“Just a lot going on,” she replies.
“You’ve never gone into much detail about your work at the firm.”
“Not really in the mood right now, Mom. I’m tired.”
Her mother nods, but her eyes are still scrutinizing Sam. Then she looks down and takes a bite of rice.
“I was filling out some paperwork today,” she says. “I couldn’t remember what year you graduated, so I called your university.”
Sam keeps her head lowered, tensing, and doesn’t answer.
“They said they don’t have your records.”
Sam gets another spoonful of long beans. “I’m sure it’s just an error. I’ll call them later and check.”
Her mother is staring at her again. “Why do you work at night?”
“Sometimes it requires burning the midnight oil.”
“You’ll usually answer me during the day. But you never answer me at night.”
“Did you used to call me when you worked nights?” Sam says sharply.
At that, her mother presses her lips together. “What’s wrong?” she finally asks.
“Nothing,” Sam answers, annoyed, and purposefully heaps more shining chunks of meat into her rice bowl.
A note of silence passes between them, Sam forcing food down her throat, her mother not eating. At last, her mother says, “You didn’t call back on New Year.”
Sam pushes away a needle of guilt and lets bitterness seep into her heart. How many times had her mother missed her holiday performances at school? How many times had Sam made herself dinner on nights when her mother wasn’t home, read herself a book before bedtime because no one was around? Andnowshe cares?
“Sorry,” Sam says.
Her mother clicks her tongue at her. “You grew up and forgot your mother?”
The words send a wave of resentment through Sam.You forgot me before I grew up,she wants to snap back.
Instead, she replies coldly, “I was busy.”
Her mother is quiet for a moment. “I was wondering,” she then says, “if you wanted to cook together this weekend. A makeup New Year’s dinner. Some dumplings—”
“Can’t,” Sam cuts her off. “I’m working.”
Her mother falls back into silence as Sam fills her mouth with rice and meat, even as her stomach protests with a wave of nausea.
After a while, her mother says, “Okay.”
When Sam finishes, she hurriedly collects their dishes and shoves them in the dishwasher, haphazard and disorganized. While her mother is still wiping down the table, she pulls on her boots and is halfway out the door. It occurs to her that she never asked what paperwork her mother was filing that would need her graduation information, but she doesn’t want to talk about it any longer.
“Bye, Mom,” she says, and closes the door before her mother can answer.
That night, back at the estate, Sam throws up everything she ate for dinner, then falls into a restless sleep plagued by dreams she can’t remember. She wakes up drenched with sweat, her eyes searching for a body on the floor,the tang of blood always in the air. There is a phantom blade in her hand that she keeps trying to throw away. A sour taste fills her mouth.
There are more texts on her phone from her mother.
When are you coming back?
Where will you be next weekend?
