I’m about to give up when inspiration strikes.
Fern:How about this! I’ll buy a giant card, and you can all send me a small Post-it note or something like that where you write some well wishes for her and sign it, and I’ll paste all of it into the card so it’s like a giant collage? And we can set a deadline, say in one week’s time? And I’ll send it off to her then.
Yuna:I love that idea! I’m in!
Felicity:Yasss me too!
Jenna:Fern! You are such a good person! I’m in
More people chime in to let me know that they’re in, and every message that pops up gives me a little rush of endorphins. They all thank me for coming up with such a great idea, and you know what? It really is a great idea. I come away from the conversation feeling—well, not exactly good, but less awful than before. I’m being proactive, see?
I immediately go online to find a giant card. I find the nicest one I can afford and order it with express shipping, then I mull over what else I can do for Haven. After the ordeal she’s been through, a card does seem kind of flimsy. I want to give her something more. Oh, right. Felicity mentioned that Haven has been wanting an espresso machine! Ilook them up online and despair at the cost of them, but then I look on eBay for secondhand ones and find one that’s being sold for fifty dollars, so I order that. It looks like it’s still in good shape, and the owner says it’s less than a year old, so it should be decent.
With all that done, I go back inside and try to form some semblance of a healthy routine. Moving back in with my parents requires some adjustment. When I get inside, they’re already up.
“Good morning,” Dad says. “I see you’ve already had breakfast.” He looks pointedly at the half-full cereal bowl in the sink. “Maybe pour yourself a smaller portion next time?”
My parents are the antithesis of the stereotypical Asian parents. While all my Asian friends—well, not friends, we’ve established that I don’t have those. To be more accurate, my Asian classmates. While they all complained of super-strict parents who doled out punishments for everything from their weight to their grades to the way they talked, mine have always been the exact opposite. It’s like I somehow ended up with repressed English parents or something. They never raise their voices at me. They generally leave me to my own devices. And I know the saying. The grass is greener on the other side, blah, blah, blah, and I should water my own lawn and appreciate what I have, but it’s hard to do so when it feels like my side doesn’t have anything to water. I just have concrete, stable and unchanging. It is possible that this analogy has gotten away from me.
I force a small smile and say, “Yeah, sorry about the cereal. I just ...” Then I think, why not? Maybe if I open up a little bit to them, they’ll do the same with me. “I just got some bad news when I was eating it, and it made me lose my appetite.”
Mom is making some tea as I say this, and her head lifts abruptly, like a meerkat’s. “Oh? What bad news?”
I can’t possibly tell them that I stole up to Haven’s house and ripped out her cables and created an emergency for her and her parents, so I scramble to think up something, and while my mind churns to come up with something, I see the concern on Mom’s face begin to ebb.They really don’t give me much time at all before losing interest. “You remember Haven Lee?”
“Oh yes,” Mom says. “Very nice girl.”
I ignore the stab of jealousy. I wonder if Mom has ever referred to me as “a very nice girl.” “Well, her house had a blackout last night, and her dad’s insulin needs to be kept cold, so they were in a bit of a bind.”
“Oh dear,” Dad says, frowning.
“But it’s all sorted now. Someone offered them a guesthouse to stay in while they get their power back on.”
“Good,” Dad says. Mom goes back to stirring her cup of tea. And just like that, the conversation is over. I nod to myself inwardly and grab a glass of water before going back up to my room. I don’t know how long I can last here, in this house of ghosts. I can feel myself fading, too, just like my parents, and I need to fight it as much as I can. I don’t want to become irrelevant like them. Is that a cruel thought to have about your own parents?
Over the next few days, I wait for the mail every afternoon. Our post usually gets in at around one, so after lunch, I perch myself on a chair in front of the window and scroll through social media while keeping an eye on the mailbox. The mailman arrives, masked, and delivers our mail. I wait for him to drive down the street and around the corner before coming out and taking the envelopes out. I separate out Mom and Dad’s letters, put them on the coffee table, and hug the ones addressed to me to my chest before scampering up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
I know it’s silly to feel the rush of endorphins as I open up the mail because none of it is for me, but I feel it anyway. The letters all contain Post-it Notes for Haven, and I take some pleasure in slicing the envelopes open and sliding the notes out carefully. I read every single one twice over at least, and some of the more heartfelt ones I read over and over, imprinting their words onto my memory. It feels like I’m getting a glimpse into the behind the scenes of Haven’s life.
Take this one from Yuna, for example: “Dear Haven, you are so very much like your name, a safe space, a refuge from the madness that is publishing. I’m so grateful to be in your debut group. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me during those dark days.”
I read that one six times over, wondering what the “dark days” Yuna mentioned could possibly be about. I do a search for Yuna’s name in the Slack group and rifle through the search results, trying to find any mention of her going through a hard time, but it all seems like the usual publishing roller coaster that most of us go through. I come up with scenario after scenario, each one more imaginative than the last. Maybe she’s been having health problems, or maybe it’s her family, or oooh, maybe something to do with immigration? Whatever it is isn’t actually important, I realize; what’s important is the fact that she’s somehow gotten close enough to Haven to turn to her for support. There are so many messages that are along the same line as Yuna’s, alluding to Haven helping them out in their time of need. How does Haven do it? How is it possible for one person to form so many deep and meaningful relationships with so many people?
I read the notes the way an anthropologist might study ancient ciphers, trying to identify every hidden meaning, reveal every allusion. It feels like if I could just understand the roots of each of these relationships, then maybe I could begin to solve the endless puzzle that is Haven Lee. But I never come close. I paste each and every single message into the giant card, take a photo of the finished piece, and post it to the Slack channel.
Jenna:Oh Fern, it’s beautiful! What an amazing idea.
In our private three-person group chat, Jenna says:Fern, I can’t believe you did all this for your high school bully. I am so proud of you, girl! Look at you, taking the high road and everything. You are literally inspiring me to be a better person.
Lisa:Omg srsly, Fern! I can’t believe you went to all that effort for someone who was mean to you in high school! You are a literal angel!
Their messages warm my heart, even though a small part of me riles at the part where Lisa describes what Haven did to me back at school as merely being “mean.” But it’s not the time or place for me to try to explain how Haven went out of her way to make life a living hell for me back at school. Like Jenna said, I’m taking the high road. It’s good for my mental health to move on and accept that I can’t change the past. The thought that I am embracing my future and not letting my bitterness color this time in my life is one I cherish. I may not be a perfect person, but I am working my ass off to become a better one.
The espresso machine arrives, and I have no idea what to expect from espresso machines, really, never having used one myself, but this one definitely looks secondhand. It’s got scratches down the side, and the spout has some brown crud caked onto it. I open it up and find more dried-up smudges of coffee—well, I bloody well hope it’s coffee. It takes me over half a day to take out the removable components and clean them as well as I can. When I’m done, it’s sparkling clean but still looks secondhand. Well, it’s the best I can come up with, given I have no income and practically no savings. I take a photo of it and send it to the group Slack.
Fern:I know we said no gifts, but I found a secondhand espresso machine online for really cheap, and I’m happy to gift this to Haven and sign it off as something from all of us
Yuna:WOW. That looks amazing, Fern! You’re amazing!
