Chapter 8
Michael woke up to the commotion.
Still half asleep, he rubbed his eyes as he walked out of the bedroom.
"What is going on? Why all the noise..." he mumbled.
Then he spotted Anna sitting on the floor, clutching her hand. Her arm was bright red, covered in blisters.
He also saw his mom, Margaret, still grumbling as she wiped down the stove.
"Mom! Anna! What happened?" Michael jolted fully awake and rushed over.
"It is nothing. Anna knocked over the oatmeal by accident," Margaret said without even looking up, her tone flat.
"Just a little burn, nothing serious. Rinse it under cold water. Check if there is any oatmeal left in the pot and scoop it out. Do not waste it."
"Mom!" Michael's voice shot up, pure disbelief in his tone. "Anna is burned like this, and you are still fussing over a pot of oatmeal?"
He crouched down, reaching for Anna's hand, but hesitated, afraid to hurt her. The veins on his forehead were bulging with worry.
"Anna, are you okay? Does it hurt? Let me see..."
Anna lifted her gaze to Michael.
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but she bit her lip so hard, refusing to let them fall.
Her face was shockingly pale, and her lip was bitten through, a thin line of blood trickling out.
Whatever was left in her eyes, maybe hope, dimmed bit by bit as she met Michael's worried look.
All that was left inside her was emptiness. Just cold, no warmth at all.
"I am fine," Anna said, her voice icy.
Then, using her uninjured left hand, she pushed herself up from the floor, inch by inch, until she was finally standing.
She moved slowly. Every time her right hand shifted, pain shot through it, and her legs were still shaky.
But she still stood tall.
Her back was perfectly straight.
She did not look at Michael, and she did not even glance at Margaret, who was still wiping the counter.
She turned and walked toward the master bedroom, step by step.
Her steps were unsteady, but she made sure every one was solid.
"Anna, where are you going? Go take care of that burn. Put something on it!" Michael called after her.
Anna did not react, as if she had not heard him at all.
She walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
She locked the door.
Michael's anxious calls and Margaret's relentless complaints were shut out.
She pressed her back against the cold door and slowly slid down to the floor.
Her right hand still burned.
But even sharper than that pain was the cold emptiness spreading inside her.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her left hand.
She had no tears left.
Whatever tears she might have had felt frozen solid by the coldness in her chest.
She sat on the floor, dazed, staring at her right hand.
The blisters glistened under the light, her skin red and swollen, and the burning pain came in waves.
It hurt.
But somehow, she could still take it.
She suddenly remembered years ago, when she and Michael had first started dating.
Once, she had nicked her finger while slicing an avocado. Just a tiny cut, a little blood.
Michael had panicked, insisted on dragging her to the campus clinic to disinfect and bandage it, and she had laughed at him for overreacting.
Back then, even a small furrow in her brow had been enough to worry him.
When did he start getting so numb, she wondered. Or maybe just distant.
Was it after Margaret moved in? Or had it started even before that?
Maybe it was because she had always been the one to back down, always the one to compromise, so he had simply grown used to her giving in. Her feelings became background noise. Her needs always came last.
Or maybe, whenever it came down to it, his mother's moods and his role as the good son always mattered more than whatever pain his wife was going through.
Anna tried to force a smile, but her face would not cooperate. The muscles felt frozen.
Outside the door, Michael and Margaret were arguing in low, tense voices.
"Mom! How could you say those things? Anna just burned herself badly!" Michael said.
"What did I say that was wrong? She was not paying attention. Am I supposed to praise her for that? The oatmeal is ruined, and the stove is a mess. Should I just leave it?" Margaret shot back.
"She is my wife! Could you not at least ask if she is okay first?" Michael said.
"I did not ask? I told her to rinse it under cold water, did I not? She just sat there. Is that my fault?" Margaret replied.
"Mom! You are being completely unreasonable!" Michael said.
"Michael! What kind of tone is that? I worked myself to the bone raising you, and now you are raising your voice at me because of her? She burned herself through her own carelessness. It is not like I pushed her!" Margaret said.
"That is not what I meant! Mom, please. Can we just talk about this calmly?" Michael said.
"I am being unreasonable? Fine, I am unreasonable. I will leave. I will go back home right now so I am not a burden to you anymore!" Margaret said.
"Mom, please do not..." Michael started.
Their voices dropped to hushed, hurried tones. Michael trying to calm her down, Margaret crying and complaining, and Michael's low, apologetic voice smoothing things over.
Anna leaned against the door, listening quietly.
It felt like overhearing a drama that had nothing to do with her.
The hollow, barren feeling inside her spread wider, colder.
So this was what she was worth to him.
Caught between his wife and his mother, between her pain and his sense of duty, her hurt could be brushed aside, overlooked, or simply set to zero. As if it did not exist at all.
He might worry about her. He might even feel a brief pang of sympathy.
But the moment his mother's feelings and his own guilt came into play, whatever sympathy he had for her just crumbled.