Chapter Four—The Days Without Mom (4–5)
Day Five
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think is—
She's coming back today.
That Mom is coming back today.
I sit up in bed and realize I slept right in the middle last night, tucked neatly beneath the covers, with Boo held in my arms. His nearly fallen-off ear is crooked beneath my chin, soft and floppy, like he's cuddling up to me.
I tuck it back into place, then say to Boo, “Today.”
The light coming through the curtains is brighter than it has been these past few days. I pull them open and take a look—the sky is blue, there are hardly any clouds, and the sun is already high overhead.
It's nice weather. The kind of weather that's good for coming home.
By the time I go downstairs, there are already sounds coming from the kitchen.
But today's sounds are a little different.
Usually, Dad makes breakfast quietly by himself, with the occasional clank of a spatula against a pan. But today there's another voice—the voice of my brother.
“You turned the heat up too high.”
“I know.”
“Then why don't you turn it down?”
“I was about to.”
“The egg's already burnt.”
“…You do it.”
I walk to the kitchen doorway and see a scene that's kind of funny.
Dad is standing in front of the stove with a spatula in his hand, his apron tied crookedly. My brother is standing beside him with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing an expression that says, Do you even know what you're doing? On the stovetop is a fried egg that's already burnt, and beside it is another egg cracked into a bowl, waiting to be cooked.
“…What are you doing?”
My voice is very small, but they both turn around at the same time.
Dad coughs. “Making breakfast.”
My brother rolls his eyes. “He's ruining the eggs.”
“I am not.” Dad silently scoops the burnt egg off to the side. “This one was a test.”
I stand in the doorway, and the corners of my mouth lift before I know it.
Then they lift a little more.
Then I laugh.
It isn't a loud laugh. My mouth stays closed, and my shoulders shake a little. But I really am laughing.
My brother glances at me and freezes for a second, then quickly looks away, the tips of his ears turning a little red.
“What are you laughing at? Go sit down.”
I obediently walk over to the table and sit in my spot. My pink rabbit cup is already there, filled with milk.
Dad carries the plates over. Today's fried eggs—apart from the burnt test egg—turned out pretty well. At least the yolks aren't broken. The edges are a little crisp, but not too much. There are also two slices of toast and a small dish of cut fruit.
My brother sits down too. There's an extra glass of orange juice in front of him, which he poured himself.
The three of us eat breakfast quietly.
But today's quiet is different from the quiet on the first day.
On the first day, we were quiet because we didn't know what to say. Today, we're quiet because there's nothing we need to say.
I take a bite of toast, then look at Dad and at my brother.
Five days ago, I was the only person at this table who didn't know how to sit. Now I do. My place is here. The pink rabbit cup is on the left, the dish of fruit is on the right, my brother is across from me, and Dad is beside me.
This is my place.
At three-thirty in the afternoon, the doorbell rings.
I'm sitting on the living room rug, drawing. A few days ago, Dad bought me a box of colored pencils, and I draw one picture every day. Today's picture is a house. In front of it are four people—one very tall, one very pretty, one a little shorter, and one who is the smallest of all. Beside the smallest person, I draw a rabbit.
When the doorbell rings, my pencil stops.
I hear Dad come out of his study, walking quickly—faster than usual. Then I hear the door open.
Then there's a voice.
A voice I've been thinking about for five days.
“I'm home.”
It's Mom.
Her voice is a little scratchy, like she's been on a plane for a long time. Tired and happy at the same time. I hear her say something to Dad. He takes her suitcase, and the wheels roll across the floor. Then I hear the click, click, click of high heels coming inside.
I don't move.
I sit on the rug, still holding the blue colored pencil, watching the living room doorway.
My heart is beating so fast.
Faster than when I first came to this home.
Then she appears.
She's wearing a cream-colored coat, and her hair is down. It looks a little longer than it did the day she left. Her eyes sweep across the living room—first noticing that the cushion on the sofa is crooked, then that my brother's comic books are still lying on the coffee table, and then me.
The moment she sees me, her eyes light up.
Not the polite kind of brightness. The kind that says—I've found you.
“Xia!”
She hurries toward me, her heels clicking faster and closer together. She crouches down in front of me—the exact same pose, at the exact same height, as when she first saw me at the orphanage.
Her hand reaches out and strokes my cheek.
Her hand is a little cold—probably because it's cold outside. But her palm warms up quickly, warming my cheek until it feels a little hot.
“Let me see. Have you gotten thinner?” She looks me over from side to side, then touches my braids. “Who tied your hair?”
“That…” I pause. “…Dad tied it.”
I say it.
Very softly. So softly that I'm not sure she heard me clearly. The two syllables of “Dad” come separately, with a pause between them, like I have to fish them up from somewhere very, very deep.
But she hears me.
Her eyes suddenly turn red.
Not the red of sadness. The kind that comes from waiting a very, very long time and finally hearing the thing you've been waiting for.
“Mm-hmm.” Her voice trembles a little, but she's smiling. “Dad did a wonderful job.”
