Zhu Yiye
A Girl Who Likes to Dump Trash
Translated from the Chinese by Liuyu Ivy Chen
If dumping trash can count as a hobby, I am a person with a hobby. This idea has taken over my brain since I took the trash out today.
Dad often says it’s good to have a hobby because sooner or later it will be useful. I don’t quite understand what that means. He likes all sorts of inspirational stories about disabled people on TV programs and newspapers. Once, he saw a child with cerebral palsy become a conductor, leading an entire orchestra in the most prestigious concert hall. On TV, he waved a small wooden stick, his head and arms convulsing, taking the limelight on stage while everyone applauded for him––some even teared up, including my dad.
Although I don’t know how to make use of my hobby, to be honest, it’s far more intelligent than waving a little wooden stick, as if having a seizure, in plain public view. I crack up at this thought. My laughter is a rhythmless heaving and snorting; as it accelerates, my entire body starts to shake and my limbs flail, so my left hand quickly covers my mouth to muffle this stupid noise. In fact, I’m a little sensitive to stupidity and I try to make myself look smarter, as Dad often tells me: “Can’t you just be smarter?!”
In long strides, I walk outside to the public trash can and open its big lid with my fingertips pinching the sticky handle. The steaming odor of rotten fruit blows into my face, a swarm of flies buzzing around before it calms. I throw my trash bag in and rouse another black whirlwind of the stench. I peek inside and see the flies perched on several scallop shells that poke out of the plastic bag. I also see a broken shoe, a couple peach pits, a dirty rag doll, a big bag of used toilet paper, and some vegetable leaves. I look through the trash can greedily for fear of missing any goodies. I confess I’m a little obsessed. When I realize how dumb it is and that smart people would never do this, I quickly retrieve my head.
In any case, I’m happy to have dumped such a big bag of trash. My hands are empty and I feel light and jolly. I’m delighted to have a hobby and can’t wait to run home to tell Dad. I want to receive his compliment: “So smart!” I’ve always thought this is the highest praise he can give me. I look like a little dog lifting a sweaty head, panting for a treat. But when I tell him, he spits something out and says: “Stupid.” I look around on the floor but can’t see what he just spat out––not even a speck of food. I guess it must have been something dirty in Dad’s imagination, an illusory bit of trash.
Grandma and I sit side by side on the curb about two meters from our apartment windows. I sit on a step, Grandma in her wheelchair. Small hibiscuses with sparse pink blossoms grow in the shrub behind us. The horsehair-like grass on the overgrown lawn rolls like a shiny wave when the wind blows. Dad has chosen this spot for us, saying it’s easier for him to watch us there. To feel Dad’s eyesight tracing us, I used to look out from my bedroom window and imagine him looking over the shrub and seeing two backs, one slanting in the wheelchair with crooked shoulders, the other so enormous that her neck is nowhere to be seen. Sunlight shines straight into my face. I stare into the sun but give up when a dozen or so green spots appear on my retina.
Even for a summer afternoon, it’s not very hot. There’s only a road separating our residential community from the ocean, whose breeze is cooling and comforting, making me drowsy. At low tide, the ocean breeze carries a humid fishy smell; my breathing quickens as if I’m gulping down seafood. Whenever I imagine the jellyfish, starfish, and other exotic fish in the deep blue ocean entering my body through some mysterious vapor to swim inside my big fat belly, I feel very happy. Dad never allows Grandma and me to eat the cheap seafood he brings home, like scallops, oysters, or mussels, says they’re not good for children or seniors. I look down at my huge breasts and don’t quite agree with him. But Grandma is indeed too old, too old even to talk. Her life has become a still image as dull and dreary as her face. She has become a specimen of herself, letting time whistle by her body. Every day, she eats only a small bowl of oatmeal, half of which spills on her clothes––she always smells like sour oats.
Facing me is the fence of the residential complex, over which a clearing appears. It used to be a marine aquaculture ground, now a wasteland with a few ponds and trash mounds. I’ve heard Dad talking with other property owners about this clearing––it has long been sold and a new apartment complex for outof-town vacationers like us will be built. But whenever I look carefully, I always see someone sitting atop one of the mounds, throwing a fish hook into a pond. Dad has also joined them, whittling away most of his days like this. I’ve heard that these ponds, like treasure basins, are teeming with an inexhaustible supply of fish: whenever a hook is thrown in, a fish comes out. These legendary fish ponds never let any fishermen down. But I’ve never seen Dad bring home any fish. He says the ponds are too dirty, so he always releases his catch.
