The Intersectional Athlete

Losing weight was the most clichéd New Year’s resolution, as Suzanne was painfully aware. Every December, the advertisements on the Internet and radio bombarded her senses with “beach bodies,” diet pills, and gym membership promotions. She was friends with a couple gym rats on social media, and they loved posting memes full of mock dread and disdain for “resolutionists.” Her family and friends back home would have laughed at this “metropolitan silliness.”

Well, the ads finally got to her. Here she was, standing in the lobby of the local gym, new membership card in hand. She preferred to think of it as the desire to do right finally triumphing over personal pride.

Growing up, Suzanne never exactly thought of herself as fat. Food had always played a central role in happy, heartwarming events. It was a way for family and friends to share, connect, and bond. Everyone she knew had more or less the same body type.

When she went to college in the city, she learned a great deal more about health and nutrition—and that this was, in fact, not a normal lifestyle for everyone else. Admittedly, she was in denial at first, but she came to appreciate the eye-opening experience. She knew she had to make some changes, at least for her own sake. If she could help others, that would be even better.

But it was all too easy to revert to old habits once she settled back home. Back where food was love, and her worldly city friends were no longer around to tell her otherwise.

She affixed the membership card to her keychain and tried to appear confident as she strode down the steps to the gym proper. New year, new you! Having moved over a thousand miles away to this bustling city just a month ago for an exciting career change, she figured this was as good a time as any to try to get in shape, too. She wasn’t exactly sure where or how to start, but simply showing up was already an achievement, right?

The room full of cardio machines had three people in it: a woman about her age running on a treadmill, an older woman idly pedaling on a stationary bike while reading a book, and an elderly man wheezing as he climbed the Stairmaster. There was only one person in the weight room, but he looked extremely muscular and intimidating, and Suzanne didn’t want to be alone with him. There was a pool, but she didn’t bother checking it out since she didn’t know how to swim.

She returned to the first room, stepped onto a treadmill, and started jogging. The gym was playing a surprisingly enjoyable playlist of dance music that made her feel energized and excited to work out. As the song built up, she increased the machine’s speed to six miles per hour. This isn’t so bad, she thought. I just have to push myself to come here and do this for half an hour, every other day. If I eat a little less for each meal and cut out sugary drinks, that should be enough to lose weight slowly but steadily, without feeling like I’m on some crazy starvation regime.

Her optimism faded quickly as she felt herself getting tired before the same song was even over. She looked at the distance tracker in dismay: 0.27 miles. That’s it? It took all the willpower she could muster to get that number up to 0.50 before she let herself lower the speed to a power walk. After two minutes of this, she pumped it back up to 6 mph, and continued this cycle until twenty minutes had elapsed. Then she walked slowly for five minutes, turned the thing off, and headed for the water fountain. The calorie counter read 151 burned—less than a can of soda.

She was disappointed, but also feeling dangerously light-headed. It’s probably best not to push myself too hard the first day, anyway, she told herself as she gulped down the water gratefully.

When she straightened up and turned around, she saw the other young woman who was on the treadmill before.

“Hey, you new here?” the woman asked. She looked incredibly fit and beautiful—in very different ways from the people with whom Suzanne had grown up—and Suzanne couldn’t help but admire her. She had been running much faster than 6 mph when Suzanne was doing her little tour of the place, and she had kept it up throughout the twenty-five minutes of Suzanne’s own workout. That must have been at least four miles.

“Yes,” she answered, extending her hand. “I’m Suzanne.”

“Carla. You haven’t done much running before, have you?”

Suzanne felt slightly embarrassed, but tried to laugh it off. “Is it that obvious? I’m pretty new to working out in general.”

“You weren’t able to maintain a good pace. At first I thought maybe you were recovering from an injury, but your form wasn’t the best, either. You know, a doctor friend of mine said he loves how running’s getting to be such a fad nowadays, because most people don’t do it right and it winds up bringing him more patient visits.”

