Maybe it was when I read Wild or something from Dear Sugar, but something about how when you wake up, you realize it’s a world without your mother. Some people never get over it. Or at least everyone won’t. There’s a difference though when when you’re younger and undeveloped. Another difference when you’re older and full of life experiences.
I haven’t lost my parents. Yet. But I have seen my parents lose theirs. And each time, I felt distanced. They were just my grandparents—so far and so distanced. A language barrier had created a gulf. The last one—Po Po, I thought that I could grieve, but the pain of not grieving was more painful. But I remember what my mother said during the eulogy. The fact that she now had no mother.
No mother.
It’s been almost a month, almost three weeks since Chris heard. It has been just over two weeks since we rushed down to LA and stood in the lobby of the Medical Examiner’s office to retrieve the key. I remember thinking how drab the building was, how it felt so much like any government building. Probably built in the heyday of grand buildings. We had arrived there just an hour after Chris had an appointment with a psychologist to address his other issues. And when for a moment, I thought that they would decide to admit him into a ward. But they didn’t. We went there and sat on a squishy couch in the lobby. We saw a box of tissues. I saw two men walk in, one obviously distraught. At the reception, he said “my mother.” But I won’t know their details. I just saw the man wobbling in the side, probably close to our age. Did he feel guilty? The only reason that we were at the office of medical examiner was because Chris’ mom was found outside a hospital and so such things are required to have thorough investigation. What happned? I am not sure.
Then we went to the house where we met the biohazard team and they cleaned the space and the ground. Chris noted all the disarray—how everything was not what he remembered from the last time he visited over seven years ago.
Seven years ago. My tongue was caught. Maybe I could have pushed harder. I know that I must have. Tell her, I said to him. Just check in when the pandemic happened. Just send a note. It’s a time when everyone forgives. What happens if you don’t, I must have said.
But then after awhile, my life and my own desires consumed what I wanted. It was easier not to think about his mother and what she disliked about me. It was easier to deal with someone that I didn’t know, because he wouldn’t talk about her.
But occasionally in conversation, he would mention that something was in LA. I say, why don’t you go and get it from LA. You don’t know what happened to it. And he would become avoidant.
Then last year in July, we went down to see my sister at her 40th. I was delighted and encouraged Chris to see his mother. Just say hi and that’s all. And then he told me later that he drove to the house and parked outside. Just waiting. He couldn’t go in. But he saw that the plants were watered. It seemed okay. So then when he got the call from me, he drove off.
When I first entered the house just a few weeks ago, I was stunned about everything. For years, I had imagined a grandiose place. I didn’t know what to expect. Chris had always described it and it seemed like a fairytale place—where he played the violin, the bedroom, his own bathroom, where he watched tv, where his mom would work from home, where his dog would be, where everything would be. I can’t remember exactly now what I had imagined because it’s now replaced with what I had seen in a house that’s a lesser version of its former self.
When we entered a few weeks ago, I had prepared myself. Because just a few days earlier, the medical examiner had called and said to prepare. There’s paper everywhere. I had assumed that meant the stacks of paper. I knew what that meant. But then I entered to find more. It wasn’t exactly an extreme hoarders situation, because it was clean in some sense.
I spent time cleaning out the fridge that first visit. I pulled all the CPK containers without looking at them. Multiple condiments from CPK. I tossed the orange and the apple. I tossed two jars of fermented things—one was probably kim chee and the other was ginseng. I tossed all the tea. I tossed all the plastic silverware, all the cleaned takeout containers, all the plastic silverware. I tossed it out the soup containers. I even tossed dirty plates that could have cleaned.
I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there, but Chris said that I could be there. Although not exactly explicitly, I knew that he didn’t have to ask me, I had to be there, because who else would be there?
When Chris first told me, I was at Ruby lunch and I hurried back, stunned. Was this his mom? Not his dad? I called my parents immediately because they were the first people I knew who dealt with this kind of death and that I trusted. Talk to him, I said, maybe you can help?
I had two hours of work that I needed to fill and I knew that was often my expected response to things. I didn’t know how to behave in any other way. I have a plan and I must complete it, because that’s what is expected of me. Like in a disaster, I will keep going to work. Like a robot. Because I am expected to do it. Not because i want to.
