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“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.