“I had no idea!” Maybe it wasn’t so bad that someone had been watching her, after all. She would definitely need to be more conscientious of form.

“It’s really important to get proper running shoes,” Carla added. “They’ll save you money in the long run from potential medical issues.”

“Thanks for the tip.” She was about to go to a nearby chair to take a breather, but Carla had more to say.

“Are you going to hit the weight room, too?”

Suzanne laughed again, this time at the sheer absurdity of trying to lift anything in her current state. “No, I think I’ll be heading home soon. I just need to sit for a bit.”

Carla frowned. “It’s really important to do weight training. You need to build calorie-burning muscle for real, lasting improvements to your metabolism and overall fitness. Squats, deadlifts, bench presses, and a number of other exercises to strengthen your stabilizer muscles. Doing cardio alone won’t cut it.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of stuff! I’ll try to remember to look it all up when I get home.”

“Fat people.”

“Excuse me?” Suzanne asked.

“I’m getting real sick and tired of having to explain shit to fat people all the time.”

“But this is the first time we’ve met.”

Carla didn’t seem to hear her. “Swimming would be better cardio than running, in any case.”

“I don’t know how to swim.” Suzanne was starting to get annoyed. She really wanted to sit down now.

“Really? All that privilege, and you can’t swim?”

“What do you mean? My family didn’t have a pool or anything. Excuse me, I need t—”

“Ugh, just check your privilege, okay? What did you think, that you deserved a pat on the back merely for showing up here today? You have to run, swim, and join the weekly spin class they offer here. Do squats, deadlifts, bench presses, shoulder presses, overhead presses, lunges, rows, lateral raises, calf raises, bicep curls, chin-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, dips, planks, and skull-crushers. It’d be good to join a yoga class or two in your spare time, but not so many as to border on cultural misappropriation. Got that? Otherwise, don’t even bother trying to get in shape. Either you’re in it to win it, or you’re not.”

Then everything went black.

When Suzanne woke up, a gym employee was cradling her head and calling her name. Carla was nowhere to be seen. “I’m fine, thanks,” she mumbled and stood up shakily.

She thought about Carla’s rant all the way home and the rest of the evening. At first she was grateful for the advice, but it became way too much too soon. The woman seemed to have some good points, but why did she have to be so aggressive and condescending? This was all new to Suzanne. What did she mean about privilege, anyway? She was the fit and beautiful one who could effortlessly run at least four miles in one go, and still have energy afterward for weightlifting. Wasn’t Carla the privileged one?

Suzanne definitely wanted to learn and improve, but after today’s hostile encounter, she wasn’t so sure this was the right thing to do anymore. Maybe it was better just to stay the way she was and focus on her new job and surroundings, instead.

The following year, a man whose only qualification was “telling it like it is” declared his candidacy for a national leadership position. When he claimed to “call out fat-phobic sentiment for what it was,” Suzanne listened with uplifted spirits and voted for him.


A friend asked the other day, “Remember Elaine from our high school? Did you hear she got married to an NFL player?”

Of course I remember Elaine. We were in the same fourth-grade class, with a borderline psychotic teacher who would go on epic rants and flip over students’ desks whenever they upset him. That year, the school offered free weekly music classes to those interested in learning to play an instrument. We both signed up for flute lessons, and the school ordered elementary étude books for us.

Somehow the music teacher fell under the impression that Elaine was no longer interested in the lessons. Either she missed the first class or two, or something got mixed-up with her registration. He crossed out her name on the book’s printed label, wrote in mine, and gave it to me.

The following week, the book was missing from my desk. Elaine confronted me about stealing it, and told me with a matter-of-fact smirk that she had taken back what was hers. I snatched it back a few days later while she was outside during recess. She enlisted the aid of two friends, and this little war continued for several more exchanges.

Eventually she demanded, “If this is your stupid book, why does it have my name printed on it?”

I didn’t have an answer. It never occurred to my eight-year-old self to take this to the music teacher for one.

