Page 10 of Set on You

Mom’s “third child,” a dreadful five-pound Chihuahua named Hillary (yes, Mom named her after Hillary Clinton), incessantly whines at all the male family members for attention. And when she doesn’t get it, she lashes out by peeing on Grandma’s Persian rug.

By dinnertime, everyone is already too sick of each other tobother with polite conversation. Dad chokes down Grandma’s dry turkey, while Mom stomps his foot under the table when his happy-go-lucky façade begins to wear thin. Then, Mom and Uncle Bill toss passive-aggressive comments back and forth over who does more for Grandma Flo.

This year is different.

Grandma Flo didn’t invite us for dinner. Instead, she and her two childhood girlfriends took an impromptu road trip to the Plainridge Park Casino, which is entirely out of character. She doesn’t even approve of bingo or scratch tickets. Tara is convinced she’s going through an elderly life crisis.

Since no one was aware of Grandma’s wild casino plans until two days ago, we’re having a low-key hot pot dinner at my parents’ place in the suburbs.

Dad is pleased about the food because he gets to dodge Grandma’s turkey until Thanksgiving. His side of the family owns a popular Chinese restaurant, so he’s impossibly picky about food quality.

“Do you have at least six months’ salary in your emergency fund?” Dad asks me, patting the corner of his mouth with one of the carefully halved takeout napkins he has a habit of hoarding.

I groan. “Dad, seriously. Stop worrying. I’m not spending frivolously. My gym membership and all my clothes are sponsored. I have a huge check coming in the mail from Nike. And I have more than enough money saved and invested for the future, just in case.”

Since the beef broth started simmering, Dad has been on a well-intentioned rant about how I need to reevaluate my career options, given my current income is “temporary.” He constantly badgers me about getting a “real job” for the sake of “long-termfinancial security.” Even after the success of his commercial cleaning business, he still pinches pennies, to the extreme. Tara and I even signed him up to be on TLC’sExtreme Cheapskates.When the producers called him and asked him to be on the show, he declined and refused to speak to us for five days.

“I don’t mean to cut you down. Your fitness account is a great hobby. But I’m your father. It’s my job to worry about you.” He casts a grim glance at me as I mix my dipping sauce.

He never hides his disappointment that I didn’t follow the plan of joining corporate America after getting my business degree at Northeastern like a good Chinese girl. But by my third year, I was already making significantly more than a typical entrance salary through endorsements and paid posts alone. It seemed ridiculous to settle for less money, being stuck in a bland cubicle from nine to five, and taking orders from a disgruntled baby boomer who doesn’t know my name.

Mom would usually echo Dad’s grievances, but tonight, she’s visibly shook over Grandma Flo. “I just find it bizarre,” she says out of nowhere, clumsily dipping her beef into the soy sauce. After almost thirty years of marriage to Dad, she has yet to master the art of chopsticks. Dexterity isn’t her thing.

“Maybe she wanted to have a relaxed Easter this year, since Bill and Shannon are with the kids in Europe,” Dad suggests.

“But a casino? On a religious weekend? She’s a devout Catholic.” Mom shakes her head, clutching a trembling Hillary in her arms. The rest of us detest having Hillary at the table like a human, but Mom refuses to relent, taking it as a personal attack when we complain. In fact, she spends half her time talking to her instead of us.

I nod, swallowing a mushroom while avoiding Hillary’s beady little black eyes. “You’re right. Something doesn’t add up.”

Tara struggles to extract a fish ball from the hot pot. “Give Grandma a break. The holidays have been tough on her since Grandpa.”

I’d never really thought about it like that. Grandpa’s death three years ago has been rough on everyone, particularly Grandma. “Maybe. But I thought she loved hosting.”

“She does,” Tara agrees. “If she didn’t want to stick around to host this year, there must be a reason.”

A mental image of a grieving Grandma Flo makes my heart ache. “What if I try to call her right now? See how she’s doing?” I suggest.

Mom leans in, cradling Hillary, practically digging her elbow into mine. “Yeah. Let’s check in on her.”

Dad lets out an extended sigh before taking a gulp of his water.

Before Tara or Dad can protest, I’ve already hitCalland set it to speakerphone. It trills five times before she picks up.

“Hello?” Her shrill voice shatters my eardrum.

Cringing, I hold the phone farther away from my ear. “Hi, Grandma. It’s Crystal.”

“Oh, Crystal. Hi.” Awkward silence. It’s quiet wherever she is. There aren’t any of the dings and chimes you’d expect to hear in a casino. “Listen, I got your text on Facebook about my appointment next week and I meant to put a thumbs-up, but I hit the poop button instead. You know how I am with those darn touch screens. Good thing you didn’t inherit my wide McCarthy thumbs. I hope you weren’t too offended, dear.” Tara and I look at each other andtry not to crack up. These emoji blunders are commonplace for Grandma Flo. Last month, she inserted five Laugh-Crying Face emojis on aRest in PeaceFacebook eulogy post for her recently deceased friend. She’d mistaken it for a sad face. “Happy Easter, by the way,” she adds.

“No worries. I figured the poop emoji was a mistake. And happy Easter to you too. I was just calling to see how your girls’ trip is going. Any big casino winnings?”

“Casino?” She pauses for a moment, as if I’ve just inquired about life on Mars. I meet my family’s suspicious gazes as she bumbles on. “Oh, right. Yes. The casino. It’s good. No winnings, though,” she says with shaky laughter.

“What games have you played?” Mom pipes in. She sets Hillary down, which results in more incessant whining. “Patience! Don’t be rude,” she fury-whispers to her, as if Hillary is a human child.

There’s another pause from Grandma. “Uh, bridge.”

“Bridge? At a casino?” Mom’s nostrils flare.

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