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7
Present Day
I sit in the garage for what seems like hours, wondering just how the hell my life has spun so out of control. And what in the world am I even doing here? Why am I home, instead of at the police station? It might not be too late. I could probably still go to the cops, explain everything. They’d be sympathetic, maybe. But when I think about turning the engine back on and driving out of the garage again, every drop of energy leaks out of me. I slump against the wheel, boneless. I just need to stay here for a bit. Gather enough courage. Decide what I would say to the police.
There’s a sharp knock on the window. I jump so hard I bump my head on the roof of the car. Now I know what the saying “jumped out of their skin” means.
“What are you doing in there? You drunk? Aduh, were you drunk driving?” Ma calls out in Indonesian, her voice muffled through the window.
I open the car door, heart thundering. “Ma, you scared me!”
She frowns at me. “What is it, Meddy? What’s wrong?”
I wasn’t planning on telling her anything. Of course I wasn’t—the last person I want to tell is Ma. She wouldn’t know what to do, or say, or—
“Ma, I killed him.” Tears spring into my eyes when I hear myself say those words out loud. I killed him. How many more times would I have to say that?
“Kill him? Kill what? Aduh, Meddy, how many times must I tell you, don’t drink so much. You see, now you’re not making any sense.”
“I killed him, Ma. Jake. The guy you set me up with!” And now, finally, I let the tears flow, because saying his name is awful. It’s not just some body in my trunk; it’s a body who used to be a someone.
Ma stops her nattering mid-sentence. Her mouth claps shut, and she stares at me for a while. When she next speaks, it’s in halting English. “This is like what you and Selena like to say? You kids always saying, ‘Wah, you killing it!’ Like that, ya?”
“No!” I cry. “I mean I literally killed him, Ma!” Not knowing what else to do, I take out my car key and hit a button. The trunk pops open with a click that might as well be a gunshot inside our small garage. All noise is suddenly amplified; I can hear my own heartbeat, and Ma’s sharp intake of breath.
“Meddy,” she whispers, “this is joke, right? You just joking with me?”
“No, Ma, this isn’t a joke.”
A strangled laugh from Ma; then she shakes her head. “You kids, ya, you always think you are so funny.” She wags a finger at me and strides to the back of the car, still shaking her head. “My daughter, such a joker, so—AIYA wo de tian ah!” She stumbles back, hands covering her mouth.
I wince.
“Meddy,” she hisses. “Meddy! This is not funny.” She looks back and forth between me and the trunk. “Are those fake legs? What you call it—man-ee-kween?”
I shake my head, fresh tears springing to my eyes. “No, Ma, it’s not a mannequin. It’s really Jake, I swear.”
She utters a noise that’s somewhere between a howl and a whimper, then takes a moment to steel herself before peering closer into the trunk. She whimpers again when she sees the rest of the body. I imagine what she’s seeing from her vantage point. First the shoes—brown loafers, no socks—then the legs, the torso, and then the hoodie covering his face.
“Why you cover the face?” she says. “Something horrible happen to it, is it?” She shudders. “Is there something sticking out of the eye? Aiya, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” She flaps, grimacing. “Is it broken glass in his eye?”
“No, Ma. There’s nothing sticking out of his eye. I just thought it would be, I don’t know, more respectful.”
“Oh.” She nods. “Yes, you right, more respectful.” She pats me on the cheek. “I raise you so well.”
Hysteria rises from deep in my stomach and I have to swallow it. Trust Ma to take pride in my etiquette when I’ve just shown her my date, whom I’ve killed, in the trunk of my car.
“I did just kill a person, so I don’t know that you can say you’ve raised me well.”
“Oh, he must deserve it.”
I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears again. I’m so grateful that I don’t have to explain myself to her.
“Okay!” Ma says, straightening up, all of a sudden in control. She’s not even breathing hard anymore. There’s a glint in her eye that she gets the week before Chinese New Year, when she goes absolutely berserk and cleans the house like Marie Kondo oncrack. “You. Inside. Now.” She slams the trunk shut and herds me through the back door into the house.
Inside, she tells me to sit at the kitchen counter. I follow her instructions, too exhausted and defeated to argue. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m glad she’s taking over, because I don’t know what the hell to do in this situation. So I slump onto a chair, rest my elbows on the kitchen counter, and bury my face in my hands. Please let me wake up and find out that all this was a nightmare. Any moment now.
A steaming cup of tea is placed in front of me.