Somehow, I know I ultimately won the war because I was able to keep up with the lessons without having to get a new book. I played in school and community ensembles, winning auditions and awards. Twenty years later, I still play gigs today.

Elaine never wound up doing anything music-related at school. She and I never spoke again after that year.

When the friend mentioned her name, I felt a jolt. The mind can be such a strange and powerful thing, with the way it discards information deemed no longer necessary for survival. The conflict with Elaine had frayed my nerves and chafed at an already anxious temperament. It had made me doubt my own sanity. Worst of all, it had marked the defining moment when I realized I was not one of the cool, confident kids like Elaine and her posse.

Yet some years later, the memory of it was buried entirely. After high school graduation, so was all memory of her existence—until it was suddenly exhumed by my friend’s question.

The mind tends to reduce events and interactions to fragments and snapshots. I remember my fourth-grade teacher shaking a classmate’s possessions out of his desk, but not a single lesson from that year. I remember Elaine only as a haughty, annoyed fourth-grader, brandishing my own book in my face. Does she remember me as a spiteful jerk who kept stealing her book for no reason? Does she blame me for singlehandedly discouraging her from studying music forever?

Most likely, she doesn’t think of me at all (especially if she is now happily married to a professional football player). We flatter ourselves with the assumption that others expend mental energy on us as we might want or expect.

After high school graduation, the school organized a party at a local college campus. Someone from my fifth-grade class approached me at the tables of catered sandwiches and asked if I had indeed climbed onto the roof of the school some weeks ago. Yes, I had—though I didn’t really know why I did it. “Power to you,” he replied, raising a fist and nodding respectfully. I didn’t really know why he respected that, either, but I was amused.

The next time I encountered this fellow again was at our ten-year high school reunion. He approached me at the bar and asked if I remembered climbing onto the roof of the high school. How did he retain this useless piece of information for ten years? We had been in the same school system since the fifth grade; why was this the only thing he seemed to know about me? What about all my musical accolades, academic achievements, and scintillating personality?

The knowledge that most people don’t think of you the way you think of you can be a double-edged sword. It can be disappointing or embarrassing to know that your interactions with others have been reduced to only the lowlights. On the flip side, most people aren’t obsessing over (or even noticing) your stumbles and trips, which can be quite liberating.

Best thing to do, as with most things in life, is try to have a good sense of humor about it.


There’s this pattern in my life: whatever happens on New Year’s Eve sets a precedent or theme for the overall year to come.

On December 31, 2013, I drank so much at a coworker’s house party that I puked and passed out at around eleven o’clock. Pretty much all of 2014 was then spent partying, sometimes for a week straight. This in itself was only a minor uptick from what had already become my standard behavior. What was unusual and concerning was the frequency of my getting sick from it. I must have marked my territory in vomit all over downtown New York and outside every PATH station.

The end of that year, I slipped and fell on my coccyx while playing beer pong. While the injury was not severe, the ache lasted a full month into 2015. Some time after, I tripped while jogging outdoors and fell unfavorably on my left wrist. Again, the pain lasted an unexpectedly long time for something that didn’t require any actual medical treatment. I also wounded a knee on a separate occasion. These may not sound like much, but I had been a relatively sedentary creature in years prior.

I decided to take it easy for 2016. I stayed in and hosted my own New Year’s Eve house party with fewer than a dozen close friends, an assortment of snacks, and many bottles of beer and liquor that went largely untouched. I have since reconnected with several old friends and made some wonderful new ones. Though my drinking still went dangerously unbridled at times, I didn’t puke or get hurt nearly as much. And I enjoyed a greater variety of meaningful experiences that didn’t center around alcohol, from visiting a museum a month (my New Year’s resolution) to traveling.

Last Saturday, I found a key, a sock, and a ring that had been missing for weeks to months. I am thus anticipating 2017 to be a year of rediscovery and reaffirmation. Old questions answered. Loose ties resolved. A cleaned-up act, at last. I know what you’re thinking: Grouping events by year is astrological hocus-pocus. Hindsight is 20/20. The future is filled with self-fulfilling prophecies.

