by YZ Chin
One evening after work, standing in the dim hallway outside our apartment door, my keys jutting out from one tight fist, I had a sudden feeling that something was wrong. There was a persistent scratching sound coming from the other side of my own front door. I kept my eyes on the keyhole, which seemed to be shining, dully. The scratches became more insistent, almost like a saw’s whine. I checked again; yes, it appeared to be the right door, the one that would open to our mess of partially dry umbrellas sagging against cardboard boxes waiting to be collapsed and twined, a dying potted plant lurking in the background. What was there? What had gotten in while we were at work?
I must have stood there for minutes. I would have stayed even longer, were it not for the ding of the elevator down the hall. That broke the spell. I didn’t want my neighbors to catch me standing frozen in front of my own home.
I hunched over the doorknob and twisted it, degree by degree. Then, just as carefully, I leaned against the door until it opened a crack. The scratching stopped. I thought I felt resistance on the other side of the door, so barely perceptible that I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my mind, conjuring.
The elevator dinged again as I pushed open the door more, peering around it. I saw a tangled mess of black geometric shapes, like someone had spilled a monochrome Lego kit on the floor. Then the mess juddered, and I realized I was looking at four straight locked limbs connected to a glinting carapace, topped off with a passably globular head. The creature was on its back, shuddering in a frantic rhythm and whirring mechanically. It was trying to sit upright on its metal haunches.
“What the heck?” I muttered.
Laughter erupted from somewhere behind me. I jumped, kicking the creature and accidentally righting it, setting it roaming into Marlin’s ankles. He was doubled over, his laughter a seesaw pitch.
“Best day of my life,” he said, when he could speak again. Wiping tears from his eyes, he explained how he’d built a robot cat out of 3D-printed frames, springs, and rivets, then given it a Raspberry Pi for a brain.
“Raspberry Pie? That’s an odd name for a computer.”
The cat lurched alarmingly from side to side as it came toward me.
“So what is it called? Marlin’s Monster?”
“You were the one who wanted a cat.” Marlin widened his eyes, long lashes underscoring put-on innocence. “You name it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, delighted. He’d taken my desire and crafted it into corporeal reality. How could I be unmoved?
The next day he came home to a surprise of his own. I’d picked up a stuffed dog the color of a radioactive eggplant and the same size as the robot. I gutted the dog, skinned it, and fitted its fur around Marlin’s robot cat. My turn for a good laugh.
It went on like this, Marlin incrementally improving the robot’s balancing skills, giving it a speaker for grotesque meows, installing a fish-eye camera, while I added a mismatched blue tail, ears torn off a toy bear, stirrers nabbed from a coffee shop for whiskers. The robot was truly a sight to behold. Eventually I named it Buster, because it was the most American name I had ever heard—surely no one outside America could be called Buster. It seemed apt, too, as it often walked itself into walls and chairs, busting its own delicate setup, requiring tinkering.
When Marlin fired it up and tried out new tricks, I’d look on with pride and imagine that this was what parents of human babies felt. No matter how hideous or ungainly, it was something that we, and only we, could have created. There was no entity like it anywhere else in the world. And tenderness would well up in me, something that seemed very much like bliss floating to the top.
It makes me feel like a fool now. Zoomed out, you can see how ludicrous it is, the way everybody un-uniquely fixates upon how unique their creations are. Really, we are just marveling at chance. Babies switched at birth inspire the same misplaced warm feelings in both sets of parents. That alone should tell us how mistaken we are. Interchangeable uniqueness? What a concept.
Marlin had taken Buster with him. I wasn’t delusional—I knew it wasn’t really alive—but it still hurt. He hadn’t explicitly presented Buster as a gift to me per se, but I’d always thought about it that way. Hadn’t he made it to impress me?
After
Day Two (Thursday)
At home, I snatched up the list of possible places where Marlin could be. Setting aside hotels and vacation spots, there were eight leads to follow. I’d spoken to Eamon at lunch, so I crossed him off, which left me with seven avenues of investigation.
Home with Mummy (unlikely, based on phone call yesterday)
His office (possible, though need an in to get past building security)
Crashing with someone? Best friend Eamon (possible, all the way out in College Point)
Friends from work (possible, could verify by visiting office—see above)
Climbing gym partners? (can’t remember names other than Eamon)
Climbing gym (possible, given three-times-a-week routine)
Favorite restaurant (too close to apartment? worth a try anyway)
I lifted a pen to cross out item 1 as well, but my hand hovered over the word Home. A trip from New York to Malaysia took at least a full day; there were no direct flights. Marlin couldn’t have been at Mummy’s when I’d called her yesterday, but who was to say he hadn’t been on his way? The discovery that he’d taken Buster with him meant it was likelier Marlin hadn’t gone far, but I had to be sure. I dropped onto our couch and called Mummy again.
When she picked up, I strained my ears for any sound that might give Marlin away. Was the tinny noise in the background him, stirring condensed milk into Milo? That rustling—it could be him lifting the tudung saji for a bite of kuih.
“Edwina?”
She sounded tired. It was not even six in the morning for her, after all.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No, no. I was just scrubbing some clothes.”
