One-Fold Woman

An Asian-American woman trying to find love, and realises her past has intrinsic connections to her well-being now.

As happy as she is, finally, alone in the bedroom, observing the minuscule cuts and seamless tailoring of her wedding dresses, and trying to forget about the frenzy week that has gone by�"which involved the usual activities like delivering bride’s dowry (and groom’s, too, in today’s world), meeting each other’s parents, writing guest invitations, and more�"she couldn’t help but to think about the future, the succeeding weeks after the wedding, the coming morning when her apartment will be empty, again, and whistling loneliness like a breeze in the field.

Her man, Jack, is gone for work tonight. This man, whom she met him on the beach on the day she took a day-off from her job four months ago, is the one she had chosen to stay with for her life. On a day four months ago, because the management warned her that she has to, mandated by law, to take a long-overdue holiday (which was due, shockingly, for over three years), she chose to go to the beach, since it was sunny and had no signs of rain clouds. For about half a day she walked, from one end to another, observing the families and friends and strangers from other places, and tried to not think about anything in particular: no work, no family, nothing about love.

Then, about three in the afternoon, she saw a man on an end of the beach, laid supine, and knew he had something special. It wasn’t his appearance: most men had his bell-curved body, brawny, turgid muscles, and conspicuous shadows around the deep dents in his abdominal region. It wasn’t his clothing: most people had on swimsuits that revealed more than they concealed. Since youth, she was taught to wear swim pants�"those that cover at least half of the surface of thighs�"but that soon became a relic in modern society, because the values have changed. You can’t attract a man without revealing what’s necessary, her old college roommate told her some years ago, when they were on the beach, trying to seek possible date candidates. She wore an old-fashioned one-piece, which was the only thing she could accept. And, of course, she didn’t make any encounters, except for the old man who was lost, and asked her for directions (even he, who gave her a quick skim, shook his head ever so slightly before he asked her questions).

The same thing happened in men’s world, too: now, men look forwards to wade out into the ocean and explore the depths, the perils, the heinous creatures of the sea, whereas before they were more reserved, more susceptible to witty banters on the shore and easier to be side-tracked to buy ice-cream or accompany their children, because they fear the unknowns, the undulating water, and every life-threatening bullet that the sea brings. The hilarious matter is men still worry about the same things, but to them, the more pertinent questions are: how could women like men with fears? Why should women depend on a man who cannot even process his dread? So both women and men are driven by libido, by the biological instincts that cannot be exhumed. Though she was aware of all that, she felt no need to conform. In fact, she lulls herself over a question every single day: why should I flow where the currents are going? And, like the society unable to wake from the hypnosis it was drenched in, she was convinced, undoubtedly, her world is the one star that will remain in the sky.

But, while many men in front of Jack were playing with water at the shallow end, or hitting the volleyball and smiling, revealing their white teeth that caught and reflected sunlight, he sat on a torn and aged beach chair, wore the old-school, thick-bezelled sunglasses, navy-blue swimming boxer briefs, and read the latest issue of The New Yorker and did nothing special, nothing fanciful, nothing worthy enough to be photographed, written, or journalised. That was what she was amazed at: a man who decided not to follow the currents of life, and instead went on to live in a way that’s comfortable for him. This man, who neither had the most enviable of statures nor brawniest of physiques, was special from the first glance.

And as she walked by him, he gave her an invitation to talk, as he gently took off his sunglasses, and, without saying a word, gave her a good look. She caught it, and more importantly, she liked it, the way he wanted true human connections rather than instantaneous infatuation. Love between them sprung up from nowhere when she, upon accepting his request, greeted him with a gentle exhortation to borrow his sunscreen, because she forgot to apply it before she came out earlier today. Without a second thought he lent her his bottle of sunscreen, and she instantly, secretly, thought of him differently, as if she found God.

Is this the man who she has been looking for?

