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I always hated my mother’s face. Even now, as I stare at her complexion—stiff and pale.

Lifeless. There was no amount of makeup they could have applied to hide her sickly, sunken, and

staunch face. Her hands are neatly folded across the clothed stomach, limp and morbidly calm.

This is the first and last time I will ever see her so relaxed, but that comes with the privileges of

the deceased. After six years, I didn’t know what to expect when I entered the church doors and

made my way to her open casket. All I can do is stare at the remnants of my mother, thankful

that the last image of her is death rather than the perpetual scowl that adorned her face every time

she looked at me.

“Mara.” A constricted voice from behind pulls my attention away from my mother’s

body. I turn to stare directly at the swollen, red eyes of my younger sister. Her face is puffy and

her lips are chapped. Her eyes are downcasted to the floor as she motions me to step aside. Lucy

always held more love for my mother than I ever could.

“Sorry, Luc. Má loved you a lot,” I whisper as I walk past her to find a seat in the back of

the building.

Without turning around to see Lucy’s face, I continue to make my way down the aisle of

burgundy velvet chairs. I don’t want to be near my mother’s dead body anymore. As I reach the

farthest seat from the front of the hall, I watch the line of people trudge along waiting to behold

their final memory of my mother. This sequence of people and their faces accentuates the bitter,

leftover taste of the cigarette I smoked merely forty minutes before. There are solemn faces,

tearful faces, and tired faces. I’m tired of faces, especially these ones. I’m tired of the prayers

and the condolences. I’m tired of witnessing the result of my mother’s life.

✧

“Nhà danh cha và con và thánh thần. We commemorate the fruitful life of Linh Vo, as she has

found her place in Heaven among the Saints and Angels. Let us pray for her everlasting peace,

and solace for the family she leaves behind.”

✧

As I exit the funeral ceremony, the brutal turbulence of the wind burns the tip of my nose,

the curve of my cheekbones, and the skin enveloping my knuckles. Even in death, my mother’s

bitterness haunts me from the other side through the violence of the weather. My hands shake in

the cold as I stuff them into my black, wool coat in search of my Newports. Roughly, I grasp

them in my palm as I pull my lighter from the empty corner inside the carton, then place the pale

stick between my lips. Flicking my thumb against the lighter, I ignite the fire that burns the tip of

my cigarette. With a deep inhale, I feel the murky smoke enter my lungs and my body goes

through the motions of relaxing. Yet, the nicotine fails at soothing the uneasiness that settled in

my heart from witnessing my mother’s limp corpse.

“I thought you said you quit?” I hear the same constrained voice that belonged to Lucy. I

turn my head slowly, taking in her appearance for the second time in six years.

Her red, bloodshot eyes scan the gum-stained cement. Her cracked lips drop into a deep

frown, the fragile skin further breaking from the stretch of the facial expression. Her nose is raw

from whatever cheap, over-exhausted tissues she has stuffed in her pocket.

I shrug my shoulders and release a sigh of resignation, “Yeah, not anymore.” Her frown

drops deeper, pronouncing the lines that settle into her tired face.

“Mara, why did you even come to her funeral if you weren’t going to even sit with your

family?” Lucy is staring at me now, eyebrow raised in the same questioning manner that littered

my memories of our shared childhood. She continues to have that expression, even in adulthood,

when she questions my actions. Lucy is just like our mother—always questioning, always

judging. I feel irritation rise in my chest as I continue to finish my cigarette.

“Well, Lucy, whenever I’m around our family it never really goes well. There’s always

something that needs to be said to me.” The words grate out from my lips as I clutch my cigarette

between the length of my fingers. It’s always the same, regardless if our mother isn’t there to

breathe her stale breath down the back of my neck.

The corners of Lucy’s disgusting, brittle lips rise into a straight line and her face shifts

defensively, as her dark eyebrows furrow in frustration. “You’re still so fucking selfish. It’s Má’s

funeral and you don’t have the decency to give her the respect you refused to give her when she

was alive. Do you know how disappointed Ba was when you walked in, acting like you’re a

fucking sob story with your fucking blonde hair and fucking colored contacts?”

Her temper continues to have the same volatility and penchant for criticizing my

appearance as our mother. Things never change. I take the last hit from my dying cigarette before

I ash it out on the sole of my black heel. In frustration, I throw the butt haphazardly to the ground

before taking a deep inhale to calm my rising emotions.

“Does it ever occur to you and Ba to shut the fuck up about your disappointment in me?

I’ve had enough of Má’s incessant bitching. I’m glad she’s dead now. Finally, I have one less

person complaining about the decisions I made with my body.” My hands are shaking and the

vicious wind continues to brutalize my exposed appendages. I’m tired. Of her. Of our father. Of

our dead mother.

