“Anything in your big sized skull? When you do college application already? Why I tell you and nothing go in your head?” my mom yelled into my ear, with a drop of her angry saliva landing on my nose bridge, her usually already mean looking face now looked horrifying. Words upon words are trying to force their way out of my mouth to retaliate against her, I would maybe yell back saying I don’t understand shit she’s saying because her horrible grammar and how her words doesn’t comprehend in my awesome brain. Better yet, correcting her sentence into a grammatically correct one. On the contrary, my “big sized skull” is smarter than to let my words flow out, nothing is worse than having the satisfaction of saying what I want and then getting a beating for it later.
I gave my sister Dara, a desperate look over my bowl of rice. She in return gave me a knowing look and a weak smile that never reached her eyes. There I was, just sitting at the dinner table avoiding all eye contact, making myself as invisible as I possibly can until the end of dinner. That impossible feat was almost achieved, but no, my mom has to bring me into her spotlight.
“So you applied to all top ranking universities yet?” she interrogated pompously setting down her pair of chopsticks with golden dragon engravings snaking down till the pointed tip.
“No ma, I don’t want to apply to some of them.” I replied softly running my fork across the over baked turkey sized chicken leg.
“WHAT YOU MEAN NO, YOU HAVE TO. YOU HAVE NO CHOICE.” In her anger fueled scream attack, more spit landed on my dry cracked mutant sized chicken drumstick.
“Okay, I will.” I replied, knowing I wouldn’t do what I just said. Sticking my fork into the drumstick, I tried to pry it apart to get to the inner meat avoiding where I thought her spit landed.
“STOP DOING THAT, JUST EAT YOUR CHICKEN” she threw me a dirty look with her deep setting wrinkled eyes that never seemed to rest, darting me a look that would just kill.
I went to my room after loading the dishwasher, compelled to at least try to understand my mom’s demeanor. I ran all the possibilities in my head, maybe it’s because she’s nearly 70, she’s probably in her late life crisis where she needs to get all her rage out on me, or the end of her menopause that drives her.
Many late nights, I just stare at the ceiling listening to the rhythmic hiss of Dara’s breath. Wishing it were only Dara and I living together, even though we are 14 years apart, we’ve always bonded in a way that other sisters never have and never will, more or less like a mom to me. Today she looked down at my face in her lap with tear filled eyes, running her fingers through my hair, she said: “They say that every tear has it own reason, every smile has its own season. Don’t take it to heart, what you are and nothing she say should ever change the way you feel about yourself. It’s okay because I love you. I’ve been wanted to tell you this for a while--”
BEEP BEEP, her pager sounded with an emergency call from the hospital, with a sorrowful backward glance, she grabbed her car keys and rushed out the door.
After studying tirelessly to be a doctor for six years, she finally achieved her dream of helping others when they are in. Needless to say, her time alone with me has been scarce and it made me realize the importance of having Dara with me. She works at a public hospital near by and lives at home sharing a bedroom with me, not because she doesn’t have the ability to move out and get her own place, but because I begged her to not leave me in this hellhole by myself. Maybe it was my selfishness or persistence, I managed to make my sister stay with me for the past 7 years even when she is studying to get her doctorate. She and I will finally have a breathe of freedom after I go off to college somewhere far, beyond reach from my parents.
I dragged my feet to my computer desk, 2 piles of paper blocked my way, I lifted both off the desk and set it on the floor with a grunt. On the desk I left a sheet of paper I didn’t manage to get, upon closer look it was a copy of my birth certificate. With cursive letters spelled out my name Bonny Jamie Chan, my birthday June, 6, 1993, and finally below all the numbers for the time of my birth, listed my birth mom. Dara Chan.
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I sat front row next to her, surrounded by family members I never really cared to remember, I watched as my distance cousin or aunt laid a beige flower on top of her casket. Avoiding eye contact as she turned around to sit back down, I lay my eyes on a pot of delicate orchids, the evergreen leaves and tainted fuchsia on the pale translucent petals looks as if a cloud of his looms over it, this eye popping colors surely do not belong in that lonely corner. Men in black suits brush past the petals as they hurried to get van for the removal of her casket. Upon closer look, the pot of delicate exotic orchids is nothing more than a twisted bunches of plastic, coated by dust from years of display. I envied its resilience.
I fumbled with my cue cards that outlined what I should say for the speech honored my mom that passed away, according to movies right now I should be wearing dark sunglasses and weak in my family members arms from crying. I tried my best to remember the good times I had with her, there weren’t much moments to choose from. I have to admit. I have always hated her for yelling and scolding me. It was the constant bickering that left an impression as I left for college, it was the emptiness that I didn’t long for.
Sitting next to me, Dara was my support, my sister, my mom.
Gave me clammy hands a squeeze, as I made walked up to the stand behind the microphone.
“My grandma once said,
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