When I was five, I didn’t understand what was so special about death. After Wai Po had been diagnosed with brain cancer, she’d refused to talk about writing a will, how she wanted to be buried, what types of treatments she preferred, and so, even though everyone knew Wai Po was at the age where illness was supposed to naturally take you, mother took Wai Po to doctor after doctor trying to schedule increasingly aggressive treatments instead of organizing suitable hospice care. They never spoke of these things when I was around, and Wai Po only complained to me about losing too much money in mahjong or not being able to eat braised, caramelized vinegar pork knuckles anymore. The day Wai Po died, I couldn’t fall asleep during class nap time despite my ability to sleep through dad’s cabinet slamming and the kitchen vent roaring—something I’d later view as an omen—and after I returned home, mother told me Wai Po was gone. I figured “gone” meant I wouldn’t be able to see Wai Po for a long time. At the time, a “long time” meant about six months.
When I was seven, mother gave birth to my little sister, Lea, and told me that instead of complaining about not being allowed a pet dog, I should take care of Lea. I tried to teach Lea how to play correctly, how to build impressive structures with blocks and legos, how to twist pipe cleaners into bracelets, how to fold and cut printer paper into 3D lanterns too flimsy to hold lights. But Lea was too stupid to mimic me so I let her watch on the side, learn via osmosis which was better than doing nothing. I regurgitated everything I learned from school to her while she was drinking formula or rolling on the ground or staring at the ceiling from her crib. I hung around Lea more than I did my friends, of which there were few because kids were petty and I had scared them off on the first day of school when I took out a Tupperware container of rice and pungent, pickled mustard greens and century egg the color of coal and consistency of jelly.
When mother had her belly cut open and stitched closed a second time, I was drawing birds during recess—more like copying from picture books onto construction paper and shading them in with colored pencils because you never knew if the markers had enough ink to last. If I was unlucky and all the pencil tips were dull and the sharpener jammed, I’d resort to the crayons, which cracked in my grip, splitting in half again and again until I was left smearing a nub of wax against paper. Purple birds, striped birds, tessellated birds, fire-breathing birds—if I could think of it, I drew it, not that it made much of a difference when I showed them to mother, who’d glance away from her laptop and reply “oh, it’s a chicken,” even though I had clearly drawn the wings extended, a majestic creature soaring through the sky.
Mother committed suicide one year after leaving the hospital with baby Lea. In the leading months, I saw her less and less—the rare glimpse when she emerged from the study for another cup of tea, a light brush past barely strong enough to feel like a solid human rather than a ghost. That year, she didn’t breastfeed Lea as she had with me—something I hadn’t realized until I discovered photos of me hugged tight to her chest, both of us wrapped in a fuzzy plaid blanket. After dad put me to sleep, I’d hear him warning mother that Lea would grow up sickly, allergic to all the things white people seemed to be allergic to—peanuts, eggs, soy—but I never heard mother’s response because their voices had to reverberate through the entire second floor and a layer of carpet, and mother spoke too quietly for sound to travel. Mother didn’t spend much time at all with Lea, which was how I ended up teaching Lea where the good picture books with the soft, bright colors were in the library, and which Auntie at the weekly market would give us free pan-fried leek and dried shrimp buns if we stood around long enough, pretending to be lost. I showed her where dad put the good snacks—the cupboard above the fridge—and how to climb up a foldable chair and the counter to reach the can of egg roll cookies and packs of instant noodles I’d crumble into bite-sized pieces and eat dry. After Lea was old enough to want to bring lunch to school instead of buying the soggy French toast from the cafeteria, she’d crush up a pack of Shin ramen in a Rubbermaid container and toss that in a plastic grocery bag.
For several years, Lea believed mother died at childbirth because according to dad, “complications happen and delivering a baby takes a huge physical toll.” Lea didn’t remember much about mother anyway—not the moments dad transferred Lea to mother, who’d hold Lea like a hot potato before placing her in the crib and disappearing from the room. Dad and I were left standing around the crib, me trying to get her to say “sis” and dad trying to get her to say “ba” even though I warned dad that speaking to Lea in two different languages might mess up her speech development. Dad laughed and said it’d be fine because he had spoken to me in Chinese while mother sang lullabies in English when I was an infant and I turned out fine. “So why do people still have kids?” Lea asked dad. “Because there’s nothing as priceless as being a mother and having a family,” dad said.
When I was sixteen, at the age where if people weren’t talking about college applications and SAT scores, they were talking about boys and who was asking whom out for prom, I told Lea the truth about mother. Lea asked why, a question for which I had already rehearsed my answer: “Because mother was too sad to live, but that has nothing to do with you.” Lea asked dad the same question, and after she left to draw lopsided chalk flowers on the sidewalk, he slapped me on the forehead. The next morning, I woke up with a big red splotch on my face and decided to cut a line of bangs with kitchen shears like I’d seen in several Japanese idol groups whose members never seemed to age. Lea thought it looked cool and did the same to her hair that evening, though I had to do damage control: trimming the edges and vacuuming strands of hair littered across the entire house. Dad still threw a fit after he found a millimeter-long piece of hair stuck to the blade of the shears. “Why do women drop so much hair? Your mother was like this too after coming home,” he yelled at us. Lea hid behind me as I stood my ground silently. Later, after we both showered and flossed and picked out Lea’s outfit for tomorrow, Lea asked, “Like what?” I told her I didn’t know.
