Issue 39

For as long as I’ve known, I’ve loved my mom. I don’t mean this in the conventional way, I mean that I love my mom the way you love the first person who called you pretty and never love anyone quite like that ever again. Resting my head on her lap as she scrolls through her emails, I trace my fingers along the dips of her knees as a way of transcribing the words, You’re everything to me, or, Let’s stay like this forever, or, It’s not like this with anyone else.

But to love something irreplaceable means to live in fear of loss, to go to any extent to preserve it, to bend and still whenever its index finger beckons you to.

One summer, when my mom tells me to come to the kitchen, I feel its cold, hardwood floors tensed underneath my feet before I realize I’ve even gotten out of my bed. She turns around and extends her palms towards me, and I see half of an apricot sitting in each, skin bleeding in shades of sunset orange and red. I take one half, she keeps the other, and in unison, we sink our teeth into the sweet, tender fruit, sucking on the wet, vulnerable flesh it offers inside.

Later, after dinner, I catch her preparing more apricots over the sink. She holds three in just one hand and turns on the faucet to allow the water to run over their skin, cleansing them of any impurities. Then, she lays two of them on a paper towel and places the third one between her fingers. As I stack dirty cups and plates, I watch the way she strokes the scalp of the apricot—as if to console it—and presses her thumbs gently against the stem end of the fruit. Se inhales and angles her thumbs downward so that they fully sink into the small body secured within her hands, pushing through the meat and past the pit, allowing the sweet tears to dribble down the vein of her finger till the fruit splits.

***

I am the kind of daughter that my mother loves to instruct, the kind that is most susceptible to her control: clueless about how long to heat up the leftovers, unsure of where the extra rolls of paper towels are kept, too poor at navigating the roads to be a good driver, too unlucky to have any success in the kitchen.

I tried to make fried rice once, but when I was chopping the green onions, trying to cut then into small, green rings.  I could hear my mom clicking her tongue and feel her eyes trailing my skin; they were always roaming, always searching, always itching to pounce forward and dig their claws into my back to share their appraisal of my stance, my choice, my form. That’s why I often longed for the days when I’d come home after school to find no one waiting for me at the doorstep, no cars parked in the garage, and a calendar that displayed a little green banner to indicate that my mother had her own boss to attend to. Home-alone afternoons were rare breaths of air, open kitchen hours to experiment with my culinary abilities without having to turn around. Nothing I cooked was ever particularly successful, but nothing was a total failure, either, so long as my mother wasn’t there to deem it one.

When I cook, I’ve tried to ask my mom to stand just far enough from me so that I have space to breathe; but my mom is growing old, and her bones are softening, and it is getting easier for her to fly away at even the slightest touch. That’s why more often than not, when she places her hands on top of mine, whispers in my ear, 妹妹¹, 你看²你看, and guides the knife in slow, short motions across the green stalk, I let her.

***

I want to know more about myself without leaving my mother behind. I want to get a boyfriend without losing my first love. I want to dye my hair without my mom thinking it’s ugly. I am not scared of the risks that come with being my own person. I am not scared of breaking my own heart. I am only scared of breaking hers.

Maybe it’s better this way.

***

I don’t know who I am if not my mother’s good, obedient daughter. She has brought me up to be more popular with parents and teachers than with any group of classmates. Always the well-behaved kid, always the mini adult, always so mature for her age; never the funny friend, never the teenage definition of cool, never the friend magnet. I don’t know what to do other than obey my mother’s every word, lapping up her instruction and praise like a desperate, abandoned dog. I don’t know how to hang out with friends without thinking that I should be home focusing on my schoolwork. I don’t know how to not be a baby, how to not be coddled, how to live separate from my title of 妹妹, how to run away from my mother’s infamous words, What are you going to do without me in college?

And I can’t seem to answer any questions of Who are you? or What do you think? or What should you do in this situation? without whipping my head around and looking for my mother in my answer.  My body is more hers than it is mine, but it’s too late now to escape this framework she carefully molded me into, applying pressure to my weak points and massaging my bare skin while whispering lessons into my ear just before bed.

When I die, I imagine that my hollow corpse will turn to glass, and anyone who is there to witness my death will be able to see through me and understand that there is nothing there; I will fall onto cold, wooden floors and fracture into millions of clear shards only to die , bloodlessly and without protest.

I see my mom in my dream, and I am leaning my head on her shoulder and we are eating apricots on the sofa.  I turn my gaze towards her, and I gather my final breath before I say the words, I am willing for you to hate me if it means I can get to know who I am.

