Chapter 3
Istep into the bedroom, its clean, modern lines a stark contrast to the centuries-old charm of the New York apartment. The tiles are cool beneath my bare feet as I reach for the light switch, flooding the space with a soft, muted glow. It’s early morning, Saturday, to be precise. The city outside stirs to life at a different rhythm than during the week. I can already hear the distant hum of traffic, the impatient blaring of car horns, and the shuffling of pedestrians.
My attire is simple, perfect for a quiet morning at home. I’m dressed in shorts and a loose-fitting top, its fabric gentle against my skin. Alex, my sweet little nephew, is still asleep in his room. The past weeks have been a whirlwind as I’ve rushed to prepare for my upcoming travel away from this hell hole.
A yawn escapes me as I gaze at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s been a challenging time, but it’s also been a time of rediscovery. The stench of my morning breath invades my senses, and I can’t help but scrunch my nose and chuckle at my own expense. Amid all the chaos, there’s a sense of freedom approaching, a sense of possibility.
My eyes meet the mirror’s gaze, and I’m reminded of the Japanese quote tucked in one corner. It’s a daily reminder of my obsession, my burning desire to explore the land of the rising sun. My brown hair cascades around my face, framing my features. My tanned skin hints at days spent basking in the warmth of the sun. I have thin lips that can curve into a smile as easily as they can convey determination. My nose, well, it’s pointy, a feature that’s always earned me a teasing nickname or two.
I use a little towel that hangs on the bathroom rod to wipe my wet face. I walk over to the toilet and sit for a wee. As my bladder empties its contents, I look around my little bathroom, memories from it seeping into me. I look at the bathtub and laugh. Jessica and I would fill it with water for a makeshift swimming pool when we were much smaller. I remember once, whilst we played in there, messing the whole place up with puddles of water, I had wanted to slide in from one end of the tub when I missed my steps and bashed the back of my head. It must have just been a little cut, but the blood mixed with the water in the bathtub, making it reddish.
Now, I laugh at how Jessica and I had feared that I lost blood the volume of the bathtub. Jess ran out naked to call Mother, screaming to her that I was dying. All that just for my mother to sigh and treat it with some spirit and a plaster to cover the cut.
I look at the slightly peeling wallpaper on the wall which must have witnessed our laughter, our tears, and our dreams. Now, they stand silent, as I take my steps toward an adventure I’ve yearned for since childhood.
The countdown to Japan has been a whirlwind of emotions. Excitement dances with nervousness, and uncertainty tugs at the edges of my anticipation. But this journey isn’t just about adventure; it’s a quest to find myself, to follow the trail of my own heart, and to discover the dreams I’ve been chasing in the shadow of others.
As the sun inches higher in the sky, casting a gentle morning glow through the window, I can’t help but wonder what lies ahead in the land of cherry blossoms and ancient traditions. Japan awaits, and with it, a chance for me to paint not just on a canvas but on the canvas of life itself.
I walk out of my room and into the living room, feeling the cool hardwood floor beneath my bare feet. A faint smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air as I enter the living room. Lisa, my mother, stands on the balcony, her back to me, her silhouette framed by the soft morning light.
The balcony’s sliding glass door is left slightly ajar, allowing the cool morning breeze to snake its way into the room. The sound of Lisa’s soft humming mixes with the distant noises of the city awakening below.
I clear my throat, and Lisa turns her head slightly, not looking directly at me. A cigarette dangles between her fingers, smoke curling lazily from the tip as it disperses into the open air. My eyes fixate on the cigarette, and my tone carries a hint of disapproval.
“Mom, you shouldn’t smoke here. It’s not good for Alex,” I chide gently, taking a step closer to the balcony.
Lisa remains unfazed, her eyes still fixed on the sprawling cityscape before her. “Is that how you say good morning, dear?” she responds, her voice tinged with indifference.
I offer a hesitant smile, trying to break the ice. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” Lisa replies curtly before taking another drag of her cigarette.
I turn to walk out of the balcony into the living room.
“Amber, dear,” Lisa calls out, “give me a minute.”
I take a deep breath and gather my resolve. Anytime she adds dear to my name when she calls me, I’m sure she has something to demand. I turn to face her.
“Could you help me with five hundred dollars please?” she asks, trying to sound cool.
I shift uncomfortably, choosing my words carefully. “Five hundred? Mom! I just gave you the same amount some days ago.” I pause. “I’m sorry, I really don’t have enough to spare.”
Lisa’s eyebrows furrow slightly as she exhales a plume of smoke. “Then what do you have to spare?”
