Chapter 14
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Chapter 14
The next morning, my mother got up early and went to the market. Since she frequently bought mangoes, the vendor enthusiastically pitched them, saying the mangoes that day were large and fresh.
“I guarantee your daughter will love them.”
My mother stared blankly and said, “My daughter is allergic to mangoes.”
The vendor looked at her oddly but said nothing more and moved on to the next customer. My mother wandered from stall to stall with her wicker basket. She picked up a carrot and then put it down, picked up some bell peppers and set them aside. Her
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actions were so peculiar that the vendor gently suggested, “If you’re planning to cook something, I can give you some recommendations.”
I watched her standing there, struggling to remember, her eyes lost and confused. It suddenly dawned on me–she didn’t know what I liked to eat.
Growing up, I had never enjoyed the luxury of choosing my own meals like Delilah did, nor was I picky like Abelard. I had no options; I always ate their leftovers.
Finally, the vendor pulled out a small bamboo basket from beneath the counter
and placed it in front of my mother.
“These are fresh wild mushrooms from
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the Silver Blade pack. How about some for cooking?”
Silver Blade pack.
Mushrooms.
These words seemed like sharp knives piercing her nerves. My mother clutched the small handful of mushrooms, suddenly bent over, and tears began to fall.
“Peachy.”
“Peachy.”
Such an affectionate term was rarely used by her in front of me. But now that I’m dead, how could I possibly hear it?
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She bought nothing and returned home with the empty wicker basket. After sitting for a while, she stood up and called Delilah. Her tone was icy.
“Your piano hasn’t been used in six months. If you still want it, I’ll have someone deliver it to your house. If not, I’ll arrange for the scrap collectors to take it away.”
Delilah suddenly burst into tears.
“Mom, what are you doing? Just because I’m married now doesn’t mean I’m not part of this family, or that I don’t deserve a room at home?”
“Your bedroom is still reserved for you,” my mother said flatly. “But Peaches’s room, I need to clear it out.”
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Delilah fell silent.
One cannot foresee the future. The call I made to her before I died, though it did not make her responsible for my death, altered her position in this home in a subtle way.
My mother acted swiftly. By the next morning, the piano room was cleared out. She attempted to have a bed and wardrobe identical to the ones I had discarded brought in, but in the end, she couldn’t find exact
matches.
She took out my clothes from the storage room, clothes that had a musty odor, one by one, laid them flat, and hung them in the wardrobe. There weren’t many items, and since they were all from my school years,
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even if I were alive, I wouldn’t wear them.
Then she went out to find a craftsman to
repair the necklace as much as possible and wore it around her neck. My memorial photo was placed in the room, and every morning, the first thing she did after waking up was to clean it meticulously.
I didn’t understand what she was trying to achieve. Was it compensation? Or was she trying to ease her own conscience?
In life, I had desperately sought her love, even a little would have sufficed. But only in
death did I receive it.
I floated restlessly around the room, wanting to knock the items off the bookshelf, tear up the new bed linens she had bought, and
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throw them away.
Like in countless past arguments, I wanted to hurl hurtful, self–destructive words at her.
Stop the pretense, Mom.
Don’t create a false semblance of love to alleviate your guilt.
Do you even believe it yourself?
But I couldn’t say it. Even if I did, she
wouldn’t hear me.
For the first time, I realized how cruel it was to exist as a disembodied spirit.
When would I finally dissipate and ascend to heaven?
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Or would I remain forever trapped in this home that doesn’t belong to me, coldly observing their happy lives?
Fortunately, an answer soon came.