She then asked if he’d like ice-cream, which was all the way over at the other end of the beach, and he said of course. That walk, as she later realised, was the stamp sealing her fate, that she would marry this man who had been an orphan since he has memory of the world, who had bounced from one foster home to another for total of nine times, who had, because of his immense wits and hard work and his last foster family (the McCarthys), gotten into a good college, great graduate schools, and is now a well-respected senior financier at a similarly esteemed national bank. This man, whose shyness has always created a huge barricade for people to dismantle, felt, for the first time in his thirty-six-year life (and she was two years junior of her) an unspeakable sensation that made him tear down his silence, like stripping off the plastic on a mint-condition collectible, and said, why don’t I buy you a dinner sometime? 

“With pleasure,” she replied, manly.

*

The satin wedding dress was bought from the McCarthy’s tailoring business, which was one of the most revered and renowned names in the city. Their dresses are, in short, always top of the line. Therefore, her dress was filled to the brim with the latest fashionable statements: wavily laced edges, bluish-white finish (instead of a more favourable, but aged-looking yellowish-white hue), low neckline, and lightweight fabrics with glitters on the surface, all suggestive of a high-end product�"worthy of their new daughter-in-law.

She knew the owners, Beatrice and Mack McCarthy, since a long time ago, so naturally she knew them very well. Initially, she went to them for suits and ties when she attended few doctor’s conferences, where she had to blend into crowds of several hundreds of men�"who, despite being extremely erudite and exceptional in their fields, had little to no respect for women in the medical world. She went to them because as soon as she forfeited wearing her casual and androgynous blouse and khakis, and replaced them with proper, tailor-made suit and tie, the other doctors began reading and following her research and findings, and respecting her relentless pursuit of knowledge, of human ingenuity, of kindness, and of ways to cure cancer. That was her dream: to eradicate cancer, the disease that killed her father.

Few years ago she paid frequent visits to McCarthy’s shop, to buy suits and ties of all kinds, until she found her closets were full of shirts and blazers and fancy ties then said to herself, I have to stop this. Time has gone by too quickly, she thought, when she met them again, which was a month after she met Jack. By that time they just started living together in her good-sized apartment (he rented his out to college students when he needed other income, so he moved in with her), and was meeting each other daily, and promptly at eight every night (in this busy modern society, the latter’s as rare as truffles in the wild). They enjoyed sporadic movie nights, museum excursions, and sightseeing from the Top of the Rock�"the place they agreed they loved the most, though the reason was unspeakable because it was less cerebral than it was a blind adoration of the location, one that allowed them to witness the grand Central Park and ant-like cars and lights and dust-like people on the ground, to adopt the visions of God. Though, truth be told, she loved it first, and he loved it because she did. They loved it because that was there where they found their love had budded: it was there they decided they should live together, make the relationship official, and meet each other’s parents. However, since her mother was back in Hong Kong, she felt the task for her to see her son-in-law was not only time-consuming, but also a little unnecessary. It was more important for the McCarthys to see her, since they are healthy, unlike the frail Mrs. Qu.

As soon as she stepped into the McCarthy’s shop, Beatrice came right out from the back (while Mack was still attending to the measurements and cloths and ledger) and gasped, Wow, it has been so long since we last met! She replied with a simple yes, and Jack said it might be a good idea to go inside the house, so everybody would feel more comfortable than staying outside, than being constantly disturbed by the loud customers and Mack doing business�"and she simply nodded. At that moment she thought she was too nervous, and she was right: it has been a long time since she had to deal with family matters. She was the only child, and now that she lived alone, she only had to concentrate on living by herself, for herself. Also, she was naturally reticent, and even with the most loquacious, or worldly of people, she often found herself at a loss for words, like a mobile phone constantly out of power, and she would feel extremely embarrassed because she knew she had no control over her nature. For the two reasons, she was visibly nervous, and the sweat on her the forehead, like water from geysers, squirted incessantly.

