’s as though she’s talking to him alone, just like the old times. “That’s why all of his things were packed up. He’d found an apartment, he said, and it was—it was amicable.” Julia blinks hard, like she’s trying to keep herself from crying.
“Hmm,” Vera says, massaging her chin. “He just walk out?”
Julia nods.
They’re all probably thinking the same thing: What about Emma? How could anyone walk out just like that, leaving behind his wife and kid?
Something must be missing from the picture here. Oliver wants nothing more than to believe Julia, because it’s Julia, for god’s sake, his best friend and biggest heartbreak. But because she was his best friend, because at one point, he was sure that their hearts had beaten as one and their thoughts had flown seamlessly back and forth from one to the other, as though their minds had been connected, because of all this, Oliver knows that Julia is lying about the night that her husband—his twin brother—died. He looks at her, and for the first time he wonders if perhaps he doesn’t know Julia that well after all.