On Odd Days, I Was Her Dead Daughter

After my sister drowned that summer, my mom lost her mind.

She set a rule: on odd-numbered days, I was Maya. On even-numbered days, I was Lily.

When I was playing Lily, I had to wear a pair of red Mary Jane shoes, two sizes too small, and dance ballet in the living room, even if my toes bled.

When I was playing myself, I could only eat stale, hard bread, because Maya was a sinner who didn't deserve meat.

I endured it for three years, until she smashed the art supplies I'd secretly saved up for, declaring that Lily wasn't grown up yet, so no one was allowed to draw.

That's when I finally snapped. I smashed Lily's favorite music box.

It was almost eleven at night when my mom forced me to put on those red shoes.

Today was the second, an even-numbered day.

I was Lily.

Lily loved to dance, and Lily had a pair of red Mary Jane shoes.

But Lily was only eight when she died.

I was seventeen this year.

Those tiny shoes, probably a child's size eight or ten, didn't fit my feet at all.

"Put them on." My mom sat on the couch, holding a clothes hanger, her eyes fixed on me.

I gritted my teeth, curling my toes, and painfully crammed my feet inside.

The heel of the shoe dug into my ankle, breaking the skin.

"Not on right. Do it again."

The clothes hanger whipped my calf, leaving a red mark.

I didn't flinch.

I pulled my foot out, took a deep breath, and shoved it back in with force.

This time, my toe bones made a soft clicking sound, and the shoes finally slipped on.

It hurt.

An excruciating pain.

"Dance." My mom pressed the play button on the boombox.

The music of "Swan Lake" filled the cramped living room.

I rose onto my tiptoes and began to twirl around the room.

The floor was hard, and the soles of the red shoes were even harder.

With every turn, my toes felt like they were being pricked by needles.

Blood trickled down my heels, soaking into my white socks, turning dark red.

My mom watched me, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Lily dances so beautifully," she murmured to herself. "Lily will be a great dancer someday."

I bit my lip, twirling silently.

Three years.

Every even-numbered day for three years, I had to dance in this living room.

Sometimes for half an hour, sometimes for two hours.

I couldn't stop until my mom got tired of watching and fell asleep.

Today, she was full of energy.

She watched me dance for a full hour.

Just as I was about to collapse, she suddenly stood up.

She walked towards my desk.

My heart sank.

In the desk drawer were the art supplies I'd secretly saved up for.

On odd-numbered days, I was Maya.

Maya loved to draw.

But my mom wouldn't let me.

She'd say Lily wasn't grown up yet, Lily hadn't learned to draw, so why should Maya get to?

She pulled open the drawer.

"Mom!" I stopped dancing, ignoring the pain in my feet, and lunged towards her.

Too late.

She had already taken out the paints.

"What is this?" She turned, looking at me coldly.

"Mom, that's my---"

"I asked you, what is this?!" Her voice suddenly rose, sharp and grating.

"Paints."

"Who told you to buy them?"

"I saved my own money..."

"Lily doesn't draw!" she shrieked hysterically, slamming the box of paints onto the floor.

The plastic box shattered.

Colorful paints splattered out, staining the floor.

Still not appeased, she picked up my sketchbook, and with a ripping sound, tore it in half.

It was a half-filled sketchbook.

Inside were drawings of the sky, of flying birds, of a world without Lily and without a crazy mom.

Now, it was all destroyed.

She threw the torn pieces of paper in my face.

"I told you, Lily isn't grown up yet, no one is allowed to draw!"

The edge of a paper piece grazed my cheek, a small sting.

I looked at the mess on the floor, at the vivid colors and shredded paper.

The last thread in my heart suddenly snapped.

I didn't cry.

I turned and walked towards the TV stand.

On the TV stand sat a pink music box.

My mom had bought it for Lily on her eighth birthday.

Lily loved that music box the most.

My mom polished it every day, not allowing even a speck of dust.

I walked over and picked up the music box.

My mom froze.

"What are you doing?" Her voice trembled slightly.

"Lily doesn't draw," I said, looking at her, enunciating each word. "And Lily won't listen to music boxes anymore."

I raised the music box and slammed it onto the floor.

Bang!

Its plastic shell shattered into pieces.