I imagine a fish flopping on the ground. Its silvery scales glow as it turns, picking up some dirt before it halts. It wets the sand, leaving a small dark patch. I listen to the fish’s mouth patting faintly, just like how my eyes now keep shutting––soon I’m thrown into a soft patch of darkness. “You fool!” I hear Grandma yell to me from a distance, but I’m quickly swallowed by the warm and quiet darkness again. Only when cicadas sing at the top of their lungs, tugging me back and forth like a rusted iron chain, do I finally wake to this dazzling summer afternoon. I look at Grandma: her pale face and gray hair––like illuminants–– carry big halos; she is expressionless as usual, lost in thoughts; a patch of drool stains her chest. Grandma hasn’t spoken in years. Her sharp and critical words have evaporated into the air, reducing her body mass by one third. I’ve almost forgotten how formidable she once was––one slap and I was knocked on the ground. I lower my head and see a patch of drool on my chest––it must have been left from my nap. I giggle at our shared stains and glance at Grandma, inviting her to join me. Her face remains sullen––this she has never changed. She thinks nothing in me is worth laughing about. She’s as difficult to reach as ever. Without speaking a word, we sit there for a long time until Dad calls us home from the windows. Every time Ms. Wang from the property management company visits, he asks me to push Grandma outside and we spend the afternoon on the curb like this until Ms. Wang is gone.
In the beginning of this summer, Dad drove Grandma and me from the hot, dirty city to this beach town. He’d purchased this apartment with his lifelong savings, saying he wanted to start a new life where no one knew us. I overheard this story one day as he combed Grandma’s hair. He said he’d been working hard his whole life and now that he’s retired, it’s time to enjoy life. Like an anxious young man announcing himself in love, Dad was eager to receive Grandma’s blessing. Yet her deadpan face showed nothing but disdain and provocation. In fact, Grandma was never satisfied with him even before she went mute. Dad stopped combing her hair, his face turning gloomy. He suddenly grabbed Grandma’s shoulders and shook them: “Can’t you hear me!” Grandma’s hair fell down into a messy pile with white streaks like a fledgling chick’s feathers. Dad looked up and saw me before I could look away. He threw the comb at me and shouted: “What the hell are you looking at, fool? Because of you two burdens, I can’t even have one decent day to myself.” He then pointed at Grandma: “Why don’t you just die?” Grandma’s dark pants and wheelchair seat slowly turned wet. An air of terror filled our apartment, suffocating. Dad soon noticed. He squatted down in front of Grandma, slapped his face, and said remorsefully: “Mom, it’s all my fault. Please don’t blame me.” He looked at me. “Hurry, clean your Grandma and change her clothes.” He stood and walked away, gently patting my head as he passed, before he entered his bedroom and closed the door.
When Dad is home, he often reveals his internal activities through unrestrained mood swings. Sometimes I feel Grandma and I are merely living in his mind rather than in the real world, as if we’re part of his psyche and have to endure his self-inflicted contradictions and struggles. Sometimes I’m convinced that he is insane and will kill both of us on a whim. My fear vanishes when he goes out and greets other residents in the neighborhood. He looks perfectly normal, like any white-haired, middle-aged gentleman who owns a vacation home on the beach, exuding confidence, laughing brightly, and enjoying life and summer. Grandma and I seem to have helped him establish some kind of reputation––a gentle father, a caring son, a responsible man––although our neighbors don’t always look at me kindly. When Dad isn’t around, they ask me strange questions; some children even tell me I’m retarded. People are very curious about our family. If they were those black flies in the trash can, they would certainly perch on our windows to spy on us.
I drew the curtain and took off Grandma’s clothes. Although I’d seen her nude body countless times, it shocked me every time. She looked as if she hadn’t completely shed her clothes: a soft, wrinkled, flesh-colored coat still hung loosely from her body. Her body lines were weighed down as if by a heavy object; her lengthened breasts drooped like two empty water bags; her belly fat tumbled over her thighs, forming a gap where her black pubic hair loomed––even with this evidence, she seemed to have lost her gender, a non-male and non-female existence. I felt nauseous. I couldn’t believe this skin bag contained any life. I once took off my own clothes and compared my body with hers. Mine was swollen with fat, but in comparison, full of vitality. I observed her face again: deep wrinkles cut into her face, creating abstract geometric figures. I suddenly felt Grandma had long been dead, and left behind a skin bag that lodged and ate freely in my family, burdening my dad. I’ve always wanted to tell him about this clever discovery, but whenever I finish wiping this skin bag and putting clothes on it, it becomes like my grandma again. Every time she is cleaned, she looks pleased, but I curse her in my mind: Why don’t you rot so I can throw you into a fly pit like a bag of trash?