She pulls me into her arms.
She smells like the airplane mixed with her perfume—the same perfume she wore the day she left. I bury my face in her shoulder and breathe in that scent. Then my eyes suddenly grow hot.
I don't cry.
But I'm very close.
Very, very close.
I reach out and wrap my arms around her neck. Tight. With all the strength my seven-year-old body has.
She hugs me even tighter.
“I'm home,” she whispers in my ear, her voice soft, as if she's afraid of disturbing something. “Mom is home. I'm not leaving again.”
I bury my face even deeper.
In her shoulder, I feel like the whole world has gone quiet. No sounds, no fear, nothing at all. Just the scent of her perfume and the warmth of her arms.
That night, Mom—not that Mom, but Mom—makes a whole tableful of food.
She says it's to celebrate her coming home, but I think she's celebrating the four of us sitting together again.
There is red-braised pork, steamed fish, corn and pork-rib soup, stir-fried greens, and one dish I've never had before—a cheese bake she brought back from France.
“Here, try this. You'll definitely like it.” Mom puts a piece of the cheese bake in my bowl.
I lower my head and take a bite.
It's so rich. The cheese stretches into a long, long strand. I don't know what to do with it, so I open my mouth wide and try to bite through it. Instead, the cheese sticks to my chin and won't come off no matter what I do.
My brother glances over and bursts out laughing.
“You look so stupid when you eat.”
I glare at him—but I'm not really angry. I wipe my chin with the back of my hand, only to make it stickier.
Mom laughs and takes a napkin. “Here. Mom will help you.”
She gently wipes the cheese off my chin, as carefully as if she were wiping something precious.
Dad sits across from us and takes a sip of soup. The corners of his mouth lift.
Just a little. So little it's almost impossible to see.
But I see it.
After dinner, Mom takes the presents out of her suitcase.
Dad gets a tie—a dark blue one with very fine silver patterns woven into it. He takes it and examines it seriously, then nods and says, “Not bad.” Mom smiles, wearing the kind of smile that says, I knew you'd like it.
My brother gets a limited-edition model—some kind of robot, I think. I don't really understand it. But his eyes light up for a second when he takes it, even though all he says is, “It's okay.”
Then Mom looks at me.
“Xia's present is the biggest.”
From the very bottom of her suitcase, she takes out a box. It's pale pink, tied with a white satin ribbon.
I take it and carefully pull the ribbon loose.
Inside is a dress.
A very pretty dress. It's pale blue, embroidered with tiny white daisies. A thin layer of tulle hangs from the hem and floats gently whenever it moves.
I hold the dress in my hands and look at it for a long time.
At the orphanage, all my clothes were hand-me-downs. Some were too big, some were too old, and some had collars that had already gone loose. I'd never had anything that was “new,” “for me,” or “pretty.”
And this dress was brought back from France by Mom. Even in a place so far away, she was thinking about what I should wear.
“Do you like it?” Mom tilts her head at me.
I nod. I nod many times.
“When I saw it, I thought of you right away,” she says. “Blue looks good on you.”
I hug the dress to my chest, the way I hug Boo.
“Th…thank you.”
Then, very softly—
“Thank you, Mom.”
This time, the words don't break apart. They're joined together. Whole.
The living room goes quiet for one second.
Mom's eyes turn red again. But her smile is huge.
“You're welcome, sweetheart.”
That night, Mom gives me a bath, dries my hair, and tells me a bedtime story.
She lies beside me, gently patting my back with one hand while humming a song I've never heard.
“Mom,” I say suddenly.
That's the third time. Each time I say it, it's a little easier than the time before.
“Mm-hmm?”
“…Boo wants to hear a story too.”
She laughs, picks up Boo, and officially addresses him. “Boo, today's story goes like this: Once upon a time, there was a little rabbit…”
I listen to her voice as my eyelids grow heavier and heavier.
The little night-light Dad installed on the first day is glowing in the room. Its orange-yellow light makes a warm circle on the ceiling.
Mom's hand is still patting my back. Once, twice, three times.
I count in my heart: one, two, three, four, five.
Five days.
I made it through.
No.
I didn't make it through by myself.
It was Dad's crooked pigtails, the burnt fried egg, and the pink rabbit cup he quietly set out for me.
It was my brother's remote control that he pretended not to care about, the extra glass of water at the corner of the table, and the person at the school gate who refused to admit he was waiting for me.
It was the candy Kayla secretly slipped me, and her quiet “See you tomorrow.”
It was Boo's crooked ear and the little ritual of tucking it back in place every morning.
It was Mom—my Mom—and the pale blue dress she brought back from far, far away, and the hand that's patting my back right now.
I don't have to count the days anymore.
Because she's home.
Everyone is here.
I close my eyes.
Tonight, I don't sleep in the corner, and I don't sleep in the middle.
I sleep beside Mom.
Boo is on the other side.
Three people squeezed into one bed—me, Boo, and Mom.
It's enough.
Everything is enough.