In fact, this is less of a superstitious matter and more of a mechanism for calibrating perspective and setting goals. Reviewing events within the framework of a day and a year provides a straightforward way for me to extract lessons from the past, and envision a future to work toward or against. As human beings, we naturally seek meaning and symbolism in everyday settings. Personal goals are essentially positive feedback loops.

My sicknesses, injuries, and (re)kindled friendships were, in all likelihood, cases of correlation without causation. But when I view them under this sort of inside-joke-with-myself lens of New Year’s Eve omens, I can then apply this same lens to formulate a guideline for the future.

This year, I’m striving to be more receptive to new ideas to fuel my rediscovery of writing and reaffirm the kind of person I want to be. Ray Bradbury came up with the short story “Skeleton” after his doctor’s appointment. Eminem wrote the song “Stan” after hearing the beat and chorus to Dido’s “Thank You.” We can find ideas, inspiration, and guidance wherever we open ourselves up to them.

Year-End Reflections

2016 was an active, exciting, productive, joyous year for the many amazing people I am fortunate to have around me. In this year alone, my friends, family and I stood by each other as we:

  • forged new friendships, ignited flames that burned brightly but briefly, and fell in love with someone who finally feels right
  • got brunch, went to museums, hiked, climbed rock walls, read, watched movies, stayed out late drinking, stayed up late playing board games, laughed, commiserated, and embarked on other adventures
  • landed new, fulfilling jobs
  • launched business ventures in different countries and from our own homes
  • hosted our own successful events and concerts
  • contributed to and promoted numerous causes and charities
  • traveled across the country and the world—trying new foods, marveling at breathtaking sights, gaining new perspectives, and interacting with so many kind and interesting people
  • got engaged and married
  • developed new passions and rediscovered old ones
  • poured heart and soul into art, music, writing, crafting, baking, building, and communities

If you think this post is about you, you’re probably right!

I don’t say this enough, but I am deeply proud and appreciative of everyone’s achievements, whether they may seem big or small. We all have so many different interests and work on so many cool things.

I have seen so many complaints and lamentations on social media this year. Celebrities, innovators, and influencers passed away. Human rights were violated domestically and internationally. Truth has become a matter of opinion, science has been dismissed as conspiracies, and personal entitlement has taken top priority.

It’s easy to get lost in the chaos and forget to embrace the positives. The Internet is a wondrous platform for education and awareness, but it can also lead to dangerous misinformation, a mob mentality, and an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Never forget to strive for progress and to be the best possible version of yourself.

Here’s to more hope, cool things, and fighting the good fight in 2017.

Scripted Romance

“If you could have a dinner party with anyone from the past or present, who would it be?”

She pondered her DATE’s question as she chewed and swallowed her branzino. “Douglas Adams,” she answered. “You can feel his warm, funny personality emanating from all his writing. I’m sure he’d have tons of fascinating stuff to say at a dinner party.”

“That’s awesome!” he said with a grin.

She waited to see if he had anything more to add. Then: “How about you?”

“Hm… Bill Gates, for obvious reasons! What would constitute an ideal day for you?”

Once again she gave a thoughtful response, and once again he merely smiled and gave positive affirmation. She wondered if he always talked as if reading off a teleprompter, and felt herself growing frustrated and embarrassed.

When her friend had offered to set her up with a Dedicated Anthropomorphic Technical Emissary for today, she thought it would at least be somewhat entertaining. She had just gotten out of an eight-year relationship and dreaded being alone on Valentine’s Day, her favorite holiday. “They’ve made terrific strides with AI lately,” her friend had assured her. Yeah, right. This thing was duller than her childhood robot tutor.

“Say, I’ve got a question for you,” she said to her DATE. “You see a tortoise lying on its back in the hot desert sun. It can’t turn itself over. Why don’t you help it?”

He looked surprised. “Is that a Voight-Kampff question? I’m not an android, you know.”