Just two weeks ago, I went through his mom’s closet. By that point, I had gone in a pattern of finding and searching. Maybe a little too harsh at times without really respecting anyone’s privacy. I kept wondering if she, someone who never knew me, would disapprove. I found divorce papers, property titles, and jewerly. “I found it!” I yelled. Her will. Handwritten in Chinese. “I’ll send it to my parents.” And within an hour, my parents summarized it. All for Chris.
Just two weeks ago, I went through the piles and piles of mail. Backtracking, I was able to figure out that all the recent mail was scattered on her desk, barely categorized, all neatly opened with an envelope opener. I saw bills that were unpaid. Handwritten question marks. Handwritten need check. I saw a letter from Chase that seemed to address a concern that she had about her account—yes, it’s 10k unpaid. Hopefully this clears it up, the response said. What was happening? Did she get confused? I Googled unpaid bills symptoms and the internet told me early symptoms of dementia. Didn’t Chris say that his grandmother had alzheimers?
Just two weeks ago, we saw that the sliding glass door was shattered. The day before, when we arrived, Chris thought that it was a vandal and the police arrived within an hour. We walked around the property and they said that it was suspicious. But the police called later saying the glass was already shattered when they found the body. It doesn’t look like anyone got in. We found two fancy leather purses on her bed, still with credit cards, identification, and her phones. There wasn’t any cash and coins around, Chris thought it was because his mother was likely afraid of covid and so didn’t want to have any cash.
There are so many unanswered questions.
What happened to the bathroom? Why was the bath leaking? Why was it not fixed? Why was there so much water damage?
Where did she sleep?
Why is there so little food?
Where did she sleep?
What was she doing when she died? Was she yelling for help?
Why didn’t she ask for help?
We returned just over a week later. The weather had gotten warm. By this time, everyone had told us what happened. Somehow Chris’ dad was there, perhaps to give permission to enter the property. The day on August 15, the police picked the lock. They got inside and found the body. They interviewed all the neighbors. And it was concluded natural cause of death—heart attack. She didn’t suffer. It was quick. Would the medical examiner lie? But wouldn’t he be incentivized to do so, especially if he didn’t want the family to suffer?
When the biohazard team was preparing the place, I saw Chris cry—tears falling down his cheeks. All the pain between his mom and him were on his face. Why didn’t she ask for help? Why didn’t I try?
Make a plan I say. A trust. A will. Stay connected.
Just over a week ago, we prepared Chris’ childhood room and bathroom so that we could stay. It was so hot. The AC and other things weren’t working. Maybe it was the heat, but I constantly felt like something would choke me. I wasn’t supposed to be there. She never liked me, for shallow reasons. There was this floral scent that permeated everywhere. Anywhere I smelled it, I wanted not to be there. I couldn’t smell it in Chris’ childhood room and bathroom, especially when I pulled out her clothes and other bedding.
Chris and I laid in his childhood bed—apparently the mattress had never been changed. It felt so different to be there—I was thrilled to be in a place where I had never been invited. But as they say in these difficult circumstances. What did he dream about when he was here? What crushes did he have? What kept him awake at night?
Was he here when I tried to call him when he visited LA?
What would have happened if he insisted that his mom get to know me? What would have happened if I actually had a child? What would have happened if he had reached out? Would she have been okay with me? I wouldn’t ever know now.
All I have are the fragile words.
What I do know is that beyond that brief encounter I had with her back in June 2007 was too short. Then years later, when I called Chris, he just put me on speakerphone and I heard her yell at him in a combination of Mandarin and English. She was disappointed in him. He did nothing ever right. Why did he have to be such a horrible person? Why was he so dumb? She said all these things like all the things I sometimes would say when I am frustrated with him, but I couldn’t ever said it outloud. I put myself on mute and listened. I weeped during the phone call. I heard him shut down in the way that I knew that he did when I got mad. I think that he wanted me to know about what he was enduring. After that, I stopped pressuring him to make her meet me.
Perhaps against my better judgement, I went through some photos. I always wanted to know how Chris was like as a child. And I found them. “I was a cute kid,” he said.
“You were,” I said.
Then there he was with his mom in various places with friends. I imagine when things were good. At his Berkeley graduation, way before me.
You aren’t a disappointment. You are here for me. Remember that you’re strong.