After Buddhist Mom Invented the Merit System, She Went Mad

4: 4

In the days that followed, my mother never said my name once.

The smell in the apartment first turned obvious on the fifth day.

At the start it was only the faintest thread of something, and my mother assumed the trash hadn't been taken out. She sent my sister to carry the kitchen bin down.

But even with the trash gone, the smell stayed, like an invisible snake, coiling through the rooms in thin, drifting strands.

"Is the drain clogged?"

She bent over the sink and sniffed, then crouched by the floor drain and sniffed there too.

Florence came running in from the living room, pinching her nose, her little face screwed up.

"Mom, it stinks in here. Like there's a dead rat."

My mother straightened, and without meaning to her eyes drifted toward my bedroom door.

That door had been shut for half a month now, a dusty seam of shadow packed under it.

She wiped her hands on her apron, hesitated, then walked over and knocked twice.

"Beryl?"

No answer.

She knocked twice more, harder.

"Beryl! Do you hear me? Is something dead in your room? Get out here and clean it up!"

Still, only dead silence.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned and stalked off, furious.

"Fine, leave her."

"If it stinks, she brought it on herself. When she can't stand it anymore, she'll come out on her own!"

But before I came out, the neighbors came first.

Marjorie Chavez was the first at the door.

"Mrs. Fox, my husband said the smell coming from your place... it isn't right. Won't you go check on Beryl's room?"

"She's sulking, locked herself in, won't see anyone. Don't go sticking your nose in."

"Sulking? What kind of sulk lasts half a month? What kind of sulk keeps a kid out of school? Mrs. Fox, just open the door and let me look. If Beryl's fine, I'll leave right away."

"Is she my daughter, or yours?"

My mother's voice went cold.

Marjorie opened her mouth, and in the end said nothing.

She stepped back, looked at the shut bedroom door, then at my mother, and turned and went down the stairs.

Half an hour later, the knocking came again.

This time it was three people.

Officer Abraham James from the community station, the district's auxiliary officer, Evelyn Dickerson, and Marjorie standing behind them.

My mother opened the door, and when she saw the group her face went from annoyance to wariness.

"Ms. Fox, someone reported that your older daughter hasn't left the apartment in a long time."

"We're just here to check on the situation."

"What's there to check?"

"My daughter is fine. She's throwing a fit at me, that's all. What kid doesn't fight with their parents? Is that against the law now?"

Abraham didn't take the bait of an argument.

Behind him, Officer Dickerson tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on the shut door deep in the living room.

A dim seam of shadow was packed under it, as if something had lain there a long time.

Abraham drew his eyes back, his voice still unhurried.

"Then could she come out and see us? Just once. It would put our minds at ease."

My mother glanced back at the door, her tone thick with impatience.

"Beryl, do you hear me? The officers are at the door now. Get out here!"

But there was still no sound from inside.

"Beryl!"

She strode to the bedroom door and started pounding on it, her palm slamming against the wood, slap after slap, until dust shook loose from the frame.

"Do you hear me? Quit playing mute!"

The door boomed under her hand. Nothing inside.

"Where's the key?"

She whipped around and screamed at Florence, her voice already cracked out of shape.

"Mom, she's obviously acting again."

"My classmate's older sister does the same thing. One scolding and she plays dead, then waits for the adults to go soft so she can hit them up for money—"

"Shut up! Give me the key!"

Florence froze for a second.

She had never heard her mother speak to her in that tone.

Then she pouted, dug a key out of the TV cabinet drawer, and muttered as she handed it over, "What's the big deal..."

My mother snatched the key, jammed it into the lock, and turned it twice.

It wouldn't turn.

The door was bolted from the inside.

Her hand froze on the key, her whole body stalling for a second.

Then she let go of the key, stepped back half a pace, and kicked the door straight on.

The door was old, its hinges long since rusted.

One kick and the latch sprang free, the door slamming into the wall with a heavy, dull crash.

And then a smell carved deep into human instinct came pouring out of the dark.