Under Water

One day when I was in high school, I noticed there appeared an old photograph on the dining room table at my grandparents’ house. Thin and brittle, it was pressed under the glass cover of the table and looked out of place against the red plaid tablecloth. It showed a family of four. There was a couple dressed in military uniforms, each holding a little girl in their arms. The little girl on the right looked older, glancing to the side with a wary look; the little girl on the left was much younger, clutching a bouquet of flowers, her eyes wide and round.

The photo was not part of my childhood memories, even though I had grown up in my grandparents’ house. I could recognize the girl on the right as my mother, and the couple as my grandparents in their younger days. As for the little girl on the left, in her face I could see see myself  in childhood photos. We had the same large, round eyes, with barely visible whites and a curious twinkle. I asked my mom, “That can’t be Auntie in the picture.”

Mom laughed, “Don’t you recognize her? Your auntie was pretty as a child, prettier than me.”

“Well, at least you look better than her now, hahaha.” Mom carefully pulled the picture out from underneath the glass, pressing the folds on it with her fingers to smooth it out.

“Your grandma had a hard time finding this old photo the other day, so be careful with it. Otherwise no one remembers what Ani looked like before…”

***

When I was little, I lived with my grandparents because my parents were too busy to take care of me. Two old people and a child. It sounds like a warm, beautiful story. But this story was not peaceful because of the existence of another person—my aunt, Ani.

Ani was the one in our family who needed to be taken care of the most. For as long as I’ve had memories, she’s been a dull-eyed, drooling person. Prolonged lack of exercise had replaced her muscles with fat that crowded every inch of her body. Her face was always flushed, with countless fleshly protuberances. What’s worse, she was an unpredictable bomb. No one knew what would light her fuse, or when it might happen. Maybe it would be on an early morning when everyone was sleepy, or maybe it would be in the evening when Grandma and Grandpa were holding me and watching cartoons. She would suddenly become very angry. She’d scream, she’d throw her fists, she’d open her mouth wide and poison the air, her shrieks suffocating everyone.

But Grandma and Grandpa treated her like a baby, especially Grandma. Every night, I slept in a big bed with her and Grandma. Grandma slept in the middle so that she could take care of both of us at the same time. I was very happy with this arrangement since I could sleep with Grandma in my arms. At the same time, I wouldn’t be so close to my aunt and be attacked by the smell of her breath. As far back as I can remember, Grandma would get up before dawn every day. In my dazed consciousness, I’d recognize her and her slow movements as she walked past my feet and went out of the room to get pills and water—she had to feed my aunt at four o’clock every day because the medication for her mental illness had to be taken every eight hours, and the timing was extremely strict. She would sneak back into the room and then came the exciting question: —would that bomb in the bed detonate this time? Almost always, my aunt would get really mad that her sleep was interrupted. She would squirm and gurgle like a drowning man to show her displeasure. Awakened myself, I would watch as my grandmother gently patted Auntie’s shoulder and back to soothe her. After a few minutes she slowly regained her composure and then swallowed the large handful of medicine. On the one hand I felt tired and angry; after all, she had interrupted my sleep. On the other hand I was intrigued, watching the child-like antics of a fat, middle-aged woman was a kind of perverse pleasure. I slowly became so accustomed to this routine that I even stopped getting annoyed at being awakened. The gurgling sound that came out of my aunt’s mouth like she was breathing under water became a little interlude in my sleep.

By the time I started elementary school, I noticed that the bags under my grandmother’s eyes were particularly large and deep, like two brown, heavy sacks. One day when my mom came to visit me, I was a playing with my grandma and poked the two semicircular bulges with my fingers. “Why does Grandma have more flesh under her eyes than I do?” I asked.

“I didn’t realize you had such big bags under your eyes, Mom.” My mother moved closer to Grandma and looked.

“It’s okay, why do I have to care about that at my age?”

“Is it because you’ve gotten too little sleep? Or do you sleep too late?”

I cut in. “Grandma doesn’t sleep late, Grandma goes to bed with me every day. But Grandma gets up very, very early. She gets up in the middle of the night!”

“Gets up in the middle of the night? For what?”

