Free Red Dot Irreal by Jason Erik Lundberg Page A

we sat down at the head table, wife (it seemed so odd to think of her as my wife) on one side and mother on the other (with Mei sitting on Mom’s other side, chatting her up and laughing unashamedly, a musical sound), as Nicole’s father held a spirited discussion in Teochew with her uncle. Her dad had been generous enough to spring for a premier room with an ocean view for Nicole and me to spend our wedding night, and I frankly couldn’t wait to escape this well-wishing mass of humanity and test the bed springs with my new wife.
    The dinner was buffet-style, for which I was grateful; I’d been to too many weddings back in the States where catering was served, and took forever to do so, dragging a reception hours past the tolerance point. A number of incredible-looking dishes on display, including rendang, chicken masala, assam laksa, mee siam, oatmeal prawns (one of my favorites), kueh lapis, and an unexpected surprise for dessert: bread pudding. Heeding the advice of my married friends back home, I loaded up my plate, and headed back to the table to tuck in before I could be interrupted, but I hadn’t taken three steps when from an open doorway at the back corner of the room, a familiar figure was motioning for me to join her. Same outfit as before: white blouse, khaki capris, striped suspenders, anklet, ring. What was she doing here? I walked back to the head table, strongly considering just ignoring her, but this chick was crazy enough to track us down on our wedding day, so who knew what she might do to disrupt the reception. I placed my plate down, kissed Nicole on the cheek, and said, “Be right back.”
    The Eurasian woman had disappeared from the doorway, so hopefully Nicole hadn’t seen her; I found the woman down the hall, sitting on a low fabric bench patterned with pastel-colored tropical flowers, expectantly waiting for me. The compact fluorescent in the wall sconce on the wall above made her face looked washed out, bleached of color.
    “What do you want?”
    “Not here,” she said, taking my hand. I pulled back, refusing to move.
    “Lady, I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what the fuck this is all about. You’re taking me away from my own wedding, and—”
    “I’m your daughter, all right?” she stage-whispered. “I’m your daughter, and I’ll explain everything, but not here .”
    I was stunned enough to follow when she strode down the hall to the elevators. We took the lift in silence to the fifteenth storey, then stepped down the hallway to a room which the Eurasian woman opened with a keycard. The view from the windows was of the sparkling lights and automotive activity around Marina Bay, with the various downtown skyscrapers offering a panorama of illumination that threw geometric shadows onto the walls. The woman closed the door with a very audible click.
    I sat on the farther twin bed. “I’m here. Talk.”
    She faced me on the opposite bed and seemed to gather herself.
    “Like I said, I’m your daughter,” she said.
    “But that’s not possible. You’re what, in your mid-twenties? I’m thirty-two years old. Are you suggesting I had a kid when I was seven?”
    “No. You and Nicole conceived me when you were thirty-four. Two years from now.”
    I shook my head. “So, what then? You’re from the future?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Wasn’t that obvious?”
    “I’m going back downstairs,” I said, standing up. “My food is getting cold.”
    “Wait, I came here for a reason.”
    “I don’t care!” I shouted, feeling the blood rush up my neck and into my cheeks. “Look, please, get help. Stop stalking me. Just leave me alone.”
    “You’re doing it again!” the woman shouted, and I involuntarily flinched. “Pushing me away, not listening, being the same overbearing asshole that I remember. You disapproved of every decision I ever made. We yelled and fought for most of my childhood. Nothing I did was right in your eyes. I left home at sixteen,