When the landslide hit, my twin sister and I were trapped together under the same concrete slab. The rescue workers told my mother she had to choose. They could only save one of us. In my first life, my mother chose me. And she resented me for it every day that followed. I was never allowed to eat the best food or wear nice clothes. I had to be first in my class, always. I wasn’t allowed to cry, or laugh, or speak too loudly. I was forbidden from playing with other children. Whenever I faltered, my mother would point to my sister’s portrait on the wall and say, “Your sister died for you. What more could you possibly want?” I understood her pain, so I bore it in silence. Until, at thirty years old, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. My mother’s grief turned to a desperate, twisted rage. “If I had known you were going to die young anyway,” she screamed, “I would have let you die back then!” She never knew that her younger daughter hadn’t died at all. When I found myself back under that slab of concrete, I heard my mother’s voice again. This time, she said, “I choose my younger daughter.” In that moment, I closed my eyes, and all I felt was release. 1 After I died, my soul didn’t leave. It followed my mother and my sister to the hospital. Inside the ambulance, my mother’s face, still young, was etched with a tenderness I had never seen. She gently combed through my sister’s mud-caked bangs with her fingertips. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed onto my sister’s face, her eyes filled with the raw, astonished joy of having gotten something back from the dead. The wail of sirens screamed outside, but inside the rattling metal box, there was only the sound of my mother’s soft, urgent whispers, a world unto themselves. “Maya. Maya, wake up. Look at Mom. Open your eyes and look at Mom.” Her voice was laced with a gentleness I couldn’t recall ever being directed at me. Not even in my first life, when I was the one lying in this ambulance. 2 In my first life, when the landslide trapped us, the concrete slab was balanced like a seesaw. To save the one on this side, they would have to crush the one on the other. One life for another. Only one of us could survive. My mother couldn’t choose. Not until a rescuer suggested they save whichever one of us responded first. She threw herself against the rubble, screaming our names with a desperation that clawed at the edges of life and death. “Lily!” “Maya!” “Lily!” “Maya!” Over and over… I remember hearing her voice cut through the darkness. It sounded just like it did every morning when she came to wake us up. So, just as I always did from the warmth of my bed, I mumbled, “I’m here, Mom.” A wave of joyful shouts erupted from the world outside. Then came the roar of machinery, the grating sound of shifting rock, and woven through it all, a woman’s desperate sobbing. A blinding light broke through. I was lifted by a dozen hands. Through the dizzying motion, I heard their voices. “This one’s tough.” “She’s got a guardian angel watching over her.” “A shame about the other one.” “Nothing to be done. If they’d waited any longer, they would have lost them both.” I was only five years old. I was too small to understand what they meant. All I wanted was my mom. Where was my mom? I cried out for her, and the voices around me rushed to soothe me. “Your mom’s right here. She’s right beside you. It’s okay, kiddo.” “Sixteen hours under there. She’s in good shape, all things considered. A real fighter.” Through the noise, I searched for my mother’s voice. And then I saw her face—a mask of grief and confusion. Later, I would wonder why I had to be the tough one. 3 My sister and I were twins. Our father was a city bus driver. He died in an accident on the job when we were three, leaving us with a small compensation payout and a cramped apartment in an old, state-owned building. With the pillar of our family gone, my mother clutched his funeral portrait and dragged my sister and me to his boss’s office. Maya and I just stood there, stunned and silent. When we saw our mother crying, we started crying too, howling with a sorrow we didn't understand. So, during the big layoffs of the 90s, my mother was given a job as a ticket agent. After that, my dad’s portrait was hung on the wall, watching over us, a family of three who had found a way to survive. I used to sneak glances at it, and I always thought he was smiling. Until my sister’s picture was hung up next to his. Then I didn’t dare to look anymore. Because the picture on that wall was supposed to have been me. 4 A family of four became a family of three, and then a family of two. The apartment was always quiet with just the two of us. The front door was always shut, as if to keep the wind out, and with it, the neighbors’ whispers about my mother’s tragic life. But the door to my room was always left open, a permanent invitation for my mother’s gaze to fall upon me. “What are you daydreaming for? Is your