Every child enjoys participating in adult conversations as well as exaggerating. Seeing my mom’s slightly surprised look, I felt very satisfied with my answer and was eager to tell what I knew right away.

“Grandma has to give A ni medicine, and A ni, she doesn’t like the medicine. She tries to beat us!”

My mom’s face froze. Grandma turned her head and gave me a blank stare before slapping me on the ass. “You’re interrupting again while we’re talking.”

At the time I didn’t think I’d said anything wrong. In retrospect, I can now feel the immense guilt my words brought to my mom. My aunt had been taken care of by my grandmother since she had been a slow, non-verbal child. My mom, as her daughter, should have taken on the responsibility of co-care for Auntie after growing up and living independently. However, because of her busy work schedule, not only was she unable to help Grandma take care of Auntie, but she also left me—a young and naughty child—in her care. Mom once suggested sending Auntie to a nursing home or hiring someone to take care of her, but Grandma refused. As a rural woman, Grandma’s frugal habits led her to insist on not spending a penny she didn’t think necessary. Moreover, she didn’t feel comfortable with anyone else caring for her little girl and stubbornly believed in her own strength. There was an eerie tension between the mother and daughter around auntie: Mom was worried about Grandma’s overworked body, and Grandma was afraid to spend her daughter’s money.

Mom believed my exaggerations, and she once again offered to hire someone to take care of my aunt. I can’t clearly remember what happened next. I only remember being carried out of the room, sitting with Auntie who was giggling innocently. The house was gradually filled with the sound of arguing. I was scared. I didn’t know why they were arguing. I assumed that my mom would be angry with Auntie for bullying us. But why didn’t she scold Auntie instead of arguing with Grandma? Why did everyone seem to like Auntie more? In that moment, I felt angry. I hated Auntie. I glared at her. But she still giggled and looked at me, seemingly not a bit bothered.

◆ The First Story My Mother Told Me

“One  night in 1985, a healthy child, your Auntie Ani, was asleep in a warm bed. Next to her lay her 10-year-old sister, that’s me. At that time, my father was a military officer assigned to the army in Shenyang in the north of China for three years. So my mother took my sister and I with her to accompany him in Shenyang. The wind in the northeastern countryside has always been ferocious. It was constantly beating against the windowpanes. Not only the wind, but it seemed that everything in Shenyang at that time was fierce—the cold at night, the blinding sun during the day, and even the people, plagued by poverty and hunger. And, of course, that vicious dog.

“That night, as my sister and I were sleeping, the door to our room was pushed open. It was a hungry dog. It must have gone in through the kitchen window, which someone had forgotten to close tightly. The dog was looking for food. The creaking sound from the door woke me. I sat up in a daze and looked at the doorway suspiciously. Was it the wind that blew the door open? Was father hungry and getting up to look for something to eat? Was it my own dreams and hallucinations? I saw a pair of glowing red eyes, like two ghostly fires. I shot up instantly and screamed, jumping out of bed. My scream woke my sister but also startled the dog. It sprang up and pounced on her, still frozen in bed. When Ma and Pa heard the screams and rushed to the room, they saw me paralyzed on the floor, and two dark figures on the bed. Frantic, they shooed the dog away and rushed to check us for injuries. Neither of us was bitten, but the huge shock made my poor sister dull and silent from then on. Ma and Pa took her to seek medical treatment everywhere, but there was no good result. She was able to spit out a few syllables a couple years later, but her brain damage was irreversible, and her IQ remained that of a two year old forever.”

***

One summer vacation when I was seven, an old lady came to live with us for a while. My grandpa’s mother – Atai. Normally, Atai lived with the family of my grandpa’s brother, but they were traveling abroad at the time, so she had no choice but to temporarily live with us for a month.

I liked this skinny old lady. She was kind to everyone. She always brought back various kinds of snacks when she went out. She always spoke softly and quietly, with a humble smile hidden in her wrinkles. What’s more, the blood vessels on her arm were very prominent, They reminded me of highways. I especially liked to run my fingers along the veins of her arm as they beat lightly. I felt my fingers were like a small car traveling, and the throbbing of the veins let the “driver” feel the breath of the earth.

