Late in the afternoon, her mother comes into the restaurant closet to find Sam gluing broken fortune cookies to the floor out of boredom, a dreamysmile on her face, still marveling over the apparent magic she had witnessed, the small beauty of forks transforming seamlessly into spoons.
If Sam were older, she would have noticed the way her mother’s lips were pulled thin and red, the fragile skin chapped from a day so busy she hadn’t drunk a single drop of water. She’d have seen the slight tremor in her mother’s arms from hoisting giant platters for the business lunch parties that had filled the restaurant earlier that day, would have spotted the burns on her mother’s wrist from being scalded by buffet trays.
But at this age, Sam only knows to look for the light in her mother’s eyes, whether they are bright and well rested or weighed down with the exhaustion of half-moon shadows. She knows her mother’s hair is an indication of how much time she’s had during the day to maintain it—whether it is still slicked neatly back in a long braid, or whether it looks like it does in this moment: loosened and messy, black locks hanging limply on either side of her face, frizz haloed under artificial light like the back of a startled cat.
So Sam sees the exhaustion, but not the temper, and her young heart blooms, happy that her mother is here and they can finally go home.
Her mother scowls, first at her, then at the mess on the floor in the closet that belongs to her boss. Her hand clutches a plastic bag of leftovers, old rice and garlic chicken that hasn’t sold for two days.
Sam finally notices her mother’s temper, but it’s too late now. “Clean this up,” she says while yanking Sam to her feet so hard that her shoulder pops. Sam yelps. “Before he sees.”
But the boss does see. And ten minutes later, her mother is standing before Hayes with Sam hiding behind her legs, biting back tears and nursing a throbbing shoulder, while he tells her mother how lucky she is that he allows her fucking mongrel to stay there during her shifts. As he cuts her paycheck by forty dollars for the sticky patches that the glue leaves on the closet floor.
After they come home, Sam’s mother sends her to stand in the corner for an hour as punishment, while she heads into the kitchen to stir-fry the leftover rice with garlic and eggs, to dice up the chicken and wrap it into wontons with cabbage and scallions. Sam’s stomach growls, anticipating dinner.
At last, her mother finishes cooking and calls her over to the dinner table. They eat in silence. Sam’s shoulder is still sore. She switches hands tohold her chopsticks and worries over the right thing to say to improve her mother’s mood.
Finally, she murmurs in a timid voice, “I’m sorry, Mama.”
Her mother doesn’t look up. “Do you know why he was angry?”
“Because I made a mess,” she replies.
“Because he was scared.”
“Why was he scared?” she asks.
“Because when customers eat there, they expect to see it clean.”
Sam hangs her head and feels the tears welling again in her eyes. She thinks of the two well-dressed men and their comped meal, recalls the pained shape of her mother’s smile.
“Do you know why I was angry?” her mother asks now.
Sam stares at the wall behind her mother’s head, afraid to answer incorrectly, committing this conversation to memory so she won’t make the same mistakes again. Shame weighs down her breath. She is every child who has ever desperately ached to please their parents, but can never succeed. Her mother always works so hard, and yet Sam always manages to make her life more difficult.
“Because you could have lost your job,” Sam finally guesses.
“Because you were eavesdropping on those two customers,” her mother says. “I don’t like you listening in on people.”
Sam says nothing, but she notices the urgency beneath the sternness. Something about those men bothered her mother, although she doesn’t have the guts to ask what it is.
Her mother stares at her. Then she adds softly, “I’m sorry I pulled your arm today.”
And this time Sam sees all the signs of her mother’s remorse—the relaxing of her knotted brows, the lowering of her eyelids, the forward slouch of her shoulders that pulls the bones of her clavicle into sharp relief. When Sam is older, she will understand that her mother didn’t mean to hurt her on this day, but it doesn’t really matter, because she did it anyway.
“Mind your own business,” her mother says, “and stay out of others’. Your grades are the only thing I want you to worry about.”
“Yes, Mama,” Sam replies.
“College will be here before you know it. So keep your head down and work hard. Reach for the stars, okay?”
They are the first English phrases her mother ever learned:work hard, reach for the stars,the words of a mother who wants her daughter to be able to escape the life she had, the advice of someone who has seen darker times and is trying to follow the light out. It is the only thing that matters. School, degree, job, money, freedom. There is always, always hope, if you work hard.
Reach for the stars!
Sam has always thought it a curious phrase. It doesn’t say you can have them. Only that you can try.
“Promise me,” her mother says now.
