You Know What You Did

Annie Shaw held her mother’s hand one last time. She wrapped her own bloody fingers around the old woman’s fist, which now clutched a rusty dao bào knife.

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“Mẹ.” Annie babbled the Vietnamese word for “mom” over and over again. “Mẹ, I didn’t mean it. We struggled but . . . I-I never wanted to hurt you.” She wasn’t sure if she’d said the words out loud or just thought them. Regardless, her mother’s crepe-paper eyelids remained shut, her mouth frozen in a gummy, rictus grin.

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Just then, a strange sensation crept over Annie. Was any of this real? The small hand, grasped in hers, felt too light, as if the bones were hollow like a bird’s. Bright red blood on the blade and on Mẹ’s neck suddenly looked as fake as cherry Jell-O. A gurgling sound rose in the back of Annie’s throat. Uncertain if it was a sob or a giggle, she swallowed, embarrassed, though it was just the two of them.

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How long had she been crouched over the body—seconds, minutes, maybe more? Tall stacks of mildew-stained books and newspapers blocked out the daylight, creating perpetual dusk inside the carriage house. Field mice had marked the perimeter of the room. The unmistakable ammonia odor of their urine hung in the air.

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Slowly, as if in a trance, she let go of her mother’s hand. She rose to her feet, knees cracking. Her legs felt heavy and numb. She took her first step but stumbled and crashed into a wall of empty juice bottles and rancid carryout containers. A fishy stench invaded her nostrils.