The Weight of Knowing

Jingxuan let herself into the apartment. The living room has not changed much since the family moved in when she was 10. They replaced the sofa just a couple of years ago, other than that everything else was the same – the same beige marble floor tiles which always made Jingxuan felt like she has stepped into a time capsule; the same walls that have not been painted over for 20 odd years that is now brown-yellow instead of the white-pink it once was; the same dark brown television console since they moved in.

Her father was always very proud of how furniture and cookware last around the house. He took pride in maintaining things, always cleaning and polishing anything that can be cleaned and polished. He used to lament that electronic appliances are not the same, that something always needs replacing every couple of years. Now the furniture has lost its lustre, the television console looked forlorn, missing the owner who used to take such good care of it.

She found her mother sleeping in the master bedroom. The hired help must have taken the dog for a walk. It was just past 10 in the morning. Jingxuan closed the door quietly and went into the bedroom that was once hers. Nothing much has changed here too, since she moved out five years ago. Her parents had kept the bed frame, the dresser, and the small three-door cupboard where she used to keep her knickknacks. Now it is filled with her mother’s knickknacks - Jingxuan was surprised when she first found out her mother had semi moved into her room after she left. Her mother had told her there were nights when she would move to this bedroom in the middle of the night to get away from her father’s snoring. But Jingxuan suspected there was more to it than just finding a good night’s rest.

Every Chinese New Year, Jingxuan would spend the night at her parents’ place for old times’ sake. She relished the feeling of waking up on Chinese New Year to the aromas of steamed buns and coffee, and her parents’ quiet chatter as they went about preparing breakfast. To Jingxuan, this nostalgia was something she knew all along that one day it would be gone. And now it is.

During one particular Chinese New Year stayover, she had stayed up late into the night going through the contents of the cupboard. She had felt a slight tinge of guilt, knowing that these items were her mother’s personal belongings but she was also very curious about the things her mother kept. When she came across her mother’s diary, her heart skipped a beat. She turned the pages of the inch and a half thick book, admiring her mother’s neat, impeccable penmanship. She read the elegant Chinese characters, the graceful strokes and curves and lines that told her stories she never knew about her own mother.

She had read the diary from the first entry to the last that night. The first pages started when her mother was just 22 years old. There were characters that Jingxuan didn’t recognize and didn’t understand, but with some help from Google, she managed to piece together messages that her mother was trying to convey. There were missing details though. Her mother wrote only of how she felt about events, but not how these events unfolded. The last entry was dated 17 years after the first.

There was one entry that shattered the world Jingxuan knew up until that point. That piece of knowledge had changed her entire understanding about her family. It was not a good way to welcome the new Lunar New Year but there it was, written on the pages in her mother’s diary, a life-changing revelation for Jingxuan that she did not know how to manage.

Her mother had described how she felt the day she had given away her daughter. Jingxuan read the date of the entry - four years before she was born, two years after her brother. Her mother had written only once about the daughter she lost, there was no more mention in the rest of the diary. She read that entry over and over again, trying to decipher insights from her mother’s words, as if by getting more familiar with the text she would get more information too.

She has a sister? That realisation kept her up all night. All this time, she had wished that she had a sister instead of a brother. What happened? Why did her parents have to give away their child?

When morning came and she went out into the dining room, her father had looked at her with concerned eyes, asking why were her eyes puffy, why did she look like she didn’t sleep well at all? Jingxuan shook her head, unsure what to say. She knew she had invaded her mother’s privacy and she did not want to admit it. She finally fibbed, saying that she had stayed up all night catching up on a Korean drama. Her father had laughed, teasingly admonishing her behaviour, that she should know better at this age. Her mother, coming from the kitchen, had asked about the drama and what she was watching. Jingxuan had felt so guilty.

Now she opened the cupboard and took out the diary again. The first and last time she had read it was nearly six years ago. She never found the courage to talk to her mother about it, not even when her father passed and it was just the three of them - her mother, her brother, and her. There was never a time she felt she could bring it up. This revelation has invaded her mind every night, when she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. Sometimes she dreamed about this sister. In some dreams, her sister looked exactly like her, in others, she looked exactly like her mother. She dreamed of doing the most mundane things with her sister – shopping along Orchard road, having coffee together, going to school together. She dreamed of the most horrible things happening to her sister – falling off a cliff, getting in a car accident, falling from the top of a building.

Sometimes in the day, when this piece of information was brought from the amygdala to the prefrontal cortex, she indulged in her imagination. What if she had crossed paths with her actual sister? Would she have known? Would it be like what they described in the novels she read, that some siblings' bonds are so strong that you feel it immediately? What if one day she was introduced to her sister at a work meeting? What if they looked alike?

“Xuan xuan?” her mother’s voice came from the master bedroom. Jingxuan hurriedly put the diary back. Xuan xuan was what the family called her. When she was learning to speak, they had tried to teach her how to say her own name but instead of saying ‘Jingxuan’, all she could manage was ‘Xuan xuan’ and the nickname stuck with the family.

“Yes, I’m here, Mum.” Jingxuan went back to the master bedroom. “How are you feeling?”

