A Glasshouse of Stars

by Shirley Marr

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN Cocoon

  On the seventh night after the funeral there is a different sort of energy in the house—so charged, you can almost see the atmosphere crackle and pop, although no one says a thing. It’s as though everyone is waiting for something to happen, although no one knows quite what.

  You are all gathered in the living room. The living room has never had this much space; Big Scary has made it so everyone can fit. The adults play a card game called “bridge” while your older cousins teach you, Biaojie, and Biaomei various games that have slightly different rules but are all called “fish.”

  It is hard to stay focused, and at times the others think you are forgetful or purposely trying to cheat, but you are nodding off because it has been hard for you to sleep.

  Ever since Biaojie told you that large brown moth was your father, you have been looking for him not only in your waking life, but also while you sleep. He always eludes you, always just beyond reach, hiding in the fuzzy corners of your dreams and imagination. You look under the orange shade above the coffee table, thinking you see shadows, but there is only a bare bulb. You clasp the lucky coin from the funeral in your palm.

  It is nearing midnight and nobody says a thing.

  Not even Ma Ma to tell you that it’s a school night and you should go to bed.

  Until Third Aunty, with a giant yawn and a stretching of the arms that makes everyone jump, declares that she is falling asleep and is turning in. Everyone watches in silence as she shuffles toward the staircase. You all hear the creaky sounds of wood echoing upward. Everyone huddles a little closer.

  There is a wind blowing that is making a mysterious howling sound as it enters the house through a gap that no one can locate. First Aunty decides that this is the best time to start telling a ghost story.

  “On the night of your Ah Gong’s homecoming,” she says to the group of cousins huddled in front of her, “we were all gathered like we are now. It was seven days after your grandfather’s funeral. Biaoge was only a toddler and he was asleep in a different room in his cot.”

  All eyes turn to First Aunty’s eldest son. He acts cool, but the tips of his ears have already turned red. This is obviously not the first time his mother has told the story.

  “At the stroke of midnight we suddenly heard a wail coming from Biaoge’s bedroom, so I raced there to see him standing upright in the dark, holding on to the wooden bars of his cot. I asked him what was the matter, and do you know what he told me?”

  The cousins hold their breath and shake their heads.

  “He told me that Ah Gong had come into his room and taken away his pacifier.”

  The cousins scream.

  You wish that you could scream too. But everyone else’s nightmares have become your dreams. You want Ba Ba to show himself. You won’t be scared. You will embrace him.

  “You don’t remember it, do you, Biaoge?”

  He shakes his head and his cheeks burn.

  “They say that children can see ghosts, but we lose the ability once we grow up and stop believing in magic and the supernatural. The curious thing is that we searched everywhere, but we never did find that pacifier.”

  At that precise moment the clock on the kitchen wall ticks over to midnight. First Aunty stops talking. No one says a thing. You have no idea what is going to happen.

  Nothing happens.

  You all wait a little longer.

  Still nothing happens.

  Eventually, it seems pointless to sit around anymore and you all start drifting off in different directions to brush teeth, clean faces, and change into nightclothes. You sit in your pink bed, empty and teary, staring out the window, the coin grasped tightly in your hand. Every time you squeeze it, you think you can hear a ringing inside your head. You think of the priest’s bell at the funeral, the crystal notes echoing out, guiding Ba Ba’s soul. You squeeze the coin again and you ask Ba Ba to be with you.

  You believe in magic and the supernatural and you will never stop believing. You want Ba Ba to come home. You place your hand on the windowpane. Instead of feeling cold, it feels warm to the touch.

  That is when you notice that in the top corner of the window frame a little pink caterpillar is perched upside down on the wood.

  “Ba Ba?” you whisper, standing up on your mattress to take a better look.

  The caterpillar is spinning a soft pink cocoon, and you watch it weave its magic around itself as you try to keep your tired eyes open. Outside, the glasshouse is silent and dark. But inside your bedroom, the wardrobe door creaks open and pink light spills out. A hazy smoke billows and covers the entire floor, and you feel that you might be floating on a bed with no legs, suspended in the air and in time.