Four Roses

As he stood in line for the cash register, Linus wondered if he should have gotten flowers after all. Everyone else had insisted on them: his sister, several friends, even a coworker. They had all said the same thing when he said no, he was going to get her a bottle of whiskey. What kind of impression is that going to make? It’s Valentine’s Day!

Stupid holiday. It was, unfortunately, the only time they both happened to be available. They had met at a party in late November and started talking online afterward. She had declined his invitations to go ice-skating with mutual friends, and then to a New Year’s Eve party. With good reasons, but still. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him that way.

But they kept talking so much in January, he had to see her again. At least in a casual setting hinting at the possibility of a date.

She had mentioned she liked whiskey, so he thought bourbon would be nice. Flowers would be too… valentine-y. Right? Or was it true what everyone else said, that all girls secretly wanted flowers? Was whiskey too expensive and pretentious for a first maybe-date? Was he trying too hard, or not hard enough? Would she think he just wanted to get her drunk?

Finally, he paid for the Four Roses and drove to her apartment. When she opened the door to greet him, her eyes went immediately to the bottle in his hands. “What do you have there?”

Feeling Impish

Last week in my writing workshop, the instructor had us each write the beginning of a story and then give it to a classmate to fill out the rest. We were encouraged to mix in elements of another genre for an amusing or unusual combination.

I received the outline of a horror story featuring the “Sensational Patrol,” Urbancraft the imp, and an undead surfer girl. I decided to flesh this out with self-help tips. This was pretty fun to write. Enjoy!

Continue reading


Mark awoke to the familiar jingle of the alarm clock he had owned for the past twenty-five years. His wife was already out of bed, bustling about in the kitchen downstairs to prepare breakfast and school lunches for their three children. He rose and entered the bathroom, briefly inspecting his face in the mirror before stepping to the toilet to relieve himself. Then he brushed his teeth, took a shower, and shaved. He returned to the bedroom and got dressed for work. Finally, he grabbed his cell phone and lighter off the nightstand and headed down the stairs.

When he entered the kitchen, he felt a sudden chill and choked down an urge to scream.

“’Morning, babe,” said the unfamiliar woman who was assembling a sandwich next to an open lunch bag. This was not the wife who had lain in bed next to him last night and whispered good night. This one was taller and curvier, and she moved more gracefully. Her hair fell straight down her shoulders instead of in soft waves. Her face was longer, her eyes rounder and slightly wider set. Admittedly somewhat prettier than the woman he’d married sixteen years ago.

At the dining table, a teenage girl with a short, edgy hairstyle looked up from the book she was reading while eating a bowl of grits, said a quick “hi,” and looked back down. She had the same eyes as her mother. Her T-shirt featured two characters that might have come out of a video game, and she wore black skinny jeans. She looked nothing like his previous elder daughter, who had preferred trendy blouses and skirts.

“Good morning,” he responded, making a tremendous effort to sound as neutral and unruffled as possible. Normal. Keep it fucking normal.

The urge to scream was still there. He could feel it struggling somewhere inside his chest, hammering against his rib cage to get out. He glanced back at the counter where the woman stood. Only one lunch? Was there only this one daughter now? His mind raced to recall earlier details from his morning routine. Had there been different toiletries around the bathroom sink or in the shower? What about the clothing in the shared walk-in closet, or anything on the nightstand? God damn it. The old Mark would have kept a keen eye on these things. He had stupidly gotten complacent over the years.

“How’s your work looking today?” the woman asked, interrupting his frantic backtracking.

He had no idea. What was his job now? Did he still work at Avatech? “Not too bad,” he said carefully. “I need to head in a little early to get some stuff out of the way, but afterward it should be a pretty straightforward day.” Oh, how he wished that last part could be true.

“That sounds nice. We’re finally kicking off that pilot program for MedAssist today, so it should be pretty busy but exciting for me. Miranda’s going to have a big day, too, aren’t you?”