My mother has never looked at me before, but in my dying memory, —she slowly twists her neck to stare at my scalp. Her eyes are not full of that all-knowing stare, but instead, a watery shine that is brimming with desperation, bewilderment, and fear. She raises her hands, but they don’t cut through the air as they usually do, instead fluttering towards me, slow and imprecise. I wait, curious what she will do, until I recognize it: she strokes my hair and softly presses her thumbs into the crown of my head. She whispers, Please don’t say anything, and then she inhales, preparing do dig her fingers into my skull and push through the rest of my body.

But before I am split, I put my hands over hers and pull them away from me. I detach myself from her shoulder, unraveling our entangled limbs so that I can stand up and walk away.

In this dream, my heart is so dense that I don’t think it can break, my body so full of substance, of purpose, that I don’t think I will turn back around. I can hear a soft cry disperse itself throughout the hallway as I manage to get to my bedroom before I feel my body give out on me, knees buckling and gaze unfocusing. I haven’t realized that I’ve hit the floor when I close my eyes and begin to think about how I am going to be without her.

***

I wish that I could stand in the kitchen, the knife hefty in my hand, my fingers wrapped tightly around its grip. I wish that I could bring it down firmly as if I know I’m right, as if I know anything at all.

But I was the daughter that my mother loved to instruct. She watches me for as long as it takes for my faults to reveal themselves, her gaze traveling all over my body, invading my space, stealing my breath. She walks over, her chest so assured underneath her worn-out blouse, puts a hand on my shoulder, and turns me just a bit, with the slightest motherly caress.

Here, 妹妹, she says, her guidance a gentle murmur to the heart. Here’s how it’s done. She stands behind me and grips the knife in both of our hands; she raises it high above both our heads— the metal a blur of motion, of light— and she shows me the proper way

to split.

Naomi Hsu is a high school writer from the Bay Area. She is a 2024 YoungArts Winner in Creative Nonfiction and a gold medalist of the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is also an alumna of the Kenyon Young Writers Workshop, Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and Adroit Summer Mentorship. When she’s not writing, you can find her taking a nap or dancing on her school’s dance team.

You know it. As soon as you open the door, a tinkling chime announcing your presence, you know it. Even if it’s your first time stepping foot over this entrance, you know it. Because, in a way, this is your thousandth visit. Your bones recognize it before your eyes do, relaxing in reunion. Because, in a way, this is your home. You grew up here, or in some iteration of here, an alternate universe blip. You could comfortably navigate this building blindfolded, although you’ve never been here before. If you could, you’d bottle the scent of this place and wear it as perfume, so with every breath you could be transported back here. You’re inside a Chinese restaurant.

As you enter the building, a warm, amber glow washes over you. Red paper lanterns hang from the mahogany ceiling rafters, swaying softly despite the absence of wind, even though it’s April and Chinese New Year was two months ago. These lanterns never come down, leaving this place trapped in some constant, liminal space of holiday cheer. Yellowing newspaper clippings are tacked onto the wall in black frames, with a review from 2014 raving about this place having the best new cuisine. There’s a row of plaques proudly stating that it’s been voted the best Chinese restaurant by your town’s local newspaper, but they taper off at some year, as if this place has left excellence in the rearview, perpetually past its “golden age”.

Tucked into the corner of the restaurant, right next to the door, is an empty bar. Dozens of bottles of different colors catch the light in a liquid rainbow. Today, it is eerily silent, housing only a Chinese auntie with crows feet tight around her eyes polishing glasses until they gleam, but you know tomorrow it’ll be packed. Middle-aged white fathers will be out in force, wearing dirty blue jeans and sweat-stained t-shirts. They’ll crash over each other trying to obtain seats for Sunday Night Football. With each ice cold glass of beer, they’ll grow ruddy in the face, wiping their necks with the back of their hands. The restaurant will slowly come alive, raucous and teeming with energy. Voices swell to a cacophony as the men clamber to talk over each other, belly-laughing at every joke. They throw down crumpled dollar bills as bets on the game and call for another round and a plate of fried rice. Suddenly, the announcers on the TV will begin shouting with excitement, and the whole room will go quiet, trembling with anticipation. Some boy on the screen, maybe a rookie, maybe a veteran, goes flying across the field, never hesitating until he crashes into the end zone. For one moment, there is an almost mythical silence among the group, as they inhale with one collective pair of lungs, before exploding into sound, the building trembling with cheers. It doesn’t matter which team scored the touchdown, because the excitement itself is worth celebration. The bartender breaks out into a smirk, and you notice that she pours a little extra into each cup, “on the house 呀.” This cycle, one you have witnessed with awe since you clutched your tiny palm in your mother’s hand as she first led you through, repeats over and over like clockwork each week. It feels like a fly preserved in amber; while the rest of the world keeps moving at breakneck pace, this moment stays eternal, a scene trapped, then rewound, on the tape of these thin, white walls.

