Written by Min-de Ang / Translated by Teng-Wei Yu
From the Anthology of 16th ICSSE
Why the short story
Since we only have one night and the night doesn’t truly begin until we turn out the lights. The duvet stinks of cigarettes from the previous guests, and the failed deodorant spray makes it smell even worse. By the time the morning sun shines into the room, you may have already left. Then, there will only be me and my lifeless youth spread on the floor.
Since you and I are tired but refusing to sleep, longing to find comfort from this night. We only have such little time, so let me tell you this short, short story.
It was a night a lot like tonight. I woke up half-dreamy, wondering what disturbed my sleep. It must have been very late; one or two, maybe even three or four. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was lying.
Do you also feel this way from time to time? When I was little, we often moved. As I opened my eyes in bed, I often thought I was still in the previous room; sometimes, I would suddenly feel unfamiliar.
That night, it took me a while to come to my senses, realizing that I was in a cheap hotel near Taipei Station.
Back then, mom took my sister and me to live in a rented old apartment not far from the school, hoping we could save commuting time to study hard and become somebody one day. But on weekends, we didn’t want to stay in that apartment with a spider-webbed stairwell all day. Mom and her own relatives were on bad terms, and we weren’t welcomed by our father’s side of the family, so we joined the travel group organized by the Youth Corps. Like other families in the group, we spent our holidays happily.
Of course, such travel groups couldn’t afford to stay in good hotels. They were usually in the old city center or on desolate provincial roads. There were no large windows in the room, only a small square to see through. Mom was very superstitious. She had to knock three times on the door before entering a hotel room, and she would cover the mirror with a cloth before going to bed. “This way, it won’t reflect anything else,” she told us.
When I woke up, I was in a hotel room like that. Needless to say, this hotel had poor sound insulation, and the AC was always rattling, making noises easy to woke people. I intended to go back to sleep, but I heard clothes rubbing behind me. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who had woken up.
I pretended to adjust my position in the middle of sleep and turned over. I saw mom get up and sit on one side of the bed, my sister sleeping beside her undisturbed. I squinted, hoping my mother wouldn’t notice I was already awake. She held onto the bedside table with one hand, leaned forward slightly, and stood up.
Mom lifted the towel covering the mirror and gazed at her reflection in the dark. She seemed in thought as she stared into the mirror.
Then she walked towards the doorway and turned the handle slowly, trying not to make any noise when closing the door.
But she failed. The door lock clicked.
The mirror on the vanity was not covered again. In the mirror, there seemed to be another identical room, and there was a me that wasn’t me lying there. Colorful lights from signboards shone in and reflected on my face. Where did mom go? Would the mirror reflect something else? At that moment, I felt an inexplicable fear and covered my eyes with the duvet, trying to fall asleep again quickly.
It didn’t take me long to realize that something was off about that trip. From the minute mom got on the tour bus, she seemed a bit troubled. Three is an odd number: the seats on the tour bus were two by two, and there were two double beds in a hotel room. So, one of us was destined to be alone.
Usually, my sister and I would sit in the same row, and mom behind us. In a tour group like this, people naturally form smaller groups based on apparel and social status. Sitting next to mom was usually those Obasan – — middle-aged women, often annoying. They talked about my sister and me behind us as if we couldn’t hear a word. Some Obasan would warn my mom not to dote on us in a been-there-done-that tone. Mom would pretend to casually mention the school we attended – — a credentialism school in the city – — then they would convert their tune and praise us, announcing that my mom doesn’t have to worry about the future.
As a trio of two young kids and a mother without a male companion, we stood out in the group, and naturally, some would pry into our privacy. Once we were on the highway and the same scenery started to repeat itself, fellow members who sat with my mom would often ask, “Why didn’t their dad come with them?” My mom smiled and replied that he had to work overtime during the holidays and couldn’t spare time.
