by Liana Liu
I nearly fall over as the door flies open.
Then I’m running, running as fast as I can. Perhaps I pass people who tell me to stop, ask me what I’m doing, though if I do, I don’t see them or hear them. All I see is that figure at the window. One arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek. I soar up the stairs and count the doors to my destination: one, two, three, four.
I stop. This is it.
The door is flat-white, unadorned, unremarkable. There’s no doorbell, only a brass knob. With great concentration, I bend my fingers to form a fist out of my right hand and tap my knuckles against the flat-white, three gentle taps.
I wait. Then I knock again, less gently this time.
Still there is no answer and no sound from within the room. There is, however, the clatter of quick footsteps down the hall. They are coming for me. They are coming to take me away from her. My palm covers the brass knob. The door eases open. I’m inside.
And there’s nothing.
Well, there is a bed and a nightstand, a lamp in the corner next to a chair upholstered in velvet. But there is nothing. No one. Only me and a thin skin of dust covering the entire room.
I touch my face and find my cheeks wet. I hadn’t known I was crying. But now that I know, I sob harder, my body shaking so much I have to sit down on the bed. There is no blanket on the mattress, not even a sheet. It has clearly been a long while since this room was last occupied. I am choking, I am drowning in my disappointment.
For the first time I admit the truth: I thought I would find her here even before seeing that figure in the window; I thought I would find her here the moment I matched Raul’s jacket with those worn by the strangers who took her from our house that night. Of course, I never spoke my expectation aloud; I did not even think it into actual words. Partly because I was afraid to jinx it, partly to avoid humiliation should I be proven wrong.
But now I’m humiliated anyway. It serves me right for imagining that the last five years of my life had been a lie, for daring to believe she could be alive, for trying to undo the past. My mother is dead. I have to remember. She is dead.
A woman in green scrubs comes into the room and says I have to leave. I tell her I know. I do not look at her. She takes me down the hall, down the stairs. I can’t stop crying. I’m so embarrassed. I wish I could stop crying. We walk through the reception area. I ignore the lady behind the desk, though I feel her gaze cutting into me.
“Is your car in the parking lot?” asks the woman in green scrubs.
I shake my head.
“I’m sorry, I have to escort you off the premises,” she says, not unkindly.
“I understand.” My voice breaks and I would be even more humiliated if I had not already reached my maximum level of humiliation. We go past the parking lot to the front gate.
“This is fine,” she says. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“I think so.” I look directly at the woman for the first time. She is fair-skinned and fair-haired and I guess she is about the age my mother would be if my mother were still alive. But she’s dead, I have to remember. No matter that when I shut my eyes she is close enough that I can count the strands of silver in her hair, smell the soft-sweet of her skin. My mother is dead, no matter how much I remember.
“You take care.” The woman smiles sympathetically, and her smile wounds me. I have to explain. I have to make her understand.
“I saw someone by the window, but there was no one there when I got to the room. I guess I’m just seeing things now. It’s been a strange week,” I say. Then I look away, embarrassed again, embarrassed still. “I was just so certain I saw someone in there, someone I knew.”
“It was probably one of our residents. She likes to wander around to the empty rooms. It’s not allowed, but we never manage to catch her in the act. When we go look for her, she’s always back where she’s supposed to be.” The woman shakes her head, chuckling a bit. “Guess you couldn’t catch her either,” she says.
All at once, I stop crying.
Now I am walking toward Grand Lake Park, walking on the narrow sidewalk next to the wide black road. Now I am trying not to hope, but of course I am hoping. For now that my secret fantasy has been revealed, it won’t return to hiding. And how ridiculous the fantasy: that my mother is not dead, that she resides in a luxurious retirement home and spends her days wandering around to the empty rooms.
Why would she go there? Why would she stay there?
I close my eyes and when I open them, I’m hungry, really hungry, stomach howling complaint. I glance at the clock. It’s dinnertime. Dad is teaching an evening class and won’t be home till late. Mom is in her study, all afternoon she’s been in there. I go to her closed door and press my ear against the wood. I hear nothing. I lean on the closed door. It opens slowly, creaking softly.
She is sitting at her desk, pen in hand, writing in her notebook. She does not look up from her work. Maybe she does not notice I’m here. Mom? I say quietly, careful not to startle her. She hates being startled.
What do you want? Still, she does not look up from her work.
When’s dinner? I’m hungry, I say. She flips a page and continues scribbling. Her usually neat bun is falling off her head, the hair in wisps on her shoulders. I’m hungry, I say again, in case she didn’t hear me the first time.
Finally, she looks up from her work, looking at me as if I’ve only just appeared. I’m busy. Order something, okay? I need some peace and quiet right now.
What should I order? What do you want?
All I want is some peace and quiet, she says.
Fine, I snap. But there is no satisfaction in snapping at someone who is not paying attention; already she has returned to her notes and does not notice me stomping away.
An hour later, when the deliveryman arrives with our dinner, she will come downstairs, drawn by the smell of hot food, and ruffle my hair, kiss my cheek, pull up a chair and a fork, and act as if nothing bad happened between us. And I will let my hair be ruffled, let my cheek be kissed, let her sit beside me, and act as if I am nothing but pleased to see her.
