It was 5am when we went to get Ah-Gong and Ah-Po at the airport. Mom drove because I’d never driven on the highway. She had us listen to sports radio while a fog brewed outside our car window. Mom hated sports radio when Dad would turn it on, but since he died six years ago, she hadn’t touched the radio dial. Sometimes it felt like he was in the car when we listened to it, and that morning, she really needed him to be there. I knew that I wasn’t enough. Growing up far away from my grandparents, I couldn’t feel enough of her pain.

For an hour, the commentators talked for us, rapidly and without breathing. I felt the static in my ears. I wanted to walk around in the fog, but the sun made it disappear by the time we reached the parking lot. We got on a bus that had been idling for a while with its windows half-open. The exhaust surrounded us, even as we sat right behind the driver. Normally Mom would tell him off. Instead, she arranged her leather bag on her lap and stared ahead. The skin under her eyes was a faded purple that she treated with a Japanese skin cream. 

Mom hadn’t slept since her parents were granted their temporary visas. Over the weekend she’d gone to Chinatown for eggplant, live fish, and water spinach, and finally to an outlet mall in Wisconsin to find a Coach bag for Ah-Po. 

“Your grandma likes to carry everything with her, things she doesn’t need, in a very ugly, beat-up bag,” she’d told me. She assumed that I didn’t remember my grandparents, though I’d spent a summer with them in China before the eighth grade. “So, I got her a new one. It will make her happy to have something new. What do you think?” She pulled the mint-green bag out of its tissue paper. I couldn’t see Ah-Po carrying a bag like that, but it was pretty.

“It’s nice, Mom.”

She brightened up. “Come, look at all the pockets it has inside. It will help her to be organized.” Later, she stuffed the pockets with tissue packs, hand cream, a nail clipper, a pair of socks, and an emergency sewing kit she’d found at T.J. Maxx. 

Ah-Po loved to mend clothes, slowly, handling new buttons as if they were gemstones. Her buttons matched the old ones in size but never in color. “Do not criticize your mother’s art just because you can’t appreciate it,” Ah-Gong would say to my mom. We all knew, though, that Ah-Po didn’t sew anymore. 

It had been two years since Ah-Po had tripped and fallen on her way to the supermarket. After the surgery, the details of her memory shifted into stories that were foreign to the rest of us. 

Mom took ten days off of work last spring to visit her mother, leaving me alone at home. When she came back, she seemed angry. She stalked into the study room to discard old papers; she opened the fridge and grabbed at jars that I thought would crack as she threw them in the trash bin. “So much junk,” she snapped. “Why didn’t you clean when I was gone, Cora?” 

I stayed quiet and let her clean the rest of the afternoon. At night, we ordered pizza. Mom liked pepperoni when she was stressed. After two pieces, she looked at the orange grease on her hands as if she couldn’t remember how it got there. Frantically, she wiped it on a handful of napkins. I felt anxious from the waste and desperate to care for her when I didn’t know how.

“Cora, wo zenme ban ah?” She closed the napkins in her fist and sunk forward, her head meeting the edge of the table. “I can’t do that again,” she said. “I can’t go home again.”

◆

When our bus stopped at the airport, Mom pulled me down the steps, through the automatic doors, and toward the arrivals gate, her thumb and forefinger a constant pressure on the fleshy part of my hand. We glimpsed Ah-Gong and Ah-Po making their way through customs. Unlike Mom and me, they were tall, yet Ah-Po looked like she had shrunk several inches, down to Ah-Gong’s chest. She limped as he held her hand.

Mom dropped my hand to wave at them. “Baba, Mama!” she called. Ah-Gong waved back and picked up his pace before slowing down for Ah-Po. He turned to her every few steps to make sure she was okay. In-between, he waved. It was hard to believe they were here, and then, right in front of us. Mom and Ah-Gong collapsed into a hug. 

“Xiao Mei,” he said. “Your mother and I, we made it. That plane ride was miserable!”

Mom cried a wet spot onto the pocket of his shirt. “Thank the heavens and earth,” she said, laughing.

“Your mother was so good. She napped when it was time to nap, and she ate everything on her plate. I told her to stop, but she ate the whole packet of pickled mustard. And I told her, ‘That is not healthy!’”

My mom cried again. As they held each other and talked, I approached Ah-Po. She used to have a beautiful braid, but now it was cut into loose hair that ended at her shoulders, strands of silver peeking through the black. I recognized her jasmine-patterned silk shirt. She wore the same worn dress shoes with shiny buckles.

“Ah-Po,” I said. 