But the McCarthys were very nice people, she thought. They were, outside of their shop, quiet people, and not the rowdy people that she thought they were. They weren’t fans of asking questions, of the usual “how-did-you-two-lovebirds-meet” and “how-long-has-it-been” and “how come you haven’t told us before this meeting today” (the last was the one she anticipated, yet was never asked). They were, however, fans of seeing nature taking its course: they loved to watch the river water flow in the natural direction, towards the sea, and they loved to find the solaces of God in their lives. They felt blessed in times when they were almost bankrupt but luckily had a wealthy customer showing up at their doorstep, out of nowhere; they felt blessed when Jack was awarded scholarship last minute before he decided which college to go�"and that would’ve made a difference between public and private universities; they felt supremely blessed when Mack was diagnosed lung cancer but the doctors later declared it was a moot�"a grave error. They saw, in Jack and Linda’s eyes, the sort of spark that only a couple truly in love would possess, the sort that doesn’t ignite or illuminate until they saw each other in the eyes, or felt each other’s presence in the air, which wasn’t magic or voodoo of sorts, but rather an interminable scent that only they could smell. So, there was nothing much for the elder couple to say. They were satisfied with Linda and Jack’s relationship. That was why they grew more silent, and only listened to their stories as time progressed until, a little after sunset, they decided to leave, and they bid them farewell with hugs and blessings. Right before they left, Linda quietly asked Jack why his parents were so silent. She suspected something must be wrong. Terribly wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jack replied. “Everything’s peachy; right as rain.”

*

The McCarthys were right: every foreseeable event happened, in the natural order they should take, in the next few weeks. It was lovely events followed by the less lovely ones: they started going out of town on weekends, to Boston, to Long Island, to suburban Queens, to beaches and planetariums, to forget all about what was going on in their work�"the public life. She took more and more time off, and the management, instead of being furious at her, applauded and supported her choices. They grew tired of the busy weekends really soon, so they started cooking and eating in. But, even though initially days flew like seconds and weeks like days, time gradually felt, for them, as it is. It wasn’t that they loved each other less; it was, rather, the affirming symptom of their prolonged love. They didn’t talk lesser; they only started to focus a little more on reality than on the fantasies of love, because now that they saw past the first layers of sweetness and kindness, they couldn’t see any more of them.

And one day they saw a crack in their relationship. It started when he was doing dishes, after dinner, and she saw him used his bare hands, as if they were rags, to wipe the edges of the plates squeaky clean. He was adept and meticulous, to the point his fingers grew sore after he was done with the dishes; the plates and bowls and utensils themselves, as to reciprocate his punctiliousness, glistened and sparkled when the overhead light shone on them. She, however, looked at his fingers and reprimanded him for his harm-inflicting way of doing the dishes.

“Well, how do you expect me to clean it?” He demanded. He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, and was sure his foster parents (or, parents in short) wouldn’t, either. It was the only reality for him. He knew one way�"even if it’s one wrong way�"and he didn’t intend to change the way he does things because a lover tells him it’s wrong. After all, he’s still who he is, and that matters to him.

“Use a sponge; that’s why I got them for us.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“That is yours to use.”

What did he mean by that, she thought, as he finished the sentence. Was it simply a statement of reality, or the fact that he still hadn’t gotten used to her around his life? Why was he ambiguous with his answer? At one point she wanted to answer him, but she knew it would bring troubles to them. She chose to stare at the crack, at the possible fact that she was not yet in his life but he was in hers, and there to stay. It was the sort of crack that she could endure, only if she feigned a sort of cheeriness by acting in her usual nonchalant manner�"the kind that one may mistaken as if she just had kind of a rough day (if one wasn’t looking at her contorted, cubist face). Jack didn’t notice the insidious anguish and turmoil growing like ember inside her heart, nor did he thought much of her as she threw plates into the dish dryer or tossed the dried bowls into the cabinets. He thought everything was fine, if a little abnormal, but nothing that needs immediate attention to.

The next few days they gradually talked a little less than the day before, leading Jack to grow suspicious of her well-being. Was she feeling ill? What happened to her at work? Did one of the patients die in the middle of the night while she was at home sleeping, dreaming about the day she found the cure to cancer? He had the faintest idea of her when it comes to emotions�"not that she didn’t have them, but she couldn’t reveal them easily, because if she did, she wouldn’t survive a day in her line of work. In a way, some could say it was her job that made her quiet, and inert when she was away from the hospital. That little comment he made days ago ignited the fuse to her dormant but readily available silence and terseness: she knew he was right, but how could she acknowledge that? It was pride and vanity on the line, and she needed to protect them, at all costs, just like everyone else.

