Chloe

Feb 4, 2014, Tuesday.

When I finally enter my home, I heave a sigh of relief. The entirety of my government-subsized flat is smaller than one VIP room in Tropic Falls, but without the uncomfortable dress and the stench of alcohol and smoke, it feels so much more like heaven. Warm, cozy heaven.

After taking off my shoes, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. My shoulders are stiff and my back aches, but all I can think about is how weird today was.

Today at work was weird. Too weird. RJ, a very high-profile girl with a very high-profile boyfriend, was in a bar frequented by men who cheat on their wives.

She was not there for the same reasons as the other customers, of course. She was only there because of Markus. That man is one of Clementine's favorite customers—he's always bringing in a bunch of his clients to the bar, getting them to book the most premium VIP rooms, and spending a good amount of time and money in there.

I'm always too afraid to try the things he sells—Mango, his favorite bargirl, has tried it so often that it's concerning—but to my biggest surprise, RJ was smoking it as though she has done it a million times.

My heart races again as I remember the hours spent in that VIP room with her. RJ's hands never left my waist until the group decided to leave. I still don't know how I feel about that. I've never worked for hours just... doing nothing. For the entire night, I was sitting there quietly, unmoving, not engaging in a forced conversation, not hugging a sweaty office shirt, not chugging down some hard liquor in a drinking game.

I almost feel like I don't deserve to get paid for those few hours.

But how was I supposed to do anything with RJ holding me and glaring at me whenever I tried to talk to anybody? Her expression was as fierce as ever, even after she finished her martini, even after she finished trying every strain that Markus brought over...

Does she ever... smile?

I rub my arm at the spot RJ touched me, twice. A strange tingling sensation runs through me, and I shake my head to get rid of it. Enough thinking about RJ. She was there to buy weed, and she will never be back again.

Sounds of clattering pots drift from the kitchen. Oh?

I throw my school bag onto the floor and rush into the kitchen.

"Māma!" I exclaim. "Nǐ húi lái lè!" You're back home!

My mother looks up from her pot of noodles and squints. "Oh, Chiarong ah," she replies in Mandarin—she is the only person who calls me by my Chinese name, "you're finally back home. Aiyo, what time is it?"

I run over, taking the wooden spoon from her to stir the pot. I notice that she is making two packs of ramen, with poached eggs and bok choy as add-ons. My heart warms. "Māma, you're cooking for me at this time?"

"Of course." Māma squeezes my cheeks. "My heart broke when I came home to an empty house. My dearest daughter is working so hard! Way too hard!"

My heart warms even more. Māma calls me her her dearest daughter—bǎo bèi nǚ ěr—way more than I deserve.

"But I don't work as hard as you," I say with a small pout.

Indeed, even with my late-night shifts at Tropic Falls, I still come home to an empty home most of the time. If this keeps up, there's a chance I will lose my ability to speak Mandarin Chinese forever—my mother is the only person I converse with in that language.

Māma sighs. "I'm the mother. I should be working the hardest." She takes a good look at the clock and lets out a gasp. "Three o'clock! Aiyo, my poor daughter, it's so late! Why is a bakery working you so hard?"

I gulp. I don't want to lie to my mother, but I know I have to, over and over again, until I earn enough money for her surgery. "Uh, I was working on a new recipe for them. Lots of trial and error to do."

My mother nods. She always believes my every word wholeheartedly, and it's making my stomach wrench in guilt. "Our Chiarong is a wonderful baker. I wish I can try your cakes again someday."

"I'll try to find time again. Maybe this weekend?"

"No, I know you're very busy. Whenever you have free time, you should focus on school instead."

The guilt inside me intensifies. For the past few months, I have neglected a lot of my schoolwork. I thought I could juggle both school and work since I've talked to the principal and gotten my CCA requirement waived, but work is draining me a lot more than I thought it would. It has been so difficult staying awake in lectures and discussions, and that makes it even harder to do my homework, which impacts my ability to understand the next class—and then it becomes a vicious cycle I cannot get out of.

I cannot admit that to my mother, however. She values education way too much. She chose to stay in Singapore for me, instead of going back home to Taiwan, just so that she can give me what she thinks is a better education. And yet, here I am, already fallen into the black hole of catching up at the start of the school year. I really don't deserve to be called her 'bǎo bèi nǚ ěr'.

"I know, Māma," I mumble softly.

The noodles are ready. As I pour them into bowls, the steam from the soup latches onto my mother's eyes, and she flinches.

"Māma, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Māma puts her hand on my shoulders before I can leap toward her.

I frown. "Are your eyes hurting again?"

"A little bit." Māma looks ashamed to have admitted that. "Maybe it's because I've been skimping on the eye drops recently. I'll put some more later."

"What? Why are you skimping on them?" I ask, letting out an exasperated sigh.

Māma just smiles in response, but I know she is worried about the cost of them. I bite back my urge to tell her I can raise more money.

Sighing, I ask again, "How's your vision doing recently?"

"Well enough," she says with a shrug.

Well enough to stay in my current job, is probably what she meant. I purse my lips in frustration. Despite her dismissal, I can tell that her vision is worsening. Her dark eyes twinkle like always, but they glaze over me as if she is not seeing me.

The doctor said that eye drops only work to a certain extent, and the only way to stop Māma's eyes from spiraling to blindness is to intervene as soon as possible—with surgery. Except we can't afford it.

Not yet, at least.

The resolve in me awakens once again. It doesn't matter how tired I get from work, how uncomfortable some customers may make me, or how much I'm falling behind in school. All of these are temporary. My mother's vision loss, however, will be permanent, and I can't have that happen.

I have to work more. I have to earn more money.

We eat in silence for a while, both of us plagued with our thoughts until Māma decides to change the topic. She asks about Emma and Adrian and if I still hang out with them. Affirming that question is not technically a lie, since I still spend time with them in school. She asks about my grades, to which I remind her that the school year just started and there hasn't been a test yet. Thankfully.

"What about...a boyfriend?" Māma asks finally, a cheeky smirk tugs at her lips. "Found any boy you're interested in?"

I almost spit out my ramen. "No!"

"Don't need to be so embarrassed, I'm your māma." Māma laughs. "Is there really no one you're interested in?"

My cheeks are as hot as the soup I am drinking. For some inexplicable reason, my mind jumps to RJ in her navy blue jumpsuit and gold hoop earrings. I think of the way she leaned against the couch, with her elbow propped up and her legs spread wide apart. I think of her fierce expression, the way she glared at me as she drank, the way her face hardened as Markus offered me a blunt. I think of her long fingers, holding onto that blunt, tapping on her phone, holding my hands, reaching towards my face...

The strange tingling sensation returns, and this time, I cannot shake it off.

I clear my throat. "There's- There's no one, Māma."

She gives me a knowing smile. "Okay."

We continue chatting as we finish up our supper. No matter how tired we both are from work, the chance to talk as mother and daughter is as rare as the blue moon, and so we stay up as late as we can manage. Just as Māma wishes for me to work less and focus more on school, I wish for her to work less and focus more on her health. But we both know neither of us is going to do that.

It is four in the morning when we finally go to bed. When I wake up a few hours later for school, my mother has already left for work.