She stood in place, timid, her eyes uncertain about me. Her face seemed longer, thinner. “Hello,” she said. “Who are you? I am waiting for him.” She waved a finger in Ah-Gong’s direction.

“Ah-Po. It’s me, Lili.” I used my family nickname, hoping she would remember.

“Lili,” she repeated. “It is good to meet you. Can you tell me: Who is she?” She pointed once more.

“My mother. Your daughter. Xiao Mei.” I reached for her hand, and she accepted it.

“Xiao Mei…I do not know that name. She is your daughter?”

“No, she is your daughter, Ah-Po.”

She squeezed my hand and chuckled. “She is very pretty. But she is not my daughter. I only have sons. They moved away to America.”

Ah-Gong came over and put his arm around me. “Lili, good, catching up with your ah-po? Your ah-po is happy to see you.” To her, he said, “Look! Your granddaughter! How much she has grown! She has your nose! Don’t you agree?”

Ah-Po stared at him, then broke into a smile. “You are always joking with me!”

“I’m not joking! This really is your sunnü!”

“Sunnü.” Ah-Po pronounced the word as if she were trying to feel out its meaning. “What do you mean?”

Ah-Gong laughed a too-loud laugh. “Are you feeling sleepy? Xiao Mei is going to show us her home, and we can take a nap there. Lili, show your ah-po the way.” 

“Ah-Po, come.” We walked hand-in-hand out the doors, Mom and Ah-Gong beside us.

◆

At dinner, for Ah-Po, Mom put on what she thought was her best smile. It was a smile that was strained and unhappy. “Mama,” she said, “I made water spinach for you. And steamed fish. You like that, right?”

Ah-Po didn’t answer. She was focused on poking at the fish with her chopsticks. Her hair fell into her vision when she leaned toward the dish. Ah-Gong took a bobby pin out of his pocket and swept the hair out of her eyes.

“Mama, let me help you.” Mom scooped at the fish with a spoon and put it in Ah-Po’s bowl. She dipped the spoon into the soup and poured it on Ah-Po’s rice. “I know you like a lot of soup.”

Ah-Po nodded and started to eat. She ate steadily and spoke no words during the meal.

Eventually Mom excused herself, saying that she had work early in the morning.

At nine o’clock, Ah-Gong helped Ah-Po to take her medication. “Good!” he exclaimed as she swallowed the pills. 

Ah-Po put the cup down, splashing water across the table. “Are you happy now?” she said, irritated.

 “Yes, so happy! But wait.” He guided the cup back into her hand. He pantomimed bringing the cup to his lips. 

As I went to get the kitchen towel, I heard her gulp it all down in a single angry breath.

“Lili, see how good your ah-po is.” He wiped her chin with a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “Lili thinks you are good! Isn’t that right, Lili?” He turned to me. “Tell your ah-po, ‘Ah-Po hen hao.’”

I tried to look into her eyes. She didn’t see me, but I said it anyway. “Ah-Po hen hao.”

Ah-Gong laughed in delight. “Wonderful! Now, it’s time to get ready for bed.” He got up from his chair, grasped her arm, and led her away from the table. 

It became our evening ritual, to help Ah-Po take her medicine. Mom was always up in her room before it happened. She didn’t give Ah-Po the mint-green bag but stored it in the closet with Dad’s things.

◆

Before Ah-Gong and Ah-Po arrived, Mom and I agreed that I would stay home with them and put off college classes until the spring. I hadn’t known how I would talk to them, but once they lived with us, I learned. After breakfast we would sit in the living room. We flipped through family albums with Ah-Po, pointed to the people and taught her our names: Xiao Mei. Xiao Li. Lili. None of the names stuck with her, but we did it every morning. I read my books while Ah-Gong read the Chinese newspaper that we’d pick up for him at a local restaurant. He lowered the blinds so Ah-Po would nap. After lunch, she would take another nap with him. When she had to use the bathroom, Ah-Gong seemed to know intuitively. Or, there were signals that I couldn’t detect. He would accompany her, helping her to sit and stand. 

Evening came quietly. We would chop celery and fry pork while Ah-Po sat on a chair at the counter and watched.

I began to feel that I could help my mom, even though I wasn’t my dad. He would know what to say. He’d also lost his mother while he lived his life in America. But I hoped as we built our daily routine that Ah-Po would no longer be lost.

On the weekends, Mom took them out to the mall, the forest preserve, the grocery store. Ah-Po was good-natured during the day. One morning, we sat on a bench at the park, by the pond. There were three brown ducks who took turns diving underwater. They came back up to shake out their feathers. Ah-Gong laughed, and Ah-Po laughed with him. 

