When I came home from work that evening, Ma was sitting on the worn leather couch in our two-bedroom, one-story house. Her eyes were fixed on the blank television screen.
"They're talking again," she said.
I closed the door softly behind me. The sound of a car on our street faded into the creeping twilight of Palo Alto.
"The TV isn’t even on,” I said gently.
I set my laptop bag down and slipped off my shoes. The house smelled faintly of coconut oil. Ma's oval brown face was taut with certainty. Her chapped lips were trembling.
"They don't like it when you come home late. They say you don't care about me," she complained.
I sat next to her and patted her frail shoulder. For a moment, she relaxed. Then she stiffened again and pointed towards the right corner of the living room.
"Can you hear them now?" she whispered.
***
The voices began nine months ago, after Pa died. His death was sudden. One minute, Pa was at the dinner table, complaining about how salty the lentils were. I argued with him. The next minute, he clutched his chest, groaned, and slumped at the table. His plate was half-full, his chair pushed back as if he might get up at any moment. Ma gasped and rushed to his side. I called 911, but it was too late. Ma didn't cry at the funeral. That night, she folded his clothes. smoothing each shirt as though he might wear it again the next day. A month later, she accused me of throwing his shoes away.
"It’s in the garage. I told you,” I replied.
She threw her hands up and muttered, “I forgot.”
At first, it was small things: misplaced objects, the stove and lights left on, taps and showers left running. Then came the voices. At night, she would come to my room, wake me, and whisper urgently.
"They told me not to trust you," she said, her black eyes on her gaunt face glinting like stones.
I laughed nervously. "Who told you that?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she glared at me. Her long black hair was tangled, and her white nightgown hung loosely around her petite frame. She had barely eaten since the voices told her the lentils and rice I cooked were poisonous. Sometimes she became hysterical, accusing me of killing Dad. It took hours to calm her. Sometimes I shook her gently or tapped her cheek until she blinked and returned to her room, as if waking from a nightmare.
***
"Do you want something to eat?" I asked.
"How can I eat your food?” Ma asked.
I sighed. "Do you really believe them?”
Ma pursed her lips.
"I'll cook," I said, standing up. "You can watch me."
In the kitchen, I rinsed yellow lentils and set them to boil. I chopped onions, garlic, and ginger, heated the oil, and added the cumin seeds. The warm aroma filled the room—a scent we both recognized and relished.
Ma stood in the doorway. Her steely gaze was fixed on the knife I held.
"This is how you taught me to cook," I tried to remind her of our memories.
"They don’t like you being here," she muttered.
"Why not? “I sighed.
"Because you make me forget them."
We sat at the table. Pa's chair remained empty. Ma kept fidgeting with her spoon. Suddenly, she froze.
"Did you hear that?"
"No," I slammed a spoon onto my plate.
"They're angry I'm not listening to them, " she whispered. " They said I shouldn't trust you.”
"Don't you trust me?" I demanded.
She leaned closer. "Sometimes I think you are nice," she said quietly. "Other times, I feel like you are not who you seem."
After dinner, I found her in my room, rummaging through my blankets.
"I need to check," she said. "If there is something here that will hurt me."
"There is nothing here, Ma," I explained, but something inside me went cold. My heart began to beat faster. My breathing became rapid.
"I don’t believe you," she gripped my purple blanket.
I wondered how I could convince her I wasn't aggressive or dangerous. My mind froze as I imagined what she'd do if she viewed me as a potential murderer. I shuddered at the way her gaze was locked on the kitchen knife set.
When I was seven, I had nightmares of scary monsters. I'd wake screaming. Ma would rush to my room, hold my hand, reassure me that monsters weren't real, and tuck me back in to sleep.
I beckoned her to sit on my bed, then sat beside her. The silence lingered for a while, occasionally broken by the wind rustling through the trees outside. Ma clasped my hand tightly. Her fingers were cold against mine. For a moment, her eyes softened. And for a second—I thought she trusted me. Then her grip shifted, and she turned her head toward the right corner of the room, nodding.
"I understand, she said.
My throat tightened. "Ma?"
She didn't look at me. Her hand slipped out of mine. I caught a glimpse of a fleeting shadow in that corner and heard a tapping sound. Outside, the trees continued to rustle. Crickets chirped. Every time her gaze fixed on that corner, I saw a flicker of movement,
"They're still here," she whispered.
"I'm here too," I said firmly.
Ma rested her head on my shoulder.
"Is it Pa? Maybe he’s checking if we’re okay?" I asked.
Ma hissed, "No, they are people you don't know."
“Who, Ma?”
She didn’t respond.
At that corner. I could now see two shadows. The tapping noise persisted. Ma gradually closed her eyes and dozed off. I spent the entire night staring at those shadows, listening to her murmur in her sleep. At one point, I could almost hear those shadows whispering.