There’s a strange car parking in her parents’ driveway.

The slick black Corolla takes up the normally-empty driveway, looking extremely out-of-place amongst the dilapidating brick, old complexes and dead ashen tree trunks. She has spied a few kids peeking from the corner, hunger savage their eyes as they devour the beautiful form of the car. Most people in this neighbourhood don’t own a car. They can’t even feed their children’s mouth, much for paying the insurance company. The kids learn how to make use of scrap metals and trash, much like how Kai, Maisie and Seyana learnt growing up. Ten cents per pound of good, recyclable metals. They would break chain links just to get enough of the quantity.

The Corolla surely has got the attention from the pirates. The moment they blink, the wheels and the rearview mirrors will be gone.

As Maisie Watson squeezes herself through a narrow opening between the car and the fence to get to the main entry, she presses her palm at the car’s side as she brushes past. Cold. The visitor has been here for a quite a long time. The windows are blacked out so she can’t see the interior.

She unlocks the door, the frozen silence punches her full-force in the face.

The normal roar of the vents is missing. So is her Mama’s deafening yells in the phone as she argues with her friend, and the high-pitched and excited hiss of the phone transmitter.

“Marguerite?”

For some reasons, she flinches at her Mama’s call.

Usually, the chaotic noise would mask out her entrance. Now, she feels like a thief caught creeping in.

She suddenly feels acutely aware of the third presence in the house. Or the absence of it.

“Yes, Mama?” Setting her bag on the cracked coffee table, she clicks the door shut softly behind her back, alarmed. Her eyes trained at the usual disarrayed mess litter the floor and the couch. Across every bare surface strewn socks and secondhand bargains that would probably never sell out. In the corner, a stack of Dickens classics battered paperbacks and beer bottles form a tower, threatening to topple over again.

The vibrant, warm brown colours of the furnitures and walls seem to dim a little.

The windows are lifted, letting cold gusts of air in, yet the inside reeked of curdling curry and hot pepper spice. Rabbit curry. Kai’s favourite meal. Mama hasn’t cook that since the day Papa chased Kai out of the house.

A gentle whistle skits here and there.

It’s eerie.

“Marguerite, your brother is home.”

Maisie’s body freezes.

“What? When? Where’s he?”

“He came a few minutes ago.”

She inhales slowly, unwinding her scarf. Questions come to her, one-by-one. As if her mind still trying to reach the memories of her brother of ten years before, the brother who is determined to cut off from the rest of the family out of shame, the brother who bails for a decade.

“Does Papa know?”

“No. Not yet.”

Maisie moves into the kitchen-dining compound.

Mama is slumped on one of the chair, looking five years older than in the morning. She raises her face to look up, and although her face is dry, the track of invisible tears shine on her glistened honey-skin. Maisie has always secretive jealous over Mama’s lightness. While Seyana has lucky enough to inherit their Mama’s light skin, Kai and Maisie are stuck with Papa’s coal-black tone. However, Mama’s light-beige complex today makes the lines etch her head visible, and suddenly she realizes how old Mama has get. How arthritis and Crohn’s disease had slowly suck the life out of her through daily twitches and pain, how well Mama has covered up with a wide grin and grand posture.

Mama starts. “He’s down in the basement,”

“With me?” Maisie croaks.

“For tonight. He said he’d go back to the hotel with the team tomorrow.” Mama answers, glancing down at her upturned palms. “I’ve dug out the old camping sleeping bags for him.”

“It’s very cold down there.”

“He can survive.”

Maisie hesitates, before asking, “Why’s he here, Mama?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s here. He’d stay in West Bass for at least a month or so and—” Mama’s voice breaks mid-way. “—I don’t want this, sweetheart. Family isn’t supposed to be divided, sons shouldn’t be hiding from their fathers.”