Then, about four days into the strange impasse, phone rang after a mostly silent dinner. This time, since she was in no mood to pick up the call, Jack did. In seconds, his started squirming, his head overheating, his facial parts squished into one puzzled mess, and he called Linda that she must get this. Reluctantly, she did, because she could (kind of) tell it was her mother�"who refused to speak (but does comprehend) English, but instead only Cantonese and Chinese for all her life, despite having lived in America for several decades�"on the other end of the phone.

“Hello, mother,” she answered in fluent Cantonese. But, for the rest of the conversation she sounded like a clogged sink because those words were all she could say in fluent Cantonese (though, she understood everything that her mother is saying); she spoke “Chinglish” instead�"an amalgamation of English and Chinese�"that many people found annoying but absolutely necessary to learn and recognise and tolerate, because people of Linda’s generations are have bifurcated blood: half of it from their parents, from their motherland which they never lived in (or, if lucky, spent little time in), and another half from the environment where they were born in, where they absorbed and fused the vitality and spontaneity of their surroundings so they could belong, at least, to one place. Some see it as pathetic; but for them, such is the natural modality. Imagine their pain, their heart-rending agony when they couldn’t speak their supposed mother tongue, and the discomfiture they must feel when others find out about that. Imagine the conversation reached halfway, happily, before a word stuck in the throat cannot turn into audible amplitude because the formula didn’t exist in their heads. Imagine: how can they live with that?

“Oh, okay…okay, I guess I’ll see you then…yes…okay, goodbye.” She put the phone down and sighed, not because it had been twenty minutes of one-sided conversation, but because the fact a visit was about to happen: her mother decided to come and live with Linda, because she knew nobody back home. That’s the problem with her generation: once you leave home for too long, you won’t witness the tides changing; you won’t hear the rustling of the mild wind; you won’t even imagine the changes of the season, the melt of the snow, the sprouts of the seeds, because you will forget everything about the land until it becomes just a name you know, like a mathematical equation or famous scientist. So, once you go back you will feel lonely�"and that along with unfamiliarity will make you feel, from within, a sensation that the world is changing and you can never play catch up with it. So her mother was moving back. Linda suddenly felt a bout of explanations is needed: not only was she marrying, she was going to marry a white man. There was going to be a huge explanation.

*

The night before her mother arrived she told Jack to follow her instructions, because her mother was, above all else, scrupulously clean, and ridiculously picky about food and colours (of furniture and what they wear). So they went on an extensive shopping the day she arrives: she bought garments with no stripes, no discordant colours, no objects of neon colours, and no asymmetrical utensils and plates and bowls (so she had hidden most of her plates, and bought a lot of new ones). In the afternoon they were busy like bees. Jack had attended to the kitchen while she was busy hiding all the sharp objects from view. Her mother detested anything sharp, except for the utensils�"where sharpness is a necessity. She was extra nervous that day, for she hadn’t seen her mother in a year. She wondered what her mother had become: could she have had grown few more wrinkles on her face? Was she diagnosed some incurable disease that took away her father’s life? What has changed that brought her here?

At about quarter-to-seven, the taxi that she had reserved for her mother arrived at their doorstep, and she, barely seventy, could still walk straightly and steadily and energetically like a bull in its prime, but Linda still helped her with the luggages and bags. Upon entering the door, Jack turned off the fire on the stove and walked out to her mother and said “hi”, knowing that it is a universal word that needed no translation, and that Linda’s mother knew little to no English. She was surprised at the mystery man in her house, and asked Linda who was he.

“That, mother, is my boyfriend.” She confidently replied in Cantonese, for she had practiced those words for the last hour just so she could tell her mother, I can be wanted; I can be loved.

I am loved now.

*

Years ago, right before Linda’s father died, the small family grew even smaller, because they knew he didn’t have much time left. Since he was also the only child, there weren’t a lot of people who visited other than them�"only his close friends did. So the three of them spent extra time together, and she would even take breaks from work, and “sick” leaves (even when she wasn’t coughing, sneezing, or suffering from fevers), just so she could be with her old man.