A week later, while I eat my breakfast, my father will stumble into the kitchen and tell me she’s gone.
“Watch it!”
“I’m sorry,” I say to the jogger.
“Pay attention!” he shouts as he runs past me.
I stare out at Grand Lake. The beach is crowded with people enjoying the beautiful day. A woman plays with her two small children at the edge of the lake. They squeal as they splash their bare feet into the water, and she laughs.
Peace and quiet, my mother says.
There’s a rattling in my hand. The bottle of pain pills. I unscrew the top before remembering that I’ve already taken a couple tablets, not long ago. But I gulp down one more, anyway, because my head is aching again.
Except maybe it’s not my head that aches, not exactly my head. I don’t know. Something hurts.
16.
I WALK OVER TO MY AUNT’S APARTMENT BUILDING EXPECTING she won’t be home since it’s a weekday afternoon and she’s never home on weekday afternoons, but today she is. I give my name to the uniformed man behind the front desk, and when I get upstairs she’s waiting at the door. “What a wonderful surprise!” she says.
“I was in the neighborhood. Are you busy?”
“Oh, I’m always busy, but never too busy for you. You just caught me. I’m leaving for the airport in an hour; I’m going to the capital for Joe Finney’s funeral. You know about that, don’t you?” she says.
I nod. Joseph Finney was the senator who’d been shot after a press conference a couple days ago. He had died from his injuries. “Were you friends with him?” I ask.
“We were allies, an even stronger bond. He was a good man. I can’t believe they still haven’t found the shooter.” Her expression warps and I see anger, I see fear.
“What does the Citizen Army even want?” I ask.
/> “It’s hard to tell. Sometimes they say they want to bring the entire government down, other times they say they just want a political voice. The only thing the Citizen Army is really consistent about is destruction.”
I touch her arm. “You’re careful, right? You have bodyguards and stuff?”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I take all the necessary precautions.” She seems both moved and amused by my concern.
Aunt Austin asks if I’m hungry and tells me I’m welcome to whatever I find in the refrigerator. “I’m sorry I can’t prepare something for you, but I have so much to do before I leave,” she says.
Then she goes to her bedroom to pack, while I ramble around in her kitchen. There is plenty to eat, but I’m surprised to find that her leftovers consist entirely of food in take-out containers. I always imagined my aunt returning from a long day at work and cooking herself an exquisite three courses. Maybe because she always makes us fancy meals when we visit. Or maybe because of the way my mother used to talk about her sister.
Whenever Mom made a particularly bad dinner—burned the chicken or added too much salt to the sauce—she would shake her head in solemn disapproval of her own self and say, “What would Austin think? I’m so ashamed.” But then she would laugh, clearly unashamed. In any case, it makes more sense that my aunt would come home exhausted and order in.
I warm up a bowl of soup, eat all of it, and throw out the container. Still hungry, I cut a slice of bread from the loaf on the countertop. I cut another piece and top it with a dollop of egg salad from the refrigerator. Finally satisfied, I go looking for my aunt. Now that I’ve eaten, I feel calmer. My mind is working again.
Aunt Austin is still in her bedroom, briskly folding clothes. The room is all white: white walls, white carpet, white furniture, white linens on the white bed. The only blot of color is an orchid in a white pot on her white dressing table.
“Did you eat, my dear?” She smiles at me.
“Yes, thank you,” I say. “Can I ask you something? About my mom?”
Her hands freeze mid-fold. “What about her?”
“What was she like when she was little?” I ask, having decided this is a reasonable question for a girl to ask the sister of her allegedly deceased mother.
“She was stubborn and impulsive. Slightly naughty. Not so different from adult Jeanette.” Aunt Austin finishes folding what she’s folding.
“Naughty?”
“I was always having to cover for her. Sometimes literally: I would cover her mouth with my hand when I knew she was about to say something she shouldn’t. She was always saying something she shouldn’t. But I tried to be patient. It was my duty to take care of her.”
“You were only a few years older.”
“After Daddy died, our mother had to work long hours to support us. She was at the factory twelve hours a day, and when she came home she always had some beading or other handiwork to do to make a little extra money. Jeanette and I had to fend for ourselves.”
“It must have been tough,” I say softly.
Aunt Austin sighs as she looks around at her immaculate room. “When I remember how poor we were back then, it makes all of this seem unbelievable.”
“You’ve worked hard.” I nod as if I understand, though I know I can’t possibly understand, not really. All I understand is the comfort of that two-story, one-family house in a nice residential neighborhood in the most southern part of Middleton—the house I’ve lived in my entire life.
“I worked no harder than my parents.” She clears her throat, a quietly bitter sound. “I was lucky. Being born here made all the difference, for me and for Jeanette.”
“That’s why your parents immigrated. To give you those opportunities,” I say.