The little ballerina doll inside popped out, its mainspring broken, emitting a grating metallic screech.

The living room fell into a deathly silence.

Only the boombox continued to play "Swan Lake."

My mom stared blankly at the fragments on the floor.

Her face was as white as paper.

I thought she would hit me.

I thought she would beat me half to death with the clothes hanger.

I was ready for it.

But she didn't.

She slowly crouched down, picking up the little doll with a broken leg.

Her hands trembled violently.

"Mom." I gasped, shouting out the words I'd held in for three years: "Lily is dead! She died three years ago! Drowned in the pool! If you hadn't been so busy playing cards and hadn't watched her, how would she have fallen in?!"

She flinched.

The broken doll in her hand dropped to the floor.

She looked up at me.

Her eyes filled with fear, despair, and disbelief.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

I looked at her coldly.

"I was the one who found her by the pool. I was the one who pulled her out. Her body was bloated and ice-cold."

"It wasn't my fault."

"It was never my fault."

"You killed her."

I took off the red shoes and threw them at her feet.

"I don't want to be Lily anymore."

I turned and walked back to my room, locking the door behind me.

That night, there was no sound from the living room.

No crying, no shouting, nothing.

The next morning, I pushed open my bedroom door.

The living room was spotlessly clean.

The paint stains were gone, the shredded paper was gone, and the music box fragments were gone.

The red shoes were neatly placed on the shoe rack.

My mom wasn't in the living room.

I walked to the TV stand.

On the wall, where Lily's photo used to hang, there was a white piece of paper.

On it, a cold, diagonal tally mark was drawn with a black marker.

Beside it was a line of text.

The handwriting was neat, the ink pressed deeply into the paper.

"Maya, from today on, you are Lily every day."

The words on the wall felt like a curse.

I stared at the line for a moment, then tore the white paper off, crumpled it, and threw it into the trash.

I put on my school uniform, grabbed my backpack, and left.

I hadn't eaten breakfast.

The pot was empty; my mom wasn't home.

I didn't know where she went, and I didn't want to know.

At school, the first class was literature.

I sat in the back row.

The desk next to me was empty.

No one wanted to sit with me.

Because I was "sick."

Lily had asthma.

My mom's rule was that when I played Lily, I had to take medication regularly.

To avoid her finding out, I put vitamin tablets into the asthma medicine bottle and brought them to school to take.

I also had to pretend to cough, pretend to struggle for breath.

Over time, everyone in class knew that Maya had a crazy sister, and that Maya herself wasn't normal.

"Schizo."

That was the nickname they called me behind my back.

During recess, I stayed in the classroom.

Because Lily couldn't engage in strenuous activity.

A few girls walked in from outside, laughing and chatting.

When they saw me, their laughter paused, then they deliberately lowered their voices, but still loud enough for me to hear.

"Look, the schizo is playing dead again."

"I heard her mom's crazy too, always picking up trash on the streets."

"So gross, she was just taking pills. Who knows what she's actually taking."

I kept my head down, staring at the words in my textbook, pretending not to hear.

Suddenly, a hand slapped my desk.

I looked up.

It was Chloe.

Chloe was a top student, good grades, pretty, and popular.

She looked at the girls, frowning.

"What are you guys talking about? The bell rang, don't you need to get back to your seats?"

The girls pouted and dispersed.

Chloe pulled out the chair next to me and sat down.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," my voice was cold.

"You didn't take your medicine today." She stared at my half-open backpack.

My heart tightened.

"Forgot it."

"Don't you have asthma? You forgot your medicine?" She looked into my eyes, as if trying to see through me.

"It's not serious," I turned my head to look out the window.

Chloe didn't press further.

She pulled an old-fashioned caramel candy from her pocket and placed it on my desk.

"Here."

I looked at the candy.

Lily liked caramel candy.

Maya didn't; Maya found it too sweet, sickly sweet.

"I don't eat candy." I pushed the candy back.

Chloe paused.

"Didn't you used to love them?"

I didn't say anything.

Before was before, now was now.

Last night I smashed the music box, I took off the red shoes.

I didn't want to pretend anymore.

Chloe sighed and put the candy back.

"Maya," she suddenly called my name.

I turned my head.

"I actually know," she lowered her voice. "You don't really have asthma, do you?"