But it seemed that except for me, who liked to cling to Atai, the other women in the family were cold and too polite to her. Mom was still very busy but would occasionally come back to have dinner with us. Usually the only word she uttered to Atai was “Hello.” Atai and Grandma had more contact with each other. Strangely, whenever speaking to her, Grandma would curb her loud, manly voice and seem detached and polite. The one exception was Ani. Because Atai didn’t have a lot of contact with her two granddaughters, Ani didn’t know her. Usually, she tended to be friendly to strangers, but she had an unexplainable impatience with Atai. Since Atai’s first day at my house, Ani had more outbursts of anger and a harder time regaining a stable mood. One time she suddenly smashed an orange against the wall, then started waving her arms wildly and screaming, “Go to hell! Go to hell! Beat you to death! Beat you to death!” (This was her mantra when she got angry). I watched the juice of the orange splash into Atai’s dyed hair, pulp hanging in the blond and grey strands. It reminded me of a few white dead grasses on the side of the road on a stormy day. Sparse, helpless, hanging low. The poor old lady just stood there, not knowing what to do. Her thin figure couldn’t be reconciled with the smart, savvy, decisive figure Grandma and Grandpa would speak about. Eventually, Grandma heard the noise and came in to check on the situation. She looked at the orange marks on the wall and Atai’s wet hair, but said nothing. She placated Ani in the usual way she did, as if she was a child, totally ignoring the old lady next to her. This scenario played out every few days — Grandma soothing Ani while Atai silently cleaned up the mess. I’m not sure if Ani thought this was funny and intentionally repeated it, and I’m not sure if Grandma intentionally chose not to get mad at Ani’s nonsense and repeatedly ignored the poor old lady. What I’m sure of is that my dear Granny changed. She became an accomplice to Ani, that monster, the two bullying my poor Atai together. And naturally, I, as another victim who loathed Ani, sided with Atai.

The outbreak of the war between the two sides finally came. At noon one day Atai and I were lying in bed watching television. Ani was playing with a pill bottle in a recliner off to the side. She hadn’t thrown a tantrum in two days, and at most had whispered a few curses. The long overdue peace allowed me to finally enjoy my cartoons. Out the window, the rays of the midday summer sun attempted to melt everything，but the temperature inside was perfect. The warmth of the sun through the window and the light music of the cartoon gave me a peaceful sensation. Soon, my body begin to flood with sleep bubbles. I could feel the voices around me becoming muffled. Suddenly, a horrible voice rang out: “I can’t hear you! I can’t hear it! The sound is too low!”

“Shhh, Ani, Xixi is sleeping. Let’s wait a little while before we watch TV, okay?”

“I can’t hear it! No! I can’t hear it!”

“Don’t..shh…”

I knew what was happening now and what might happen afterward. But my body’s sleepiness made me too lazy to open my eyes to pay attention At the same time, a devious thought sprang into my head. What would Atai choose to do? Would she scold Ani to protect me from her voice, or would she prioritize attending to Ani and neglect me? Would she favor Ani as much as Grandma did? I rolled over to face them and squinted my eyes to observe. Ani’s anger increased rapidly, her yelling got louder and louder, and she even started trying to smash the pill bottle. Atai had already sat up and tried to approach Ani. And yet, she didn’t dare create a big commotion. Her eyes kept switching between Ani and me. Several times she opened her mouth and got up to seek help from Grandma but stopped because she was afraid to leave me alone with Ani.

After her failed attempts at whispering to persuade Ani, she finally opted to turn up the volume on the television set. It was the best thing she could think of to do because we all knew that no one but my grandma had the power to shut Ani up. Whether or not great grandma chose to comply with Ani’s request to turn up the volume, I would have been awake by then. But at the time, I felt betrayed. I was jealous of the privilege Ani enjoyed, and at the same time felt like I wasn’t getting appreciated for my fondness for Atai. So immediately I sat up as if I’d been woken up, grabbed the TV remote, and turned the volume down. The sound of the cartoon’s music stopped. After a brief moment of silence, a roar announced the beginning of the drama, and Ani resumed her furious performance: snarling, cursing, hand-wringing… culminating in the smashing of the bottle of pills in her hand, which sprayed all over Atai.

