Free Bitter Melon by Cara Chow Page B

from me—my TV, my picture, my dishes, even my home!” Mom says. “To hell with them all! When you become a successful doctor, we can get all these things back!” She releases a big belch, as if punctuating her declaration. To an outsider, that would sound comic. But I know that passing gas is a sign that Mom’s stomach is recovering. I can give back to her what others have taken away: money, health, and dignity. All this time I have seen her expectations as pressure, when really they were the sign that she believed in me.
    Mom returns to the sagging couch and sighs. “I am so old and broken, Fei Ting, just like this apartment.”
    “That’s not true,” I say.
    “Yes it is,” she says. “I’m also getting fat.”
    “No you’re not.”
    “You just don’t notice, because you’re around me every day. But I’ve had these pants for over twenty years and they don’t fit me like they used to. Also, my hair is turning white.”
    “But your skin is so beautiful,” I say. “Not one wrinkle in sight.”
    “You think so?” Mom says ruefully.
    Never before has Mom cared about my opinion. In the past, she has always rushed past me in the race to get things done, arguing that I’m not competent enough to help. But this time, I get to show her that I, too, can take care of things. That is why she is talking to me in this new way, like a friend rather than a mother.
    I will make sure that I am different too. My first competition will be my last. Once speech class is over, I will redirect my attention, with a more penetrating focus. I will right all the wrongs, wipe the slate clean.
    I take my backpack to the bedroom and pull out my UC application. As I proofread it, I recall Ms. Taylor’s advice to apply to all the UCs, to expand my options. I look at the list of schools: UC Davis, UC Berkeley, UC Santa Barbara, et cetera. Only Berkeley has an
X
next to it. Ms. Taylor’s suggestion, if only a flicker of temptation, is now snuffed out, a charred match floating in a puddle of gutter water. I fold my application neatly, place it inside the envelope, and seal it. I walk my UC application and my San Francisco State application, which I filled out last week, to the mailbox down the street, risking being caught outdoors should an aftershock strike.
    When I return to the apartment, Mom is hunched over in the kitchen, sorting through the trash. She lifts a porcelain bowl, the one with the red-and-gold dragons, from the trash bag. It is cracked and missing a huge piece. “This was a wedding present,” Mom says. “This was the life we were supposed to have.” Then she gasps and drops the half bowl onto the floor. It shatters. Abead of blood forms on Mom’s thumb. I run to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit. Then I clean Mom’s finger and bandage it.
    “Those pieces are sharp. You shouldn’t touch them,” I say. I shuttle Mom off to the bedroom. Then I help her get into her pajamas and into bed.
    Afterward, I begin to return to the kitchen, where Mom dropped the bowl, but I stop myself halfway. My bones ache. I’ve done enough today. I can always clean this up tomorrow. I return to the bedroom and climb into bed.

    The next day, I wake up to the sounds of running water and clanging silverware and dishes. At first, between sleep and wake, I think I am dreaming, but as the haze of dreaminess fades away, the sharp sounds from the kitchen remain, sending a spark of alarm through me. We didn’t cook last night. Why is Mom washing dishes?
    After making my bed, I put on my slippers and walk to the kitchen. Mom is standing at the sink. Her arms move in a flurry. A collection of bowls and dishes is accumulating in an organized manner on the dish rack. Hot white steam rises from the sink and the dish rack, but it seems to emanate from her body rather than the hot water.
    “Mom, why are you washing dishes?” I say.
    “They all fell onto the floor during the quake,” Mom says. Her consonants form jagged edges. “Don’t