So that was her name. He mentally breathed a sigh of relief that this wife was talkative, too. Then again, he had always gravitated toward the talkative ones.

“Yeah,” the girl with the book said. She looked up again and smiled at Mark. “We have a big jazz band competition in Oak Park.”

“Hope you guys knock it out of the park,” he said wryly. He checked his phone for the time. The round-eyed woman’s face regarded him warmly from the screen, frozen mid-laugh. “Anyway, I need to get going now. I’ll see you guys later.” He stood and picked up his keys from their usual hook on the wall.

“Don’t forget your breakfast,” the woman said, pointing to a bagel that sat on a napkin next to a thermos.


I love you, he normally would have added.


Mark hurried into the black Audi on the driveway and lit a cigarette. He drove toward a nearby restaurant that would have a blessedly empty parking lot at this hour, where he could figure out what why the hell this had happened.

Upon arrival, it turned out to be a bookstore.

This time he let the scream tear out of his throat unbridled.

He parked the car in a corner of the lot shaded by tall, leafy trees. Were these trees even supposed to grow in this part of the country? I should know these things. I swore I’d be fucking vigilant. He forced himself to draw in a deep, shaking breath. No point in being so paranoid about the damn trees. Anything dramatic enough to shift them would have changed a hell of a lot more than what he’d encountered so far. In any case, he couldn’t reasonably expect to keep track of every single life form.

He pulled out his phone and hurriedly scrolled through the address book until he found her. Caroline. Hopefully her number hadn’t changed. Per their agreement, she wasn’t supposed to let it. He tapped the call button and tried to keep calm as each ring purred lazily in his ear.

The first time this happened—and last, he had firmly insisted—was over fifteen years ago. His wife had remained the same, but his first child had changed. This time, it must have been something fairly significant to change his family again. If he hadn’t had such a headstrong, steadfast nature, who knew what else would have shifted? The layout of his house, his career, his country of residence?

“Hello, Mark,” her smooth, cool voice came through the phone. Vague impressions of memories stirred softly within him. It had been so long.

But he needed answers, now. “Caroline, what have you undone?”

“The coup in Burundi five days ago.”

“What are you, a fucking time-traveling James Bond now? We agreed never to mess with this shit again. The unknown implications are way too dangerous.”

“The rebel commander was going to be horrific for the country. I couldn’t let—”

“We can’t see the future, Caroline,” he said, incredulous and frustrated and furious all at once. “We don’t know that. Just because you fancy yourself a political genius doesn’t mean you can fly off to Africa and fuck with their government! I don’t have the same wife today as I did for the past sixteen years. What else has changed as a consequence of your self-righteous campaign?”

A pause. “I’m sorry your wife shifted.” At least she sounded sincere. “All I did was save the parents of the chief conspirator from getting slaughtered by the other faction. I figured it was such a little thing, and Burundi is so far away. For all we know, a relative living in the US stayed here that week instead of flying over for a funeral, and he ran into someone who did something with someone who met your old wife. You know how these things can go.”

“Yes, I know exactly how these things can go, which is why I honor our old agreement.”

“If it’s any consolation, she’s probably not dead. You could still go find her.”

“And do what? Tell her to forget everything she thinks she knows about her current life, because she’s supposed to be with me? Abandon the wife and kid who love me now? We’re the only ones who can remember original timelines every time there’s a shift. Listen, this isn’t a joke.”

“No, you listen.” Her voice became icier. “That rebel commander was going to commit another genocide. Think about how many thousands of lives I probably saved. You know the classic question, ‘If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you?’ Obviously we can’t, since that was way before we were born, let alone when we found the gift, but—you’d seriously say no to that?”

“I would, because we just don’t know what else could happen. If this thing could allow us to see the future of our undoings, what lies beyond the doors we want to open, then maybe I would. But it doesn’t. I don’t know if undoing my daughter’s bad test grade from yesterday is going to cause her to have a missing arm when I get back. And that’s why we swore to each other we’d never mess with it again!” They had talked about this so many times, long ago. He couldn’t believe it was resurfacing now.