“Did Marlin mention we might want to visit soon?” I held my breath. Why was she taking so long to answer?
“No,” she finally said. “But that’s nice. He called me the other day and asked some strange questions.”
“What questions?”
“It’s probably nothing. I was just a bit surprised. How is he doing?”
“He’s good. Still at work. You said he sounded strange when he called you?”
“He was asking about the cemetery . . . how much it would cost.”
“I don’t understand. We already settled payment for—for—,” I stumbled. I was hunched over, my neck sticking out like a turtle’s. It felt cruel to remind her so baldly of her husband’s death.
“He actually asked how much it would cost for himself.”
“What? You mean Marlin was trying to buy his own funeral plot?”
“He wanted the place next to his daddy, you know.”
“In Malaysia?”
She fell silent.
“Shouldn’t you be the one next to his dad?” I was desperate to refute, in some way, what I’d just heard.
“Oh, forget I said anything. Obviously I’m being silly. It’s wise to plan ahead.”
“Wait. Did he ask for one plot? Or two?”
Mummy begged off, saying she needed to get back to her clothes. Right before she hung up, I heard the call of azan swell through the phone.
SIX MORE LEADS TO PURSUE. I COULDN’T FOCUS ON THEM. MARLIN HAD called about a final resting place. He was thinking about death, perhaps obsessing over it. I tried to convince myself it was a touching gesture, born out of straightforward love for his father and a keen sense of loss. But I couldn’t help returning to the number of plots in question. It wasn’t just that I wanted to feel included in his plans. Two plots implied he was thinking of me, yes, but also that he was preparing for something far in the future. One, going solo, hinted at something much darker.
I clutched my head and rode it out, the carousel of gore presented by my mind. Marlin lying in a pool of his own blood, o
ne edge of his suicide note scalloped red. Marlin sprawled half in and half out of a shattered windshield, splinters of glass wedged into a broad tree trunk. Marlin gone, replaced by a dull mound of brown earth.
I gripped my upper arms and kneaded them with crossed hands. If I didn’t find Marlin soon, my nightmarish visions would either come true or drive me to a breakdown. The sun had set sometime during my brooding. I got up from the couch to turn on a floor lamp. It had been approximately a whole day now since Marlin left. Not enough time had passed for a missing person’s report. Besides, it was obvious what conclusions the authorities would draw. Husbands vacated marriages all the time, after all. Not to mention I couldn’t get him in trouble with the law, not when he was an immigrant on a work visa. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
I’ll explain. In sophomore year of college, I was assigned a single room next to a student from Germany. The dorm walls were thin. Night after night, the sounds of vomiting and weeping drifted into my room. At first I tried to ignore them, stuffing earbuds deep into my ear canals. Then one morning I walked in on the German in our shared bathroom down the hall. She was wearing a tank top, her spine protruding through the thin material as she brushed her hair. It wasn’t that cold, but her scapulae vibrated like violin bows. When her comb ran through, it came away with a tangled fistful of blond hair.
I reported what I’d heard and saw to our RA. That same afternoon, campus police showed up. She cried as she picked up her shoes by their laces, two men hulking over her tiny frame. Later, I learned she’d been considered a “threat to herself or others” and kicked off campus housing. She lost her scholarship. Had to leave the country.
I couldn’t do it again, put someone’s fate into the hands of uncompromising men in uniforms. Marlin had so much to lose, and I wasn’t ready to give up on us. I could still find him and make him see sense, persuade him to come back to me.
I sat down at the kitchen table with my laptop, thinking I’d give Josh’s novel installment a thirty-second skim. That way I could strategically drop in the right keywords when I saw him the next day. Maybe then he would get in touch faster with his ex, or whomever it was he knew at Cachi I/O.
Radmonsius balls his fists in anger as the space alien raises its laser gun cockily. The enemy’s face is covered with strange markings. A nearby dying planet lets off a burst of illumination. The alien’s blue skin seems to darken as he takes a threatening step forward. From behind Radmonsius the ghost of his friend Space Lt Col Coiler whispers: “Kill it, before it takes away everything you love.”
I thought Josh’s novel couldn’t get any worse, but he had ventured into racist territory with his latest. I debated reading further. Clearly Radmonsius would emerge victorious. I could tell Josh I appreciated the nail-biting suspense of the duel, or some such. But did I also have a moral duty to call out the problems in his text?
My mother’s face popped up, obscuring Josh’s masterpiece. If I were the fist-balling type, I would have done just that—curled my hands and dug in my nails. Instead I sighed and clicked to accept the incoming Skype call.
“Wow, what happened?” my mother said immediately. “You look terrible!”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Your face so fat! Are you eating too much again? Better stop doing that.”
It was a familiar routine, enacted and reenacted since I was a child. At least she couldn’t see me from the neck down, now that I’d moved halfway across the world.