  A moment later you find yourself floating down the stairs of Big Scary in a funny haze between half awake and almost asleep to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. You are now wide awake.

  Standing over the stovetop in front of a crackling frying pan is Ailing, wearing an oversized white sleeping shirt with CHOOSE LIFE written in big block letters. The black-and-white cat is crouched on the floor, eating sardines off a dinner plate.

  “Want some scrambled eggs?” she says, holding two eggs out to you.

  You take them and crack them into her bowl. Ailing beats them with a fork and pours the mixture into the pan, handing you a wooden spoon.

  “Can’t sleep either?”

  You shake your head.

  “I remember the day your Ah Gong died clearly. I went to the funeral, but I wasn’t considered one of his daughters so I wasn’t allowed to participate in any of the rituals,” says Ailing, picking the empty plate off the ground. “I could only watch as a guest.”

  Ailing shows you how to stir the eggs properly so they become soft yellow clouds.

  “I felt a twin sort of sadness for a long time. Sadness over the actual loss and also sadness that I wasn’t allowed to grieve properly.”

  You look at Ailing. It is bad luck to talk about funerals and people who have died, your Aunties all say so. You have to keep it respectfully on the inside. But you are glad Ailing is talking about it because you know exactly what she means; the understanding goes right down to your bones.

  “If you ever feel like you need someone to talk to, you call me when I get home, okay? I’ll write down my phone number for you—it’s really long.”

  You feel a bit better about this. It doesn’t take the pain away, but the square of paper she gives you is like a little life raft.

  As you both eat your late-night meal in the living room, you look under the orange shade again and the bulb under it is glowing pink. Ailing doesn’t seem to notice. You don’t know if you are awake anymore. Suddenly, you are tired.

  Sometime in the middle of the night you wake to find yourself back in bed and the blanket pulled over you, although you don’t remember going back to bed and you don’t remember tucking yourself in. The caterpillar has finished spinning its cocoon, which hangs in the corner of the window like a tiny ball of cotton candy. You feel a sense of hope that Ba Ba has come home.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Suitcases

  Morning has come and everyone is leaving. Everything is happening the same as the first day, but in reverse. Things are going back into suitcases. Rooms are emptying out. Biaojie and Biaomei are once again dressed in their best outfits for the plane trip home, tucking hard candies into pockets instead of throwing empty wrappers out. Time is now going to take everything back until the last door is closed and everyone is gone.

  You can feel Big Scary packing herself up too; bathrooms and bedrooms are already disappearing, and you are powerless to stop it, even as you try your hardest to get ready for school. The secret staircase is still secret, so you quietly slip downstairs before it becomes a wall.

  Ma Ma is in her bedroom again, her shoulder and head drawn down toward her belly, as if she intends to disappear into herself. First Aunty has her hand on Ma Ma’s shoulder and is consoling her, but all Ma Ma does is shake her head
to everything.

  “Now remember that you will have to go to the temple every seven days and have the monks say a prayer for the next forty-nine days,” says First Aunty. “You want him to be reborn into a better life, don’t you?”

  “Can you not stay any longer, Jie Jie?”

  It’s First Aunty’s turn to shake her head.

  Ma Ma puts her face in her hands.

  You can’t bear to watch this scene because it is just a different sort of grieving playing out, so you run out the front door.

  There, in the early-morning light just after dawn, you find Ailing sitting on the top of the stone steps, reading a thick novel. She goes to shut the book when she hears you, a guilty look on her face, but then she stops.

  “Sorry, automatic reflex. I used to secretly stay up and read books by flashlight, way past my bedtime. Guess I’m still scared of getting into trouble.”

  All you’ve ever heard are the stories of how spoiled and undisciplined Ailing was as a child, so this comes as a bit of a surprise to you.

