Translation of Love

27

Past

I hurriedly got onto the bus, flashing my bus pass to the driver as I zoomed past him. I took a seat and zoned out. My fingers were subconsciously picking at my nails, pulling at a hangnail on my thumb until it started bleeding. I didn't stop playing with it, despite the pain.

As soon as the stop came, I sped-walked off the bus and towards the hospital. My body had become so used to the walk here that I didn't even need to think about it; my legs memorized the way, leading my vacant mind to the place I needed to be.

I rushed here every day, as if something might change while I'm in class.

Nothing ever changed.

She was still in bed, unconscious, the machines rhythmically beeping and breathing for her. As usual, my grandpa was there, sleeping on a chair.

My grandma had passed away a year ago, and in a way, I was glad she did. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to see your daughter near death before you yourself are gone. At least it seemed terrible whenever I saw my grandpa; the life gone from his dark brown irises, his usually tanned olive skin now pale and greyish.

It happened four months ago.

She got into a car accident four months ago in the winter. The snowstorms here were not to be taken lightly, and it always worried me when I knew my mom was on her own, driving.

And then it happened, the nightmare no one actually believes will ever happen to them.

Except it did happen to me.

Every day I was there. I ate there, I would study for exams there, sometimes I even slept there. Other times I went home to clean the house, trying to keep it as it was before the accident just in case she did wake up someday.

And she did.

She woke up.

An hour after I had arrived at the hospital that day, her eyelids lifted up over her eyes. It was a blank gaze, one empty of thought and recognition. She didn't even blink when I appeared in front of her, didn't move when the nurses came rushing to check on her.

The next few days were like this. She would wake up, completely motion and emotionless. Eventually, she came to, and we had to explain to her what happened to her. She didn't talk much. She barely said anything to me or my grandpa. She may have been awake, but she looked even worse than when she was asleep.

She looked like the living dead.

But despite this, I had hope. I had the stupid little spark of light inside me that made me smile when I saw her blinking eyes, and when I felt the grip of her hand in mind. I started preparing the house for her return, despite the doctors saying nothing about her progress.

I think I knew.

I think I understood that she, in fact, wasn't any better than before. But despite this, that hope I had overwhelmed my logic, and ultimately it blinded me. I was able to get through exams with excitement, and hope of what was to come—the fresh spring air filled my lungs with anticipation.

And the day the machines stopped beeping, that hope was smothered out like a cigarette to the heel of a boot.

She had spoken to me—the first time in months. I had at first been so excited to see her lips part, words about to leave her familiar mouth.

But when she said "I love you," my excitement froze. I wasn't sure why, but the words had paralyzed my body, causing my eyes to blur from the tears I didn't even realize were building.

I had sat back down, the light of hope flickering a bit, wavering from the gust of wind that had blown through it. And then the beeping stopped, and I could feel my heart try to push it's way up my throat, begging to leave with her.

After that day, every day after was a collection of numbing, insignificant chapters. I didn't leave my room. I didn't eat much. My aunt had to come over and take care of me, to her disdain. My grandpa had gone back to the nursing home, looking decades older than when he was in there before the accident.

Apparently, my mother had time to write her will when she had woken up. She must have done it when I was in exams. And so the house soon was sold, some possessions being given to siblings, my grandpa, and whatever money that she saved to me.

Then, not even two months later, I was sent off to Korea.

Just like that, my life was whisked away from me, a new one being forced upon me. I had none of my questions answered, no last goodbye from my mother, no heart-to-heart, nothing.

Just a blank look in her eyes and her cold, weak hands.

. . .

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Love,

Sooaura