One evening, a train siren blares across the sky. Residents clamor out, commenting on the high-speed rail to be built here. A station will open near us, shortening our commute to the nearby city to ten minutes, which means our property value will spike. When Dad returns home, he still can’t contain his excitement, pushing Grandma’s wheelchair in a circle around the living room, praising his own foresight. He even pats my shoulders and says: “Isn’t your dad awesome? When the apartment spikes, I will sell it and the rest of my life will be settled!”
Yet this happy period doesn’t last long before Dad slips back to his internal commotion, when our apartment becomes a chamber in his heart, wherein he curses us, beats us, and repents to us, alternating between his vicious and weak selves. In the midst of it, I feel like a bug sucked into a whirlpool that whips me, leaving me helpless and short of breath. Yet whenever Dad finishes throwing a tantrum, he looks like a victim––exhausted and pitiful. I’d much rather he go out fishing so that I can do the housework and look after Grandma as if I were the hostess of our home. I can do everything, and to be honest, I can do it very well. I like the moment when I open the windows to let the distant ocean breeze in while sunlight shines on the table and floor. I turn on the TV and hum the advertisement tunes. As long as I don’t accidently spot that fat body in the mirror or from the window reflection, I feel lithe, beautiful, and smart, dancing like a butterfly or swimming like a fish in the rooms––no one will say I’m a fool again. Speaking of this, I think I should make a clarification. I don’t know how people define a fool. I confess that I’m overweight. To be more objective, I walk up to the mirror and observe myself. My head is indeed big, but it seems reasonable to be mounted on this enormous body. My neck is nowhere to be seen. My hands and feet are tiny, moving in neurotic and discreet ways. My eyes are far apart as if they are poles repelling one another––I look like a fish, a bighead carp. I used to comfort myself that in comparison to others, I could see not only what’s in front, but also what’s on the sides. This must sound stupid, especially coming from my mouth. My voice grumbles, every word seems to be fermenting at the bottom of my stomach before it rises to a bubble that breaks into an unrecognizable pus before it reaches my throat. These external features have caused people to question my intelligence, which is utterly unfair. I acknowledge that I have wild fantasies and often look dazed when examining a small object, but it’s not enough to prove I am a fool––maybe I am a genius. Aren’t geniuses all a little weird?
On the TV, my favorite show comes on. As its opening song begins to play, I immediately forget these troublesome thoughts. I push Grandma to the front of the TV, sit down on a stool, extend my hidden neck, and get ready to watch. The show is a cartoon called Problem Solved. Uncle Jack is the male protagonist who can solve all sorts of problems using his wisdom. Before he does a trick, he winks his left eye at a troubled person––his wink is effortless and playful; he looks charming and smart. His trademark expression “wink a left eye, problem solved” is printed on all the promotional posters and TV credits. He also endorses a liquid laundry detergent brand. In the ad, a group of children stain their white shirts with paint and grow upset. Uncle Jack arrives with the liquid laundry detergent, winks at the children with his left eye, and their shirts become new and bright. The children cheerfully hug Uncle Jack who winks again and says: “Easy liquid laundry detergent dissolves all stain problems!” I sit in front of the TV, laughing and panting. I laugh at the comical troublemakers and become fascinated by the wise Uncle Jack. Grandma still wears a blank face. I’m convinced that if Problem Solved cannot move her, she is certainly no more than a soft puddle of skin. I often stand in front of a mirror to practice winking my left eye, making sure I look relaxed, casual, and smart––no problem will ever get me again.