All the while, another duck floated nearby, bobbing with the ripples. His green head shimmered, and in my mind I saw a shirt that Ah-Gong had worn once when I stayed with him many summers ago. It was tan with buttons dark brown except for one metallic green.

“Ah-Gong, that duck reminds me of your shirt. The one with the green button.”

It took a moment for him to remember. He burst into laughter. “I know which one you mean!”

Mom squeezed my shoulder. She turned to Ah-Po on her other side. “Baba always said you were an artist.”

Ah-Po had been smiling from the ducks, but when she heard these words, her mouth fell. She squinted at Mom. “Xiao Mei?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Mom grabbed her hand. “Mama, yes, it’s me. Xiao Mei.”

Ah-Po frowned. She returned her gaze to the ducks and didn’t say it again.

◆

At dinner, Mom stood up to put a ladle of winter melon soup into Ah-Po’s rice. Ah-Po slapped her hand. The broth leaped out of the spoon and splattered across Mom’s pink cardigan. Mom took a step back, placed the ladle back in the pot. She raised a napkin to her face to dab at the broth.

Ah-Gong started loud. “Hey now, why did you do that? Xiao Mei was trying to give you something good! We all know you like soup! Be good! You are good, remember?”

Ah-Po mimicked his intonations. “You are always talking too much,” she snapped at him. “Nobody wants to hear your noise.” Her bobby pins had fallen out, and her hair was wild around her face.

Mom still clutched the napkin to her cheek as she stared at Ah-Po. She shut her eyes suddenly, as if they stung. When she opened them, it was like she couldn’t see Ah-Po anymore. She turned and walked out.

◆

Mom began her strained smiles at dinner again. She laughed at all of Ah-Gong’s jokes and let him take care of Ah-Po’s food. One evening I watched her push holes into cubes of tofu until the cubes fell apart. She didn’t eat them. As she moved her chopsticks, the skin of her forearm looked tender, like an invisible burn. 

After Ah-Po had taken her medication, I went upstairs to Mom’s room. I knew she didn’t want to be disturbed. She was sitting in bed, holding up a book that she wasn’t reading. She’d tossed her work clothes onto Dad’s side of the bed. A jar of skin cream was open on the nightstand. I closed the door behind me.

“Mom, are you okay?” 

She laughed and dropped the book to her lap. “No. Why would I be okay?” 

“Sorry,” I stammered. “I just wanted to check on you. I haven’t—we haven’t talked very much.”

“Did you want to talk about your grandma?” She spoke as if I were a young child who hadn’t yet learned to be respectful of adults. I tried not to take it to heart, but it hurt.

“Cora.” She sighed and patted Dad’s side. “Come, sit here by your mom.”

I moved the clothes aside and climbed up onto the bed.

Mom took my hand in a sharp grip. “As you know, your grandma is ill.”

I nodded.

She looked into my face. The puffy purple under her eyes was black beneath the lamp. “The woman who lives with us—she is not your grandma. Your grandma is gone. Do you understand what I say, Cora?”

I swallowed and hoped she didn’t hear it. I couldn’t speak, or blink.

“The woman—she has your grandma’s body, but she is not your grandma. She is a cruel person. So cruel to us, Cora.” Mom gripped my hand tighter. She wept without tears. I didn’t know what else to do but wait for her and not let go. When she collected herself, she looked at me with wide eyes. “It is not like when your baba died. He died in his body.”

I nodded. I wanted to tell her that Ah-Po is still here, hidden somewhere inside the body. In a warm place, where she’s comfortable and doesn’t need socks inside slippers. She wants to come out, to make breakfast porridge, sew buttons onto clothing. But it’s too cloudy, she can’t find her way back to us without getting lost. If Mom would have believed me—if I believed me—I would have said it.

“Cora, duibuqi ni le.”

“Mom, what for?”

“You gave up school to help your grandma. It was useless. A waste of time.” She was apologizing to me. I didn’t want her to.

“It hasn’t been a waste, Mom. It helps her to be here. Sometimes it might not seem—”

“Cora.” She cut me off. “You do not have to comfort me. I know the truth. I have lost my mother. Listen to my words.” The softness left her body, and she was stern again. Her dull nails curved into my hand. “Do as I say and do not tell your ah-gong. He does not know that she is gone. You will take care of him until they leave. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good girl.” She released my hand and patted my knee. “Go to your room now. Mom is very tired.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Mom.”

“Goodnight.” She picked up her book again so that I wouldn’t linger or try to say more.