On that trip, we arrived early at the meeting point, and the tour guide allowed us to board the bus first when she saw the three of us standing in the wind. As the other members arrived, they got on the bus in twos and threes. A middle-aged man in a hoodie came over and asked mom if the seat next to her was occupied.
“No,” my mom glanced at him.
Immediately realizing there were only three of us, he took out a small package of biscuits and asked my sister if she wanted one.
“I’ve got extra bags of these,” he said.
My sister looked at the biscuits and then at mom. My mother was very defensive, not only warning us not to eat food from strangers but to the extent of resolutely refusing gifts from my classmate’s parents.
“I’ll have to ask my mother.” My sister stared at the man with her clever eyes. He had some crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, but the youthful dress made it difficult to guess his age and profession.
“Mom, can I have one? I’m starving!” He purposely imitated a childish tone.
“What do you want to say to the uncle?” Mom looked at my sister.
“Thank you, thank you, uncle!”
Mom hasn’t been the same since then. Usually, she would plug her ears with toilet paper once on the bus, isolating herself from the other tour members’ loud singing. On this kind of group tour, singing karaoke seemed to be the actual destination. After the songbook was distributed, the unacquainted and silent individuals became lively, gathering to request songs they knew and even engaging in duets.
I wasn’t particularly interested in this noisy activity. In addition, there were some circumstances I found hard to understand. For example, when someone requested the classic Taiwanese pop song “Mama, Please Take Care of Yourself,” the whole bus sang along, several Ojisan – — middle-aged men – — screaming at the top of their lungs as if their own mothers were forever gone.
Mom never requested a song. Speaking of which, I’d never really heard her sing before this trip. Mom didn’t close her eyes on the bus – — perhaps because of the man sitting next to her – — instead, she sat up straight, with her elbows not resting on the armrests but clinging to the purse around her waist.
My sister chitchatted with that uncle.
“Are you here by yourself?”
“I’m with my parents. They’ve just retired, and I’m concerned they’ll be bored with nothing to do. They are right behind there.”
My sister craned her neck and looked towards the back seats. “Then why didn’t you sit with them?”
“They want to sing, so they wanted to sit in the back. I got motion sickness, so I’m sitting in the front.”
And after the bus got on the highway, he finally asked THE QUESTION.
“By the way, little girl, why didn’t your dad come along?”
My sister paused for a moment, then put on a stern face.
“My father has passed away,” she slowly uttered each word.
The expression on the man’s face was absolutely unforgettable. First, his facial muscles were frozen like a plaster statue; then, his cheekbones slowly relaxed and his cheeks turned red as if he had been slapped.
“I see… I’m so sorry.”
He fell silent, turning his head to look at mom sitting next to him, nodding apologetically at her.
My sister gave me a sideways glance, trying to hold back her laughter.
“Girl, don’t talk nonsense,” Mom glared at my sister.
“It was you who’ve been talking nonsense. I bet Dad didn’t work overtime. Even if he got off work, he wouldn’t come back home.”
The tension was quickly broken by the salesman who got on the bus to sell omiyage. He took the mic and drew everyone’s attention, urging them to buy the most famous dried meat, which makes a decent gift to share with friends and family, since they had come all the way to northern Taiwan. “If no one bargains for the price cut, I might just have to cut myself,” he exclaimed. Laughter and the sound of bargaining here and there filled the air.
I was not particularly impressed with that trip. I just felt we were constantly touring around the suburbs, visiting places that looked like large parks. What I did was, just as the guide put it, “get on to sleep and get off to pee.” She dutifully introduced the following attractions so that we wouldn’t get bored. In a mysterious tone, she emphasized that Shilin Residence had never been open to the public until now, and we were about to see a royal-grade view.
The bus slowed down, emitting a smell of diesel. My sister and I hopped down the stairs. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I felt the drizzle on my face. Mom was chasing us from behind, nagging us to open our umbrellas.
We didn’t follow the guided tour and wandered around the edge of the group. I held a point-and-shoot camera, trying to find some memorable scenery to capture. Unfortunately, the sky was murky and overcast, and the florist’s daisy in the garden seemed lackluster.