Those days, she remember he always nagged, which was contrary to his disposition. She inherited her laconic quality from him, because her mother always had something to say, to rant about, that him and her made the perfect couple: whenever he met something horrible at work or life, she’d interrogate him for the cause of it, and he will, inevitably, let it all out, and she’d listen, intently, as if she was listening to Chopin’s marzuka that she loved so much (for the triple time always cheered her up like chocolate always did for Linda), to his troubles. But he was, at that time, concerned for Linda’s love life more than anything else. He always wanted to see the rapture in Linda’s eyes when she falls in love, and see her live for a purpose for once�"that purpose being someone else, not just her. Linda grew up independently, because they were out at work and she fended for herself ever since she was in elementary school. So she concerned herself above most things, and when they retired, she cared for her family more than she did for herself. He had long given up on the hope to see his grandkid before he dies, but at least he wanted to see her in love�"which he never did.

It was then Linda made a pact with him: if she’ll ever be in love, she’ll tell him (before his grave, over a bouquet of lilies and white wine he loved so dearly) and mother (if she’s still alive by then) about it. She knew that if she could love someone, it would be for forever, because she would’ve found a reason to be with that man, and she would’ve accepted it, for better or worse, because she made a choice. To that, he said it’s all right not to make that pact with him, because much of her life has already been sealed by herself, as if each year is a path meticulously built during the year before. She was tired by then, and he could tell (though she hadn’t told them): it was a part of pride, a part of vanity, a part of who she was (and is) as a tough kid that brought her up to this point. It was all her doing and undoing. So, he told her, with every shred of kindness and consideration he could muster,

“You don’t even need to be loved, Linda. Promise me you’ll live for yourself; not by yourself.”

*

Life is a tough son of a b***h, she always thought to herself. Even during the dinner, she felt the unease thickening like syrup, as if it has aerosolised, floating endlessly in the air. Because he is white, because he is not who she wanted, because he has the perfect American accent, because he can have everything Asians couldn’t have, her mother knew, in one way, that he will be good for her�"at least, good for their children, who would be born to a well-off daddy. But what does that come with? A change in ethnicity; bouts of callous comments; a lifetime worth of prejudice? What does it mean for Linda, anyways? Could she walk on the streets and hear (however silent the chatters are, you can always hear them, because furtiveness is the most obvious thing in the world) people talk about her white husband and forget that she is a well-respected doctor in the city, who has already made more than a dozen of television appearances? Would others just care about the white daddy and half-white baby, and forget about her entirely, the teeny-tiny wife (literally; she was about five-foot-three) because she is an Asian in a country that is predominantly filled with Caucasians? A mother is always worried about her children, so she was, too, and she showed her concerns. At dinner the conversation was about how she travelled fifteen hours on the plane and sat besides a white guy who snored the entire way over, witnessed a white stewardess who tripped over five times as she served drinks and meals, and saw a white woman powdering her nose and putting on lipstick without considering the wild, theatrical movements of her arms, and how she nearly pounded right into the passenger next to her.  At one point, she said, “these people were barbaric, brought up without decent parents”, which Linda simply translated to Jack as “these people had no manners”�"and saved a fight from happening.

But, it was obvious that Jack felt the pressure from her mother. To him, he felt he hadn’t done good enough to earn her mother’s approval, so he talked to Linda, despite her tiredness and exhaustion from the evening, after dinner, because he was determined to make this happen.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Linda said. “It’s my mother. She’s having problem with this.”

“With us, or with this?” He pointed at her skin. She nodded.

“This is insane, I know, but she is old-school like that. It’s all about staying true to ourselves for her, staying true to our roots.”

“So…she wants you to marry an Asian guy?”

“Yes…no…she wants me to do what feels right.” By then she already felt irritated: it was all undecided for her, and as much as she wanted to think things through there were other things to tend to, like her mother who slept in the guest room at the far end of the apartment at nine o’ clock. It was rapidly approaching midnight and there she was, embargoed by him to sleep.

“Well, I hope you have found the right answer,” he replied, as he rested his palms on her shoulders, and soothed her slightly. “I hope you would.”

