Chapter 3. My Grandfather Has More Instagram Followers than Me #2
My grandparents, Thomas and Emilia Halim, were the only real parents I’d ever known.
Both Opa and Oma were fifth-generation Indonesian-born Chinese who had lost most traces of their Chinese heritage.
Hence “Opa” and “Oma,” Dutch for grandfather and grandmother, something that was deeply rooted in Indonesian history, having been a past Dutch colony for three and a half centuries.
They had moved to the States when Opa did his higher education degree, choosing to settle down in Port Benedict, around an hour and a half from Seattle, and had my father, their only son.
I’d never met my mom. Hana Sato, my Japanese mother, had had a bright future ahead of her as a reporter for a respected international news channel, which was where she had met and fallen in love with my dad.
Their blissful existence was forever shattered when she didn’t survive an amniotic fluid embolism during childbirth, leaving my father to be a single parent within hours after I was born.
The only mementos I had of her were an old photo album with pictures of my younger parents and her ancient Nikon F3 camera, which was kept in a special dry cabinet at my house.
By the time I was old enough to walk, Daniel Halim had decided that he’d had enough of playing the role of the doting dad.
He’d accepted a role as a foreign news correspondent that required him to be roaming all over the world, packed his bags, and left his parents to care for a two-year-old.
He’d breeze into our lives once, maybe twice a year, whenever he had time off long enough to fly back home, before moseying out of town again for his next job.
My grandparents used to tell me that my dad had big dreams—to travel the world, to make a difference by telling stories that are important to the lives of many people.
That I should be proud of him for doing that.
Still, when I was younger, it used to bother me how he was never around.
How I was the odd kid at school, the only one without parents—and it didn’t help that we’d also lost contact with my maternal grandparents.
I used to hate how he chose his job over me, over us as a family.
How he pretended that things were fine every time he came home for a visit, like he didn’t just spend the past few months away from his only daughter, the one person who was supposed to matter the most in his life.
My grandparents were certainly the silver lining of my childhood, though.
They doted on me, raised me like I was their own child, and had never once made me feel like I was a burden.
Opa would drop me off at school on his way to work, then Oma would pick me up, and I’d stay with her at the store until it was closing time.
Even at the age of eight, I’d help her restock shelves and rearrange displays, serving customers and carefully adding up their purchases with Oma’s old calculator, while other kids my age were busy having playdates and birthday parties and sleepovers.
It was the only childhood I knew, and I’d loved every second of it.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Opa dumped the burnt fish into the trash can, then gave me a hug. “Grilled trout isn’t on the menu tonight, sorry. I must have left it in the oven a bit too long.”
“That’s okay. I brought plenty.” I placed the food on the kitchen island, next to my grandmother’s vase and her favorite—white calla lilies. “Where’s everyone else?”
“They couldn’t make it. Their dog swallowed their car keys, so they’re waiting for him to pass the keys before they can come over.”
He met my eyes, and I gave him a measured look, before shrugging. “Not bad. Eight for content, ten for delivery.”
“Thanks.” Opa chuckled as he washed his hands. “Lucu, kan?* I found it online.”
It was a silly game we’d been playing for a while.
After Oma had passed, our weekly dinners would always be just the two of us, with the occasional addition of Jenna Ng, my housemate and one of my best friends, and/or Ellie and Alec.
But that had never stopped Opa from getting too much food.
We both knew he did it so he could send me home with the leftovers, saving me and Jenna from having to cook for ourselves the next few days.
No matter how many times I told him not to, he never listened.
So one day I asked if he was feeding the entire city of Port Benedict and if the other guests were arriving soon.
His flippant answer had sent us both into a prolonged laughing fit, and since then, it had become a weekly game of him trying to come up with the most ridiculous excuses for the imaginary guests who were never coming to dinner.
“Got food from Java Spice. Some beef rendang, Balinese grilled chicken, and spicy beef oxtail soup. There’s coconut rice and some stir-fried veggies.
” I opened the takeout boxes from our regular Indonesian restaurant, grabbed plates from the cupboard, and started plating some food for him.