“Nothing.”
Silence envelopes the balcony, except for the awakening Yorkers that speed by downstairs. My mother’s eyes narrow, and there’s a sharpness in her voice. “Nothing?” she says, pausing for a while. “You’re stuffing all that money just to fly off to some sushi-eating country?”
My heart sinks at my mother’s words. These conversations with her aren’t always easy, but my mother’s disapproval stings more than I expect. “It’s not just about sushi, Mom. Japan has a rich culture, and I’ve always been fascinated by it. This trip means a lot to me.”
She takes a final drag of her cigarette and stubs it out on the balcony railing. She turns to fully face me, her expression stern. “Amber, I’ve supported you through thick and thin. You wouldn’t even be able to afford this trip if it weren’t for the roof over your head and the food on your table. And now you won’t even help me out when I’m in need?”
“Roof over my head? Food on my table? Oh please, stop the jokes Mom.” My heartbeat quickens as angry blood courses through my body. “A roof that you left for me to manage! There’s hardly a thing I can point to and mention your name for the time and resources you put into it. You’re hilarious Mother. All you ever do is suck me dry, except when you get tips from any of the. . .”
“Shut up!” Lisa cries. “Don’t say one more word. You selfish child.” I can see the embarrassment swell in her eyes before she turns to look outside again.
“You don’t even show any concern toward your only grandchild. You act like he’s a punishment I alone should bear?” I say.
She cackles. “Like you’re not doing all of that because his dad still sends money? Huh? You’re just keeping the boy to milk him. And we both know it.”
“Oh that’s a lie,” I say. Tears well up in my eyes as I feel the weight of my mother’s words. I take her words to heart. Am I actually selfish? I push the thoughts away. Even if I am, she deserves every ounce of it. My dreams and aspirations are my own, and I’ve worked hard for them.
I try to ease the tension that has peaked. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Mom, and I’m not trying to be selfish. It’s just that this trip means so much to me, and I’ve been saving for it for a long time.”
She sighs and turns to me. “Fine, Amber. Do what you want. It’s your life.”
I watch my mother walk away, not exactly sure of how to feel. I feel numb.
I’m still standing there on the balcony, the morning sun casting warm hues across the cityscape. But despite the gentle embrace of sunlight, my thoughts are drawn back to the night of Jessica’s death. I sat there in the hospital waiting room, which had been a sterile space, filled with uncomfortable plastic chairs and the hushed voices of other visitors.
My sister’s lifeless body had been taken to the morgue just hours before, and I sat there, numb, trying to process the enormity of the loss. It was then that Mother arrived at the hospital. Her entrance was like a whirlwind, as if she were trying to fill the empty space left by my sister’s absence.
She was different that night, her facade of strength cracking under the weight of her grief. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at me, her own flesh and blood, as if seeing me for the first time in years. The vulnerability in her gaze was something I had never witnessed before.
But that vulnerability was short-lived. In a matter of minutes, she had transformed herself into a cold, distant figure. She wiped away her tears and looked at me as if my grief were an inconvenience. Her words cut deep, slicing through the delicate threads of my emotions.
“Why are you crying, Amber? It’s just death,” she said, her voice devoid of compassion. “We all have our lives to live. Your sister had lived hers.”
I had stared at her in disbelief, unable to comprehend how she could be so detached from the pain we were both feeling. She continued to speak, her words an unrelenting barrage of callousness. She insisted that death was a natural part of life, a simple occurrence in the grand scheme of things. My mother’s response to our tragedy had left me feeling abandoned and alone. I had hoped for comfort, for a moment of shared grief with my mother. Instead, I was met with indifference and a stark reminder that I was, in many ways, on my own.
Later that night, Rose, my friend, had come to comfort me. She held me in a tight hug while I broke my flood gates over her shoulders for the umpteenth time. My hands were stained in Jessica’s blood, and Rose had walked me to the bathroom to have a cleanup.
In the weeks that followed, Lisa tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. She stayed out late into the night, her smoking habit increasing with each passing day. Her once vibrant personality had become an unpredictable blend of supermom and villain, shifting from moments of warmth to sudden outbursts of anger.
I think about the stories of her past life like the nine lives of a cat, the turbulent childhood that had shaped her into the woman she had become. She had been raised by her mother and a stepfather who had subjected her to years of physical and emotional abuse. Her stepfather had forced her into labor at a young age, denying her the chance to enjoy a proper childhood.
