Chapter 2

That night the lights went out, and moonlight spilled across the edge of the bed.

I lay there with my stomach hard as a bag of stones.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

My dad was sending holiday cash gifts in the family group chat, the way he always did.

First he sent one to my mom. Fifty-two hundred.

"You keep this whole household running, inside and out. You've worked so hard."

Then he sent one to Phineas. Sixty-six hundred.

"Almost a year since you graduated. I hope your career goes smoothly from here."

Last, he sent Rosemary eighty-eight hundred, with an even simpler reason.

"Spending money. Take it and enjoy yourself. Just ask me if it isn't enough."

I stared at the phone, my palm damp with nervous sweat.

But I waited until my eyes ached, and no next gift ever popped up in the chat.

Everyone had a share. Except me.

No one remembered that I'd graduated college this year either, or where the job I'd found was, or how far it was from home.

I closed my eyes, a bitter tide rising in my chest.

I rolled over and reached under the pillow, feeling for the ten thousand dollars.

The money I'd saved was already enough for my treatment.

The new job was over a thousand miles from home, with room and board covered.

That distance and that deal were enough that I'd never have to come home again.

Early the next morning, my mom was already busy in the kitchen.

I sat down, and the moment my hand touched the bowl of millet porridge, she rapped the back of it with her chopsticks.

"That's your brother's. You eat this."

She set a plate in front of me with two savory meat pies left over from the night before.

"Hurry up and eat, so nobody can go around saying we play favorites."

I sniffed, and for once something warm stirred in my chest.

I bit down, tasting nothing, but the texture was strange.

I looked down.

The meat inside had gone bad, already leaking a sticky film.

I spat it out at once.

"Mom, this pie's spoiled."

She glared at me like I was being fussy.

"A little dirt never killed anyone, and you can't taste the bad in it anyway."

I pressed my lips together, and for a hazy second I thought I was imagining things.

A faint bitterness seemed to spread through my mouth.

I have no sense of taste.

But I still get stomachaches. I still get sick.

Four years ago, during the three days of the SATs, my mom volunteered to cook for me.

I didn't refuse. I even cleaned my plate.

The first exam had barely started when my stomach began to cramp, like someone pounding it with a hammer.

I gritted my teeth and held on to the end.

Because of it, I scored the lowest I'd ever gotten on the English section in all of high school, and lost my shot at my dream school for good.

Afterward I went home in tears, and for the first time my mom slammed her chopsticks on the table.

"So now I cook for you and I did it wrong?"

"Those dishes only sat in the fridge two days. There's no way they'd go bad."

My dad chimed in from the side.

"Don't go pinning your own failures on other people. Look harder at yourself."

I stood there at the table, and all at once I didn't even have the strength to be angry.

That evening, Uncle Gerald and his family came over with gifts.

There weren't enough chairs at the table, so I stood off to the side alone.

My mom brought me a low stool and wedged me in between her and Rosemary.

The stool was too low, and the table edge caught right under my chin.

Even reaching for food was a struggle.

Rosemary picked up a bite of scrambled eggs with peppers and casually flicked the peppers into my bowl.

My mom picked up a piece of braised lamb and dropped the seasoning bits, the scallion and ginger and garlic, into my bowl too.

Across the table, my five-year-old little cousin suddenly broke into a grin.

"Susie, you look just like our Blackie."

My chewing stopped.

Blackie was their golden retriever, a big eater who wasn't picky and would eat anything.

Even the height he sat at beside the table looked a little like me right now.

Uncle Gerald gave the top of her head a light pat.

"Can't even keep your mouth shut long enough to eat."

But the look he turned on me was full of contempt and pity he couldn't hide.

Heat welled up around my eyes. I bit down hard on the tips of my chopsticks and didn't say another word.