homework done?” “Even if it’s done, review it again. You’re not just studying for yourself; you’re studying for your sister, too.” “Tired already? You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You want to drive me to an early grave so you can be free.” “Crying? I’m the one who should be crying. What right do you have to cry?” …I started to dread coming home. But I had nowhere else to go. Everyone knew my dad was dead. Everyone knew my sister had died for me. “Lily, your mom has it hard. You need to be a good girl.” “Lily, what are you doing still out? Your mother is worried sick looking for you.” “Lily, you can’t be selfish.” The neighbors would lecture me whenever they saw me. Without realizing it, I started to walk with my head down, hugging the walls. When I looked up, I would see my mother’s face, a thundercloud of a scowl, the corners of her mouth pulled permanently downward. I hated home, and I hated being around people. But I couldn’t escape either of them. I was only eight years old. 5 I soon discovered that being eight wasn't so bad. It was the year I started first grade. On the first day of school, our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, popped a piece of candy into my mouth. “First day of school, Lily,” she said, her voice kind. “You study hard now, you hear? Make something of yourself. Your mother is counting on you. As long as you do well in school, she’ll be happy.” I carved those words into my heart. I wanted my mother to be happy, the way she used to be. And it worked. The first time I brought home a report card with all A’s, the corners of my mother’s mouth turned up. So it was true. If I studied hard, my mother would be happy. I threw myself into my studies, always finishing at the top of my class. My mother’s smiles became more frequent. The day I got my acceptance letter to the best magnet middle school in the city, she took me to offer incense to my father and sister, a brilliant, proud smile on her face. I looked at their portraits on the wall, and for a moment, I thought they were smiling, too. So I smiled with them. But the happiness didn’t last. My mother held up my class ranking, her face hard. “You only beat the second-place student by ten points. You used to be twenty points ahead. Are you getting distracted? Are you doing this to spite me? You just want me to die so you can have a better life, don’t you? If it weren’t for you, I would have joined your father and sister long ago. I’m only staying alive for you!” I shook my head frantically. No, that’s not it. I tried to explain. “I don’t know what it is. I’m just hungry all the time. I wake up in the middle of the night so hungry I can’t sleep, and then I’m tired all day.” “Hungry?” she shrieked. “I work myself to the bone to provide for you, and you have the audacity to say you’re hungry? Did I not feed you? Look at your sister! Did she ever get to eat a single meal I cooked? You ungrateful child!” She broke down into racking sobs. I never dared to say I was hungry again. But hunger is a primal thing. One day in class, when my stomach rumbled for the third time, the boy sitting next to me slipped me a palm-sized cereal bar. My face burned with shame, but I ate half of it and carefully tucked the other half away in my backpack. That night, my mother beat me. “Tell me the truth! Did you steal it? You’re already a little thief. You’ll end up in jail, just you wait!” “Don’t you dare call me ‘Mom.’ I don’t have a convict for a daughter.” “Someone gave it to you? Why would they give it to you? What did you do to deserve it?” “And you ate it all yourself? You didn’t save any for your sister? You have no heart!” “Why is my life so miserable? I should have just died! I should have died!” I explained over and over, begged and pleaded. But the belt still fell, again and again. On that cold winter night, I was forced to kneel in my thin pajamas before the portraits of my father and sister until morning came. My forehead was burning as I curled up on the cold floor. Just before I lost consciousness, I saw my mother rush over and pull me into her arms, crying, “Mom was wrong, Mom was wrong.” I looked up, my gaze drifting past her to the portraits on the wall. For the first time, I wondered: why wasn’t my picture on the right? I was thirteen years old, and my body was changing. 