“This place looks like Yangmingshan Flower Clock,” I said.
“I agree,” my sister replied.
“Then how are you going to write your summer homework?” I asked my sister.
“I’m going to write about the amusement park we visited in Taipei. The weather was great, and we could see Taipei 101 from the Ferris wheel. There was also an exciting roller coaster ride.” We had been trained to become lying experts by these assignments.
“It sounds more like Janhusun Fancyworld to me,” I replied.
“Why don’t you tell me what to write?” my sister asked.
“I’ll write about how we spent a long time on the bus, and the scenery outside kept changing. Finally, when we arrived in Taipei, the speed slowed down. And this is what a big city looks like…”
As we walked and talked, we unwittingly found ourselves in a corner where there were no people. The interpretation boards indicated that this was Madame Chiang Kai-shek’s favorite rose garden, but with the wrong season, all that remained were rows and rows of thorny stems.
“Let’s stop here; I need some rest,” mom said.
Mom sat down, leaning against a low red brick wall.
The crowd started to gather in our direction, and the uncle of our group was not far away from us, carefully reading the text on the interpretive sign. He then followed the flow of people toward us.
“Let me take a picture for you!” the uncle saw us and greeted us with a big smile.
“Too bad there aren’t many flowers blooming. It won’t look good,” my mother sighed.
“Far from it!” he said as he lifted the camera from his chest.
“Wait,” I handed him my point-and-shoot camera.
I don’t know where have all those travel albums gone. When we got back from every trip, I used to be responsible for taking the film to the photo studio for development and printing. The composition of our photos was very dull, nothing more than my mom, sister, me, or the three of us standing in front of a landmark, smiling, with our hands awkwardly positioned. Every time I brought back the album from the studio, mom would sit down and carefully flip through it as if the several thousand NT dollars we paid for the tour were worth it.
That photo seemed rather peculiar, with no iconic scene in the background, only thin and weak rose stems. My mother sat with her legs crossed on the low wall, and my sister and I leaned on each side.
Yet, how should I put it? The way mom looked was well-captured in that photo. She was a woman who raised two kids and was betrayed by her husband when the children were in elementary school, but she was not dragged down by life at all and still had the shimmering light in her eyes – — she was born with long eyelashes and beautiful eyes.
Later, when my ex-boyfriends were lying beside me in bed, they would sometimes tell me that I got beautiful eyes, probably inherited from my mom.
I have to admit that the protagonist of that photo is mom.
The tour went on stopping at some tourist spots around the suburbs of Taipei. On the way to the hotel, I finally felt that I had come to a city – — motorcycles weaved through the narrow gaps between the tour bus and pedestrians, with every red light giving us enough time for a song. Eventually, the vehicle came to a stop by a four-lane wide road.
Fellow members stepped down one after another., T and the driver and tour guide rushed to the luggage compartment in the middle of the bus to help pass the suitcases. I also took my place in the crowd passing out the luggage. Mom and my sister stood by the side of the road, waiting to pick them up. Meanwhile, whistling taxis whizzed by, unafraid of colliding with us.
After completing this daunting task, the guide raised her flag and shouted that dinner was up to us and that we could also go shopping if we wanted to.
The check-in queue spilled out of the hotel door, and mom was waiting in it. The uncle came over and asked her if he could roam around Ximending with us.
I deliberately kept a distance. Mom looked back at us and told him sorry.
That evening, my mother took my sister and me to Ximending and walked around several times. We were both hungry and kept plaguing my mom to find somewhere to eat. However, she continued to hold our hands and lead us forward.
“They’re all too expensive, and they don’t look good either.”
We wandered shoulder to shoulder through the jostling streets for a while longer until we finally settled down at a vendor selling squid soup. Maybe it was because I was too hungry, so I didn’t find the food in the north too salty or less tasty than in the south.