When Ms. Wang visited us last time, she gave Dad a gift: an electric mosquito swatter that looks like a badminton racket. Dad treasures it. He praises her kindness and thoughtfulness every time he takes the swatter out. At first, Dad simply fiddles with it because we have electric mosquito coils that kill most of the mosquitos. His movement is a little awkward. Sometimes he can’t hit one for a long time; when he does, the electric swatter makes firecracker sounds. Dad cheers whenever he hits a mosquito, pointing at its dead body to show off. Over time, he masters more advanced techniques. When a mosquito clings to a wall, he quietly raises the swatter to cover it––when it flies, it touches the electric web and dies. Of course, the most exciting moment is to watch him track a mosquito closely when it buzzes in the air; he then slaps it firmly as if hitting a shuttlecock––the mosquito instantly drops dead on the floor. This exciting scene doesn’t occur very often; Dad is no longer young and nimble, after all. Slowly, he becomes obsessed with killing mosquitos. The few that remain in our apartment are apparently not enough to satisfy his appetite, so he unplugs the electric mosquito coils. His skill is refined and his confidence has grown. He even opens the doors and windows at dusk to invite more mosquitos inside. The electric swatter glows with silver sparks as the burning smell of electrified mosquitos permeates the apartment. I feel happy that Dad has found a hobby, just as I like to dump trash––both are very special.
At home, most of his attention is now fixated on the walls and in the air. His head turns, his eyes glance around, and his right hand clutches the electric mosquito swatter as he moves slowly ahead like a gloomy dead god or a hungry leopard. When he spots a target, he holds his breath and suddenly waves the swatter in a full swing––a mosquito falls dead. He’s nearly forgotten Grandma and me ever since his eyes locked onto the mosquitos. I should thank Ms. Wang, because Dad’s had far fewer emotional outbreaks since he got hold of the swatter.
When the weather forecast mentions the solar term liqiu, the arrival of autumn, I realize summer is coming to an end. Ms. Wang visits us more frequently now, keeping Dad’s spirits high. I even begin to fantasize Ms. Wang as a member of our family, becoming my new mother. In the evenings, we sit around the dining table and have engaging conversations. Neighbors peek inside our windows and see this picture: a warm light casting a cozy glow in our home; everyone smiling earnestly around the dining table; Dad and Ms. Wang holding hands under the table, massaging each other. I look smart and beautiful; even Grandma becomes kind and gracious; all of us are grateful for our happy life.
Every day, the train arrives on time with a whistle––it has become the most anticipated sound in the community. Like an oracular horn, whenever it whistles, pedestrians stop on the road and residents walk out of their homes. People gather together, looking toward the railway bridge. When the horn fades away, they start a heated discussion. Dad is no exception. Every day at this time, he stops chasing mosquitos and stands in front of the windows to imagine a future, repeating his mantra, “When the apartment spikes, I will sell it and the rest of my life will be settled,” as if it’s the smartest thing he’s ever thought of. This summer isn’t too dull. Whenever I open the windows to let the ocean breeze in, I feel as gleeful as any vacationer. Although the ocean is close by, Dad never takes Grandma and me to the beach. I dream of the sunshine, sand, swimsuits, swim rings, peddlers with ice cream and cold drinks, stalls with souvenirs made of shells, small children running around with no pants on, and young people splashing water at each other in the water. When I carefully propose the idea of a beach walk, I try to pronounce each word clearly to make myself look smart. I wait for Dad’s response, worried that there might be another storm waiting ahead. To my surprise, Dad pleasantly agrees, saying he’s been planning to invite Ms. Wang to have a walk on the beach, too.
When I face the beach, I feel repulsed––I think I’ve never felt so repulsed before and I cannot stand it for one more second. The beach is extremely disappointing with a silence similar to the depressing sight after a wild party. The gray ocean recedes in a roar as if trying to snatch the entire summer away until it disappears in the horizon. Trash and cooled charcoal is littered everywhere. Plastic bags are the tipsy guests who have overstayed their welcome, sweeping the ground or swirling in the air, mocking us well-dressed latecomers.
I’ve always imagined wearing my hat on the sunny beach. It was one of Mom’s favorite hats––her fragile and sad look looming out from underneath its brim. Mom put it on my head when she was leaving. My head wasn’t quite as big as it is now, so the hat’s brim covered my eyes and I couldn’t see her when she said goodbye and walked out the door. Now, the hat is useless in blocking the sun. Thick clouds cast gray shadows on the sea and sky, blurring their boundaries. I think of the fish slowly dying after they are caught and thrown on the sand, how their brilliant colors are dimming just like this moment––green sea, blue sky, and bright sunshine slowly dispersed in the whistling wind to a deadfish gray.
