Swetha Amit
When I got home from work, I found Ma running out of the front door, naked and dripping wet.
“The bathroom’s on fire!” she screamed, gripping my hand like a child.
Her breathing was heavy, her hair was tangled, and water droplets ran down her sagging breasts and stomach. Her face was ghostly, as pale as the fading white walls of the house.
“There is no fire, Ma,” I told her kindly.
I took off my jacket and draped it over her.
Yesterday, she left the house without her blouse and called out to passersby on the streets of Palo Alto, asking them to contact the fire department. Last week, while I was at work, she left the front door open, wandered around the backyard, and ventured into the neighbor’s garden, wearing only her undergarments. The neighbors initially expressed concern and empathy, noting how grief and trauma can lead people to behave in unusual ways. I sensed their growing impatience when they suggested I hire a caregiver or place her in a nursing home. As a result, I began working from home most days of the week.
Ma’s strange behavior started two months ago, after Grandpa was killed when the wildfires in Napa Valley burned his house down. The loss of her father and her childhood home being reduced to rubble was more unbearable than Pa leaving us for another woman a few years back. After the wildfire tragedy, Ma refused to step inside the kitchen and cook, an activity that kept her sane after Pa left. The sight of the flames on the stove resulted in blood-curdling screams. I missed eating her eggplant roast, fried okra, and the scents of sautéed ginger garlic paste that would linger in the kitchen. At first, she isolated herself in her room. A few weeks later, when she decided to leave the house, she forgot to turn off the lights, lock the doors and windows, or shut off the shower in the bathroom.
“Let’s go inside, Ma.” I tried to hurry her in.
The sky turned a radiant orange, and birds flew back to their nests. Her loud sobs made the sound of cars on the road distant. My jacket only concealed her upper body and barely her hips. Her bare legs were still moist, and I could see goosebumps sprinkled on her brown skin.
While growing up, Ma never allowed me to wear anything that revealed my arms, cleavage, or legs—she insisted these displays were only for promiscuous girls. My swimsuit felt more like a bodysuit, while the other girls donned bikinis or one-pieces. I remember wearing a knee-length skirt borrowed from a friend for a school party. Ma grounded me for an entire week. She complained to my friend’s mother about her bad influence on me and accused her of giving me drugs. Ma even threatened to report to the cops if she was found with me again. I never saw or spoke to that friend again. Ma changed my school and ensured I focused solely on my grades. She’d bake cookies whenever I topped my classes and hug me tightly.
“Let’s go,” I repeated wearily.
Ma refused to move. She kept holding on to me.
“There is no fire inside,” I reiterated.
She didn’t seem to hear me. I wanted to tell her that she was almost nude, and this could even provoke the neighbors to call the cops.
I pulled her inside and turned on the lights to dispel the darkness. Ma stood by the door, shivering in my jacket. I grabbed a towel and dried her off. The orange sky outside faded to a deep charcoal black, and the towel grew heavy with moisture. Ma’s tears soaked my shirt as she buried her head in my chest. Later, the neighbors lit a bonfire in their backyard. The crackling of the flames and smoke sent Ma into a frenzy. She began beating her chest and hollering. I wrapped my arms around her and stroked her head, trying to soothe her. My insides began to gnaw like some insect was nibbling on my flesh. My heart felt like someone had sliced it with a knife. Outside, gray smoke from the fire rose until it blended with the pitch-black sky.
Swetha Amit is the author of two chapbooks, Cotton Candy from the Sky and Mango Pickle in Summer. An MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco, her works appear in Had, Flash Fiction Magazine, Oyez Review, and others. Her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. www.swethaamit.com
Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash
