Trade Me (Cyclone 1)

I stand under a cluster of palm trees, fixing my gaze on the Spanish-style courthouse beyond. If I don’t react, maybe it won’t hurt.

Or, my favorite: “You’re so lucky to have a grandchild so early. I wish Tina had a baby at nineteen. But she isn’t even dating the nice boy she brought home. Oh, yes, he’s okay for a white boy. He even speaks Mandarin.” My mother shakes her head sadly. “And he’s going to walk away. Sometimes I think that Tina is missing out on life.”

That’s the one that really sinks under my skin. I make my excuses and go wait for her in the car. It’s stupid to let myself get upset about things like this. I know that to Western ears the practice sounds a lot ruder, a lot more passive-aggressive, than it really is. This is my mother’s way of telling everyone how proud she is of me, of boasting without really boasting. But I can’t help it. I am westernized, and there’s enough truth in those backhanded compliments that it stings.

Tina works so hard; she never has time for me.

Tina is missing out on life; she isn’t even dating that nice boy.

It hurts. It really hurts. I’m here, aren’t I?

My mother comes back to the car thirty minutes later, beaming and happy, filled with all the latest gossip. I’m reining my emotion in as best as I can.

“You shouldn’t have left so early,” my mom says as she pulls out of the lot. “You’re so serious. Why don’t you ever have any fun?”

“I don’t know,” I snap back. “Why do you think I never have any fun? Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who has any sense of responsibility in this family.”

Mom goes silent. The light turns green, but she’s a few seconds too slow, and she misses her turn onto the freeway despite the angry honking of the cars behind us. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t pay the electric bill,” I say. “You barely make rent. Every month, it’s one thing after another. You don’t get Mabel’s meds, you don’t see a doctor until everything is at its worst. You don’t take anything seriously and so I have to do it instead. Why do you think I’m working all the time? It’s not because I love work so much. It’s because you can’t afford for me to stop.”

“Tina…”

But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop talking. “Do you think I want to be a doctor? I don’t really care. But I have to do something to take care of you guys. All I want is to not worry.”

Her face sets in grim lines—furrowed forehead, flattened lips.

“I wish I was fun, too,” I tell her. “I wish that I could just forget myself and have fun with Blake. But I can’t, and it’s your fault. You take care of everyone but yourself, and I’m the one who has to clean up your mess.”

My mom looks straight ahead. “I didn’t know you felt that way. How was I supposed to know? You never said anything like this before.”

“I don’t know,” I snap. “You know what everyone else needs. It’s just your own daughter you never pay attention to.”

She sighs. “I never asked you to do any of those things. I thought you wanted to help.”

I bite back tears. I do. I did. But I also sometimes wish that I was allowed to need her instead. I wish that it was just help, that I didn’t resent her as much as I loved her. I wish I could let myself relax instead of worrying, that I could stop being the responsible one. But I’m the only one who is responsible. I can’t stop. We can’t trade places, her and me, because everything would fall apart. But I’m not going to get my wish. And worst of all, more money hasn’t made it hurt less. I still worry.

“Never mind, Ma,” I say, my throat raspy. “Forget I said anything.”

But she just sits straight in her seat. “I can’t forget,” she says stiffly. “I don’t forget. You should know this about me already.”

15.

TINA

I don’t think the rest of the weekend could get any worse, but it does. When I ask Mabel how much a saxophone of her own—as compared to the dented one she has on loan from the school—would cost, my mother interrupts me.

“That’s not your worry,” she says. “It’s my worry.”

Blake is still barely eating my mother’s food, even though he does a valiant job of moving it around on his plate.

My fight with my mom infects everything. I thought it would be better if she didn’t embarrass me, but it’s not. She’s silent, and that cold silence cuts more deeply than any embarrassment.

I try to apologize to her on Sunday morning before we leave.

“Did you mean it?” she asks.

And—because I did—I pause.

She shakes her head. “Don’t say sorry, then, when you’re not.”

By the time I get in the car with Blake, I’m not sure if I’m relieved to be leaving this mess behind me or if I’m heartbroken that I’ve fucked things up so badly with my mom. I wait until we swap our loaned Toyota for his Tesla.

“We should stop and have lunch,” I say. “And breakfast. You must be starving.”

He’s driving when I say this. I can see his face go still. His fingers close on the wheel.

“I’m not hungry.” His tone is casual, but there’s a tightness to his face. “Your mother fed me really, really well.”

“Come on, Blake,” I say. “You don’t need to lie to me. I was watching you the entire weekend. You ate about as much as I did, and you’re a foot taller than me.”

“I’m not a foot taller than you.”

“Nine inches. Whatever. And Dad says you went on a two-hour run on Friday when we were at the hearing. It’s okay. You’re not going to offend me if you don’t like my mother’s cooking. It’s an acquired taste.”

“There was nothing wrong with your mother’s food,” he says quietly.

“Oh, so you eat like that all the time?” I say sarcastically.

This is met with silence. His jaw sets. I rummage through my memory, looking for evidence that he’s lying. But what I remember instead is…

Blake at our first lunch together, eating a handful of bean sprouts. Blake at lunch with his father, taking a spoonful of rice and some dal. Blake telling me he won’t let me cook for him because it would be cheating. I can re

member him eating apples occasionally. And… And…

“Oh my God,” I say, this time with no sarcasm at all. “You eat like that all the time.”

His eyes stare ahead. His face is too still.

“Blake…”

I look over at him.

He exhales.

“Blake. Are you okay?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just drives, his jaw set in a hard line.

“No.” When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “No. I don’t think that I am.” His hand opens on the wheel and then clenches once more. “I have a problem. I’ve been…trying to fix it, but that hasn’t really worked.” He lets out a long breath.

“Does anyone know?”

“You.”

There are now only two weeks until the launch. Two weeks and then I walk away. I’m not supposed to care about him.

Not caring, not worrying—these are not things I can do on command. And I’ve been lying to myself, pretending that it will be bearable to watch him walk away. No. Here’s one thing that will hurt more: knowing that I had the chance to make him feel a little better, and I chose not to.

“I know.” He swallows. “It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, I’m mad at myself. I know it’s stupid. I know I’m stupid. How hard is it to fucking eat more?” His voice is shaking. “But I don’t. I can’t. And when I try, when I make myself—I end up going out for a run.”

“You need to talk to someone about this,” I say.

“I should be able to fix this myself. Dad thinks I can run a company. I can’t even fucking control myself.”

“Blake. It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s not. You know what? That day in class—that day you got so mad at me? Afterward, you said you didn’t have time for my bullshit apology. And I was so fucking jealous. I wanted to not have time for my bullshit, either.”

“Hey.” I reach over and take his hand.

“You were right,” he says shakily. “I thought your life would be magic. Like it would somehow make this better. That if I just had what you had, I wouldn’t…do this. But we’ve never traded, not really. None of this has done a damned thing. It’s not my life that’s fucked up. It’s me.”