Colette laughs humorlessly. “You were going through your own stuff, and I should’ve been there for you instead of running away. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere, either,” I say. Colette pulls me in for a hug, and I soak her oversized sweater with new tears.
There’s a light knock on the door, and Mae Yí-Pó pokes her head in. Seeing her sends me into another sob.
“What am I going to do without Pó Po?” I ask, hunching forward on my knees. The pit in my stomach grows. “What will happen to Lunar Love? I don’t know how to do this without her.”
“Too many questions.” Mae Yí-Pó sits across from us in her own chair. “You’re going to keep doing what you’re doing. She prepared you for this moment. You already have everything you need. I know your pain right now feels unbearable, but the last thing Pó Po would’ve wanted was for you to be sad.”
“How can I not be?” I weep. Colette hands me a tissue from Mae Yí-Pó’s desk.
“She lived to be ninety years old! That’s worth celebrating!” Mae Yí-Pó says in a more optimistic tone.
“That sounds so…cheery,” I say between sniffles.
“She hit a longevity milestone most of us could only hope for. The long, full life she lived is worth being happy about. I know that’s how she felt about it.” A small smile spreads across Mae Yí-Pó’s face. “By no means was she perfect, but she was as close as one could come. Her life is worth celebrating.”
“I never thought about it like that,” I say, more tears pricking the back of my eyes. “I can’t stand the thought of her suffering alone.”
“Oh, honey.” Mae Yí-Pó reaches over and grabs my hand. “She never felt like she was doing anything alone. She loved many and was loved by many. Your Pó Po was never one to make things about herself. She knew that if you were too busy worrying about her, you wouldn’t have been able to worry about yourself. And she cared for her family more than anything else in this world. It would’ve destroyed her more to see you all fuss over her.”
“I just…” I trail off. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“Because it’s not goodbye,” Mae Yí-Pó says. “This feels like an impossible loss. It will for a while. But you’ll soon learn that this isn’t the end. We take care of our ancestors when they’re gone, and while that doesn’t bring them back here to us, we become connected to them in a different way.”
I look over at Colette, who nods along with me, even though we seem to have no clue what she means. At this point, I’ll believe anything if it means I can be close to Pó Po.
“I have an idea.” Mae Yí-Pó stands and reaches for three aprons, handing us each one. “Let’s bake,” she says reassuringly.
“Now?” I ask.
Mae Yí-Pó sharply nods. “Right now. Like we used to.”
I feel the tension melting out of my shoulders. “Okay.”
“Let’s do it,” Colette says as she sweeps her dark brown hair into a low ponytail.
Mae Yí-Pó, Colette, and I sift flour, whisk sugar into yolks, and whip egg whites into stiff peaks. It’s a dreamlike feeling that brings me back to when we were kids.
“The secret to the Swiss roll’s fluffy sponge cake is how gentle you are with adding the egg whites into the mixture,” she says, delicately using her spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl and fold the airy peaks over themselves. “Don’t overdo it.”
I watch her skilled movements, allowing myself to get lost in the soft folds of batter. She pours the mixture into a parchment-lined baking pan and slides the tray into the oven. While the cake bakes, we make the filling.
“Do you remember the first time I taught you how to bake?” Mae Yí-Pó shouts out to me as she pulls heavy whipping cream from the walk-in fridge.
“Barely. That was so long ago,” I say. “Do you?”
Mae Yí-Pó nods as she mixes cream and sugar together. “You were so bored waiting around at Lunar Love for your Pó Po and Auntie. You told me that they allowed you to come here, when instead you had actually just left to do your own thing.” She laughs.
I smile. “Sounds about right.”
“Your Pó Po called to make sure you got here safely.”
“How’d she know I’d come here?”
“Because she knew you,” Mae Yí-Pó says kindly.
“I guess some things never change,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh.
Colette laughs along with me as she opens the oven door. “This is ready,” she says, removing a clean toothpick from the center of the cake.
“She waited all afternoon until you came back on your own time,” Mae Yí-Pó explains, lifting the sheet tray out of the oven with mitts.
“Was she mad that I had just disappeared?” I ask, the smell of vanilla permeating the air.
Mae Yí-Pó waves her hands. “She could never stay mad at you for long. You’d come sometimes, too, Colette.”
“What did we love making most?” Colette asks.
“Swiss rolls,” Mae Yí-Pó says with a wink. “You always wanted to make an entire roll to bring back to your family. Your Pó Po said it was the best cake she had ever eaten.”
After letting the cake cool slightly, Mae Yí-Pó delicately pushes the warm cake into a parchment-covered log. “It’s all about the pre-roll,” she says, tiptoeing her fingers skillfully along the edges. “This gives the cake its shape so that when it cools, it’s still flexible.”
“So that’s the secret,” I mumble. “I could never get that right.”
“It just requires a little guidance, patience, and a light touch,” Mae Yí-Pó replies.
While we wait for the cake to drop in temperature, we fall into silence, moving around one another as we wash the workspace clean with damp rags. Once the drips of batter have been wiped from the counters and the mixing bowls and testing spoons are loaded into the dishwasher, we’re ready to fill and reroll.
I smile to myself about the resurfaced memories as I spread lightly sweet filling over the golden center. The edges of the cake slightly curl, the parchment paper crinkled beneath it.
“All yours,” Mae Yí-Pó says, gesturing for me to do the final roll.
I slowly turn the cake onto itself as filling spills out over the spiraled edges. Colette sprinkles our creation with powdered sugar, and Mae Yí-Pó cuts the treat into slices.
“To June Huang,” Mae Yí-Pó says. We take bites of the Swiss roll. “Mmm.”
“These are always so much better right out of the oven,” Colette says between mouthfuls.
The airy cake comforts me. “It’s the best one yet. Do you think Pó Po would like it?” I ask.
Mae Yí-Pó takes a second bite. “She’d absolutely love it,” she says, wrapping her arm around me. “Never forget that, no matter what happens, your Pó Po is watching over you, just like she always has, and she’s very proud of you, just as she always has been.”
I slowly nod to acknowledge Mae Yí-Pó and what she’s saying. The creamy Swiss roll filling coats my tongue as I swallow down a fresh batch of tears.
Chapter 22