I clamped my mouth shut as a woman’s voice called out, “You tell him, sister!”
Anna glanced at me, then looked away and shook her head. A moment later, she quietly hissed, “I’ll tell you when we get home.”
I grimly nodded and reached for her hand. She let me take it, but her hand stayed limp in mine.
◆◆◆
When we got home, we both went into the kitchen to prepare dinner as we’d planned. As sous chef, she helped me slice vegetables for that night’s veggie lasagna.
“Which playlist of yours should I put on tonight?” I asked. It had become a ritual of ours to listen to her playlists while we cooked.
“Murder at Midnight,” she said, vigorously chopping a zucchini.
“I hope that’s not foreshadowing for something,” I joked, selecting the playlist that she’d requested on her computer.
She didn’t smile, just kept cutting. “I’m having my period.”
Ah. At least she wasn’t pregnant. “Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked earnestly.
She stopped cutting but didn’t look up. “If I want something from you, I’ll ask.” She wiped a stray lock of hair out of her face, then continued cutting. I frowned, but stayed silent.
A few minutes later, after finishing chopping the vegetables, she washed her hands and sat down with a glass of wine, silently watching me work. I kept my mouth shut, hoping that she’d eventually get around to telling me what was going on.
Finally, she sighed and said, “Look, there’s some shit you need to know about me.”
“Ok.” I started wiping my hands so that I could go sit with her. She held up a hand to stop me.
“Wait. Keep cooking. Just...don’t stop, don’t interrupt me. If you say anything, I’m going to stop talking.” Her eyes bored into mine, and I remembered what she’d said on the train. I wanted to let her have her say, didn’t want to be a flippant asshole. I slowly nodded, relit the burner, and resumed sautéing onions.
“I didn’t...have the happiest past. So I’m going to tell you about it, because I think it will help you understand a little bit more about me, and about my...my doubts. Where I’m coming from.”
She took a sip of wine and began.
“My dad was...mostly ok. He loved me and my mom in his own twisted way, and did his best to take care of us. But he was flawed. He drank a lot, and I mean a lot.” She took another sip.
“When he drank, they fought, and when they fought, he beat her and he beat me too.” Her lip quivered.
I burned my hand on hot lasagna noodles and bit back a swear. Her dad had beaten her? Light spankings had been normal in my household growing up, but beatings? Fuck. I stared at her as if I could see the scars, but of course they were gone, only left on the inside.
“They mostly fought about money. He was a chef at the Chinese restaurant where my mom was a waitress. They didn’t make much, and I think he felt guilty about not being able to earn more. He used to apologize to me, sometimes, and to my mom, when he couldn’t afford to buy us things. But mostly, he just got frustrated and beat us for wanting shit that we couldn’t have, and called us ungrateful.” She twirled her wine glass by the stem and stared into the ruby-red liquid.
“My mom was a beautiful woman, and when he was in a good mood, he’d joke and tell her, ‘Beautiful women like you shouldn’t have to work.’ He kinda meant it, too. He had a weird sense of manly honor or something, and he felt like he should be the sole breadwinner of our family. But I think he mostly said it because my mom believed it too, and that’s what she wanted to hear. She was so pretty that her family had always thought she would marry well. Instead, my dad knocked her up, and her family always looked down on him, said that he’d ruined her. They resented him for that, and he hated them right back.” She took another sip of wine, a bigger one this time.
“That’s why, when I was growing up, my mom’s side of the family encouraged me to marry a rich Chinese guy. Specifically a Chinese guy, because my family was pretty fucking racist. They told me that she’d fucked up by marrying a low-life, but that I needed to marry a rich Chinese guy who would help take care of me, and all of them.” I met her eyes. That explained some things. I thought about how my own family hoped that I would marry a Chinese woman...of how my parents and their generation could be simultaneously so well-meaning yet so closed-minded. I nodded in understanding.
“‘Don’t be like your mother,’ they’d say to me. Even my dad said the same. He wanted me to be pampered, and not to have to slave away on my feet all day like my mom did.” She reached over to the laptop and paused her playlist. I’d been listening to her so intently that I’d completely forgotten that it was still playing.
“I think my dad was ashamed that he couldn’t take care of us well. He felt guilty. But he made himself feel better by telling us that he’d just work harder and save up until he could open his own restaurant.”
She looked down into her wine glass, her hands finally still. “He died of liver cancer when I was in high school. He never opened his own restaurant.” She tipped the glass to her lips and drained the wine, then poured herself another glass.
My hands froze and I looked up. My legs twitched to go to her, to comfort her, but I could tell that there was more to her story, and I didn’t want to disrupt. I took a deep breath and focused on seasoning the
