Free The Hundred Secret Senses by Amy Tan

Mission Inn. She thinks men who understand this kind of exchange are from emerging nations—she would never say “the third world.” A colony under foreign dictatorship is excellent. When emerging nation isn’t available, she’ll settle for Ireland, India, Iran. She firmly believes that men who have suffered from oppression and a black-market economy know there’s more at stake. They try harder to win you over. They’re willing to deal. Through these guiding thoughts, my mother has found true love as many times as she’s quit smoking for good.
    Hell yes, I’m furious with my mother. This morning she asked if she could drop by to cheer me up. And then she spent two hours comparing my failed marriage with hers to Bob. A lack of commitment, an unwillingness to make sacrifices, no give, all take—those are the common faults she’s noticed in Simon and Bob. And she and I both “gave, gave, gave from the bottom of our hearts.” She bummed a cigarette from me, then a match.
    “I saw it coming,” she said, and inhaled deeply. “Ten years ago. Remember that time Simon went to Hawaii and left you home when you had the flu?”
    “I told him to go. We had nonrefundable airline tickets and he could sell only one.” Why was I defending him?
    “You were sick. He should have been giving you chicken soup rather than cavorting on the beach.”
    “He was cavorting with his grandmother. She’d had a stroke.” I was starting to sound as whiny as a kid.
    She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sweetie, you don’t have to be in denial anymore. I know what you’re feeling. I’m your mother, remember?” She stubbed out her cigarette before assuming her matter-of-fact, social worker manner: “Simon didn’t love you enough, because he was lacking, not you. You are abundantly lovable. There is nothing wrong with you. ”
    I gave a stiff nod. “Mom, I really should get to work now.”
    “You go right ahead. I’ll just have another cup of coffee.” She looked at her watch and said, “The exterminators flea-bombed my apartment at ten. Just to be safe, I’d like to wait another hour before I go back.”
    And now I’m sitting at my desk, unable to work, completely drained. What the hell does she know about my capacity for love? Does she have any idea how many times she’s hurt me without knowing it? She complains that all that time she spent with Bob was a big waste. What about me? What about the time she didn’t spend with me? Wasn’t that a waste too? And why am I now devoting any energy to thinking about this? I’ve been reduced to a snivelly little kid again. There I am, twelve years old, facedown on my twin bed, a corner of the pillow stuffed into my mouth so that Kwan can’t hear my mangled sobs.
    “Libby-ah,” Kwan whispers, “something matter? You sick? Eat too much Christmas cookie? Next time I don’t make so sweet. . . . Libby-ah, you like my present? You don’t like, tell me, okay? I make you another sweater. You tell me what color. Knit it take me only one week. I finish, wrap up, like surprise all over again. . . . Libby-ah? I think Daddy Mommy come back from Yosemite Park bring you beautiful present, pictures too. Pretty snow, mountaintop . . . Don’t cry! No! No! You not mean this. How you can hate you own mother? . . . Oh? Daddy Bob too? Ah, zemma zaogao. . . .”
    L ibby-ah, Libby-ah? Can I turn on the light? I want to show you something. . . .
    Okay, okay! Don’t get mad! I’m sorry. I’m turning it off. See? It’s dark again. Go back to sleep. . . . I was going to show you the pen that fell out of Daddy Bob’s trouser pocket. . . . You tilt it one way, you see a lady in a blue dress. You tilt it the other way, wah!—the dress falls down. I’m not lying. See for yourself. I’ll turn on the light. Are you ready? . . . Oh, Libby-ah, your eyes are swollen big as plums! Put the wet towel back over them. Tomorrow they won’t itch as much. . . . The pen? I saw it