What do you mean? She felt the urge to ask him but he walked away, slowly, as the lights to the door slowly rolled to the back of his head and the door opened. For a moment she thought he’d flown away, but in reality the apartment missed a person, a part of its soul, because later that night, when she felt no warmth besides her bed, she realised that emptiness was no longer a part of her in the same way it did before. It used to be a little different: emptiness was like a friendless child who absconded from the orphanage because the world is full of cheeriness and coldness and bitterness that are far better, even in its evilest form, than being alone. Emptiness used to mean freedom of sorts. Emptiness, now, was a child who found no solace in the world and was still alone, and felt that possibilities were limited, as they have always been, and realised that everywhere�"where he could find no tangible meaning, no real relationships�"was, in fact, an orphanage. It was then she realised a loveless person will always be trapped in an orphanage, unable to be rescued.

The next morning she called Jack right after she woke up, and immediately, she said,

“I love you.”

*

They decided it was time to consider marriage.

But, since that morning she and her mother hadn’t talked, not directly. Jack had suddenly became their channel of communication. Jack had no idea what was happening, and neither did he really concerned himself with her family. He thought to be able to get her blessing was the most important thing to do. He thought, then, they would be able to marry without any dissent from anyone. With a great relief, as if a boulder was lifted off of his heart, he reverted back to his subtly carefree lifestyle while she, sensing awkwardness between her and her mother, felt powerless, for she didn’t know how to fix the problem, the holes in human relationships, so instead she looked forwards. She resumed her normal life of working long hours and only tending to her family�"Jack and his parents and her mother�"when she felt her work was done, which, of course, was never quite so. She used to spare just “enough” time for everyone around her, just enough so that she is still within the circumferences of their lives. But she was gradually drifting away from those borders, because home was a field of blind shells: she never quite knew the consequences of an action between people who knew too well of each other, and what kind of feuds could happen even when she (as well as others) was careful with her worlds. With her mother’s silence, she began evading home for as long as she could, as if it was a dark alley at night, while fabricating reasons for why had to be home late. And, of course, they were all about work.

Earlier today was a groggy morning lacking sunlight and foreseeable delight and surprises, she was in her bedroom, getting dressed for work. Then a sure but slow knock came, from the door, and she was reluctant to even let her in. What could I talk to her about, and how should I talk? Her trepidation took over her rationality. Her face grew milk-pale, for there was no formula she could adopt for the upcoming conversation. With some distress she said, come in, and the door opened only slightly.

“Can I come in?” Her mother asked, in Cantonese.

“Sure,” she answered, in English. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going back to Hong Kong.”

She was right: she could never have anticipated that.

“What?”

“I’ve already asked Jack to buy the cheapest tickets back; don’t worry, I won’t be guest for long. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Why? What is happening?”

“I’m tired.”

“Of what?”

Her mother walked in, leaving the door entirely opened, and moved slowly towards her closet.

“Of everything here. I’ve got to go home. Besides, you’ve got the dress; that’s all I wanted to see.”

“What?” She was still uncomprehending. “Why? Are you…are you mad at me?”

“No; what for?”

“That I’m to marry Jack, a white man.” 

“You think…you think I cared about that?” Then Linda nodded, and her mother smiled.

“No, no�"I just felt…” She paused for a few seconds before she continued. “That this is all you father wanted to see before he died. Now I can go back and tell him you have it. I just don’t see any need to be here when you know, and I know, too, Jack is the love of your life.”

“So you’re going back?” She asserted. “To loneliness? To emptiness?”

“Yes�"my job’s done. Now I’ve taken care of you, and you seem to have found the man you love.”

No, she wanted to say, no, you haven’t. But those words couldn’t be said aloud. She thought she could when she had a little time to digest, so she asked more questions to stall the conversation, just because she thought she could, by the time her mother stopped talking, be able to utter those words. She thought she could then tell her that she knew that life would be insufferable, and she shouldn’t live alone simply because it is dangerous. Her mother, somehow, read the worries on her face, like looking through a glass panel, and decided, at once, to step back away from the closet and look at her brunette-haired daughter, right in her eyes, so to reassure her, soothe her, that nothing bad will ever happen to them, because God always blessed them. When had He fail at that?

