Father suggested that Mother go back for the funeral, but it was too late. A cold war descended in our home and communication between my parents became minimal. Mother was far away, always staring off into the distance. She took less care to comb her hair or change out of her pyjamas. Sometimes it would take a few tries before Mother responded to my calls for her.

It was an unusually wet spring, depressing and grey. When Father was out of the house, Bea and I could hear Mother crying in her room.

One day, Bea and I found her outside, lying in the flower bed in the backyard, singing in Chinese. Mud surrounded her and blooming pink poppies drooped next to her, resting their heads on her shoulder. There was a snail on her neck. Bea picked it up and threw it far away into the grass.

Bea and I looked at each other. I knew that my sister was viewing something she shouldn’t see. I saw her lip quiver as she tried not to cry.

“We need to get Mom inside,” I told Bea. She nodded. We tried to drag her, but she was too heavy.

“Mom!” Bea sobbed. She could not hold in her tears anymore. I wanted to pull her away from Mother and tell her to go inside, but I knew I couldn’t do this alone.

“Mom, please,” I pleaded. “It’s raining. It’s cold. Come inside. Bea is going to get sick.”

Mother just kept singing her off-key Chinese song.

“Mom! Get up!” I yelled. “You need to come inside. We can’t carry you!”

Mother’s song came to an end, and that seemed to break her trance. She slowly looked around and noticed we were on the ground with her, soaking wet. She hugged us clumsily. The daisies underneath her lay flattened in the grass, their white and yellow petals crushed into the ground. Mother placed her hand in a shallow puddle and her jade bracelet clanged against the interlocking brick pathway. Rising out of the flower bed, she stood and asked why we were outside. It was as if she hadn’t heard our cries before. Bea’s tears were invisible as the rain soaked her face. Mother walked towards the house, oblivious to our distress. We splashed through the backyard and followed her inside. She took a shower and went to bed, leaving us alone.

I dragged Bea into the laundry room, where she just looked at me limply. I told her to take off her wet clothing, and then dumped them into the washing machine with my own. We took a bath, and I tried to lighten the mood by bringing out the bubble bath like we were little kids again, but Bea started to sob as the hot water gushed from the tap. I wiped her down gently with a washcloth, lifting her arms to wash them, and then touching the cloth to her face, wiping her tears away. I washed her hair, and then used the plastic bowl in the tub to wash the suds away. She sat in the water while I did the same for myself. After I dried myself and put my pyjamas on, I helped Bea out of the tub, dried her, and dressed her. She looked at me blankly and did whatever I told her to do. I was afraid that if I stopped moving, the image of Mother lying down in the garden would come back to me and I would start to cry. I blow-dried Bea’s hair and then my own. When I was finished, Bea looked at me and said, “I’m hungry.” I took her by the hand, and we went downstairs.