An Origin Story

By Lisa Chen

/ Flash /    

There is the apartment that we leave to move two doors down, because that apartment was apartment #4 and Ma believes it to be haunted. In Mandarin four sounds the same as the word for death, but no one dies, though I think she may like to try. I want to say, this is America Ma, no one is haunted by numbers, but even then, I know it not to be true.

There is the apartment where I stop the line of ants with my wet thumb, not necessarily to smash them but to see if I can play God at seven. An upside U of ants along the kitchen wall, an infestation that marches to nowhere and to nowhere I want to follow. I press down to see if I can indeed make a difference. I try to redirect them on a path of my choosing but instead they go around me. On 60 minutes, they say kids who hurt animals grow up to be murderers – does this make me a murderer? Ma tells me not to play with ants but they are the only ones in the apartment not trying to leave so I go back to playing God with my thumb and look for the one that is first to lead them around me, as if it’s the smartest one. 

There is the apartment where my next-door neighbor, Marie posts a hand written note on her door after a break-in that says, “hey asshole, does it feel good to steal from a mother and her two kids? Well, you’re a dumbass, because you forgot the coffee can of cash in the back of my freezer. Don’t you ever come back here again, John or I’ll be sure to find you!” And I think, what a genius place to hide my money when I grow up. How will it feel to hand over cold cash, what would I say to a cashier if they ask me, why is this money cold? 

I’m told Ma moved apartments after Daddy dies of a heart attack at age thirty-six. I used to think 36 is old, until I didn’t. What weighs so heavy in a heart that young? Ma will avoid eye contact with mirrors for years before answering me. 

Then there is the apartment closest to the pool. We kids are left with whichever neighbor works swing shift that day. Alicia and I like to stretch our toes to the bottom of the pool near the 5-foot sign pretending we are tall enough to play there. We play rock papers scissors on who will go up to the pretty girl sunbathing first. I lose, best out of three. 

I wade out of the pool in my purple daisy one piece. I introduce ourselves and ask, “why haven’t we seen you here before?” She’s here for the summer visiting her dad. We say we like her bikini. 

Alicia nudges me, and says, “just ask her already.” I start to giggle and finally ask, “what does sex feel like?”

The girl laughs and laughs and says, “I can’t tell you that.”

“C’mon, just tell us, we won’t tell anyone you told us.”

“I don’t want to get in trouble with your parents.”

Both Alicia and I laugh knowing our parents don’t care enough to get this white girl in trouble.  

“Just tell us.”

“Ok, tonight, when you go home, put this” and she pats between her bikini, “underneath the faucet of your tub and turn the water on.”

“Wait like our bath tub? For how long?” 

“However long it takes, trust me.”

That night, while Ma watches TV, I do as the girl tells me to until the tips of my fingers look ancient. Afterwards I think, this is what I know God to be now.