Mama rubs her cheek tiredly, the skin around stretches and sags back in place like expired cheap plastic wrap, and right in front of Maisie’s eyes Mama’s strong facade crumbles. Maisie gathers Mama’s in her arms, feeling a clump forming in her throat. Mama hugs her back, her hands tremble a bit. Fright flares through her. She’s frighten of the lost, disoriented sensation, of the flailing helpless as she’s pushed to the edge.

If Mama doesn’t know what to do, how could imbecile Maisie know? If Mama can’t stand this destructiveness, how could weak Maisie can?

What would Maisie do?

She chokes down the tears, trying to keep her voice level. “Did you talk to him? Did you talk to Kai?”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What about Papa? You can’t hide Kai in the basement for a month, Mama. I’m not even sure if Kai would be same for the night. Kai comes with his car.”

Mama murmurs angrily into Maisie’s stomach. “It doesn’t matter. I can deal with your Papa. Just make sure Kai doesn’t stomp when he walks or speak in that loud voice of his. If the worst comes, you know what to do.”

“Alright,” Maisie says shakily, wavering. She doesn’t know what to do. “Alright.” She repeats to affirm herself.

Mama gives her a little push, indicates for her to go.

Reluctantly, she gathers her stuffs and makes a beeline to the basement entry, which hidden beneath a small stair flight leading up to the spare bedrooms. She places her hand on the wall to support herself, doesn’t trust her unsteadiness, as she tediously steps down the slope.

The light is on when she comes down.

“Kai?” She utters his name against the wood before twisting the round knob, into her room.

Kai is scrambling up from the mess of rainbow-colour sleeping bags, a guilty expression dawns over his features. He stares at her, wide eyes. Relief floods, coming in form of a toothy grin.

“You came home early.” He says.

“I was feeling unwell,” She whispers, pulling a dead-panned face as best as she could. However, since Kai’s smile grows wider, she knows she didn’t succeed. But she doesn’t care.

Her vision constricts to Kai, and only Kai.

Kai is here. Kai is real.

He opens his arms.

Involuntary, tears well up in her eyes. “Kai.” She rushes into him, embraces him so tight that he gives a little Oof. He is so much taller and bulker than the last she saw. He has shaved his head. His shoulders broaden, she can feel his strong muscles coiled underneath his dress shirt, powerful and rock-hard.

“I’m not dead yet.” He says. His arms envelope her, warm, and she remembers the night of Jacob Hurrell’s death and the safety she found in him.

“Oh my God, Kai.” She sobs. “After all that Papa’s beating, I thought you did.”

“Papa was mad.” He says easily, as though Papa’s hits and spits did not hurt him a bit. As though he didn’t get discard for being gay. As though he didn’t feel shame and guilt and anger at himself for enlisting to work for the police force.

“Papa was being stupid. At least you should have call me or Mama.” Maisie cries into his chest, struggles to infuse anger into her words. She hearw Kai’s gruff laughter rumbles in his rib cages, a familiar rythme she has missed. She memorizes it, holding it close. Breathes in his stale, lint scent.

She squeezes him one more time before pulling away to examine him. Her hands clasp his head, feeling the bone structure beneath.

“I’ve cake.” She says. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Sounds great.”

She wipes her eyes, smiling. Kai helps her clears sewing baskets and half-stitched dolls and drags the low platform over as a table. They sit on the floor, on either side. Maisie was about to get upstair for a spoon, but Kai has a brilliant idea and coaxes her into eating with their fingers like they used to, as kids.

Kai moans as he savours the first smooch. “Jesus, I miss real food.”

“Surely, the police must have feed you well.”

“Yes. But they don’t have your pie.” He says, flashing her a wink.

She giggles.

“You don’t have much stuffs.” Kai comments as he swipes a finger over the whip cream top.

“I’m a simple person.” Maisie smiles as she follows his example. “Plus, being a housekeeper means I’ve to be neat and clean.”

Her brother laughs. “I can help you fix that.”

She playfully swats his arm.