“Still tired. It’s all these pills the doctor gave. Are you sure I need to take all of them? Did you speak to the doctor recently?” her mother asked. She tried to sit up but was having difficulty pushing herself. Jingxuan hurried over, helping her mother up, arranging pillows and blankets around her.

“Yes, I did, and yes, you still need to continue to take all of them, no exception,” Jingxuan replied sternly. “Your next review is just one week away. We can check in with the doctor then. Just be good for now.”

Her mother sighed. And smiled.

“Look how you’ve grown. I’m taking instructions from you now. How things have changed. I’m really proud of you,” her mother stroked Jingxuan’s recently coloured auburn hair. “And you don’t have to hide your graying hair, you know. Your name is supposed to convey wisdom and gray hair shows that.”

Jingxuan cocked her head to one side and considered her mother.

“Actually, I never really knew the meaning behind my name. You mentioned once you put a lot of thought into it, but that was it.”

“What do you want to know?” her mother asked.

“Why Jingxuan? What does it mean?” Jingxuan countered.

“Well, I thought about what I wanted you to be. Also, the time and hour of your birth. People were going to fortune tellers to name their kids but I thought that wasn’t necessary. I was just imagining what kind of person you would be. And the name came to me,” her mother answered.

Jingxuan took a deep breath.

“Mum, I know about Jingyi,” she said quietly. She felt her heart racing, her hands trembling slightly.

Her mother fixed her gaze on Jingxuan, studying her. She nodded. Jingxuan was surprised her mother didn’t have a bigger reaction. But then again she had never witnessed her mother display any huge reaction.

“You are a curious kid, always have been. You like to test boundaries and you like to test authority. I am not at all surprised you went through my things in your room. I should’ve considered this. But it is what it is,” her mother sighed.

“So, tell me more,” Jingxuan pressed.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Does my name have anything to do with her? What happened? Why is she not with us?”

Her mother shook her head.

“I picked Jingxuan because I wanted you to be calm. I wanted you to become the woman who is full of strength, of composure, of stillness. That no matter what happens, you would remain steady, phlegmatic.” Her mother took her hand. “I also wished for you to live your own life. I wished for you to have wisdom to manoeuvre life in this complicated world. I wanted for you to have depth of character, of knowing, and to stand out from other people, quietly.”

“Does it have anything to do with Jingyi?” Jingxuan repeated. A tinge of defiance crept into her voice.

“Ahh, and look, aside from all these things I wanted from you, you inherited one of my character traits – persistence.” Her mother smiled at her.

“Mum, that must not have been easy for you. I read it. You were devastated and now I am too. I could have grown up with a sister!” Emotion crept into Jingxuan’s voice. She felt guilty at the same time. Stress was not good for her mother, and Jinguxuan knew that. Still, she has so many questions.

Her mother closed her eyes.

“Can I get some water, please?” her mother asked, opening her eyes and smiling at Jingxuan.

Jingxuan wished the helper was back already. Why were they gone so long? The dog did not need more than a 30-minute walk. Jingxuan nodded, and went into the kitchen. She poured a glass of iced rosella tea for herself too. She felt tears brimming, threatening to spill from her eyes. This might be her last glass of iced rosella tea. Her mother has been making this every week for twenty years now, and she has taught the helper how to make it. Jingxuan’s husband had always urged her to learn and pick up some recipes from her mother because her mother would not always be around and what would Jingxuan do then? The tears now come rolling down her face in big, fat streaks. Grabbing a tissue and wiping them, Jingxuan took a few deep breaths before carrying the glasses back to the master bedroom.

Her mother was gazing out the window when she returned.

“Is the rosella tea good? I don’t think Amy is learning very well. The tea still doesn’t taste the same,” she said.

“It’s alright, Mum,” Jingxuan replied.

They sat in silence for a while before her mother spoke quietly.

“I named her Jingyi because I wanted her to be whole. I wanted her to grow up and still be whole, despite whatever circumstances she would find herself in. I don’t know if her name has been changed. I hope they kept it. It was my hope for her.” Her mother closed her eyes.

The words forming the questions were at the tip of her tongue, but Jingxuan struggled to utter them. She could see the pain on her mother’s face. She thought about how her mother has had to live with this for so many years. She fell silent.

Outside, Jingxuan heard the door unlock, and the hurried sound of the dog’s nails clicking on the marble floor.

“Xiao Bai!” Jingxuan exclaimed. “Oh, you’re such a good boy.”

Xiao Bai reached up and licked her face. The Maltese is no longer as active as he was, and Jingxuan could see how much effort it took him just to try to lift his front paws to reach her. She carried him and hugged him close.

“Why don’t you get Amy to make some lunch? Let me take another nap, then I will try to come and join you,” her mother said.

“Okay, Mum. You have a good nap,” Jingxuan said, standing up, still carrying Xiao Bai.

As she closed the bedroom door, Jingxuan knew that they would never discuss Jingyi again. She would have to find a way to make peace with never knowing what happened or where her sister is now. She felt her heart racing again, and she did not know if this emotion she felt was anger or sadness or something else. But she understood too, that this secret is her mother’s, and that the emotional pain must have been too great for her mother to bear. And now it has become hers too.