My hands clenched.

"I saw you switch the medicine bottles," she said. "You poured out the white pills and put in yellow vitamins."

I stared at her, my heart pounding fast.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I don't want anything," she looked at me. "I just think you're living too hard."

"It's none of your business."

I stood up and walked out of the classroom.

It was gym class in the afternoon.

The shuttle run test.

I stood by the track, watching others warm up.

The coach blew his whistle.

"Maya, are you running today?"

Everyone's eyes were on me.

Usually, I'd bring a doctor's note to be excused.

But today, I didn't have one.

My mom hadn't prepared it for me last night.

"Yes," I said.

A ripple of whispers went through the crowd.

"Doesn't she have asthma?"

"Must be faking it, she looks fine usually."

"She's a schizo, probably a different personality today."

I ignored them and walked to the starting line.

Chloe stood beside me, giving me a glance.

"Can you do it?"

"Yes."

The whistle blew, and I sprinted off.

I ran fast.

The wind whistled past my ears.

I wanted to run out all the pent-up frustration in my heart.

I wanted to prove that I was a healthy person, that I wasn't Lily, that I didn't have asthma.

The first lap, I was in the lead.

The second lap, my breathing became ragged.

Not faking it, I was genuinely tired.

It had been too long since I had done any strenuous exercise.

My lungs felt like they were burning, and there was a metallic taste of blood in my throat.

The sound of footsteps behind me grew closer.

Chloe overtook me.

Other girls also passed me one by one.

I gritted my teeth, my eyes fixed on the track ahead.

Can't stop.

If I stopped, I was Lily.

If I kept running, I was Maya.

The last lap.

My legs felt heavy as lead.

My vision started to blur.

I heard someone calling my name.

"Maya! You got this!"

It was Chloe.

I pushed with all my might and crossed the finish line.

Then, my legs gave out, and I fell to my knees on the synthetic track.

I gasped for air, sweat blurring my eyes.

Someone offered me a bottle of water.

I looked up. It was Chloe.

"Drink some water."

I took the water, twisted open the cap, and guzzled a large mouthful.

"You ran pretty fast," she smiled.

I managed a weak smile back.

Just then, a harsh voice cut through the air.

"Well, well, the asthma patient can run now? Didn't die, huh?"

It was Jake.

The class troublemaker.

He walked over with a few other guys, looking down at me.

"Maya, your acting's terrible. Yesterday you were coughing your guts out, and today you can run? Is your illness intermittent or something?"

The people around them snickered.

I tightened my grip on the water bottle.

"Mind your own business," I said coldly.

"Got a temper, do we?" Jake stepped closer. "I heard your mom's a psycho. Did you inherit it?"

My head buzzed.

I shot up, and the mineral water bottle in my hand smacked him square in the face.

Water splashed all over him.

Jake froze.

The whole field fell silent.

"You fucking hit me?" Jake yelled, regaining his senses, and shoved me hard.

I was already out of strength, and his push sent me tumbling to the ground.

My palms scraped, oozing blood.

"Jake! What are you doing!" Chloe stepped in front of me.

"Chloe, stay out of this!" Jake pointed at me. "This crazy bitch hit me first!"

"You started by insulting her!" Chloe stood her ground.

The coach ran over.

"What's going on! Are you rebelling!"

Jake and I were both called to the principal's office.

The principal was a bald, middle-aged man.

He slammed his fist on the desk, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Fighting! You dare to fight! Maya, it's bad enough you fake illnesses, now you're hitting other students?"

I kept my head down, looking at the blood on my palms, and said nothing.

"Jake, you too! Why are you picking a fight with a girl?"

Jake rolled his eyes.

"Call your parents!" The dean of students issued a final ultimatum. "Bring your parents in tomorrow!"

My heart sank.

Call my parents.

My mom.

If my mom came, the whole school would know what kind of person she was.

Everyone would see her madness.

I looked up at the dean.

"Dean, my mom is sick. She can't come."

"Sick? What kind of sickness?"

"Mental illness."

The office suddenly fell silent.

The dean froze.

Jake froze too.

I looked at their shocked expressions and suddenly found it somewhat amusing.

"She's crazy," I said calmly. "She can't come. If you want to expel me, go ahead."

