Mom and Granny were gone, that much was clear. Granny was gone in both body and soul, and as for Mom, the only bit of her left was her shell. Now nobody would remember their lives except me. That was why I had to survive.
After the funeral, exactly eight days after my birthday, a new year came along. I was entirely by myself. All that was left in my life was the piles of books in Mom’s bookstore. Everything else was mostly gone. I didn’t have to hang up the lotus lanterns and the Christmas decorations, or memorize the emotion charts, or go into town pushing through crowds to eat out on my birthday anymore.
Part Two
19
I visited the hospital every day. Mom lay still, just breathing. She had been moved from the ICU to a six-bed ward. I stopped by every day and sat next to her, relaxing in the warm sunlight coming through the window.
The doctor plainly said that she had no chance of waking up. That she was merely subsisting and nothing more. The nurse absently emptied the bedpan for Mom. I helped the nurse turn over Mom’s body once in a while so she wouldn’t have bedsores. It was like I was turning over a big load of luggage.
The doctor asked me to let him know once I decided what to do. When I asked him what he meant, he said he’d meant whether I was going to keep Mom here and pay the hospital bills or move her to a cheaper nursing home in the countryside.
For the time being, I would be able to live off Granny’s life insurance. I realized then that Mom had made such preparations in case I was left alone at any time.
I went to register Granny’s death at the community service center, where the officers quietly clicked their tongues and looked away. A few days later, a social worker from the center came to see me. She looked at my house and suggested that I move to a youth center, like a shelter or group home. I asked her to give me some time. But it didn’t mean I would actually think it over during that time. I just needed time.
20
The house was quiet. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing. The letters Granny and Mom had pasted on the walls were meaningless decorations now that there was no one to teach me what they meant. It was easy to picture what my life would look like if I moved to a facility. I didn’t mind, but what I couldn’t picture was Mom, who would be left alone.
I tried to imagine what Mom would say. But she couldn’t answer me. I searched for clues in the words she had left me. I remembered what she had said most often, which was to live “normally.”
I mindlessly swiped through the apps on my cell phone. An app called Chat with the Phone caught my eye. I tapped it, and a small chatbox containing an emoji popped up.
Hi.
As soon as I hit send, I got a reply:
Hi.
I typed:
How are you?
Good. You?
Me too.
Good.
What does it mean to be “normal”？
To be like others.
A pause. I typed a longer message this time.
What does it mean to be like others? When everyone is different, who should I follow? What would Mom say?
Come on out, dinner’s ready.
The response cut me short, because I didn’t even realize I had hit send. I tried to ask more, but none of the replies were useful. I wouldn’t get any hints from this thing. I closed the app without typing goodbye.
There was still some time before school started up again. I had to get used to living on my own by then.
*
I re-opened the bookstore two weeks later. Clouds of dust rose as I walked along the bookcases. I had customers once in a while. Some people ordered books online. I was able to buy at a reasonable price a collection of used children’s books that Mom had wanted to buy before the incident. I displayed the collection where everyone would see it.
It was actually easy to say just a few words a day. I didn’t have to think over or rack my brain to find the appropriate words for a situation. All I needed to say was yes, no, or hold on. The rest was scanning bank cards, giving back change, and saying welcome or have a nice day mechanically.
One day a lady who ran a kids’ book club in the neighborhood came in. She used to chat with Granny sometimes.
“I see you’re helping out during your vacation. Where’s your grandma?”
“She’s dead.”
She gaped at me, then knitted her brows in a heavy frown. “I know kids your age can joke around, but this is simply not acceptable. Your grandma would be so hurt to hear that.”
“She’s really dead.”
“Really?” She raised her voice, folding her arms. “Then tell me, when and how did she die?”
“She was stabbed, on Christmas Eve.”