“Well,” she said, “shortly after I agreed to that, I realized how silly and selfish it was. Surely we’ve been given this gift for a reason. I can’t just sit back and watch the world burn, knowing I have the power to put out a few flames here and there myself. We can help others, Mark. Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost someone? At least you still have your cushy job, fancy car, another picture-perfect family. Try to think outside the glossy box of your own life for a minute. Imagine everything I might have sacrificed while undoing things for over twenty years. All to help other people.”

His mind reeled. Twenty years. What had she done? How did she fail to grasp the massive scope of her recklessness and betrayal?

“On a smaller scale, of course,” she added. “Always going back only a couple days. This was the first and only time I went back so far. There just didn’t seem to be a clean solution in the recent past. I’m sorry it happened to affect your personal life against all odds, but what you need to understand is that this is bigger than you or I.”

“And when you and I die, Caroline?” he demanded. “Who’s going to continue patching up the holes in history that you’ve left? Who’s going to be accountable when the fabric of space-time tears apart?”

She laughed without warmth. “You’re no astrophysicist, not even in this shifted reality. You don’t know that that would happen. Don’t be so dramatic. I’m just trying to bring some peace to the world. Let me know when you’re ready to do good, too.”

“I guess there’s no getting you to come to your senses.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, I’m afraid.”

“Goodbye, Caroline.”

“’Bye, Mark.”


The full impact of his loss hit him then. Caroline was right that the woman who had been his wife probably wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been. Everything about their life together had been erased. There would be nothing of her in the house when he returned, no photos of them together. He might see her in a store or a café, and she would look right past him. And their children. Those beautiful, bubbly, curious, wonderful souls. Tanya, Derek, and Ashley had never existed now. It was devastating.

Mark continued to sit in his car for a long time, smoking cigarettes and grieving. He searched online on his phone for tragedies that had occurred in the past twenty-five years: school shootings, plane crashes, serial killings, drone strikes, bombings, and more. Some of them appeared to have been wholly prevented, turning up zero relevant search results. With others, he couldn’t tell if Caroline had mitigated them or simply been uninvolved. He almost had to admire her dedication to playing the savior.

However, it was still far too risky. Why couldn’t she understand that every time she saved ten people, she might be endangering a hundred or a thousand more? She couldn’t clean up all the bloodshed in the world herself. Even with his help, the two of them couldn’t do it. Even if they tried, who knew what else would shift as an unwanted side effect: social movements, medical discoveries, technological advances?

And the uneasy fact remained that they didn’t even know where the gift had come from, who had placed it there for them to find, what their motives were, or what secret reverberations it could cause every time it was used.

He thought about the woman and girl who had been in his house this morning. They had seemed lovely and kind. But he had already built a life with the woman he had loved for nineteen years, and the three children they had had together. He wasn’t sure he could ever grow to love these two the way they deserved.

This was a little selfish, he knew. But he also did want to bring a little peace to the world.

Mark made up his mind and closed his eyes. He returned to a forest full of sunbeams and golden leaves, twenty-five years in the past. He dug through a patch of earth for several minutes until he uncovered a metallic box with pieces that moved and turned, a puzzle that his hands still knew how to solve. Inside was a ball of lightly glowing material that he knew without touching to be delightfully soft. He took the lighter from his pocket and set the ball on fire. When it was over, everything went black.

In the morning, he awoke to the beeping of someone’s alarm clock.

Gas Lights

One evening, my mother returned from a routine grocery shopping trip with a six-pack of “YoBaby” yogurt. My brother and I were eight and ten years old, respectively. With such large, unmissable images of laughing infants plastered all over the packaging, this seemed a hilarious lapse of judgment even for someone who didn’t really speak English.

“Did you not notice all the babies?” we asked her. “Did you forget how old we were? Is this your way of announcing that you’re having another kid?”

“It was good deal,” she said, exasperated.