I watched the pills pelt her arms. The veins that held my strange fascination were especially visible at the moment because of the impact, and possibly because of her anxiousness. Grandma rushed into the room, scanning everyone and the pills on the floor, then, recovering calm, or perhaps indifference, she tugged Ani out of the room in a hurry, without a word. For once, she was ignoring not only Atai, but me as well. I remember vividly the moment of sudden vertigo. The heat, the chaos on the floor, the pills on the arm “highway,” the slamming of the door… everything in that space converged to defeat me.

At that moment, I hated my family. Why couldn’t I have a normal mother who was always there like everyone else’s? Why did father, grandfather, and other men in my family always appear as protagonists in the stories the family would tell, but only be vague images in reality? Why did my fair grandmother turn into a cold-hearted bully of the weak? Why was my supposedly powerful Atai willingly bullied by her granddaughter? I especially hated my Auntie. She’d never been a part of our lives, but got all the privileges. She made my life a ridiculous melodrama. She made the lives of all the people I loved incredibly hard — broken, messy, like those pills on the floor.

Why did we have to put up with this? Someone needed to step up and put an end to it.

I can’t remember what happened after that moment, nor when the chaos subsided. But I do remember that in the late afternoon, Ani and I were the only ones left in the dining room. She was staring into a corner, her vacant expression making her look weak and innocent. I averted my eyes from this wolf in sheep’s clothing and noticed that there was half a watermelon and a fruit knife on the table. Sharp things had never been placed in plain sight before. Was that a hint? It was time to end it all. That’s what I thought.

Never underestimate the hatred and wickedness of a child. My horrible imagination and dreams of heroism led me, at the tender age of seven to pull out a fruit knife stuck in a watermelon and walk towards my aunt. I couldn’t go back thirty years and kill the dog that caused all the trouble, but I could kill the trouble now. After sticking the knife down her throat, my life might go back to normal. Grandma wouldn’t have to labor so much, she and my mother wouldn’t have to fight; Atai wouldn’t be bullied anymore, and I would get to have possession of her again. I imagined myself as a cartoon heroine who punishes the wicked.

“Ani?” I called out to her at the last minute to check if she was still in a daze. Out of residual kinship, I wanted her to end her life while she was in a state of mental wandering, which might reduce her pain.

She rolled her eyes at that moment to look at me. She stared straight at me and the knife in my hand without a single change in her expression. But suddenly I couldn’t move. Great fear overcame me. I realized I had always been a coward. I had never said “I hate Ani” outright before, but only dared to complain or stir up trouble in front of my grandmother and mother. How could I really have the guts to kill her? If I inserted the knife, I really had become an abnormal person, a psychopath like Auntie.

I set the knife back beside the watermelon and tiptoed out of the living room. The loud sound of my heart beating announced my defeat in this war.

***

Even though I lived in my grandparents’ home when I was young, the only person I relied on was my grandmother. Until I was in middle school, my grandfather was a contradiction. He used to be a respected officer in the army. I had heard countless times from others that he was a resolute and courageous hero. But at home, he was a drunken ghost who appeared sporadically, a wimp who often drowned in my grandmother’s spittle. He and Grandma argued a lot. Grandma often blamed him for not helping take care of Ani and me, and resented him for being a coward. On the first point, I had to agree. Almost every day when I was a child, only just before I went to sleep did I see a drunken figure, staggering, approaching through the cracks in the night. Grandpa always explained that he was busy with many of his former comrades in the war as veterans, and he had to bond with them through parties. But I always felt that he was running away from Ani and I. He was even afraid of Ani and disliked her. On the second point, that he was a coward, Grandpa usually chose to remain silent, probably because it was true — he never went against what Atai and his brother wanted.

