Page 82 of This Time It's Real
“God help me,” I mutter, rubbing my temples to ward off a growing migraine.
You write best when you truly believe in what you’re writing about, Sarah had insisted.But what do I truly believe in?
Nothing.
Everything.
I’m seriously debating whether or not banging my head against the wall might help force some words out when I hear the soft click and creak of the front door sliding open. The rattle of keys. Then the familiarclack-clack-clackof heels on hardwood.
Ma’s home.
Grateful for an excuse to temporarily put aside the Blank Screen of Doom, I tiptoe toward the living room to greet her.
She’s in her usual work attire: a fitted, perfectly ironed blazer; a plain silk blouse; and a few minimalist silver accessories. Between that and her knife-straight posture even as she’s kicking away her red bottoms, she looks like she’s ready to conquer the world.
As I step closer, however, the sour-sweet odor of alcohol and faint cigarette smoke wafts toward me. I grimace and change directions at the last second, heading into the kitchen instead.
The herbal medicine packets have all been labeled and divided into neat, colored containers:For headaches. For period pains. For excessive internal heat.Still, it’s more due to muscle memory than Ma’s exemplary categorization skills that I quickly locate the box I need:For hangovers.
I empty one of the packets into a glass of hot water and stir the brown powder until it dissolves, trying not to gag at the smell.
For reasons I’m yet to fully understand (though it hassome- thingto do with “renqing,” or personal connections), the business culture here involves a lot of late-night dinners and alcohol, to the extent where it’s almost impossible to get a big promotion if you don’t drink at all. Case in point: Most of Ma’s major contracts have been signed over glasses of baijiu or red wine.
The problem is that Ma actually hates alcohol, but I suspect she’d drink liquid fire if she thought it could help her close a deal.
“Ai-Ai? What are you doing up so late?”
I turn around at the soft shuffle of slippers and extend the cup of medicine to Ma. “Making sure you don’t wake up hung over tomorrow, of course.” I lean back against the counter. “You know, I’m pretty sure our roles are meant to be reversed right now.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile she gives me is warm. “Hao haizi. You’re very thoughtful.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. Compliments always make me feel weird. “Just drink it while it’s still warm.”
She does in two great gulps, then makes such an exaggerated expression of disgust that I cackle despite myself.
“I guess what they say is true,” she says, shaking her head, a contemplative look in her eyes. “Sometimes the things that are good for you . . . really taste bad.”
“Wow, that’s super deep, Ma.” I snort. “Maybe you should tell that to Ba for his next poetry collection.”
“Maybe I will,” she says very seriously; then we both start laughing. But somewhere between one moment and the next, my laughter weakens at the edges, and I start thinking of all the things I shouldn’t be thinking about, like Caz and my failed writing career and the lies I keep holding inside me like parasites, and my face crumples. Then I’m crying as if I’ve never cried before. As if I’ll never stop.
“Ai-Ai?” Ma sounds bewildered, which is understandable, considering my emotions just did a complete one-eighty within the matter of seconds. “What’s wrong?”
“N-n-nothing.” It’s the ugly kind of crying, all loud heaves and hiccups and hyperventilating, snot dribbling down my face. “I—I’m fine. I’m fine.”
“Is it because of that Caz boy?” Ma asks, putting an arm around me, and I breathe in the sour scent of wine layered over her jasmine perfume.
I nod and shake my head at the same time, more harsh sobs jolting through my body. “It’s not . . . It’s . . .” I don’t know how to explain it.
Becauseyes, it’s Caz, of course it’s him, the boy who carried me through the rain and never showed his face again. But Caz isn’t the only one I’m heartbroken over.
There’s Zoe too.
And even though I miss them both intensely, with all my heart, in different ways, missing Zoe is almost worse. Because there aren’t thousands of books and poems and movies out there to describe exactly what I’m feeling, or lyrically beautiful songs for me to cry to and sing along with in the car. There’s no guidebook on how to survive this kind of fallout, no prescribed remedy to soothe this particular kind of pain. Romantic breakups are romanticized constantly, talked about everywhere by everyone, but platonic breakups are swept to the side, suffered in secret, as if they’re somehow less important.
“Are you trying to tell me that your relationship with Caz is fake?” Ma asks gently.
This stuns me into silence. Even my hiccups stop for a few seconds.
