The Astonishing Color of After(10)

Mom gave me a look. “We do not have good terms. There was an argument.”

“But can’t you just make up?”

She looked so conflicted when she tried to answer. “It’s difficult. Sometimes things not so simple. You understand when you are old enough.”

I hated that answer.





11





A week after I show Dad the box, it happens close to midnight: Every window in our house unlatches and slides open.

I’m on the sofa when I hear the scrape and slam of the window frames, and a second later, the noise of things softly shushing against the screens. Things that sound like they’re angry and trying to get in.

People? Robbers?

The curtains in the living room curl toward me in fat billows. A whisper of wind sneaks in around the edges.

My mother?

Fear seeps through me, crawling toward my center like cold water through fabric. I’m glued down, fixed in place. One tiny nugget of logic in my brain fights against the freeze, reminds me that sitting here with my back stiff against the couch is not helpful.

“Mom?” My voice is all scratched and shaky.

It’s like that one word halts everything. The shushing is gone. The wind dies. The only answer is silence.

I do a circuit and check the kitchen. Nothing.

Then I hear the distant crash, and more shushing far away. Whatever it is has moved to the second floor, where it sounds much worse. Up there the wind is whistling, high-pitched and sharp.

My father curses loudly from his office. I hear his heavy footfalls, listen to him creaking from one side of the house to the other and back again. More cursing.

“What’s going on?” I call up the stairs.

He shouts back, “I’m handling it!” Which doesn’t sound entirely true.

I don’t want to go up there. But it sounds like he might need help.

With each step I take, the fear tightens around my legs, trying to anchor me in place, making my feet heavy and slow.

Aside from the white paint incident, I’ve tried my hardest to avoid going upstairs. Every time I climb these steps, I can’t help thinking that I’m making my way toward where the body was.

The body.

The stain.

I’m halfway up when a second crash comes, this time loud enough that I cringe and slap my hands over my ears.

My eyes squeeze shut and I sit down hard.

The body the body the body. The stain the stain the stain.

“Leigh?” It’s Dad, standing at the top of the steps, leaning on the banister like he’s been defeated.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

That’s when one last gust of wind comes funneling through the house, through every open window, crashing together above the stairs, creating a miniature tornado. Bits of red appear, sweeping into the current of twisting air. Dad tries to fight it, wheeling his arms into the tornado again and again.

The wind abruptly dies; everything settles. A torn window screen cartwheels along the hallway and down a few of the steps before coming to a halt. Pieces of red cling to my father; the look on his face stony and furious as he tries to brush them off.

“What are they?” I ask, squinting to see, but as soon as the words are out I know the answer. I don’t even need him to say it.

“Feathers,” he says. “They’re goddamn feathers.”

Days pass and we don’t talk about it. No mention of the feathers or the bird. He pretends the strange wind never came. But he’s quieter than usual—the event spooked him more than me. It’s a long week full of cold silence, uncertain and carbazole violet.

After that, he books us two plane tickets.





12





Taipei is fifteen and a half hours away. It’s a direct flight. I can’t remember ever sitting still for so long in my life. Part of me wonders if it makes any sense, scraping across the sky toward these people I’ve never met. But the thought isn’t worth it. This trip is almost too good to be true; I have the fear that at any moment Dad is going to stand up and somehow force the pilot to turn around.

It took over a week for him to get all his work things settled, then just one afternoon for us to pack. I was prepared to fly out by myself, but he didn’t want to let me do that. It doesn’t even matter. All I care is that we’re doing what Mom wants. Or at least, what I think she wants.

On the car ride to the airport, Dad tried to give me all these “fun facts” about Taiwan. Suddenly he was invested in this trip. Like it was his idea or something.

“You’re going to love it, Leigh. Taipei is such a neat city. There’s a Seven-Eleven on every corner—people just call them Seven. And like, their garbage trucks play music; it’s so random. We’ll definitely go to Taipei 101—it’s one of the tallest skyscrapers in the world. Oh, and we’re there in time for the Ghost Festival, if we want to make a day trip to Jilong—which is actually spelled K-E-E-L-U-N-G—”

“Neat,” I said, using his word. My voice came out flatter than I’d meant it to. He stopped talking after that.

Right before we took off, I checked my in-box. Sitting at the top above all the unread messages of condolences, there was a new email:



FROM: [email protected]