Overhearing Grandma’s complaints, I learned more about Grandpa and Atai. From what I pieced together, my grandfather was the first child, and his brother was a full 13 years younger. This was common in the countryside at the time, where every woman would consider it a shame to have had only one child. Therefore even at the risk of their health, rural women would choose to become mothers at an advanced age, as my Atai did., Since she was from the village landlord’s family, my Atai especially wanted to get pregnant. Being a conspicuous rich girl, she didn’t want to become the joke of the village. After 13 years of trying, she finally gave birth to a second baby boy. It meant for her the end of years of anxiety, and  the beginning of a new life of pride and contentment (having two boys in a row was a remarkable and envied achievement at the time). This younger son seemed to be the greatest achievement of her life, and she tended to subtly favor him over her elder. According to what I learned from eavesdropping on my grandparents’ quarrel, one night more than forty years ago, Atai suddenly gave Grandpa, who was attending college, a pair of sewn cloth camouflage shoes, suitable for long walks. She didn’t say anything, but Grandpa immediately understood what his mother was implying. After the Cultural Revolution, the family was no longer wealthy. Atai wanted her elder son to voluntarily give up his chance of studying to his younger brother, and head off to the army to become a soldier himself. She was always the leader of the family, so she knew for sure that Grandpa would not disobey her “order.” My grandmother would often sneer: “Atai has always been a ‘wise’ person.” Even in her old age, Atai would subtly hide her favoritism in the details — in the eyes of outsiders, she was completely fair in dealing with the marriage of her two sons, the distribution of inheritance, etc. But for decades she insisted on living in her younger son’s home, taking care of them, as well as looking after her precious grandson.

Year after year, I grew accustomed to Grandpa’s frequent disappearance from our days and became numb to his and Grandma’s arguments. It wasn’t until one of their daily quarrels that I got some new information that made me skeptical.

“Mom broke her leg yesterday and was hospitalized, and my brother just called and said he wants to split the medical bills with us,” Grandpa said.

“Why? What does it have to do with us? She didn’t break her leg at our house. It’s because of Yan (My grandpa’s brother’s wife) again, right? She’s always mopping the floor without wiping it dry. When will she learn to do housework…”

“Come on. It’s not like the bills are that much. After all, she’s my mom, I can’t possibly leave her alone.”

“Hahaha, ask your mom if she treats you like a son. Has she helped us take care of the kids for a single day since we had them? Look at your brother’s family. Your mom is still babysitting for them in her eighties.”

“Why are you talking about this again? My brother’s not retired, he’s busier than me.”

“You know what I am talking about. She doesn’t care about us, and I won’t care about her…”

“Can you just forget about it?”

“Forget what? I really regret marrying you. You are a wimp, you listen to your mom and your brother in everything. Remember? When I asked you to cook a meal for me after I gave birth to Haiyan [my mother], your mother stood on the other side of the river in front of the house and shouted, “Jichang [my grandpa], come to mom’s place to eat!” Has she ever cared about me? Have you ever cared about me? Just because I disgraced your family by giving birth to a girl, not a son? And Ani, poor Ani! I really don’t want to mention it. How can your mom be so cruel? When I heard A ni’s crying under the lid I nearly wanted to die with her.”

“Don’t talk about the past! Hasn’t Mom treated Ani well after all these years?”

“Can buying Ani some snacks make up for the crime she committed? If I hadn’t snatched A ni out of the bucket and protected her in the first place, she would have tried to kill her a second time!”

“Enough! I really regret talking to you about this! Go and say these words to her own face, go kill her if you can!”

I was stunned. Did Atai ever hurt Ani? What had Atai done? Was her present image of gentleness and amiability a pretense? Were all these years of Grandpa avoiding us and Grandma’s resentment towards him because of this old lady? The image of the pills spilling all over the floor that day came back to me. For Atai, the birth of her second son was just the right medicine that healed the shame of her former life. And for Grandma? Her second daughter will always be nothing but poison, and we will all be victims of it. But what if Atai is the one who did the poisoning?

I had to know the truth.

