Previously published in Pen&Quill
It is September and I am 15.
The sky is black. The color of spilled ink, of polluted tears, and of mama’s hair before the appearance of grey streaks. Only if I squint can I see a few flecks of distant light—stars. Or perhaps they are souls. I will likely never see them again.
I keep on pedaling, the breeze on my cheeks reiterating how light my shoulders feel, as if a weight burdening me for ages had finally been lifted. Ahead, I am greeted with more layers of buildings. More and more roofs stashed in corners and stacked on top of each other until we all drown in this frozen concrete.
I pick up speed, my dusky hair battling the coastal wind as we near the cliff. My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. I know I’m being irrational.
I glance into the distance. There are barely any street lights on at this time. The only tangible sounds of the night are these: the rattling of bike gears, the crashing of waves, and the loud ringing in my ears.
It is September and a few days prior.
I stumble through the front door, shaking. It had been pouring outside, and all my clothes are soaked through. I spot mama crumpled into a ball on the couch. I cannot see her face, but I can hear her mumble, “No…no, please. No, it can’t be gone. I need…”, and then it stops, all that reaches my ears are her broken sobs.
Confused, I ask, “Mama, where is your sewing kit? Surely some xiuhua [traditional Chinese embroidery] will help soothe the pain. Here, if you can’t get up—”
My sentence is shattered by violent shrieks. “That’s the thing!” She exclaims in Chinese. “Mei le! Bu jian le!” It’s gone. It has disappeared. Just like Lao Lao had, along with all the love in this world.
“It’s okay, mama. It’s got to be around here somewhere.” I comfort her in English.
Sometimes, it feels like the barrier between us is built of more than just language. We are drifting in the same sea, yet eternally detached from one another.
Drowning…
“No, no, no…”
I leave her there, saltwater permeating the couch cushions. It can’t be. The quilt and sewing kit can’t be gone. They are what keeps mama alive. They are what she is.
I fling open the door to my room in a fit of controlled panic. That is when my pupils are drawn to the bed. My bed. There it is, placed soundly on my light blue duvet, like it was the most innocent thing in the world.
I approach with caution, not wanting to get it wet with rainwater. The pitter-patter on the wooden floor is a pounding in my ears. The intricate patterns pull me in closer. Xiuhua. And mama is an addict.
It is August and I am 13.
I can see it all again. I stand there, as Lao Lao takes my hand in hers. My tears blur everything. But I am numb.
We are standing outside the hospital room. It is the third time we’ve had to call the ambulance on mama this year. I simply cannot unsee it. I cannot unsee the sight of mama lying there, motionless in her piles of red thread.
“Hey,” she says, “promise me one thing?”
“What? What is it, Lao Lao?” My voice trembles like a dog in the snow.
“Your mother, she needs extra help. You…you’ll understand soon enough. When I am no longer here, I need you to help her. Please.” Her eyes are glassy with desperation.
I do not know what to say to that, so I say nothing. That night, mama’s cries echo in the walls. I sleep with the xiuhua quilt by my feet.
She is Lao Lao shortly before she became one.
She steps into the room. Her daughter is crying at the kitchen table, her hair a bird’s nest atop her head. She feels terrible. She never meant for her to go through this.
“No cry,” she whispers, setting her gentle gaze on her broken presence. Her voice is as light as a ghost. “I have a surprise for you.”
She returns to her room to retrieve her gift: a cotton quilt and a sewing kit. Hopefully, it would be enough to save her this life.
Her daughter’s eyes light up at the sight. She is glad to have something to take her mind off him. To simply lose the memory of his soft hair, his blue eyes, his soothing presence.
She hands her the items. She immediately feels lighter but keeps in mind that it will be short-lived. She smiles, relieved that at least she was able to comfort her sweet child. She is old now, but not old enough to be deemed useless.
She teaches her daughter to embroider. To Xiuhua. She teaches her to take red thread and a needle and imprint her pain onto cotton. Little by little, she improves her skills and finds she has a natural talent for it. She sews and sews every day until she creates a pattern for each and everything she wishes to forget.
If only there were more thread.
*
It is the next morning.