As you tear your eyes away from the bar, your gaze catches on the reception desk. Guava candies and lollipops sit in a clear glass try. The candies, wrapped in gleaming foil, shine like jewels in the lamplight, your own personal treasure trove. As a child, you would grab fistfulls and shove them into your coat pocket, trying to hide from your mom. You knew you’d be scolded for your thievery; she’d yank them out of your sweaty palms and deposit them into her handbag, so they could be enjoyed later as dessert rather than your intended appetizer. All of the sudden, you’re jolted out of your reminiscing. “几位？” how many, the hostess asks. “一位,” stumbles clumsily out of your mouth, unfamiliar to your tongue. Normally it would be 四or at least 两. Still, you are not here alone. Your mom is here, your dad, your best friend, some family friend you’ve only met once, all of them silently trail behind you. They exist here in fragments, like ghosts tethered to one old mortal haunt, framed in red lantern haze. The hostess nods, grabbing a menu and leading you to a corner booth with plush cushions that sag from years of guests.

As you sit down at the table, your eyes scan for the familiarity of the restaurant that colored your childhood. There are subtle differences, echoes of it here and there; the plastic flowers placed at your table, somehow looking wilted, are daisies, not roses, and your chopsticks are made of a dark wood, instead of the cheap pairs you would break apart that splintered in your hands. As you crack open the menu, a thick booklet with each sheet of paper encased in plastic, your eyes are accosted with characters you don’t know. The pages are stuffed, margins non-existent, and your head begins to swim from the overstimulation. When you used to come “here”, your parents would order without even glancing at the menu, so rehearsed they are in this dance. The dishes would come out one by one on steaming plates. Thin slivers of ground pork stir fried with bamboo shoots, delicate fish fillet steaming in a porcelain bowl, drowning in crimson chili oil and sichuan peppercorns. And your favorite, 牛肉面, thick chunks of beef and slippery noodles laying pristine in an umami rich broth, viridian green bok choy peeping through like the sun breaking up clouds on the warmest spring day.

When you finally order, it’s based solely off of muscle memory, your mouth forming phrases that you don’t even know how to translate, hoping said dishes are on the menu. Of course, they are, and you can feel the relief tremoring through you. You still have it, you can still walk into a Chinese restaurant and come out with a meal sans English. As you heap spoonfuls onto your plate, you observe your fellow diners. In one corner sits a grandma and grandpa with matching white manes, sharing a heaping platter of chow mein. They’ve probably been coming here for over a decade, have seen the tablecloths fray over the years, creamy white threads turning tan. In a booth not dissimilar to yours, a young couple tries with no success to reign in their giggling children. Their daughter could be your childhood photos come to life, jet black hair scrunched into pigtails, two front teeth missing. Next to her, her brother has his knees tucked up towards his chest, upon which is propped an Ipad, scrolling through prank Youtube videos.

There’s a startling realization for you then; this is their original. Maybe, one day, they will do the exact same thing you are doing today, and seek refuge in the restaurant of your youth. Nothing but an imitation, but somehow, it’ll evoke the exact same feeling as this place did for them.

They’ll return to this exact moment, when they were together, stuck in this fragile safe haven of identity.

Quietly, you finish off your meal, picking up the last individual granules of rice, wiping the corner of your mouth with a cloth napkin. Once again, you see your life reflected in the contour lines of this building. As you polished off your plate, the owner of the restaurant should’ve come over. A middle-aged woman wearing a floral blouse, she excitedly greets your parents. They call her “big sister”, 大姐, and reassure her that the food is delicious. Just as the lull of their chatter begins to make your eyelids fall, she turns toward you and ruffles your hair.

“Aiya,” she professes, “the kids grow taller every day.” You beam at the recognition, and your parents laugh in agreement. That’s not happening here, but it did happen here, not to you, but someone somehow you all the same.

As you exit the building to the dim lights of the parking lot, a chilly breeze nipping at your face, you give it one more long look. Through the window, a thousand scenes are played at once, colors flashing forward on a film strip. This is the only place where you can rewind time, or rather swim through it, as your entire life can be captured through the moments here. With a sigh, you turn away, its mythical glow fading slowly behind you. But, you’re not going home. You don’t have to go home, because you’ll already be home, right here, as long as you’re in a Chinese restaurant.

Chloe Zhang is a writer and high school junior from New Hampshire. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers and the Juniper Institute for Young Writers. When she isn’t writing, you can often find her baking with music blasting, curled up in her bed with a good book, or, regrettably, doomscrolling.