When I was thirteen or fourteen, my mother obtained a life-size poster of a local beauty queen from my uncle, who ran a coffee shop in town. The beauty queen advertised a brand of cheap beer that was popular at my uncle’s establishment. My mother taped the beauty queen’s head to a pillow, showcasing the touched-up face of pearly radiance and hair of new-car sheen. The rest of her body was affixed to a mop handle that was about the right height. Thus given heft, the beauty queen was lovingly carried into my room, where I was sleeping way past the time my mother would have liked for me to wake up. Gently, my mother laid the embodied beauty queen next to me, her head-pillow flush against mine. Then my mother left the room. She didn’t return until she heard my screams.
“What is this?” I shouted at her. I’d woken up and shrieked in terror, believing for a moment that a stranger had invaded my bed.
“It’s your motivation,” my mother said.
“My what?”
“She can help you lose weight.”
“What is this piece of paper supposed to do?”
“It’s like this: auntie next door said she listened to classical music when she was carrying her baby, and now look how smart Ah Bee is. So if you look at skinny beautiful girls every day, then you can imagine yourself one day looking just like them. It will inspire you!” She spread her palms, a ta-da gesture.
I made her leave and banged the door shut. Then I sat down on my bed and focused on the unnaturally beautiful woman beside me. Would it work? I concentrated, beaming my wishes at the prone figure. Yes, my eyes would widen to take in all the appraising gazes of my admirers. My two cheeks would smash into each other like earth plates, giving rise to a tall, proud ridge that was my nose. My eyebrows would arch, well, archly, my jaw would taper, my chin would complete the gentle tip of my pumpkin-seed-shaped face. And my lips, oh, my lips would be like the softest flower petals, never cracking, no matter how wide I stretched them to smile or to fit them over a pineapple bun, the crust flaking off as I bit in with cute yaeba teeth.
Who was I kidding? I turned away, feeling humiliated. With one kick the beauty queen flopped to the ground and lay there facedown.
On Skype, my mother was telling me to start every morning with a quarter of an apple and as many celery sticks as I wanted, because they had “negative calories.”
“That makes no sense,” I said. “Can we talk later? I’m busy.”
“Oh, right. Actually, I have something to tell you.” As she said this, her image on-screen froze, so I couldn’t see her expression.
“You’re not moving. I can’t see you.”
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”
I went with it. I played the “Hello?” game for a few seconds, and then I ended the call.
I hate talking about my mother this way. Though maybe you see it as a gold mine for therapy. I see how my depictions reduce her to a kind of movie stereotype: that harsh, unfeeling, tactless Asian mother who criticizes constantly and expresses love never, or at least not until the very last scene of the movie. And what if, in my case, it is a truthful depiction? Does that mean (a) my mother molded herself in accordance to a stereotype, which is to say a societal expectation; or (b) I can view my mother only through this mediated lens of caricature imposed by entertainment?
It is so hard to trust our own thoughts.
Before
March 2018
You remember what the snow was like that winter? People were throwing out words like “bomb cyclone.” Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if the weather had been less brutal, at least from the perspective of two immigrants who’d moved from a tropical country. If the world outside hadn’t loomed ominous and gray, would that have made a difference? Would Marlin have felt any better?
I, at least, was not immune to the forbidding look of the city outside. I’d just gotten off a call with my mother. It was only ten in the morning, but already our living room was awash in shadows. I walked toward a window, wanting more light, and suddenly found myself sobbing.
“What’s wrong?” Marlin looked up from his computer, concerned.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” I scrubbed my face. “The usual. Why is my mother like that?”
I wasn’t expecting an answer to my offhand rant. To my surprise, Marlin stood up, looked me in the eye, and said gently: “Maybe we can find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Wait here.” He retreated into the bedroom. When he returned, I’d managed to dry my eyes and was feeling embarrassed about my
earlier outburst.
“You’d think I’d be used to talking to my own mother after all this time,” I said, attempting a laugh. I didn’t want to burden Marlin with my petty frustrations. It was still so soon after his father’s death; if anything, I should be the one to offer comfort.
He didn’t react to my inane joke. Instead he busied himself with something on the dining table, his back to me. Then he came and told me to close my eyes, his expression tender and serious at the same time.
“Why?” I resisted at first when he tugged on my right hand. I didn’t want a mountain made out of my molehill of a crying session.
In the end, it was his warm touch on my wrist that did it. I’d missed that. His skin, the bulging veins you could actually feel on his arms. We hadn’t been intimate for a while, for good and obvious reason. And so I lowered my eyelids and trusted his grasp, and we shuffled forward until my feet tapped something solid.
“Sit,” he said, lightly guiding me by my shoulders. I braced myself against an edge right in front of me—the dining table, I assumed.
“Empty your mind,” he instructed, once I’d stopped fidgeting.
I wanted to toss out a wisecrack, something about how my thoughts were already devoid of substance. Instead I shut up and tried to do as he said. I did my best to imagine a white screen, willing my brain to collapse into something two-dimensional.
I was just starting to think, against my will, about a bodega cat I’d seen the other day, when he lifted my hand and pinched my fingers around a thin, supple object.
“A noodle?” I asked, confused.
“Please.” After a while, I heard a sigh. “Try to take this seriously.”
I wanted to object, say that serious business was not usually conducted with eyes closed. But I also wanted him to keep curling his palm around my fingers. I stayed quiet.