6 Old folks say that every time a child gets a fever, they get a little wiser. I think they’re right. The next time my stomach growled, I wisely refused my classmate’s offer of a snack. When I passed a neighbor’s open door and smelled dinner cooking, I wisely refused their kindness. “I’m not hungry.” “I’ll eat at home.” “My mom is already cooking.” My schoolbag was heavy, not just with books, but with a large water bottle. Whenever I felt hungry, I would take a sip of water. The neighbors all praised me for being so sensible. But the boy who sat next to me stopped talking to me altogether. “Whatever. She’s too good for me now,” he muttered to his friends, shooting me a glare. “She eats my cereal bar, and the next day she’s out with a fever. Her mom even came to the school to talk to the teacher. Can you believe that? My mom told me to stay away from her, said she’s her mother’s whole world. If anything happened, we couldn’t afford the trouble.” The other kids snickered. I apologized, embarrassed, explaining that I’d just caught a cold. But more and more of my classmates started to avoid me. One day, the boy leaned over and whispered, “You just dress so weird.” That afternoon, in front of the bathroom mirror at school, I truly saw myself for the first time. I was wearing a shiny, deep purple winter coat. I remembered where it came from—a neighbor had been about to throw it out, and my mother had taken it. I looked at the other kids passing by in the mirror. Most of the girls wore black, but there were other colors too: white, pink, sky blue. Only I wore a shimmering, out-of-place purple. I looked down at my feet, at the clunky, old-fashioned cotton shoes. I was a snail in a purple shell, with thin legs weighed down by heavy shoes. A deep, burning shame washed over me. When I got home, I mustered all my courage and asked for a new black winter coat. Black, I thought, should be fine. But my mother’s face turned just as black. And so came the second beating. “Are you seeing a boy? Is that it? You want new clothes to show off for some boy? Tell me who he is! I’m going to his school tomorrow to set things straight!” “Are you cold? Do you not have clothes to wear? Did I send you out naked? Am I some wicked stepmother abusing you?” Finally, she pointed a trembling finger at the portraits on the wall. “You ask your sister. Ask her if she’s cold down there in the ground. Ask her if she wants a new coat.” I looked up at my sister’s face in the photograph, and tears streamed down my cheeks. Why wasn’t it me who died? I was fourteen, and puberty had hit. From that day on, I gave up on myself. I still studied like my life depended on it. In the magnet high school, the work became harder. I was no longer at the very top of my class; sometimes I even fell out of the top thirty. Each time, my mother would beat me with a hateful fury, not stopping until she was exhausted. I just endured it silently. A single thought became a prayer in my heart. Yes, that’s it. Harder. Just kill me. Kill me. Please, just kill me. 7 After my final exams, my mother filled out my college applications for me. She chose the local state college. “There’s no need to go far away,” she said with a smile. “The education program here is excellent. People fight to get into it.” I just nodded. When my acceptance letter arrived, the neighbors all congratulated her, praising me for being so filial and staying close to home. Only my high school guidance counselor sighed. “With your scores, this is a real waste.” But then, thinking of my family situation, he just shook his head. “It must be hard on you. Your mother hasn’t had it easy either.” I knew it would be this way. When the ending is already written, why struggle against the plot? It only brings more pain. After college, I got a teaching job in the local school district. Mrs. Gable, now with a full head of white hair, told my mother, “Elaine, you’ve finally made it. You can finally rest easy.” My mother cried and laughed at the same time. I looked at her through the crowd of well-wishers, just as I had looked at her on the day I was pulled from the rubble. Mom, back then, were you happy that one daughter lived, or sad that one daughter died? Mom, are you happy now? Mom, am I a good daughter now? 8 Everyone said my mother’s life was tragic. She lost her husband, then a daughter, and raised one all by herself. And just when she had finally made it, I got sick. Stomach cancer. Stage two. When I saw the diagnosis, I was surprisingly calm. Hunger had been the constant companion of my youth, and the stomach is an emotional organ. I’d felt the discomfort for a long time, but I was so used to it, I couldn’t tell the difference between pain and hunger anymore. I was used to enduring. I had no intention of getting treatment. I decided to leave all my savings to my mother for her retirement. I tried to hide it from her, but she found the doctor’s report under my mattress. She read it over and over, then let out a desperate scream, tearing at her own hair. I tried to stop her, but she shoved me away with violent force. She pointed at me, then at the portraits on the wall, her eyes wide and bulging, her face twisted into a grotesque mask. “If I had known you were going to die young anyway, I should have let you die back then!” “You debt collector! You should be the one to die!” My hands fell limply to my sides. After a long moment, I whispered, “I know.” That night, I left home. I walked to the river and let the cold wind carry me into the water. No last words. No regrets. I was an obedient daughter. Wasn’t I?
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