After saying those words to Lucy, I feel my stomach slightly drop in regret at my verbal

choices. Lucy’s relationship with our mother was tender, vastly different than mine with her. I

watch as the cracks in her lips tremble in an exhausted fury. We conversed about this explosive

subject more times than I can count in the past six years. I see the look in her sore, watery eyes

and I know deep down beyond the three layers of tissue that encase my heart that she is

exhausted by our family as much as I am. But to her, the little, perfect Lucy, is tired of the role I

play in our fragile ecosystem.

There is a moment of silence between us, the quiet rapidly creating a distance between

the two of us. Lucy and I don’t look how we used to. From the outside, we look like foes in a

long-standing battle rather than sisters in a petty spat. It used to be Lucy and Mara, loving

sisters—now, it's Lucy and Mara, bitter strangers. I can live with that. I am living with that.

As the silence pursues, I watch her mouth open slowly and I can see the edge of her

bottom lip curl under her teeth to pronounce the words, “Fuck you.”

Then, she storms back inside the building, leaving me to be beaten to death by the

weather and my inability to be the one to say the last word. Huffing, I shove my hands back into

my pocket to grasp the keys to my rental car and thumb the unlock button. I hear a beep and now

I am leaving. Leaving my mother, my father, and Lucy behind me. This is normal.

✧

Clutching my wallet in my hand, I stand at the front door of my hotel room. It is a gray,

composite door with bold letters and numbers, centered right below the peephole. Room 34.

Unfolding my battered leather wallet, I scan the various card slots until I find my key card. I pull

it out with the tips of my forefinger and thumb. I catch a glimpse of my nails, the pale pink

polish that covers them is chipped in various crevices on the surface.

“Fuck.” I whisper in irritation as I tap the plastic card against the lock and it blinks green,

allowing me access to my room. Slowly striding in, my shoulders slump as I toe my heels off

with a sigh and walk a short distance to the neatly aligned bed in the center of the room. Once I

reach my destination, I crawl towards the middle, feeling the mattress sink and the white duvet

flatten beneath my weight as I curl into a ball. With my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms to

reach my shoulders and grasp them in my palms. There is a heaviness sitting in my chest that

drops to my stomach and occupies my lungs. There have to be stones in my body. Closing my

eyes, I drift out of consciousness.

✧

In the darkness, I hear a noise that vibrates the bed, my clothes, and, in turn, my hip. I

scrunch my face in annoyance, my eyes still closed and my lips pursed. Bzzt, bzzt, bzzt. My

phone. With my eyes still closed, I shove my hand between my body and the duvet. After sliding

my hand into the liminal space and into my pocket, I grab my phone and open my eyes. The

screen displays the caller ID. I stare at the name and the contact photo. It is an ancient picture of

a bespectacled man—crow’s feet less pronounced and dark hair lined with a smatter of

gray—smiling, while his arms are wrapped tightly around a young child. Me and Ba.

There was a time when we could smile like that together. I don’t remember the last time

we looked so carefree next to each other. Sliding my thumb across the lock screen, I answer my

father’s call, “Chào Ba.”

His voice sounds hoarse and soft from the phone speaker, yet I sense a tone of

displeasure, “Con ở đâu khong?” I rub my palm against my face and groan.

“Ba, I’m at my hotel. Why?” Before he even responds, I know where our conversation is

going. Ever since Má and I had a falling out, my father only ever calls me to talk about her or,

sometimes, my sister.

I hear the exhaustion in his voice—tired and beaten down by the cruelties of times, “I

talked to Lucy, and said you’re still angry with your Má. How long are you going to keep this

up? She’s dead now.” I remain silent, feeling frustration bubble in my heart. My father and I will

never be the same as we once were, however, I already knew that.

He continues, “They have the right idea about you, you know? I don’t like the way you

look anymore. Con, your face isn’t the one you were born with.”

I feel my bottom lip tremble and I rub my fingers across my face once more. These

people don’t understand the pain I go through to get my nose, eyelids, and jaw perfect—the time

and energy it took for me to finally be beautiful. I’m tired of this same conversation. I always am.

“That doesn’t matter, Ba. Can’t you be happy that I’m happy?” I ask softly, all I ever

wanted was for them to accept me and my choices. For the last six years, I have spent my nights

exhausting myself from questioning my family.

It’s my father’s turn to be silent over the phone. It is damaging the way his silence, which

I have come quite familiar with, still has the power to cut through the three layers of tissue that

cradle my heart.

“Mara, no. How can I be happy for you when you hate yourself? What was wrong with

your Vietnamese face?” He asks. My mother asked the same question. Even from the grave,

death couldn’t stop her vindictive soul continuing to permeate every conversation in my life.

I don’t want to answer him, so the only thing I can do is lie, “I’m ending the call now. I

have a headache. Love you.” I pause, hopelessly waiting for him to maybe reciprocate those

same two words.

“Yeah, go rest. We can talk later, Con.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes, the pressure of

their weight suffocating my waterline.