I’m awakened to tears in my eyes. I pick up the quilt and a single one drops onto one of Mama’s patterns. There is no difference at all. My weeping is the color of my mother’s pain. Bloody crimson.
I cannot stop my mind from wandering back to the quilt. I had never truly understood its purpose and why mama was so dependent on it. All Lao Lao had told me was that it was something she needed to not melt and morph into something completely unrecognizable. A slow resentment for Lao Lao builds inside me. How could she keep something as major as this from me? Why must she wait until her own demise to reveal how broken my mother—and my family—truly is?
In the kitchen, there is no one. Usually, I would find Lao Lao there, surrounded by pots and pans simmering with our breakfast. My stomach lurches. Instead, I pour myself some Lucky Charms and call it a day. I check the time: 7:10. I should be heading to school now.
I do not pause to check on mama. I have not heard from her all morning.
I lock the door behind me and mount my bike. The early morning air is penetrating, sticking into my flesh like daggers. A single raindrop lands on my skin.
It rarely rains in Southern California. And when it does, it is never seawater. I forget my history homework.
She is mama when she was too naïve to have a care in the world.
He takes her hand in his and promises her the world. His eyes are the cerulean of the sea, her favorite thing. She is starstruck by them, especially since her own are ravens, her least favorite. They are so different, and that’s exactly what she likes. She likes how he can teach her how to be more like him.
He goes down on one knee and asks for her world. Gosh, she loves him so much. She leaps into his arms and buries her face in his neck. She can taste salt on her lips.
The moon was brighter than the sun, illuminating the happy couple. It was a night of young hearts. She is sure this was so much more than rushed infatuation and lust. This is love at last, and she will not be letting it go.
I still have no clue of mama’s whereabouts. Everything is a blur. It is now that I wish Lao Lao were still here with me.
No matter where I am, the memories follow me around to haunt me. I see unfocused fragments of long-lost memories, sewn together by Mama’s quick fingers. I am myself, mama, and Lao Lao all at once. I think I see Dad’s silhouette in the living room, but when I get anywhere near him, I find he is nothing but dull dust.
She is mama and he is the man she thought she loved.
And with that, he leaves. No reason, not really. Just a simple note stating his departure and the stinging ache of his absence. She does not know what to do or how to feel.
She weeps until every mark he has left on her is washed away. She weeps until she is as empty as her tear ducts. She weeps until the sun has risen and fallen a dozen times, so much so that it has grown tired of her weeping.
With the new gifts from her mother, she begins to Xiuhua. She releases all of their memories together into her patterns, erasing the pain they now hold. She makes sure she only remembers enough to tell her child that her father is the one who had blessed her with her bright blue eyes.
Mama is gone. She has left without a trace, like air blending into her surroundings.
Perhaps she has finally found my father, the human incarnate of the sea, with his sandy blonde hair and turquoise eyes. He, who had let those same features ooze into me until I could never look 100% Chinese. Because I wasn’t. And I wish I could be.
She sleeps with the quilt over her every night, letting her daughter’s pain seep into her own, sunken body. She acknowledges that her daughter’s habit is starting to get out of hand, but is too concerned to step in. She watches as she slowly bleeds away into nothing but toxic waste. She stands by as her granddaughter grows up with no father and an absent mother. But there are some things that she simply cannot fix. And as the days go by, more and more of her hair greys. But she will not confide in anyone. Not until she is about to break.
It is night.
Finally, I reach the cliff. There is no turning back now. Looking over the edge, the water seems a thousand li [ancient Chinese unit of measurement] below. My breath is shaky, and so is my heart.
I think of all the women in my family and all they’ve been through to get here. I think of all the strange stares and weird comments directed towards us because my hair will eternally be shades lighter than mama’s and my eyes too blue to be her blood daughter. I think of the Xiuhua quilt and all the patterns embroidered on there: all the hurt and agony caused by my snake of a father.
I scream into the night air, the piercing sound mixing with the waves crashing against the shore. I scream for Lao Lao and for mama, and for my father who never was. I scream because I will never truly understand any of it. Love…the most powerful force in the world had never seemed so far away.
And when I jump, I hear my father’s voice, deep and surly and taunting. He’s beckoning me home, to be reunited with him and mama and Lao Lao. I close my eyes and am finally at peace.