A wind blows over, lifting my hat like an invisible hand. The hat floats in the air before it falls on the sand. I open my arms, run forward, and bend down to pick it up, but it’s cast away by the invisible hand again. I feel tricked and grow flustered. When I finally grip my hat and look back, panting, Dad, Ms. Wang, and Grandma have become small dots. They are separated by a good distance, like an audience who gathered to watch my stupid performance. The stalls selling souvenirs and drinks are shabby and empty; it’s hard to believe they were open in midsummer. When I run back, heaving, I see only Grandma sitting in the wheelchair, motionless on the edge of the beach. Dad and Ms. Wang are walking toward the sea. I try to push the wheelchair to catch up with them, but its wheels are stuck in the sand. I kick the wheels a few times but they won’t move. Grandma’s tilting wheelchair plugs into the beach; her body tilts, too. A strong wind blows her clothes like flags; even her loose skin seems to be flapping as if taunting this beach walk. She’s always so mean––I’m too familiar with this. Before Mom left us, Grandma complained about everything; misfortunes made her laugh as if she was expecting them. She liked to control Dad. She believed that giving birth to him meant that she had lifelong ownership of him and he was forever indebted to her. She enjoyed embarrassing Mom. After Mom gave birth to me, a fool, Grandma’s life peaked, as if she’d won a war and all her past curses had come true. I look at her flying hair and feel she will soon be blown away by the wind, evaporating with this summer. When I look at Dad and Ms. Wang again, the two small dots are apart––no sign of romance or intimacy. They look more like two rattled soldiers fleeing from Grandma and me. Before she leaves the beach, Ms. Wang says that I’m a good child. No one has praised me like this before. I find myself starting to like her.
More and more neighbors leave their beach homes, bidding farewell and making plans to meet again next summer. Some predict that when they return, the nearby fish ponds will be replaced by the new building’s construction. Dad hasn’t mentioned a day to return to the city; I guess he doesn’t want to leave Ms. Wang. But she hasn’t visited us since our beach walk. Now, the air outside has cooled and we need to wear an extra shirt when we go out in the morning or at night. Dad seldom goes fishing now. Sometimes I look out and don’t see anyone near the fish ponds. At home, Dad’s isn’t happy; he often pulls a long, gloomy face. I move carefully and work extra hard to please him. Even when I watch Problem Solved, I turn the volume infinitely down to the point of muteness. Whenever I see something funny, I laugh to myself quietly. I can get some fresh air when I take the trash out, but I do that twice a day at most. Dad often holds the electric mosquito swatter, patrolling the apartment. Mosquitos are fewer and fewer now. He begins to climb up a ladder to perform some difficult tricks. Sometimes, he stands on a window sill with one hand holding a small window knob to keep balance, the other hand gripping the swatter to kill a mosquito on the ceiling. Sometimes he waves frantically at the air, killing a couple imaginary ones.
I don’t always miss my frail mother, but lately Ms. Wang’s image overlaps with hers so often that Mom’s physical appearance blurs in my memory. I look forward to Ms. Wang visiting us; I have a vague feeling that her absence must have something to do with Grandma and me. I can sense a huge blast coming from Dad. Grandma and I, at the center of the explosion, will be caught in his internal commotion again. This kind of experience is just too terrible. I begin to pray for Ms. Wang to show up while I stay as optimistic as Uncle Jack in Problem Solved. How I wish he could come to my home, wink his left eye at me, and solve all of my problems. I will become smart and beautiful, Dad emotionally stable, Ms. Wang a new member of our family––as for Grandma, she’d vanish from the face of the earth, from our memory and life, leaving Dad motherless and debt-free. Although this idea is foolish and unscientific, it is what I think. I’ll be free and won’t have to deal with urine and feces every day, or wiping this nauseating skin bag, or sleeping with her in the same bed.
Perhaps my prayer is working. On a sunny afternoon, Ms. Wang arrives. As usual, I push Grandma out to sit on the curb. I look like a family member sitting outside a surgery room, anxious to hear the doctor’s announcement. The weather is terrific today; it feels like summer again. I tell myself that if we went to the beach today, our experience would be very different. The air is warm and it’s bright everywhere. I suddenly feel everything around me moving in slow motion; even the cicadas sing much more slowly than in midsummer. It’s like a dream; nothing is real; time is stretched. I grow nervous, shaking my legs while burying my head between them. I must look very stupid, but I don’t care anymore. I think everyone in the neighborhood, except my family, has gone.