◆

Ah-Gong started to read Mom’s copy of Dream of the Red Chamber. “I am sick of the newspaper!” he said. “Somebody is dead, there is some economic problem, and it is all because of capitalism. Now, I would rather know the dramas of classic literature.”

Remembering my promise to Mom, I ordered the Penguin English translation to read along with him. It was easy to lose track of the characters. I fell behind but continued to read.

Before the Alzheimer’s, Ah-Po had not been a reader like Ah-Gong. She preferred doing things with her hands. When we received letters in the mail from China they were written by her, in deliberate script that left indents in the paper. We found very fresh chestnuts today, she’d written to Mom. I wrapped them into rice dumplings. Your baba told me not to. Now that we are eating them, and they are good, he is not complaining. Next time, you, Xiao Li, and Lili should eat them with us.

The summer I stayed with Ah-Po, she showed me how to wrap them, handing me a new bamboo leaf every time I tore one. The dumplings were solid weight in our hands. We tied them tight with string, and when they were all lined up in the steamer I wished Dad could see. He loved anything that involved sticky rice. As we waited for them to cook, I watched Ah-Po write at the kitchen table. She would pause every few lines to mouth the words to herself. When she had filled the first page, she said, “Lili, can you read what I am writing?”

“No, Ah-Po. Only a little.”

“Oh.” For a moment I was afraid I had disappointed her. She squeezed my knee and smiled. “That is okay, Lili. Keep studying your Chinese. Soon you will be able to read everything.”

Now she sat with her hands resting on her knees. In the morning, she could sit like that for a long time, watching TV or watching us read. I wondered what she thought about, but I didn’t ask. I was afraid it would remind Ah-Gong that she couldn’t remember their life together.

The following weekend I visited the Chinese church that Dad used to attend the year before he died. Mom didn’t care for it. She thought the emotional displays were distasteful: closed eyes, hands raised, bodies rocking back and forth. But it was enough for Dad that I was willing to go with him. Once, we were waiting for the service to begin when he talked to me without looking at me. “Cora.” He’d used a fingernail to smooth a page in the hymnal. “Soon I will not be here. But God will teach you what to do.” I didn’t know what he meant. I still didn’t know. With a hymnal in my hands, I tried to say a prayer and feel what he felt.

◆

October arrived with cold air and trees golden red. It was too chilly to take Ah-Po for walks, so we spent our time together indoors. When she and Ah-Gong took their afternoon nap, I would go out on my own. 

Alone at the grocery store I bought decorative pumpkins. Rain collected in their plastic bags as I struggled to open the car door, keys slipping out of my hands and sinking into a black pool near the tire. The sediment at the bottom scraped at my fingers like sandpaper. I thought of my ah-po in a story that Mom used to tell me. For many months it was only the two of them because Ah-Gong had been imprisoned during the Cultural Revolution. When Ah-Po washed her clothes in the stream, kids would run by and push her basket of clean clothes into the water. Mom chased after them while Ah-Po stepped into the water to retrieve the clothes and wash them again. She washed them until the kids left her alone. It was a bitter time, Mom said, but Ah-Po bore it steadily.

At home I wiped the pumpkins dry with paper towels. Soil dripped from their skins onto the white countertop. When Ah-Gong woke up, he wanted to cook the big one for dinner. He sliced it into triangles with a cleaver and stir-fried it with green onion. 

“Do you remember,” he said to Ah-Po as he chewed, “when Lili was little, two years old, and Xiao Mei and Xiao Li brought her to China? She was so little! And always hungry. At the wrong times!” Mom smiled, which encouraged him. He stuffed more pumpkin in his mouth, held it in his cheeks, and pretended to be chubby, hungry, two-year old me.

Ah-Po laughed. “You stop that!”

“It was time to sleep, and we fed her milk, but she would cry for more! Xiao Mei had no more milk! But you would put Lili to sleep!” He held an invisible baby to his chest and patted her back. “She always fell asleep in your arms.”

“Do you remember, Ah-Po?” I didn’t remember but felt that I did because of how much Ah-Gong loved to tell it.

Ah-Po laughed. “He is making things up. I didn’t do that. I do not even know anybody named Lili.”

“Don’t be silly!” Ah-Gong said. He chewed faster. “You have known Lili since she was two! She is sitting here next to me!” He slapped my shoulder for emphasis. “Right here in front of you!”

Ah-Po smiled as if he were teasing her. “Hao le, hao le. You eat your food now. It’s getting cold.”