  Making sure nothing in the universe is disturbed, you sit down so gently and calmly that she looks down at the page she’s currently on and decides to leave the book open. You stare at the tiny letters and the tissue-thin paper.

  “One day you’ll be able to read books like this too, I promise,” says Ailing.

  You feel incredibly sad to have to correct her, but then you think of what the glasshouse showed you. The promise touches your face softly and wraps itself gently around you, planting a seed of hope in your heart.

  “Tell me, do you like it here?” asks Ailing. “Do you like school?”

  You wish you could tell Ailing the truth. That you don’t look forward to going to school every morning, that you feel a terrible lump in your stomach when you have to leave the house. That you don’t mind it so much when you get there, but you don’t ever feel safe, except in Ms. Jardine’s class. You feel that something horrible is going to happen, all the time.

  Instead, you tuck your hands between your legs and you tell her you wish you weren’t so different.

  Ailing smiles at you, and she takes the hand that you release and squeezes it.

  “You’re going to be okay, Meixing. Your world will slowly change, but I can’t guarantee that you won’t always feel different. But, you know, it’s not so bad to be a misfit.”

  She makes a strange snorting noise and sighs. Ailing is a curious being. She has no formal title in a family where you are expected to call everyone by one. You even have to call all your cousins by their titles, though it would be easier to use their real names. But Ailing is just Ailing. A stranger. A nobody. Everyone accepts her help and her money, but although she shares the same blood, she will never be accepted as family.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I really like it here. It’s quiet, I can hear myself think.” Ailing sighs wistfully. “Maybe I might even move here one day. For some strange reason it feels like… home.”

  You look at Ailing and there are stars and dreams in her eyes.

  “I could buy myself a house, not too big or too small, just enough for one person, and it could be close by to where you are now! You could come over and hang out. Actually, do! You must come and see how many books I have! We can drink milky tea and I could bake a cake—although I am terrible at desserts, as everyone knows.”

  Your whole being sighs with her.

  “Or we can stay up past midnight and cook scrambled eggs!” Ailing winks at you.

  So it wasn’t a dream after all.

  But the little quiet bubble you both inhabit suddenly bursts. Your aunts and cousins, suitcases and boxes, all spill out of the house and tumble down the stone steps toward the van. Ailing gets up, stretches, and leans over to pull a large green leaf from a nearby magnolia tree. She tucks it into her book and finally closes it.

  Ma Ma is the last to come out. She stands one step past the doorframe. Her face is pinched tightly and only a few expressions away from bursting into tears.

  “Thank you for letting us all stay, Ping. It has been good to see you again.” Ailing calls your mother by her real name. She doesn’t mention the funeral.

  “Come and visit again, Ailing,” your mother replies. She doesn’t mention the funeral either.

  For a moment you think Ailing is going to lean forward and embrace your mother with a full-hearted hug, but having made that mistake once already, she stays where she is and your mother stays where she is.

  “Goodbye…” Ailing turns to go and then adds as an afterthought, “Jie Jie.”

  “Goodbye,” Ma Ma replies, and that is it. She does not call Ailing her Mei Mei, her “little sister.” Ailing looks quietly devastated. She hurries down the stone steps as fast as she can and into the van, everyone already packed and waiting for her. Maybe she’s running so that she can make it into the driver’s seat before the tears pour out.

  For Ailing, your heart grows and then it shrinks again, as it is apt to do when you receive love and then that love gets taken away from you. You watch as the van with all the people who matter to you drives away down the road, then turns around the corner, out of sight and out of your lives.

  Then you think about the last time someone you loved drove away from you. They never came back.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Backpack

  Ma Ma’s eyes are empty like the hallways of Big Scary. She blinks and then hurries quickly back into the house, a chill seeming to take over her. Her footsteps echo deep and hollow. You don’t know what to do with your loss. If your heart is now so empty, why does it feel so heavy? Then you wonder why you grieve everyone leaving more than the loss of your father, and you feel like less of a daughter.

