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This is a memory that I am pretty sure even my own siblings might not remember, as nobody made a big fuss of the events, but significant enough for me to know that my time would be better served sitting back and listening to everything that comes out of Lady Viola’s mouth. I am a scientist, but something more powerful than me brought me here. I’d be a fool not to comply.
With shame splattered across my face, I look away as I re-settle myself, focusing on a small scratch in the wood grain of the table and sheepishly ask Lady Viola to continue.
I listen intently, but even with such compelling evidence, I find my rational mind still fighting against the pull of her words, yet there's something undeniably compelling about the words that continue to come out of her mouth. Forty-five minutes later, we reach the end of my session with Lady Viola, saying,
"Forgiveness doesn't come easy to a wounded heart, my dear." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then says, "But memories . . . they are keys that unlock doors."
"Could you ask my father to tell me how to let go," I plead, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I wish I could, but I’m sorry, I do not command the spirits . . . they come to me. I just go to the altar and call out and wait for whoever turns up.”
I stand up, legs unsteady, as a mix of gratitude and fear course through me. Did I just cross to the dark side? Am I one of them now?
"Thank you," I say out loud, although I'm not sure what I'm thanking her for exactly. I still have no answers to what torments me.
“You are very welcome,” she says formally.
Halfway into my car, I hear my name called. I turn to face Lady Viola, who is now near her doorway.
“She said, the one with the brown M&Ms. That’s the one.”
“Who?” I ask, already afraid of what she will say.
“Your grandmother.” Lady Viola says, dropping a cryptic message from my grandmother as she enters the house and closes the door firmly behind her, intensifying the mystique even further.
Liam had a thing for brown-colored M&Ms. On the few occasions he played with me, he would pick out the brown ones and offer them to me, saying, “The brown ones are the best . . . they are more chocolatey.”
I don’t believe in the occult, but I answer my grandmother anyway.
“But we already know that, Grandma,”I whisper to my car’s dashboard as I slam the car door shut.“He already served time for killing Pa.”
Chapter sixteen
PRAYING FOR A MIRACLE.
TONY
I'm sitting beside the bed, counting Mom's breaths—they're labored like she's climbing a mountain with every inhale. There's a grimace that tightens her features; pain has become her unwelcome constant companion. She clutches at her abdomen, right under the rib-cage, her knuckles white. "It burns," she gasps, and I know it's the cancer gnawing at her from the inside.
"Shh, Mama, I'm here," I soothe, moistening her cracked lips with a damp sponge. The room smells faintly of antiseptics and the earthy scent of herbal concoctions. It's an aroma that's come to signify our fight—the fight against the inevitable.
Dr. Lin's instructions echo in my head. When the morphine doesn't touch the edges of her agony, I reach for the small brown bottle labeled 'Jianpi Yishen,' a promise of relief in liquid form. With trembling hands, I mix a few drops into water, helping her sip. It's supposed to strengthen her spleen and balance the inner workings that cancer has thrown into chaos.
"Tony, it hurts so much." Her voice is a whisper, a leaf quivering in the wind.
"Let's try the acupuncture mat," I suggest, placing the mat with its tiny pressure points beneath her. Dr. Lin said it might help, stimulate energy flow, or at least distract from the pain. We're grasping at straws, but what else can we do?
Her skin is sallow, papery thin, a stark contrast to the vibrant woman she was. It's stretched taut over her bones, the illness rendering her skeletal. I adjust her pillow, trying to make her comfortable, but comfort is a luxury that's slipped through our fingers.
"Better?" I ask, hoping for a miracle.
“I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
We all know what to do . . . the aide and me. We get to work.
Balancing the weight of my mother's frail body as she leans into me, her breaths coming in shallow gasps, I scoot her back into position after cleaning her up and drying her skin. Her skin, once the color of warm sand, now holds the pallor of bleached linen, a stark contrast to the dark circles that have made their home beneath her eyes lately.
"Oh, Tony. It's like someone's wringing my insides out," she whispers, each word punctuated by a wince. I can almost see the invisible hand twisting her guts, relentless and cruel.
