Bitter Melon by Cara Chow

Author:Cara Chow [Chow, Cara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-60684-198-3
Publisher: EgmontUSA
Published: 2010-12-28T05:00:00+00:00

Nellie drives us home. Then she and Theresa walk Mom and me up the stairs. As soon as Mom and I enter our apartment, Nellie and Theresa turn to go.

I walk with them to the gate, as if I could follow them home. I want to beg them to stay awhile longer. I’m afraid of what Mom will do once they’re gone. But I don’t dare ask them to stay, not after what they’ve been through. Just by intervening as much as she did, Nellie already crossed the line. The proper thing to do would have been to mind her own business and not interfere, even agree with Mom and side against me. By trying to stop Mom from beating me, Nellie insinuated that Mom’s choice was wrong. That is the worst offense of all, to accuse a parent of being wrong. The parents must always be right; otherwise they lose face. And by losing face, they lose their authority in the family.

Before closing the gate behind her, Nellie grabs my hand and squeezes it. “She didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “It’s because she loves you so much that she gets this upset. So be good and don’t upset her anymore.” Nellie points to her heart. “I know that inside, you’re a good girl.” I watch Nellie and Theresa disappear into their car and down the street. I am left alone, weak and unprotected.

When I return to our apartment, Mom makes her way into the bedroom. “Ingrate,” she mutters as she slams the door behind her. How many times I’ve wished that I had my own room. Now I will have to spend the whole night just a few feet above her body, where her anger and judgments reside, as if she is a fire and I am a roast pig being turned on a skewer above the flames.

I stand outside the door, afraid to enter the bedroom, while my toes turn to ice on the linoleum floor. After about fifteen minutes, when my feet have grown numb, I tentatively open the door. Mom is snoring softly. Thank goodness. I carefully climb up the ladder to the top bunk, trying not to make a noise. A couple of times, I cause a creak and break out in sweat, afraid that Mom will wake up and hit me all over again. Fortunately, she doesn’t wake and I make it to bed safely. I pull the blankets up to my face and feel their softness against my lips.

After losing Derek, I consoled myself with speech. I vowed to hold on to it with all my might. But now it seems that even that is slipping from my grasp, in spite of my best efforts. How foolish I was to think that I could outsmart Mom. It is like swimming against a riptide, climbing out of quicksand, or hanging on to a pole in the midst of a hurricane. You can fight nature for only so long before you are swallowed by it.

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