The Surprising Power of a Good Dumpling: Chapter 22–Mom

“His name is Rory,” I say indignantly. “Why don’t you call him by his name? He’s not just your employee, you know.”

I scan the specific items one by one, wondering what in the world could have transpired to make them be so specific.

The underwear I had painstakingly folded, her pajama bottoms, and toiletries are rearranged into mounds that I then try to awkwardly gather up and cram into the flimsy plastic bag.

Nurse Mary cocks an eyebrow and moves it deftly into a pile.

Patients respond differently to the medication. Some might be extra active and chatty while others might feel sluggish or lethargic.

The young woman speaks to her in soft dulcet tones.

She moves in slow, halting, jagged steps, a robotic arm on its last bit of battery.

She moves with her weird staccato steps toward an empty chair and drags it out.

I approach her gingerly, like a rabid dog.

It drips down her dappled blue blouse.

She’s still hunched over the trash, her face is all a wrinkled blob, but her features are familiar, her eyes shrewd.

I feel stuck, uneasy, unhinged.

“Baba says there’s no cure for crazy.” I hate how crass that word sounds.

“Maybe I’m just fine with being mediocre. Maybe I don’t care to tick these arbitrary boxes for you to see me as a functioning human being.”

I resist the urge to add a sardonic miss and curtsy.

But even when I think about opening my mouth, to let go of the terror, angst, and sadness inside, the worries I have for Ma still in the hospital, for Baba, who still hasn’t come home, for Lily and her giant spreadsheet charting Ma’s moods, and how desperate I am for a sign, any sign that this will all be okay, the words themselves are stuck somewhere and won’t come out.

Beyond them is a slump of white buildings, identical and discrete.

There are vines clinging to the rough gray surfaces and tiny leaves and green tendrils tickle my skin, along my legs and even next to my face.

It’s amazing to think that in this tiny chasm, practically forgotten by humanity, life still thrives.

Rory turns, his steps unerring as he tramples through the overgrown grass.

He nods thoughtfully. “All right, I guess tree talking isn’t for everyone.” He looks pensive for a long while.

“Okay, we sing together?” She looks at us and sucks in a deep breath and begins in warbling Mandarin.

I’m startled out of my reverie by Lily.

Dr. Patel smiles kindly, but there’s a cool demeanor about her gaze.

Red-faced, I try to offer some wayward explanation. “I’m so sorry about that. This has all been really hard for her.”

It’s like she’s been at a Disney resort and come back as a newly indoctrinated Mouseketeer.

Eventually, it feels like we reach some semblance of normal.

Uncle Bob has tucked away a banner in the office, ready to be unfurled in the morning.

A portly man pats his full belly, satisfied after his fifth helping of spring rolls.

He gives Rory a drink first, and then nonchalantly slides a glass over to me with a wink.

“Maybe son-in-law, then,” he muses. I have to chuckle, because he’s technically not wrong. But I’m not in the mood for cultural semantics as I snuggle into his side.

As teens, we’re told to ignore it, there are tomes of scriptures and hours of lectures to tell us repeatedly to turn away, don’t look.

Before the beginning of this year, it was little more than an idle daydream, a high-concept manifestation of the perfect boyfriend, the perfect moment, the perfect experience, the details scant.

Before the beginning of this year, it was little more than an idle daydream, a high-concept manifestation of the perfect boyfriend, the perfect moment, the perfect experience, the details scant.

She’s uncertain about a lot of things, skittish, like she’s not sure how to act around us; like an invisible barrier was erected between her old self and her new self.

She picks up the empty cup and leaves, trying to covertly dry her eyes.

I’m noticing that her folders are looking a little crinkled in the corners. Something’s happened to her immaculate order.

Lily disappears into Ma’s room and Baba clinks and clanks in the kitchen, his face stoic and serene.

He looks innocent and cherubic, like Michael.

“He is so snooty. He waves his hand around, showing me his wedding ring. So what? Big deal. He thinks he’s better than me? Anna, you have to get me out of here. You have to save your mother.”