The parents of the woman Marcus killed, Sophie Bell’s mom and dad, they came by too. The mom, she was angry, I could tell, she could barely look at Marcus, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d smacked him. And the dad, the dad looked sadder than anyone I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen more than my fair share of sadness. He kept his hand on his wife’s shoulder and spoke in a low voice. He told us that it was important for them to forgive so they could move on. When he said that, his wife’s face got so tight, like a clenched fist. “We forgive you,” she said, her voice creaky and cracked, “but you ruined our lives. Don’t ever forget it.” Then she got out a photo from her handbag, one that had been folded and creased, and handed it to him. “This was our daughter. This is her son. You took away his mother. You took away our daughter.”
Marcus held the photo with trembling hands and stared at it, really stared at it, for a long time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“We know,” said the father.
After they left Marcus locked himself in his room and cried so loud we could hear him in every corner of the house.
I ran from his tears; I couldn’t stand to hear him. I ran out of the house and down the street and I ran and ran and ran and for the first time in a long time I didn’t check my times. I didn’t care.
But I can’t afford not to care. The race is next week. Riveo somehow managed to get it set up so the race will be in the Olympic stadium. I’ll be running in an Olympic stadium. Just that thought alone should be enough to get me pumped up, but all it does is remind me what a big deal this is, how much is riding on this race.
I’m so close.
CHAPTER 57
LaoLao is swearing up a storm in the kitchen. English swearwords, Mandarin swearwords, I even think I hear a French curse or two.
“LaoLao! What’s wrong?” I’ve just gotten home from practice, one of the last practices before the big race on Saturday, and am dripping with sweat and don’t really want to be in our stifling kitchen, but she seems upset. Really upset. “Where’s Marcus?”
She ignores me and carries on swearing. And chopping.
“I make a mistake! One little mistake. One mistake and Mister Head Chef shout at me. At me! My daughter is his boss and he shouting at me.” She clucks in disgust. “He say I am too slow, that I take too long. I show him. I can cut chicken faster than anyone!”
I smile, but her words sit uncomfortably in my brain. Faster than anyone. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks, and it sounds funny coming out of LaoLao’s mouth.
She’s got a whole chicken on the counter in front of her and she’s hacking at it with a cleaver and rubbery bits of raw chicken are flying everywhere.
“Careful,” I say, because it doesn’t look like she’s paying attention and I know that cleaver is the sharpest knife in the kitchen.
“I work every night! I never take breaks! I make noodles, I make chicken, I make dumplings, I never ask for rest! And then, today, today I forget to put chicken in da pan ji…”
“You forgot to put the chicken in the Big Plate Chicken dish?” Da pan ji, or Big Plate Chicken, is one of my favorite dishes LaoLao makes. A huge bowl of spicy stew with chopped chicken, on the bone, always on the bone, chunks of potatoes, and fresh noodles. I don’t know how she could forget to put in the key ingredient.
The cleaver comes down on the counter with a thwack and I step away to avoid getting splattered with chicken bits.
“I have a lot on my mind! I think about Marcus and your mother, and you. And the house! And the money! Too much to think about. Chicken, chicken is least important.”
Thwack.
The cleaver goes through the chicken’s breastbone. LaoLao isn’t really looking where she’s cutting, she’s just tearing the chicken apart.
“And Mister Head Chef pretend he being nice. He say, ‘Oh, you so tired, go get rest,’ like I have a choice. I know what he doing. He sending me home because I am old!” She thwacks off a leg.
“But, LaoLao … you are tired.” I don’t tell her she’s old. We both know she’s old.
“But we cannot afford for me to be tired!”
Again, her words send a tremor through me. That’s how I feel. I don’t want LaoLao feeling like that. That’s why it’s so important for me to win on Saturday. My LaoLao shouldn’t be feeling like this.
“It’s OK,” I say, stepping closer to her. “Here, why don’t you go lie down?”
Thwack.
I see the cleaver going into the soft underside of her arm, below her elbow and above her wrist. A chunk of skin comes off with it; it looks alarmingly like the raw chicken. And then, blood.
For a second, I don’t move. It looks unreal. Like I’m watching a movie. But then LaoLao gives a short, sharp shriek of pain and the cleaver clatters to the floor.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Blood is getting everywhere. LaoLao has slumped to the ground, she’s trying to cover the gaping hole with her other hand, but blood is spurting out through her fingers.
“Wing…” she says, her voice scared, “get Dee Dee.”
I can’t leave LaoLao. I grab a dish towel but then worry it’s dirty, and I don’t want to put a dirty dish towel over an open wound, so I whip my shirt off and try to staunch the blood.
It keeps coming. Oh God, it keeps coming. She must have cut an artery.
“Granny Dee!” I scream as loud as I can. “Granny Dee!”
Granny Dee comes into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She must have been napping in her room.
“Oh my Lord! Mei!”
I’ve never heard my Granny Dee call LaoLao by her first name. By her Chinese name.