After returning to the hotel, the three of us took turns showering. Our itinerary for the next day started very early, and there wasn’t much to do in our tiny room, so we went to bed early. I’m a light sleeper and wasn’t used to the pillow in the hotel. Waking up halfway through the night wasn’t particularly a big deal for me. I would take the time to ruminate on the troubles of loneliness and wonder why I feel a tickling sensation in my chest when I think of my male classmate who plays volleyball.
But only this time, I wish I hadn’t woken up. My sister’s curled-up body was wrapped in the duvet as she slept soundly, unaware of our mom’s departure. On the doorway, mom’s shadow got smaller and smaller until the wooden door closed with a click.
Then, silence again. Countless questions arose in my mind: Where could mom have gone at such a late hour? Will she come back? Is this related to the man who sat next to her during the day? What will we do if she doesn’t come back?
At one point, I wanted to go to the other bed and shake my sister awake. But the fear of being abandoned kept me frozen. And even if I woke my sister up, what could we do? I pulled up the duvet and hid under it. Sleep, sleep now! I told myself. Sleep, sleep now!
When I opened my eyes the following morning, I first checked the vanity – — and the mirror was indeed exposed. Mom had already gotten up and was preparing to put the dirty clothes in the closet into the suitcase. “Get up quickly,” mom said to me, “help me put these tea bags in my bag.”
I asked my sister if she slept well last night and if she was awakened by anything.
“I slept very well!” she said.
On the rest of the journey, I became somewhat suspicious, trying to find the faintest clues, but to no avail. Mom was wearing a long dress as usual and sat on the bus looking out the window at the scenery. Her clothes were packed long before departure, and nothing was special about them. The uncle next to her continued to chat with my sister, and they later found a new hobby: mimicking how the guide talked. As for me, I continued to wait for the next spot, got off the bus, and got back on.
We later visited several clichés tourist spots in northern Taiwan, such as Jiufen and Tamsui. Our suitcases gradually bulged, filled with iron eggs and fish crisps. We sat with the uncle during the family-style meal according to the travel agent’s seating arrangement. He stretched out his arm to serve rice for everyone and wouldn’t let anyone’s glass stay empty.
His parents, who sat in the back row on the bus, came over to our table to dine together.
“You got a brilliant son. It’s rare to have such a diligent siàu-liân-ke these days,” an elderly Ojisan said in Taiwanese to his parents, praising the uncle as a young talent.
“Bô-la, Nonsense! You’re too kind,” replied the uncle’s mother, a cheerful woman. She admired the dishes while serving them with chopsticks in her bowl. Perhaps that uncle’s personality had something to do with her.
“If he were really all that, some girl would’ve tshuā-tshuā-khì!” said his father.
That Ojisan laughed upon hearing the father’s comment, whereas younger people were in puzzlement, failing to get the Taiwanese homonym puns for tshuā-khì: marrying away vs. taking him away.
“What’s your thâu-lōo?” Someone took advantage of the conversation to ask about his occupation.
“He’s a thâu-kei himself. He owns a motorcycle shop and does repairs,” the uncle’s mother answered on his behalf.
“Those who can’t bear hardships cannot handle this technical work. Tsiânn-hó, very nice,” the man complimented.
“Being the boss allows me to take my parents on a trip,” the uncle finally joined the chat.
“M̄-bián, don’t bother. We can wander around by ourselves,” retorted the uncle’s father.
As the banter went back and forth, the plates on the table gradually emptied. The server brought a fruit platter, indicating that the meal was coming to an end. Some members were too full to eat and stood up to chat, engulfing the restaurant in buzzing noise.
Mom got up and went to line up for the toilets – — wherever we stopped, there was always a long queue for the ladies. My sister and I were still sitting upright, hoping that there would be sweets or frozen dessert in the end.
Meanwhile, I also observed that uncle, wondering if he would take the opportunity to strike up a conversation with mom.