My aunt shakes her head. “Daddy had his own ambitions. But they came here with nothing, so he had to take the first job he could get while he learned the language, which he did, quickly. He started as a busboy at a restaurant downtown, and worked his way up to manager at a much nicer place. All the while, he saved his money because he planned to start his own business. But then the heart attack . . .” She goes to the window and straightens the white curtain. Once it’s straight she keeps straightening.
“He’d have been proud of you,” I say.
“I hope so.” She is still straightening the curtain. She straightens until it’s crooked again.
“Didn’t your grandpa also live with you?” I ask, hoping I haven’t disrupted the mood. Aunt Austin is not prone to reminiscence. She is not often nostalgic, almost never sentimental.
“Yes,” she says. “Grandpa moved in just before my father died.”
“So he was home with you while your mother was at work?”
“He read his newspapers and watched us play. Jeanette was his favorite. He spoiled her too much. But I can understand why, she was such a happy kid. Even though she drove me crazy, we were best friends. We had our made-up games and our secret jokes. Sometimes we’d just look at each other and start laughing.” Aunt Austin steps over to the potted orchid on her dresser. The flower seems especially vivid in all this whiteness, with its arcing green stem and bright purple blossoms.
“I felt so bad when I went away to college,” she says as she studies the plant.
“Because then your grandfather got sick,” I say.
“Yes, then our grandfather got sick,” she says.
“Why didn’t your mother get him a memory key?”
“She wanted to. He refused.”
“My mom thought it was because Grandma thought he was too far gone.”
“Jeanette thought that because that’s what she wanted to think. Even if he were too far gone, even if we had to use our last cent to pay for it, our mother would have gotten him a key if he’d been willing. She knew her duty to her father-in-law. But the truth is, Grandpa had given up. He was ready to go. Jeanette believed what she wanted to believe. She always did.”
Aunt Austin frowns as she presses her fingers into the soil at the base of the orchid. “I need to water this before I go,” she says.
“Should I get some water?” I ask.
“That’s all right. I’ll do it.” She brushes the dirt from her fingers and comes toward me. “Lora, what a strange and terrible thing it is that you, your mother, and I have all lost the person we loved most at such a young age. For me it was my father. For Jeanette it was our grandpa. And for you—”
“I still have my dad,” I say quickly.
“Yes, you’re lucky to have Kenneth. Even though Jeanette and I loved our mother, she wasn’t there for us the way Ken is for you. She was always working, and when she wasn’t working she was always so tired. She didn’t understand her daughters, not like Daddy. In the old country, his parents were intellectuals, so he knew what we were striving for. He was striving for the same things. But my mother’s family were peasants. For her it was only about survival. Not that I blame her. Your grandmother did not have an easy life.” She takes my hand. Her fingers are warm.
“And I have you,” I say.
Aunt Austin blinks once, twice, and smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Thank goodness we have each other.”
Then she glances at the white clock on the white wall. “I’m afraid I’ve got to go, my dear. The car will be here any minute.” She returns to her suitcase, inspects the tidy stacks, nods approvingly, and flips down the cover of the bag. But then her hands pause, palms hovering as if they don’t know what to do next.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“I loved your mom, Lora. I really . . .” Her gaze drifts downward as her fingers jolt back into action. She zips her suitcase closed and turns to me.
“You are an extraordinary young woman and I know you can do anything you set your mind to. What I’m about to say is very important, and it’s a lesson I learned the hard way. Are you listening?”
I nod.
“You can’t let your life be defined by the loss of your mother.” Her face is earnest straight lines, her eyes im
ploring. “Do you understand?” she asks.
“I understand,” I say.
Aunt Austin stares intently at me, so intently I’m afraid she can see everything: all my suspicions and hopes and fears, my misbehavior at Grand Gardens, my falling-out with my friends, my lies to my father. She stares at me so intently I’m afraid she can see I just lied to her too, that I don’t really understand, because how could I possibly understand?
She stares. She speaks. “Good,” she says.
17.
MY AUNT TELLS ME I CAN STAY IN HER APARTMENT WHILE I wait for Raul, but asks that I’m careful not to spill anything on the carpet or furniture. She shows me how to work her television, though her television works no differently than any other television, and she gives me instructions on how to lock her front door, though her locks work no differently than any other locks.
After she leaves, I lock the door as instructed. Then I go into the kitchen, look through the cabinets, and find a box of chocolate cookies. I eat one. No, two. Next I go into the living room and flip through the television channels for a while. Finally, I decide it’s been long enough. Aunt Austin is probably halfway to the airport by now, and not coming back for a forgotten something. Not that she would ever forget anything. And so I do a little snooping.
My intentions are less insidious than they sound. I’m mostly interested in the normal snooping everyone does in other people’s homes, browsing the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelf, the bottles in the bathroom. It’s only because my aunt’s miscellaneous stuff is all tastefully concealed—in built-in closets and cabinets—that my snooping feels slightly sinister.
And so I’m glad to quickly find what I’m looking for. I remove the photo albums from a cabinet and bring the whole stack of them to the cream-colored couch. The top book is recent: Aunt Austin posed with various official-looking people, smiling her congresswoman smile. I set that one aside. The next is better, familiar. Many of these photos I’ve seen before, at my own house, in my own albums.
