Corktown

As soon as I stepped inside the two-story, the smell of pancakes filled my nostrils. Po Po stood next to the kitchen counter in her blue and white nightgown making a batch of everyone’s favorite, blueberry. Her arm jerked back and forth, mixing more batter than necessary. Ever since she’d discovered Bisquick, we’d been eating silver dollars quite regularly.

“Why are you cooking now?” I asked. “They won’t be up for another half hour.”

“You eat,” she said, staring at me in her loving yet authoritative way.

It irritated me that she made the kids breakfast every morning. Does she know that? That should have been my job. I worked during the week and almost never got home before 5:00 p.m., when old people and small children liked to eat.

I should have been grateful to have a mother-in-law who wanted to help out. But deep down inside, I wanted to be the awesome supermom fixing her kids’ meals yet still managing a career. In the meantime, I focused on mastering the not-tired-when-I-came-home-from-work role.

A month after arriving in the states, I took a job as a federal agent investigating white-collar crime, mostly fraud. I know it made no sense for a burned out detective to join the FBI, but I needed a J. O. B.

“I’ll eat after my shower,” I called out to her.

I headed upstairs to my bedroom and started the shower before stripping off my running gear. With my new career, I actually had time to practice an active lifestyle. Even though I had the metabolism of a cheetah, I missed the high those double-digit runs had fueled.

I moved my finger across my stomach and traced the noticeable six-pack before clucking my lips and patting my tummy. You still got it. I couldn’t take all the credit, though. Both of my parents passed along their best genes, except for one thing; my Chinese mother blessed me with her short stature. Despite that, I stood proud at five foot one.

My hair, however, was another matter. I longed for curvy body but settled for straight silk. I turned so my back faced the mirror. I had started to grow out my shoulder length hair; it popped nicely against my fair skin.

In the shower, my skin tingled under the delicious warmth. I had one of those rain showerheads and it felt like hundreds of fingertips tapping away on my body. Speaking of tapping, my bathroom door had opened and the tap-tap of tiny feet made their way across the floor.

“Is that you, Lucy?” She was my youngest, age five. Ryan was eight.

I heard her yawn before she answered. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Didn’t Mommy tell you not to come into the bathroom when other people are using it?”

“I had to pee-pee.”

“What’s wrong with the hallway bathroom?”

“Ryan’s hogging it.”

Lucy was the only one who called me Mommy. Ryan called me Abby. It didn’t bother me. I completely understood. He was old enough to remember his mother. She had died shortly after Lucy was born. As far as the five year-old was concerned, I was her mother, and I liked that.

By the time I had made my way back downstairs, both kids were eating their fluffy stacks. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat at the table, where the San Francisco Chronicle waited for me. I picked up a knife and fork, preparing to cut Lucy’s meal, only to see someone had beaten me to it, and that someone had already read halfway through her copy of the Sing Tao Daily.

Before I could think of a clever remark, we all heard impatient rapping at the front door. All eyes fell upon me, so I got up and did my duty.

“Abby, sorry to disturb you so early.” My unofficial partner, Agent Trey Wilkinson, stood outside my door and he didn’t look too happy.