The Glass Factory

Ma woke up at 4:30 am on a Saturday. She forgot I shared a room with her and turned on the light. I pulled the comforter to my neck, waited for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room, and watched her get ready for work.

Ma changed into a red blouse and black slacks. She leaned against the dresser drawer, pushed her face close to the mirror, and put on blush and mascara. When my father was around, she never wore red or blush or mascara.

Ma saw me in the mirror. She walked over to me, cupped my cheeks in her hands, and stared at my face as though it were a gift, new and untouched. She forced a smile and looked down at her feet before leaving the room.

It was near the end of summer and the cool draft seeped through the trash bags we used to cover the windows. I wrapped the comforter around my thin body and dragged myself to the kitchen, where I packed rice, chicken and ginger, and chopsticks.

Ma stuck her head in the doorway. "Pack three containers."

"Why so many?" I asked.

"They're not all for me." Ma took the containers from my hands. "Why don't you go back to bed? It's early. Remember to wake your brother up to eat."

I stood by the refrigerator, looking at the clear plastic bag taped to the window. It muted a street usually busy with drug traffic, and the glaring red and blue lights from police cars. It also helped to keep the house quiet, made quieter without my father snoring.

Soon, Ma was done. I joined her in the living room where we sat on the couch by her coat and waited for her ride. Again, she told me to go back to bed. Though I wanted to stay up and wait with her, I was tired. I went back to our room.

On hearing the front door close, I lifted the tape from the window pane. Peeling back the plastic, I watched a small, dark figure climb into a work van parked by the curb. As the van sped down the street and disappeared into the morning darkness, I pressed the tape back against the pane and ran my fingers over it to seal out the cold.

In bed, I wrapped the comforter tighter around me and huddled in a corner, wishing I was somewhere warm. The room became colder and darker and the bed emptier with only the lingering smell of makeup to let me know Ma had been here.

________

Ma was sick two days later. She coughed throughout the night and into the morning and kept me up all the time she was up. As she crawled out of bed, the creaking springs, like nails on a chalkboard, made me cringe. My head throbbed.

Ma continued to cough. I followed her to the bathroom, where she hawked up globs of mucus, sounding out of breath.

"I'll go for you," I said, holding onto the wall to keep myself from swaying.

Ma shook her head. She asked me to pack her lunch while she stayed in the bathroom to wash up and ready herself for work.

When done, I brought the packed lunch to the living room just as the work van pulled up in front of the house. I held the door open for her, helped her down the front steps, and watched her climb into the van with a smile on her face. As I closed the front door, the smell of lavender lotion wafted through the house and filled my lungs. I gagged.

Ma woke the next morning coughing harder. She scuttled out of bed and ran into the bathroom. She heaved, heaved, heaved as though trying to catch air. I rushed out of bed and heard footsteps from my brother's room above us.

By the doorway, my hand pressed against the back wall. My nails dug into the paint as I watched her kneeling in front of the toilet. She lurched forward, chest convulsing as though she...