The pain from her childhood had driven her to seek solace in her own independence. At a young age, she had left her family behind, determined to fend for herself and escape the torment of what she thought life was. But it was only the beginning.
As I recall the tumultuous history of my mother’s life, I can’t help but wonder if the scars of her past are the reason behind her distant demeanor. Her inability to fully connect with what should matter more, her affinity to murk and grime.
Whatever it could have been, I’m not going to be like her. That I’m sure of.
As the day wears on, I get immersed in the tasks at hand. Sorting through my belongings, along with Alex’s, is a necessary yet oddly comforting activity. It’s a way of preparing for the journey ahead, but it also brings back memories of a time when our family was whole.
In the late afternoon, I hear the soft hum of the television from the living room. It’s Lisa, engrossed in one of her favorite shows. I approach her, hesitant yet determined. Alex walks behind me, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Lisa glances at me with a distant look, her eyes barely leaving the screen.
“Mom,” I begin, “Alex and I need to go out for a while. We’ll be getting some supplies.”
Her response is cold, almost dismissive. “That’s good for you both,” she mutters without taking her eyes off the TV.
With a heavy sigh, I take Alex’s hand, leading him toward the hallway. He turns to my mother and smiles, his innocent voice breaking through the silence. “Bye, Nana.”
Lisa responds with a curt, “Bye, Alex,” still not shifting her gaze.
We step into the hallway and greet our neighbor, an elderly woman struggling to open her apartment door. “Hi, Ma’am,” I say with a warm smile.
“Hello, dear,” she replies, her voice slightly shaky. She’s a kind woman who often looks out for us in this bustling apartment complex. She looks at Alex and smiles at him. He shoots the same smile back at her.
As we make our way downstairs and finally exit the building, we’re met by the sights and sounds of the evening. It’s the quintessential urban experience: the sounds of traffic, the constant hustle and bustle of people, and the imposing presence of the eight-story building we call home.
Alex tugs at my hand gently, looking up at me with his curious eyes. “Where are we going, Aunty Amber?”
I bend down to his level, ruffling his hair affectionately. “We’re going to get some supplies for our upcoming trip, but first, we’re going somewhere special.”
His face lights up with excitement, always eager for an adventure. “Where is it, Aunty Amber?” he asks, getting only a wide smile from me.
We continue down the sidewalk, eventually reaching our destination—the cemetery. At the entrance, a woman with a weathered face stands there, offering bouquets of flowers. Her attire is simple, a faded dress that has seen better days. A colorful scarf is wrapped around her head, and her eyes hold a mixture of warmth and weariness.
We approach her, and she greets us with a gentle smile. “Hello, dear. Would you like some flowers for your visit?”
I glance at Alex, and he nods, his small hand clutching mine. “Yes, please,” I reply, purchasing two bouquets—one for each of us.
The cemetery itself is a peaceful place, with well-maintained pathways and carefully tended graves. A sense of serenity envelops the area, as if time stands still in this corner of the bustling city. A few other visitors are scattered throughout, paying their respects to their loved ones.
I kneel down to Alex’s eye level. “Do you know where we are, buddy?”
He nods solemnly, his gaze scanning the surroundings. “We’re at Mommy’s special place, right?”
“That’s right,” I say softly. “We’re here at Mommy’s resting place.”
We walk hand in hand, guided by memory and the presence of other visitors. Eventually, we reach a particular tombstone. It’s a simple but elegant stone, engraved with Jessica’s name and dates, a permanent marker of her brief yet impactful life.
Alex’s voice breaks the silence as he speaks to his mother. “Hi, Mommy,” he says, his voice a mixture of innocence and understanding.
I stand beside him, my bouquet of flowers in hand. “Hi, Jess,” I add quietly.
We spend a few moments there, in our own silent communication with Jessica. Alex tells her about his day, sharing the small triumphs and joys of his young life. I talk to her too, recounting the events that have unfolded since her passing. Looking at Alex, I tell Jess that we’d be leaving for Japan soon. She’d also always fantasized about leaving for Japan with me. It’s a bittersweet conversation, one filled with love, longing, and unspoken grief.
Finally, we carefully place the flowers on Jessica’s grave, a small offering of beauty and remembrance. Alex looks up at me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I miss Mommy,” he whispers.
I kneel down and pull him into a warm embrace, my own eyes moist. “I miss her too, buddy. But she’s always with us in our hearts, yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. A pure smile cracks across his lips.
As we leave the cemetery, I think of the complexity of the scars I carry. Jessica’s untimely departure had left a void that could never be filled, and it had taken a huge toll on me.