With that, I turned and walked out of the office.

Behind me, I heard the principal's enraged roar.

I ignored it.

I walked out of the school building, the sunlight so bright it made my eyes water.

I didn't want to go back to class, and I didn't want to go home.

I wandered aimlessly through the streets.

As I passed a stationery store, I stopped.

In the display window was a set of watercolors.

Exactly like the set my mom smashed last night.

I stood outside the window and watched for a long time.

It wasn't until dark that I turned and walked towards home.

The stairwell of our apartment complex always smelled of mildew.

The light had been broken for a long time; no one fixed it.

I climbed the three flights of stairs in the dark.

Just as I reached the third-floor landing, I heard an argument from upstairs.

"Are you crazy?! Knocking on doors in the middle of the night!"

It was a man's voice.

Unfamiliar.

My heart tightened, and I sped up, running to the fourth floor.

The door on the left on the fourth floor was open.

A man in a tank top, with tattooed arms, stood in the doorway, holding a baseball bat, his face furious.

My mom stood opposite him.

She was holding a stack of old newspapers.

Her hair was a mess, her eyes vacant.

"Where's Mr. Henderson?" my mom murmured, "I'm bringing Mr. Henderson his newspapers. Lily said Mr. Henderson likes to hear her read the newspapers."

"What Mr. Henderson! My name is Stone! I just moved in a month ago! If you knock on my door again, I'll break your legs!" The man waved the baseball bat in his hand.

I rushed forward and pulled my mom behind me.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I apologized repeatedly. "My mom isn't well, she got the wrong apartment. Please don't take it personally."

The man sized me up, then snorted.

"Keep your crazy people locked up! Don't let them out to scare people!"

With that, he slammed the door shut.

Silence returned to the stairwell.

I turned and looked at my mom.

She was still holding the stack of newspapers, staring blankly at the closed door.

"Mom," I tugged on her sleeve, "Let's go home."

"Where's Mr. Henderson?" She turned to me. "Where did Mr. Henderson go?"

"Mr. Henderson's son moved him out a year ago. This apartment was sold."

"Impossible." She shook her head. "Lily said yesterday she was going to read newspapers to Mr. Henderson. Lily doesn't lie."

My temper flared.

"Lily is dead!" I yelled at her. "She died three years ago! She can't read newspapers! Can you just snap out of it?!"

I snatched the newspapers from her hand and threw them hard on the ground.

The newspapers scattered everywhere.

They were dated three years ago.

My mom froze.

She looked at the newspapers on the floor, then slowly crouched down.

She began to pick them up, one by one.

The stairwell was dark; I couldn't see her expression.

But I could hear her suppressed sobs.

"Lily isn't dead," she said as she picked them up. "Lily is right here. She's just being naughty and hiding."

I looked at her hunched back, and tears suddenly streamed down my face.

I hated her.

I hated her for forcing me to pretend to be Lily, for smashing my paints, for making me a laughingstock at school.

But I also pitied her.

She was trapped in that summer three years ago, unable to move on.

I crouched down and helped her pick up the newspapers.

"Mom, let's go home," my voice softened.

She didn't speak, just clutched the newspapers tightly.

Back home, the living room still had that cold, desolate look.

My mom placed the newspapers on the coffee table, then walked into the kitchen.

A moment later, she came out with a bowl of noodles.

a bowl of plain, watery oatmeal, utterly bland, without a hint of flavor or richness.

"Eat," she placed the noodles in front of me.

I looked at the bowl of noodles, my stomach churning.

Odd days meant vegetarian, even days meant meat.

Today was the third, an odd day.

I was Maya.

Maya was a sinner, unworthy of meat.

I picked up my fork, speared a noodle, and put it in my mouth.

No taste.

Like chewing on cardboard.

I forced myself to swallow, suppressing the nausea, and finished the bowl of noodles.

My mom sat opposite me, watching me the whole time.

"You didn't take your medicine today," she suddenly said.

My hand, holding the fork, paused.

"I forgot."

"Lily can't forget her medicine."

"Today I'm Maya." I looked up, meeting her eyes.

She froze for a moment.

"Maya," she repeated the name, her gaze slowly turning cold. "Why doesn't Maya just die?"

My heart clenched.