01. Mother
Mother and I had another fight.
She says I've become a different person, almost as though I've been possessed by a demon.
I suppose it's true. Maybe the demon, or whatever it is, has forced me to take control of my own life.
She chastises me whenever my hands are occupied with a book instead of cleaning dishes. She scolds me when my fingers are laced in the locks of my hair instead of taking out plates to customers.
They don't bother me much anymore. Ever since I started…developing, there's not a single thing I can do right in her eyes. When I smile at a customer and stick around for small talk I'd rather not be a part of, I'm possessed by a lustful spirit and bring her too much shame. But if I linger in the back of the restaurant, lost in a sea of kitchen smoke, then I'm too selfish for not helping out enough.
Still, after the restaurant has closed for the day, and the cleaning has been taken care off, mother still visits my room. She's quiet and won't address the argument—she never does—but she also isn't holding a wooden spoon to brandish in my face. I'm forced to hold my tongue and to let her in.
She pulls out a chair and sits down. I sit on the floor in front of her, mulling over all of the things that feel as though they'll explode right out of my mouth. The things I can't say.
Like that.
I suppress a sigh, for fear that I'll sound ungrateful and start another argument.
It won't do any good to talk about that now.
“Manman,” I start, and finish at the same time. She says nothing. Her hands begin their work, her fingers lost in my sea of curls. Rarely seeing a blade, they're cascading all the way down my back. Even though we work in the restaurant nearly every day, I've managed to retain my unreasonable length.
When birthday gifts were seldom, as they always are, the one thing I begged for that cost no money at all was my hair. Just my hair. If I couldn't have freedom, or happiness, I'd be satisfied with just my hair.
It was the source of my beauty, and the proof of it.
Proof that I deserved a better life. That I deserved that.
I look around at my room, so barren of anything that truly sparkles—even myself—and suppress a grimace. If she catches sight of it, the scolding will begin again and undo all of the fresh bandaids we've strewn across the many wounds of our relationship.
I feel the anger boiling in my core, but I'm forced to throw cold water on it again and again. Something more subtle, akin to sadness, weaves its way through my body.
I've gotten drowsy. Between the work and the fights, I can hardly stay up late anymore. Without thinking, I allow my head to lull back, seeking the comfort of my mother's lap. For once she doesn't scold me, doesn't remind me for the millionth time that I've got the body of a grown woman, so I need to start acting like one. I'm not a child anymore, she would remind me.
But when have I ever been one?
My eyes grow heavy and close without a fight, my thoughts turning into radio static. Her hands massage and glide through my curls, keeping them silky and knot-free. It feels nice…
I miss these tender moments, when I'd bounce around in excitement and beg Manman to do my hair. When I was her daughter, an innocent and carefree girl, and not a tired employee with sunken eyes and dreams that no one listens to.
The memory makes me want to cry. But I don't dare, for fear that she'll notice and snap and all the bandaids will be ripped away.
I tell myself it doesn't matter. It's been years since I've cried in front of her. I can be strong.
My face tightens as I wrestle the tears into submission, keeping them buried someplace deep within myself. If I dig even deeper, I'm sure I can find baby Pearl, peer right into her crystal-like eyes and tell her that everything will be okay.
And before I know it, I've become a liar just like my mother.
My breathing becomes shaky, and I pretend that I've gone to sleep. I don't cry, even though I really, desperately want to.
Mother pretends she doesn't notice, but I know she does.