  The morning light makes you sad; the empty space that Ailing took up reading her novel makes you ache, so you go back inside, following your mother’s ghostly tracks. The hallway of the house has shrunk. The staircase feels narrower. You remember how Biaojie and Biaomei ran down it side by side as you chased after them, but now as you go up, the railings squeeze in against your elbows.

  Your room feels so much smaller. Even your bed feels smaller. The bathroom you have been using for the past week has disappeared. As you walk past, all you find is a wall. The room that Biaojie and Biaomei were sharing, and asked you once to share with them, is gone.

  It’s as if the house is contracting itself in the same way you are: withdrawing.

  Sitting on your bed, though, is something pink and glowing. Curiously, you approach. It is a brand-new backpack. You unzip the top and inside is a new pencil case and new school supplies to replace the old ones that Mrs. Huynh had kindly cobbled together for you. On the floor is a new pair of white sneakers. With rainbow shoelaces.

  You hug the whole lot. You want to tumble back into bed and fall asleep with them in your arms. You suspect it is the doing of Ailing, and you wonder why she didn’t give the gifts to you in person so you could thank her properly. But she is already gone.

  Happily, you transfer the contents of your burlap bag to your new backpack. You take out the activity sheets that you have completed for Ms. Jardine, and they make you smile. You don’t care that they are for meant for younger kids. You touch the shiny stickers on them. They say things like GOOD TRY! and KEEP UP THE GREAT WORK! There is one with an airplane on it that says YOU’RE ALMOST THERE! You don’t always get everything perfect, but Ms. Jardine makes you want to try your best.

  You like to carry the worksheets around even though you can keep them in a drawer at home. They give you hope.

  The wide padded straps of the shiny new backpack feel good. You stand entirely taller, prouder, with your shoulders pulled back. You decide that you are going to keep wearing your boys’ shoes because they have got to the stage where they are now soft and comfortable. Although you hated them at first, you have grown to like them. Just as you have grown to like Big Scary. You put the new white sneakers into the wardrobe.

  Before you leave the room, you stand on your bed and get your face
as close as you can to the pink cocoon. You tell Ba Ba you miss him, and you take your coin sitting on the windowsill and press it in your palm. Somewhere in the distance a bell rings out. You drop the coin in your pocket. Be here with me, you silently say. The cocoon trembles gently.

  You go back downstairs. Ma Ma is curled up on her side in her bed, staring at the wall.

  So you pack your own lunch, making yourself a sandwich with the chicken slices that Ailing left behind. You also take one of her snack-sized yogurts. You will ask Ma Ma or Mrs. Huynh if they can keep buying these things.

  Because there are leftover chicken wings, you take a small portion of them too. Yes, you are going to eat them with your fingers, because you know that no matter what you do or do not do, it’s never going to be right.

  There will always be something else about you to pick on.

  So you might as well be yourself.

  “Her bag makes it seem like she’s trying to be part of the cool kids,” you hear your former friend whisper to the others as you sit down at your desk when you get to school that morning.

  “And those shoes! Her parents must have spent all their money on the bag and are too broke to afford decent shoes!”

  It hurts. Especially the bit about your parents, without knowing anything about your family, but you tell yourself not to care. You don’t want her fake type of friendship anyway, especially when Ah Ma’s ring is now back on her finger. Thank goodness you found out what she was really like, even though you learned the hard way. You want to become a real and true version of yourself, like Ailing and the glasshouse think you can.

  * * *

  You find out something new and extraordinary about Kevin when you go to the rickety old portable classroom with the fossilized mulch pile. He can draw. After a whole week of back-and-forth Ms. Jardine has finally convinced him to give it a go. He starts the task of illustrating the page of text that Ms. Jardine gave him on the first day, and you stare in amazement at the weird creatures and humanoid figures that spill out onto the page. Monsters with one eye, two eyes, fifty-three eyes under a very long eyelid.