A gardener pushes a mower over. He looks serious and I don’t plan to greet him. He pushes the mower toward the lawn behind me. The mower roars as it savagely treads on the grass. Amidst this noise, I faintly hear something being broken. I run over and peek inside our windows. I see broken china cups and tea stains all over the floor. I see Dad open his mouth to scream at the top of his lungs, but the mower is so loud that I can’t hear anything. I feel every sound in my home is muted, amplified, and slowed. I see Ms. Wang’s face, a look too familiar to me: lowered eyes, dropped lips, twitching nostrils––fragile and sad, same as Mom when she was leaving. When the mower’s uproar fades away, I see the two of them standing there, still and silent. Dad lowers his head, his body leaning forward slightly. Ms. Wang’s head turns to the windows, but I don’t think she can see me because her eyes are empty. When I turn, the lawn has been mowed. The horsehair-like grass I used to marvel at is now gone, with rectangular ruts left by the mower wheels. For some reason, I can’t get used to this new lawn that looks like a prisoner’s haircut. Loose grass blades are scattered on the side. In just a few minutes, they lose their green luster and turn gray. Again, I think of the dying fish flopping on the sand and the dead-fish gray of the sea and sky.
Grandma and I wait until very late but Dad still doesn’t call us home like usual. When I decide to push Grandma home and knock gently on the door, I’ve prepared myself for a raging storm. But when Dad opens the door, he doesn’t even look at us. He holds the electric mosquito swatter and looks up and around, saying with a strange calmness: “You two burdens . . . scaring away Ms. Wang too . . .” He looks possessed, repeating this statement every few steps as if Grandma and I are hidden mosquitos. Dad calls for us, searches for us, and will kill us. I don’t quite agree with his statement. Ms. Wang must have been scared away by Grandma, not me––she praised me for being a good child. I know she fled Grandma just like Mom did. Problem Solved is going to play soon. I know I have no chance to watch it today, but it doesn’t matter. Uncle Jack has long lived in my heart. What problem can’t I solve? For the first time, I see Dad become completely weak, helpless, and self-destructive. Perhaps it’s time for me to solve his problems. I walk up to him. He looks at my face. I wink my left eye at him, imagining myself as cool and smart as Uncle Jack. Then, I push Grandma out the door, thinking to myself: I haven’t taken any trash out today.
The weather has changed, the air pressure is very low, and the neighborhood is very quiet. Some leaves are falling, swishing on the ground. A violent wind blows over and I grow exultant. I push Grandma and run all the way, humming the promotional song Uncle Jack sings. When I arrive at the clearing, the ground becomes rugged. I push, yank, pull, and lift, using all my strength to move the wheelchair forward. Grandma’s body quakes. She looks indifferent, though. When I push her toward a pond, I see dead fish, big and small, lying on the ground: many are dried, some are reduced to solitary heads––their bodies seem to have been chewed clean. A swarm of flies perch on them or buzz in front of me, as if inviting me to visit their paradise. Small mounds of trash reveal rocks, paint buckets, iron racks, and broken glass––it looks like construction waste mixed with domestic garbage, and it stinks. I don’t know how those men could bear such an environment, sitting here all summer, fishing. I patrol the area and circle back to the pond. Grandma sits alone by the water. I’ve seen this image countless times in my dreams. Before she turns her head to mock me, ridicule me, and beat me, I walk up quickly and push her into the pond, wheelchair and all.
Rain drops pat on the fish and they quickly regain their brilliant colors, bouncing back into the pond. My hands are empty and I feel light and jolly. I finally understand what Dad means by saying, “It’s good to have a hobby because sooner or later it will be useful!” I jog all the way home, eager to tell him that I’ve solved all his problems. Perhaps he will hug me. I also dream about Ms. Wang and Mom both coming back, but who will I choose? I chuckle at the thought.
My hair and clothes are soaked with rain. I knock hard on the door, ready to tell Dad that his problems are solved, like what Uncle Jack would do. I knock for a long time until I start to feel cold and my entire body trembles. Dad still doesn’t open the door. I run outside and lean on the window to look in. Rain water trickles in my eyes, blurring my vision and distorting my view: Dad lies on the floor, having fallen from a high place; the electric mosquito swatter is shattered to pieces around him. Dad lies still as I lean against the window, until he and the entire apartment turn bluish-gray and nearly invisible. Faraway, the train whistles on the railway bridge. Just like Dad, I tell myself using his low voice: “When the apartment spikes, I will sell it and the rest of my life will be settled.”