Chapter 3

The summer of my junior year, I didn't go home. I stayed at school to prepare for graduate school exams.

The library in July was like a sauna. I spent every day in there, doing practice problems from eight in the morning until ten at night.

My phone was on silent; I didn't want to answer anyone's calls.

That afternoon, I was working on an English practice test when my phone vibrated.

It was my mom.

I hesitated, but picked up.

"Maya, can you come home and see me? I can't take it anymore."

Her voice was very soft, as if she was afraid of being overheard.

It was also choked with tears, her voice hoarse, as if she'd been crying for a long time.

At the time, I was stuck on a reading comprehension passage, getting three out of five questions wrong, and I was incredibly frustrated.

"Can you stop using this tactic? I'm studying for grad school. If I don't get in, will you be responsible?"

Silence on the other end.

After about ten seconds, she said one word.

"Okay."

Then she hung up.

I didn't think anything of it.

I flipped my phone face down on the table and continued working on the problems.

That summer, my mom almost died.

She slashed her wrists in the bathroom. Hot water flooded the floor, and blood flowed into the hallway.

A neighbor smelled blood, knocked on the door with no answer, and called the police.

When my dad called me, his tone was calm.

"Maya, your mom is acting up again. You should come home."

I bought the next train ticket, and it was already past midnight when I arrived.

My mom lay in the hospital bed, her left wrist wrapped in thick gauze, her face as white as paper.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up.

She said, "Maya, I didn't want to die."

I stood by the bed; I didn't sit.

"I wanted to record it."

"Record what?"

"Him hitting me. I wanted to record it when he hit me and upload it to my phone. That way, you'd believe me."

I was trembling with anger.

"You slashed your wrists to prove Arthur hit you? Are you out of your mind?"

My voice was loud; a nurse poked her head into the hallway to look.

My mom didn't argue.

She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her temples into her hair.

Looking at her, my heart was a mix of anger and sorrow.

My mom opened her eyes again and looked at me.

"Maya, I'm really not sick. Will you believe me just this once? Just once."

I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but nothing came out.

I turned and walked out of the hospital room.

In the hallway, my dad sat on a long bench, hands propped on his knees, head bowed.

When he saw me come out, he stood up, his eyes red.

"Maya, I'm sorry."

His voice was trembling.

"I didn't take good care of Eleanor. I made you worry. If you hate me, I accept it."

He pulled me into a hug, his shoulders shaking, crying like a child.

I'd never seen Arthur cry before.

My nose stung, and I hugged him back, patting his back.

"Arthur, it's not your fault."

I said it firmly.

"It's Eleanor's illness."

My dad hugged me tighter.

Holding him, I thought, after I finish grad school, I must take Eleanor to a better hospital.

In New York, in Los Angeles, no matter the cost.

Cure her illness.

Then everyone would have peace.