And the rest of the day her mother spent packing things up for tomorrow, while she was at work, distracted, and seen less patients in a day than she had ever done. Nurses asked what happened to her, doctors cared for her piling documents unread, uncared for, growing into a fat chunk of work on her desk. Some of her old patients wanted to point out her obviously preoccupied look, with her soulless eyes and inattentive ear on borderline deafness.

At around evening, she decided she had to go home. Jack called and said he would be out for the evening, because his clients scheduled an event outside of town and he won’t be back until the day after�"but just in time to prepare for the marriage in nine days (he was exacting when it comes to marriage). He said he had reserved a taxi for tomorrow morning, for her mother. She said it was very nice of him to do that. He reminded her, we are going to be a couple after all, and left her hanging, like a half-barren branch in the air, because she knew she had already given her personal life to the man whom she met, months ago, on the beach. She had given him her undivided attention, her actions, and became a follower, a disciple to his religion (and the same for him); what more could she ask?

Even though she thought of that, the walk back home was arduous, tenebrous, and insufficiently lighted. She thought life was then a little obscure kid who always knew what he was doing, always had answers for questions thrown at him, but is too young to know any depth, any real knowledge of what went on. That kid, at the end, always redirected questions to her, and she had to solve it for herself, and nobody else. She didn’t feel safe in those moments: those questions were gooey assortment of unknowns, which she couldn’t deal with because everything came to her, known to her, from learning from books and articles and trials and errors. She couldn’t afford to fail, not when she deals with family, with love, with everyone else. This was one of those moments: what could she do, to tell her that she love her, that she love Jack, that she wanted nothing more than to live with the two people that gave her the will to live?

Over dinner she brooded over the question. She talked lesser than usual, appeared contemplative, and helped her mother with dishes and everything else more than she did. The night was pleasant, for Jack called home and talked to her mother and they had fun. They spun off on her childhood, her tenacity, her unwillingness to be bullied and refusal to stop her pursuit of becoming a doctor because she loved the knowledge, the ability to help others, the opportunity to continue learning, even while at work. The night ended later than usual, and her mother, as soon as she lied on her bed, slept, sweet like a newborn, while she checked her baggages for tomorrow’s trip.

Towards midnight, she sat on her bed, alone. Jack had gone to sleep, after he texted her he had to prepare for tomorrow’s work. She felt she had done all that she had to, or could, aside from being able to tell her she wanted her to stay. Family has never been an easy thing to talk about, and about her mother she had fewer words, if any, left to talk about. Love was, for her, concealed inside her heart. As she was readying herself to sleep, and thinking about how to say goodbye tomorrow (at least she couldn’t forget, or fail, in that) without revealing her melancholy, like water almost overflowing a container that is her heart, for her leaving, she glanced over at the closet and it was there: the wedding dress that she bought over the last week, when all of them, including her mother, were involved in the design of the dress. She remembered though her mother spoke sparsely, she did ask her to translate certain words into English, so the McCarthys would understand. She wanted them to know the size that her daughter wears, the details that should be on the dress, for she wanted nothing but the best for her daughter, however pricey it must be, she’ll pay for it. Those words, with their earth-scorching passion and compassion for her daughter, presented them an epiphany: the mother of Linda was, in reality, a relentlessly guarded person when she met people whom her daughter was familiar with. That was probably why they said they were going to make it free, saying that it is for their gorgeous daughter-in-law�"but really for another reason she had problems understanding. She had trouble seeing, as if haze covered a part of her vision, the mother around her. No, her mother wasn’t there when she took on the years of lonely childhood, or there when she took medical examinations and doctor trainings and men’s near-spiteful looks when she was the only woman in the room, but she was here, now, at the other end of the apartment.

How could this have been so hard? She thought to herself.

She knew she had to. She knew this moment had to come. She knew this should happen even if Jack was here, in the room sleeping, knowing nothing going inside of her.

Why has this been so hard?

Moments later, over at the other side of the apartment, there was a knock that resounded, endlessly, and echoed. A silhouette crept into the room, and there was a voice:

“Mother, I have something to tell you.”

“I love you.”