Throughout the trip, except for the one night we had dinner on our own in the city center, the rest were settled at these group meal restaurants for tours. Some of the fellow travelers were still discussing the meal’s cost, the ingredients’ quality, and whether the tour fee was worth it. My sister and I were more concerned about the ratio of dessert served after meals, and we calculated that there was about a fifty-fifty chance of being disappointed. We got tired of these shared dishes, but luckily, the three-day trip passed by quickly.
On the way back, the tour guide passed the mic to each member and asked them to share their thoughts and suggestions about the trip. A sense of farewell permeated. Everyone took the opportunity to exchange information and share about which part of Tainan they lived in and their family background. Some also seized the chance to promote their businesses and invite others to visit. As a matter of courtesy, most people would end by saying something like, “I hope we have the chance to travel together again.”
Mom didn’t reveal much information about us when it was our turn. She only remarked that this was an unforgettable trip and politely thanked everyone for taking care of us and also for taking photos of us.
After speaking, mom passed the mic to the uncle sitting beside her.
He picked up the mic, cleared his throat, and stammered, contrasting his extroverted personality when chatting with my sister during the trip.
He first stated the exact location of his motorcycle shop in great detail, almost reciting the address to ensure that others could find it easily.
Then, in a heartfelt manner, he confessed that his work was incredibly demanding and left little time for him to be with his family. This trip was a rare opportunity for him to feel at home and appreciate the value of traveling with his loved ones.
He seemed to be finishing, but he hesitated to hand over the mic. Finally, he added that three days and two nights were too short, and he hoped this trip could be longer.
After everyone on board had spoken, the group’s focus began to waver until the music from the karaoke machine resumed. The bus became lively again.
The bright lights inside the bus made it difficult to see the landscape shrouded in darkness. All we could see were our own reflections on the window. As we raced along the straight highway, I wondered if the trees outside the bus could hear the loud and joyful singing.
When the thick songbook was passed to my sister, she didn’t immediately pass it on but looked at the repertoire seriously.
“Do you wanna sing?” I asked her.
“I don’t,” she replied, “Do you?”
“Me neither.”
Then, my sister turned to mom.
“Do you want to sing, Mom?”
Mom browsed the songbook and said nothing.
When the piano intro began to play, everyone was still unclear about who had requested the song. Mom raised her hand, and the mic was passed back to her once again.
She held the mic tightly, waiting attentively for the intro to end and for the cue to start. Before this, I barely heard her sing. She might hum fragments of tunes while cooking, but she had never sung as clearly and brightly as she did then. Her voice overflew the tour bus that was speeding through the dark night. The vibe of the entire bus singing together receded in an instant, and everyone’s voice subsided as they listened silently. I was listening, my sister was listening, and the uncle was silently listening as well.
After returning home, we didn’t talk about what happened during the trip for quite some time. Occasionally, I would hint to my sister that I knew why mom would sing on that trip, but my words didn’t convince her. The three of us returned to our ordinary days, sitting in front of the TV and eating take-out lunch boxes from the bento shop. The gaps in our lives were filled with repetitive advertisements and formulaic dramas.
One of the most prevailing advertisements was for Thih-gû Ūn-kong-sàn, the Iron Bull Kungfu Medicine Powder. A deep-voiced man on TV claimed that this mysterious traditional Chinese medicine could help men in military service improve their blood circulation and stamina, making them more robust and enduring. As all men still had to serve two years in the military then, it’s no wonder this medicine was advertised extensively on a loop. Watching the commercial, my eyes were drawn to the military hunk’s muscular chest on the screen.
My mother said she would send it to me when I joined the army.
“My brother won’t be as strong as that guy on TV,” my sister teased me, as I was just a pencil-thin high school student.
But every time mom retorted before me. She always emphasized that when the time is ripe, I would naturally tńg-tuā-lâng, growing from a teenager into an adult.
She was overly optimistic about my future, believing that after attending a good school, I would go to a good university, get a good job, and become the man who supported our family – — and we would no longer be looked down upon by relative and bullied by others only because we don’t have a man in charge. Of course, my family no longer included our father, who had remarried.