In the corner is her plain double-sized bed with overwashed sheet, the same old bed that she had been sleeping throughout her whole life. By her bed is the bed stand, a lamp on the top and a book she had been mulling for a few months rests next to it. The cupboards are filled with her sewing tools and equipments, as well as some sewing manuals she had called Holy Bible.

Takes up most of the room are the dolls. Dolls. Tiny, tiny rag dolls little girls like to hug. Pale, noodly limbs. Tiny head. Dolls lying in heaps by piles and piles of colourful fabric and cotton bags. Tiny, black beads and chapped red round mouth observing her, day and night.

She had been sewing on and off for a while, now. When both Mama and Papa were both working and their age didn’t seem to catch up with them yet, a housekeeper’s bi-weekly cheque was enough to get her family’s grocery and an occasional roasted traditional Chinese chicken from Chinese Market. However, a handful of years ago, Papa collapsed at work while evacuating from a fire that spreaded throughout his factory unit. The firefighters had to crawl in and rescue him. They found him convulsing uncontrollably on the floor, spittle choking his own throat, smoke and panic blinds him.

His heart almost fail him. His muscles nearly give out.

The hospital bill quickly sank Mama and Papa’s savings, while their daily pills meds drain the rest. Seyana was calling for more money to curtsy some Eastern Europe guy, while Kai’s institution payment was looming around the corner.

Being a housekeeper doesn’t make enough money, of course.

And although she didn’t tell him a thing, Doctor Vu casually mentioned he knows a doll sewing services that might enable her to earn some extra cash while handing her a bonus.

Kai is saying something, waving a hand around. “Papa hasn’t gotten around to finish this thing yet, huh?” He says in his low mocking tone. “What did he say he would do this again? This weekend?”

“The contractor service is expensive.” Maisie says. “Besides, it’s fine. I like it as it is.”

Kai smiles, shrugs, but there’s a disgusted glint at the bottom of his irises. A ruthlessness that she could not comprehend, a ruthlessness that she had missed it all along, fooled by his same appearances, a ruthlessness that comes in the polices’ eyes when they cuffed Papa, accused of crimes he didn’t commit.

How long since her big-hearted brother had changed into this ruthless man? How long until he was amongst the men who look at Papa’s innocent release with a half-eye contempt.

A shiver runs down her nape.

They don’t speak for a moment. When she finally breaks the silence, her voice is gentle, as if soothing a newly tamed animal. “He is getting old, Kai. You should have see his illnesses list. He isn’t allowed to do anything anymore, much for maneuver heavy objects and renovate this entire thing by himself. He would be a miracle if he made it past sixty.”

Kai says nothing. He picks at the cake’s tray edge. His nails are clipped and short. The area around his nails swell, a tender red, skin peeling back, half-bitten, damaged.

She shifts, taking his hands and cradling them in hers. Small envelopes big. She turns Kai’s palms down, trailing her thumb pad down.

“How’s Mama?” Kai says.

“She complains much more,” Maisie jokes. Kai snorts. “Her body is always aching all over, but she’s well.”

“And Seyana? Any word from her?” Kai asks, but then quickly answers the question himself. “Oh, wait. She probably still running with that Eastern Europe guy.”

Maisie ‘s fingers twitch like a knee-jerk reaction. She turns away. “She’s arrested in Netherlands. She was in the car with her boyfriend when the cop pulled them over. There were packages of cocaine in their trunk.”

Kai raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t comment further. It’s universally accepted that Seyana creates her own downfall, sometimes through violence, sometimes through her stupidity, and that’s that.

He carefully laces their fingers.

“We miss you, you know. A lot. Every night. They didn’t speak for a whole month when you were gone.” She murmurs.

Kai has his eyes downcast so she can’t read him.

“I’m sorry,” He breathes.

“For what?”

“For leaving you. Here. Alone. Fending yourself.” He says, each word more fracture than the previous one. “I’m sorry that I didn’t even send a cheque home.”

She brings their entwined hands on her lips and kisses Kai’s knuckles as a way of answering.