“Oom Tanujaya sent his regards. Even gave us some crispy-thin martabak with cheese and chocolate fillings.”
“Oom” meant uncle, and even though he wasn’t really my uncle, that was how I was taught to address an older man from our background, even if they weren’t related to us.
“I’ll text him to say thanks. That smells great.” Opa sniffed the container of rendang with appreciation. “Make sure you bring the leftovers home.”
He came around to my side of the kitchen island, and I helped him up onto his special chair, a comfortable wooden stool with a padded back support.
Pulling out his phone from the pocket of his trousers, he took several pictures of the food from different angles, then got busy tapping on the screen, before holding it up for my inspection. “Bagus nggak?”?
I understood enough to catch what he was saying, although I could only reply in English.
One of my biggest regrets in life was not taking my grandparents’ pleas for me to learn Indonesian seriously when I was younger, only making a half-assed attempt to appease them, because my ten-year-old self was convinced that it would be incredibly uncool to speak a foreign language that none of my friends could understand.
Peering at his screen, I nearly choked on my chicken. “Are you posting it on Instagram?”
“Yes.” He tapped and posted the photo. “Let’s see how many likes that gets.”
I swallowed my food and gaped at him. “You have an account? Since when?”
“Since yesterday. Johnny’s grandson taught him how to set up an account, and Johnny showed the rest of us.
We’re going to see who can get the most followers in a week.
I have”—he glanced at his screen—“fifty-six followers so far, just from posting photos of my woodworking pieces, you know those wooden spoons and the little chopstick holders I made?”
“Fifty-six? In just one day?” I gave him an impressed nod. “That’s incredible. You have probably thirty more followers than me, and I’ve had my account for years.”
“If you hadn’t kept it private and posted more than once a year, you’d probably have a lot more. Oh, you need to approve my follow request, by the way.”
Opa had always been quick to adapt to new technology, and for someone in his late seventies, my extroverted grandfather still led a very active life, even after he was diagnosed with late-stage kidney failure almost two years ago and now had to sit through regular dialysis in order to survive.
On his non-dialysis days, he’d be out with his friends, or hammering away in his garage with his woodworking stuff (the bedside table he’d been making for the past year now had three legs), or getting his hands dirty repotting plants in his backyard (his herb garden was thriving), or trying his hand at one of the recipes he’d copied off the internet (mostly inedible, but A+ for effort).
“Johnny’s been posting pictures of his sketches, and he’s gotten over two hundred new followers in just one week.
He says the key is to post constantly and use the right hashtags.
I’m thinking about posting more woodworking stuff, maybe flowers from the garden, and some food photos.
Not the food I made myself, of course. What do you think? ”
“That’s great, but isn’t Oom Johnny older than you?”
Opa gave me a dirty look. “That’s the problem with you young people. Ageism is so deeply entrenched in our society these days. Is it hard to believe that older people can use social media, or have more followers than younger influencers? Age is just a number, you know.”
“No, it’s just that … I mean…” I trailed off. “You’re right. I apologize. What I meant to say was, I thought Oom Johnny was the one who didn’t even know how to use his new smartphone. I had to teach him, remember? And he’s suddenly a social media expert now?”
“He’s a quick learner, maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, tell me about your week.” He put away his phone and peered at me. “Met anyone interesting lately?”
“We spoke about this two days ago when I took you to dialysis. Nothing’s changed.”
“You need to get a move on, sweetheart. Clock’s ticking.”
“But you know how hard I’ve been trying, Opa. It’s impossible.” I groaned. “You sure you can’t intervene and declare the will invalid?”
“You know I can’t. I don’t know why she had the settling down clause in it, but your grandmother knew what she was doing when she drafted the will. It’s ironclad, and the lawyers’ hands are tied until the clause is fulfilled. Remember what I always tell you? Nothing is impossible. Except—”
“Humans flying and rising from the dead.” It was something he used to say when I was younger, whenever I was feeling discouraged from not being good enough at something. Keep trying. Don’t give up. You can do anything you set your mind to. I believe in you.
“Your grandmother meant well. She only wanted what she thought was best for you,” he said. “Have a partner be there for you in good times and bad times, like what she and I had.”