We all went back to eating. Soon Mom was crying. She set her chopsticks on a napkin and covered her eyes with slackened fists. I knew that she didn’t want to cry about Ah-Po in front of her father, and she felt that she had failed him.

“Baba,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I just need some sleep.” She got up and smoothed out her skirt, leaving wet lines on the wool. “Work was very stressful today. I am going to go to bed.” 

“Okay, Xiao Mei. Do not get too worked up about those people at work. It is not worth it.”

“I know, Baba.”

He watched her back as she walked away. Then he picked up the bowl of pumpkin. “Lili,” he said, “you and your ah-po finish this nangua. It is good for you. Nutritious.” He poured it quickly into our bowls.

◆

“Lili, keep your ah-po company. I do not need help packing. Your mother will be home soon.” Ah-Gong was refolding their shirts to fit into the suitcase. He bent over the bed to fold them, and I worried that it was bad for his back. “Go,” he urged me. “Sit over there.”

There was only one chair at the desk, where Ah-Po sat, watching us. I sat on the edge of the chair. Our hips touched.

“Ah-Po,” I said.

She turned toward me.

I put my arm around her. Her arm was bony, and her skin felt full of lines. Her hair smelled of an ointment, tangy and bitter. “I will miss you, Ah-Po.”

“Oh. I will miss you, too. You are a very nice person.” She took my other hand in hers.

“Ah-Po?”

“Ah?”

She knew I was addressing her. “You are my ah-po, right?”

“What is that?”

I saw the clouds enter her eyes, the frown that meant she didn’t understand. But I kept going. “It means I am your granddaughter.”

“I am sorry. I do not understand.”

“It’s okay, Ah-Po.”

“There are many things I forget.”

“Don’t worry. You are still good, Ah-Po.”

“No, no,” she said, her face crinkling like it did when she thought Ah-Gong was joking with her. But this time, her smile faded into fear. “I cannot see like I used to. My eyes. They bother me.” She rubbed at them with her free hand.

“Do you need eye drops?”

She nodded. I went to find them in Mom’s bathroom cabinet. In a rush I toppled bottles and creams into the sink. But I didn’t want Ah-Po to forget my body when I was out of sight.

Ah-Po had gone back to watching Ah-Gong, who stayed silent. We were both hoping to maintain the moment with her.

“Ah-Po,” I said. “I found them.” I tilted her head to put a drop in her left eye. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the drop slid out like a tear.

“It hurts,” she said, like a child who didn’t understand the why behind her pain. Her voice punctured my chest, a hole that constricted into a weight that I couldn’t hold while standing. I took my place beside her on the chair. For balance, and to hold her, I put my arm around her.

“What is wrong with my eyes?” She looked to me for an answer. 

I felt heavy and wrong to lean on her when she needed me. I prayed to be taught what to say. All that came out was, “The clouds. They’re in the way.” 

I made no sense, but Ah-Po nodded. “The clouds.”

“Yes.”

“Why are they there?”

“I don’t know, Ah-Po. But they won’t bother you forever. Then you can come out.”

“They will go away?”

I hoped. “Yes.”

“How will they go away?”

She had never asked so many questions before. I wondered how much she could see. “I don’t know,” I said. “The clouds, I know they make it hard for you to see, and hard for us to see you.”

Ah-Po nodded slowly, as if she were trying to understand. I worried that I had confused her.

“You are good, Ah-Po,” I said. I fell into her shoulder, heavy still. “I know you.”

She didn’t acknowledge me. “It’s time to sleep now,” she said into the air. “We need to close that.” She gestured at the curtains.

Ah-Gong knew what she wanted. He dug into one of his neatly-packed suitcases for a bag of clothespins. “Give these to your ah-po,” he said, handing two of them to me. I handed them to her, and she used them to close the space between the curtains, shutting out the last sliver of light. She took off her slippers and lay sideways on the bed with her legs folded in. Ah-Gong instructed me to lie down next to her. I mirrored her body with mine. In the dimness I saw her eyelids shiver. 

Ah-Gong covered us in a blanket up over our ears. He tucked it under our bodies until we were the same blue lump. The air between us grew warm and smelled of milk and vinegar as Ah-Po breathed out of her mouth. We slept until Mom came home.

The garage door woke us with its rumbling. Ah-Po opened her eyes. She smiled at me, like she knew what my presence felt like. I knew she didn’t remember who I was. She didn’t remember our conversation about eye drops and clouds. But for a few minutes, I had said the right things, and she had seen more clearly. I wanted to tell Mom, if she would understand. I wished she could have been there to see. I might have imagined it. It had been fleeting. But it felt to me like healing.