◆ The Second Story My Mother Told Me

“On the day my sister, Ani, was born, our house was bustling with more guests and relatives than anyone expected. Several months earlier, your Atai had consulted doctors and Taoist priests to predict the baby’s gender. The doctors pointed to physical signs that mom’s belly was sharp, suggesting a boy, while the Taoist priest, after putting bowls full of water in the room to invite the fairy, declared it was truly a special boy. This news delighted everyone, especially Mom and Atai, who didn’t have the closest relationship, as is often the case with mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law. However, Atai’s attitude softened after that day of the predictions, and she began visiting us often. She would sit on the edge of the bed and rub her hands together, waiting until her palms were warm before covering mom’s belly.  She also made a lot of clothes for this unborn child, all of them boy’s attire. Surprisingly, she even crafted a dress for me, which I cherished dearly. Meanwhile, as an influential person in the village, father hosted a celebratory gathering, receiving numerous congratulatory gifts.

“Everyone was nervous the day Mom went into labor. Atai kept asking the midwife who came out of the room if the baby had come out yet. But I was only worried about whether my mom was in pain. The cries from the room went from loud to hoarse, making my heart ache. Eventually, when the baby’s cry arose, relief swept through the house. Just as Atai was slipping the red envelope to the midwife, she saw the baby. The smiles suddenly froze. But the icy expression only stayed on her face for a few seconds. She gave a natural smile immediately afterward and pulled father and the midwife into the room, closing the door behind them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It was quickly drowned out in the congratulatory chatter of the onlookers behind me.

“At night I finally met my mom and the baby. It was a girl, not the boy everyone was expecting! Mom was sobbing on the bed with the baby in her arms, while Atai sat stony-faced. When I inquired about Dad’s whereabouts, Atai remained silent, and Mom explained that he had joined the village celebration, keeping the baby’s gender a secret. After a while Mom allowed me to hold my sister. I took the soft baby. She was wrinkled, like a shrunken version of an old lady. She was quiet, blinking her eyes at me. It was nice to have a sister. I could lend her that dress later, I thought.

“It didn’t take long for Atai to send me out of the room. Then all I could hear was the arguing and crying that began to erupt inside it. Strangely, for the following week, I didn’t see my father, and mother hugged my sister every day, her face getting more and more pale. What’s worse, she refused to see anyone, even me. The house was as quiet and eerie as the temples I dreaded visiting in those days, and the table was set with the nasty smelling joss sticks that were only used when chanting. Then, a few nights later. I saw Atai walk out of the house with my sister in her arms. She was followed by my mother, who carried the family’s red chamber pot. They seemed hurried. Out of curiosity, I secretly followed them to the field behind the house.

“Mom set the chamber pot down and tried to take the baby from Atai. But Atai stepped back to avoid Mom’s outstretched arm. Their voices were fuzzy, but I could see clearly that Atai suddenly turned the baby sideways. Mom trembled violently, keeping her arms outstretched, like a helpless statue in an earthquake. I realized something was wrong—

“Atai was threatening mom with the safety of her child. The next moment she threw this innocent child into the chamber pot and closed the lid. What shocked and frightened me even more was that mother did not dare to resist. She fell to her knees, crawled forward, and then hugged the chamberpot, her child’s grave, tightly.

“The two women in front of me had become strange and frightening. I staggered home, screaming my father’s name, but the only thing that answered me in the whole house was the sound of the wind and the flickering candlelight. No one could save my sister, no one could help me.

“I hid under the covers all night. In my sleep, my sister’s wrinkled face was covered in shit and urine in the chamber pot. She was crying out for help. The family gathered around her, expressionless. Gradually, I realized that my mouth and nose were overrun by the stench, and I couldn’t breathe. I became my sister.

“In the days that followed, I had a high fever. When I came to my senses, I found that my sister had returned! Surprise instantly drowned out doubt and fear. For a few years, I thought all that happened was just a nightmare.

“Everything seemed to change and nothing seemed to change. Atai stopped coming to our house, my father became reluctant to go out and drink, and my mother got into occasional arguments with him. I learned from the villagers’ gossip and my parents’ arguments that what happened that day was real, and it became an unspoken secret to all — My mother had ended up slapping my grandmother and snatching my sister from death at the last minute. Unfortunately, because of the prolonged lack of oxygen, my sister became mentally handicapped. She would never be able to speak a complete sentence.”