The background music playing in the advertisement was precisely the same song most commonly sung on a group tour bus, “Mother, Please Take Care of Yourself.” Whenever the song hit my ear, I recall those Ojisan on the tour bus who would shout instead of singing, as well as the way mom held the mic on the way back.
I can’t remember if the uncle’s name was Jiaming or Jiamin. I didn’t ask my mother again afterward because I felt embarrassed. But I believe she does remember.
That was the last group trip for the three of us.
The pressure of preparing for the university entrance exam gradually weighed on me, and I lived a monotonous life shuttling back and forth between the old apartment and school. For the sake of my increasing cram school fees and that little expectation, my mother had to work more and almost had no rest days. When we returned to the old apartment, we were all so exhausted that we couldn’t do anything but lie down on our beds and sleep.
Finally, against all odds, I managed to get into a university in Taipei as expected. Mom took us to a steakhouse to celebrate. However, I did not study hard, work part-time and send her money as she expected. Living in Taipei and sightseeing in Taipei are two completely different things. I came alive at night and wandered like a lost soul with no motivation to go to classes. My body felt like a bottle that had been emptied. Sometimes, Sometimes, I would just stare at the computer in the dormitory, browsing online forums and playing games, and miss a whole day of sunshine. For a while, I developed a great passion for fitness and invested all my part-time salary in the gym, eagerly craving to build up my body and get a thick chest like the one in the advertisement.
In this jam-packed basin, I didn’t know anyone, and no one knew me: they didn’t know which elementary school I went to, where I lived, or anything about my family background. I always had the illusion that I could become anyone. I uploaded pictures of my fruitful workout results on dating apps so that I could switch my identity and spend long nights with different men.
I rarely went home, and the number of times I go back in a year can be counted on one hand. Recently, mom had to move, and my sister and I were reluctantly persuaded to go back to Tainan to help. Mom planned to give up the old apartment we rented in Tainan and move to a smaller one. As she was packing, she said that she wanted to keep it simple since she was living alone.
My room was still in the same state as in high school, with notes piled up on the desk and a study plan stuck to the wall. I packed my reference books, school bag, and uniform from my school days into a cardboard box while thinking of donating them as supplies, but I didn’t know who would need them.
“If we come back, where should we sleep?” my sister asked.
“I could just put a mattress on the floor and sleep on it otherwise,” said mom.
“Don’t worry,” I replied, “at most, we’ll just stay at a hotel for a few nights.”
I mentioned how in the past, when we all used to be here, we were never willing to stay in during the holidays, always wanting to go out. Mom then spoke of the group tours, where meals and accommodation were included, and how they could help us finish our summer homework. She sounded pretty proud of it.
“Do you remember that trip where you suddenly grabbed the mic and sang in the car?” my sister asked.
Mom nodded and went back to stack the dishes in the kitchen.
“We’ve never heard you sing at home, and it was so sudden. But you sounded really good,” my sister continued, “After we came back, brother kept telling me that you didn’t sing for us. I knew it, of course, but I couldn’t accept it then, probably because I was too young.”
“Since we three have to squeeze into a tiny space if we all come back, and it won’t be easy to schedule our time, I was thinking, if we want to get together, why don’t we sign up for a tour group again?” In a blink of an eye, my sister has folded all the clothes.
I moved all the cardboard boxes onto the truck one by one, following the staff from the moving company to my mother’s new residence. My mom and sister rode on a motorbike to get there. I wondered if they talked about anything during the ride.
When I got back to Taipei, I put the clothes I had worn for the past few days into the washing machine and washed all the dishes in the sink. After I waited for the washing machine to finish and hung up the clothes, I was just about ready to come here. Before leaving, I covered the dressing mirror at the entrance with a towel, as I always do, then turned off the light and closed the door. On the way here, I thought of mom again, of how she left us that midnight.