I hear a muted thud hitting the screen from the other end of the line and the call ends. The

heavy tears blur my vision as they melt down my face. I find myself unnecessarily disappointed

by his lack of verbal affirmation when I know better. My father has never said that he loves me

in a very long time. Sniffling lightly, I press the back of my hand against my cheeks to wipe

away the salty liquid rolling down to my chin. With an exhausted huff, I pull myself up from the

bed. The weight of my body creates divots as I hear soft cracks coming from my joints. As my

bare feet press firmly against the muted carpet, I shuffle to the bathroom intending to wipe the

messy makeup off my face.

Opening the door, I blindly run my hand along the closest wall to flick the light bulbs on.

My fingers hit the protruding nub of the switch and the blinding, minimalistic, white room is

filled with light. My eyes instinctively shut in an attempt to adjust to the contrasting scene from

the darkened bedroom. I slowly walk toward the middle of the room and turn to face the mirror

as my fingertips aid my adjusting vision. Opening my eyes without any expectation, except for

my usual appearance, I am struck with sickening fear.

Instead of my perfectly curated face, I see the monstrous monolid eyes, thin lips, and

wide nose of my mother. She’s staring at me, expressionless and dead. Her cheeks and mouth are

covered with the same rouge that disguised the death that melted from the funeral. In a haze of

disbelief, I rub my hands roughly against my eyelids, unable to find a moment to care about my

mascara-coated lashes breaking. In naive anguish, I open my eyes with the hope that this is just a

trick from my sleep-muddled mind. It isn’t. She’s still there, staring and staring and staring. My

face is still replaced by hers. Clutching my hands against my face, I rub at my cheeks as if the

action would tear her ugliness off of me. I feel my stomach gurgle in nausea and my heartbeat

quickening. My eyes never leave my face as my vision becomes increasingly blurry from the

tears that continuously fell all over my appendages.

“This can’t be happening!” I screech in disbelief. My throat constricts as if I smoked a

cigarette for the first time. My breath quickens and I feel my head float in dizziness. I’m frantic

as the rubbing morphs quickly into me scratching my face. My cheeks warm with a red, hot

pain—the type that happens when the air hits a fresh wound. I’m sobbing. I’m destroying myself.

In hysterics, I drop my hands from my face and notice that, despite feeling the pain of open

wounds, her face is still there and untouched.

My voice rises from my throat in anger and I’m shouting at my dead mother’s face, “Why

are you haunting me?! Can’t you just leave me alone?! Má! You’re ruining me!” My voice

suddenly cracks into deep-seated, voluminous cries. I grab my open makeup bag, the nearest

object near me, and fling it against the mirror. The sound resonates as the mirror cracks in front

of me. My belongings scatter across the bathroom, some hitting the sink and others ricocheting

across the ground. My mother is still here, as the image of her face and my body distort in the

disrupted reflection.

Hopelessness seeps beneath my skin and into my bones. I drop to my knees and

viscerally weep with my hands returning to my face. I continue to scratch, grasp, rub, and claw

until the only feeling left, other than my anguish, is pure, unbridled pain. My wounds are

growing as blood taints my palms and cracked nail polish.

My breath grows heavier and my voice is trapped in the currents of air within my lungs,

leaving me only with shrill screams, “Why aren’t you dead yet?! Are you that cruel to continue

harassing me from your fucking casket?! Leave my face alone! Only the Devil knows how hard

I’ve tried to get rid of the taint that you birthed me with! All my life, I have worked to get rid of

your face being plastered against mine! I don’t want your ugly nose, or your slit eyes, or your

fucking cruel face! I wish I was born American, so I would never know you and your fucking

traditions! I don’t want it! Why do you think I spend thousands of dollars to make myself

actually look pretty?!” My voice catches, as the brutality of sound leaves my throat raw and I am

only able to hurl out hushed, tortured whispers.

“Má, please...I’m tired. I’m really tired of being your daughter. Why couldn’t I have

been born into a white family? Why couldn’t I have been blessed with naturally blonde hair, sky

blue or sea green eyes, and a strong nose? Why did I have to be your daughter? I don’t want

it—any of it. Lucy loves you and your face, go curse her rather than me...since she wants to be

ugly for the rest of her life.” I feel the bile rise in my throat as my hands still claim my face. I

looked at them for the first time since seeing my mother’s face. Underneath my fingernails are

caked with thick foundation, blood, and, perhaps, shredded skin.

I shake as clarity begins to seep into the crevices of my exhausted mind. Blindly throwing

my hand against the floor, I search for any reflective surface around. Grabbing what I believe is

my blush compact, I open the lid to see cracked pieces of pink and the powdery fallout. Sniffling,

my cheeks burn with an intensity that makes my throat dry and my stomach clench. Wiping the

destroyed powder off of the attached mirror with my fingertips, I look at my reflection believing

to see her cursed face. Instead, I see my own—bloody and ruined with long gashes stretching

across the expanse of my once-perfect face. I can only stare, my everything is destroyed. There’s

nothing beautiful about me anymore. Tears run down my face as the salt burns my open, tattered

flesh and the only thing I can find myself thinking is, What a fucking waste. And I drop the

compact from my clutch, watching the pink further crack against the perfect, white tiles of the

floor.