Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance by Kate Willoughby (reading a book .txt) 📕

easy to forget I’d been set aside by my own parents. All I had to do was remember how wonderful my adoptive mom and dad were and those feelings of being unwanted went away. But every once in a while, negative emotions rose to the surface anyway.

“I’m saying that maybe, just maybe, your feelings about Chinese things—the food, the culture and even me—are because it feels like China, not just your biological parents, rejected you, and now you’re returning the favor.”

“Oh my God.” I inhaled sharply and it was as if someone had yanked the string on a window shade and sent it spinning. “Oh my God, Ruby, I…you’re right. You’re right! My whole life I’ve been operating under this…this creepy, brainwashy response to something I don’t even remember.”

Suddenly, so much of my weird behavior made sense—why I routinely checked off “decline to answer” when asked to identify my ethnicity, why I’d never been bothered by the overwhelming whiteness of my hometown, why I didn’t like buying products made in China, and why I had an inexplicable aversion to using chopsticks.

“So, fight back then,” she said. “Now that you know you have an unconscious bias against China, you can make a conscious choice about things when they come up. Like this opportunity to make dumplings, for example. What do you want to do? I think it’s fine either way, I really do, but if it were me, I wouldn’t want to close myself off to things I might enjoy out of some Freudian reflex.”

“No, I don’t want to either. I want to be in charge of my own life, so give me five minutes to change clothes,” I said. “I’m going with you.”

Helen lived a fifteen-minute walk away in a charming two-story house, dark green with brown trim. Birdfeeders abounded and a gentle breeze coaxed a calming melody from a set of pewter wind chimes. Her yard was a little overgrown but a tire swing hung from the branch of a large linden tree. I’d never played on a tire swing, but they looked like a lot of fun.

At our knock, Helen opened the door with a broad smile. She wore an apron over a T-shirt and billowing palazzo pants. The apron said, “Exercise? I thought you said EXTRA RICE.”

“Ruby, hello, hello. Indi, I’m so glad you made it!” Helen said, motioning us through the door enthusiastically.

Helen led us to the farm-style kitchen that continued the green theme with cabinetry painted the color of moss with rustic hinges and handles. From the look of things, we’d be working at the large butcher block kitchen island. Two bowls, both covered with plastic wrap, sat alongside a stack of parchment-lined baking trays, two thick wooden rods and a canister of flour.

An Asian couple were pouring themselves a glass of wine. The woman, her hair in an elegant chignon, wore a pretty, bright pink flowing blouse over slacks and heels. The man was dressed in a pale green sweater and jeans with an ironed crease.

“Harold and Elizabeth Wong, Indi and Ruby. Ruby is a former student.”

Elizabeth said something in Chinese and I was flabbergasted when Ruby replied. I hadn’t known she spoke Chinese.

This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come. Talk about not fitting in.

Then I remembered what Ruby and I had talked about. This was the reflex in action.

You’re not an android, Indi.

There was a lull in the conversation and I realized they were all looking at me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Chinese,” I said, but Helen just smiled and waved her hand.

“Not a problem. Now that we know, we’ll stick to English. I was just saying, I have aprons for everyone.” She went to a drawer and pulled out several. “I have a thing for funny aprons. Here you go. One for Harold, one for Elizabeth…”

Harold’s had just words, “WTF. Where’s the food?” Elizabeth’s had a drawing of chopsticks with the words, “Not chopsticks. Food pliers.” Ruby’s just had a cute little cartoon of a Chinese takeout box. Mine said, appropriately, “I’m just here for the Chinese food.”

After we all put on our aprons and washed our hands, Helen said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Ruby, but I thought you said you had experience making dumplings.”

“I do, but it was a long time ago and I wasn’t very good. I was only nine.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” Helen said. “What about you, Indi?”

I shook my head. “I’m a complete beginner,” I confessed.

“Don’t look so worried,” Helen said. “It’s not that hard. By the time we’re done, you’ll be an expert.”

“Indi’s parents own a pizzeria,” Ruby said. “She’ll pick it up in no time. She’s really good with her hands, which is a good thing since she’s going to be a surgeon.”

“My dad wanted me to be a surgeon even though I get queasy at the sight of blood,” Harold said. “A lot of doctors in my family. He said if I wanted to avoid blood, I could be a psychiatrist and I’d say, ‘Dad, I would still have to go through medical school and he would wave that away as if that was just a bothersome detail.”

“So what did you end up doing?” Ruby asked.

“I’m an optometrist, which to my mind was a kind of compromise, but Dad doesn’t consider me a real doctor.”

“Why not?” I asked, a little outraged on his behalf.

“Because optometrists are doctorate doctors, not medical doctors. Big difference in his mind.”

My parents had been nothing but supportive. That’s not to say they didn’t have any expectations. They did, but they didn’t try to fit me into a box that didn’t suit me and for that I was grateful.

“All right,” Helen said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry, so let’s get started. Indi, you’re going to be prepping the dough for rolling. Elizabeth and I will be rolling it. Harold and Ruby, you’re filling.”

Helen removed the plastic lid off one of the bowls. “This is the dough. We keep a damp cloth