***

Over the next ten years, everything changed. I was in high school when I learned the truth. My mother gradually changed from a strong woman busy with her career to a typical Chinese parent who focused on her family and pushed her child to succeed.  I also slowly faded out from my grandma’s life, visiting her and Grandpa only during holidays. My grandpa turned into a gentle and kind old man who doted on me every time I visited. Atai was bedridden for health reasons, and I could only see her during Chinese New Year. The only one who hadn’t changed was Ani, still an unpredictable bomb.

Once when I was in high school, I stayed at my grandma’s house for a few days. It was still the same familiar bed, the same familiar sleeping position. Grandma slept between me and Auntie, fanning us, shifting from one side to the other. Auntie was still making the same throaty sounds as before, as if she were under water, sometimes sharply, sometimes slowly. One day, on a whim, I suddenly wanted to teach her some vocabulary. “Ani repeat after me: yaokongqi.”

“Yao..qi.”She tried to mimic my voice.

”Yaokongqi.”

“Yao kong qi.”

She repeated the word, incomprehensible to her, in its entirety. The tone was stiff, like a stapler biting the air three times. She seemed to enjoy this newly learned word and kept repeating it. For a moment, I was in a trance, as if Auntie had become the little girl she was back then and I was her mother. I suddenly wondered what the world looked like to her. A silent movie in black and white? Still and blurred time and space? Infinitely magnified tiny things? Does she have memories? Does she know who she is? Does she wonder why she’s sick? Does she have people she loves or hates? There seemed to be no meaning to her life, just the effort to keep breathing.

I felt sad for her. Someone who was denied the right to choose life and death from birth, numbly experiencing a world that was not hers. I was reminded again of her big clear eyes in that old family photo. Somehow fate had arranged a similar misunderstanding for both of us — I had also been misdiagnosed as a boy by the nurses when I was born. My parents and grandmother had leaped up with joy, shoving red envelopes at the nurse, only to be told in the next breath that I was, in fact, a girl. But no one was disappointed by this, and no one attempted to murder me. Years later, I grew up to be a healthy, independent adult, while Ani is forever imprisoned in her own world, her large, round eyes clouded by decades of medication. We had similar faces, but different paths in life.

Again, though for a different reason, I felt that she was lucky.. She didn’t understand the choices and pain that exist in life, and she didn’t have to worry about the awkward situation of balancing her family’s relationships. Once upon a time, she became a victim of traditional prejudice because of her status as a girl. Now she carries the regrets of several generations of women. Atai carries the guilt of attempting to murder her; Grandma regrets day after day the weakness of giving in; my mother, her sister, apologizes for the fact that God chose to make her the first child instead of Auntie. As for me. If I go back to that hot afternoon more than a decade ago, if I had known the truth at that time, would I have picked up that knife?

I remember after my mother told me the truth, she specifically told me that it was best to keep it a secret, especially from my future boyfriends, because none of us can give up on Auntie. After grandma comes Mom, and after Mom comes me. We had to spend energy and money to take care of her and be responsible for her. Mom was right to worry. Taking care of Auntie is no easy task.  Future marriage partners will  likely see it as a factor affecting our new family. I had no words to contradict her.

In 2022, I attended Atai’s funeral. In the coffin she was as tiny as a shrunken shrimp. No one could imagine that back then she could have attempted to kill an innocent baby. Seeing her face at that time. I felt she was a victim, too. She spent the first half of her life trying her best to make herself and her offspring meet the distorted standards of tradition, and the second half of her life atoning for her sins. I can’t imagine spending one’s life with such anxiety and regrets.

In the last moments of her life, everyone visited her, including Auntie, whom she had hurt. As her hand with its visible blood vessels held Auntie’s swollen arm, Auntie still stared at her without expression, but maintained a rare calmness. It was the first and last time they got along as warm grandparent and grandchild. I wished that in that moment both the cause and effect of the sin could disappear. But that was unrealistic. Sin is passed on from generation to generation, and everyone is a victim. Decades of difficult caregiving for Auntie, rigid family relationships, and my awkward future were the continuous harvest of the fruit of evil planted in 1985.

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