A few days later, the YoBaby mysteriously disappeared from the refrigerator. Being at an age when I fretted constantly over whether my every move was cool and mature, I certainly hadn’t gone anywhere near the stuff. I forgot about it altogether until weeks later, when we were looking at Shop Rite coupons and came across one for yogurt. I burst into laughter. “Hey, remember that time when you bought us that yogurt for babies?” I asked my mother.

“No, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered, seeming offended at the very suggestion. I was bewildered. I thought I caught a glimmer of humor in her expression, but couldn’t be sure.

Over the years, however, there were so many more of these kinds of incidents that I stopped finding humor in them—and instead started vacillating between irritation and concern.

At dinner parties, my mother liked to tell family friends—de facto competitors in Asian-American child-rearing—how much I looked forward to being a lawyer someday. I couldn’t recall ever having expressed such career aspirations. Perhaps I had once asked her a question about the justice system. While some of my peers complained about their parents pushing them to become doctors, I was relieved yet offended that this was a dream reserved only for my brother. As the television doctor Mindy Kaling once wondered in her memoir: why not me?

Other times, my mother would combine, confuse, or confabulate aspects of my brother’s life and mine. “They are such picky eaters. Don’t like try new food,” she would tell her friends, when it was only my brother who steered clear of vegetables and unfamiliar substances. When she tidied up the house, my books, CDs, and even T-shirts would often wind up in my brother’s room. “She is shy,” she would apologize on my behalf to new acquaintances, before they had the chance to address me and hear the mouthful I had to offer on current events.

The three of us were pondering the dinner menu on a family cruise when a server passed by with a plate of beef and noodles in brown sauce. “That wouldn’t be any good,” my mother declared. She had a tendency to improvise rapid-fire judgments and believe them to be immutable truths. I sighed internally.

A few minutes later, she pointed to the menu and said, “What do you think, beef teriyaki?”

“I don’t know, but you already said you didn’t want it,” I said.

“No, I didn’t. When did I say that?”

“Just now. The server had a plate of it, and you said it wouldn’t be any good.”

“That didn’t happen.”

“Yes, it did!” My voice rose involuntarily, as if the correct decibel level might jumpstart her memory. “You always do this. You always assume things without any basis whatsoever, and then you paint the rest of us as liars!”

The years of putting up with all the reinvented narratives and adamant denials finally took their toll then. I spent the remaining two days of the cruise drifting in and out of events alone.

An explanation for my mother’s behavior, as well as a glimpse of her destiny, manifested during our family vacation to China. My parents pulled my brother and me out of school two weeks before winter break, and we divided a month between both sets of grandparents. It was my brother’s and my first time meeting them all, but for our maternal grandfather, it was already too late. One minute, he would be smiling and asking us about American schools. The next, he would be shouting, “Who are these children in my home?”, terrifying us into corners and under tables. “What are they doing here? Who the hell let them in?”

That’s what’s happening to her, I half-jokingly thought to myself one random day, years later. My mother was only forty at the time of the YoBaby purchase, but it must have already begun creeping through the recesses of her mind, subtle and insidious as the shadow of a snake. Yet the more I considered it, the more I felt obligated to be seriously concerned. How much worse would it get? What would we do about it? How much longer did I have?

My relationship with my mother has been asymptotic from the beginning, slowly approaching a limit resembling love. When I finally connected my grandfather’s savage senility with her own self-gaslighting, I felt sorry about the inevitability and sorrier that I didn’t feel something more. Here was a woman who had spent my childhood trying to suppress my individuality and conflate it with my brother’s; admonishing me whenever I fell ill because it was somehow my own fault; telling me I only needed to go to a respectable college in order to find a respectable husband; and rejecting my words and experiences in favor of her own expectations or imagination.

And yet, my mother had been passionate about endowing us with childhoods rich in activities and opportunities. She clipped coupons for hours on end and suppressed her materialistic urges for years so that we would never have to forego a school field trip, and could have even have the occasional family vacation. My brother and I were enrolled in music lessons, athletic teams, Chinese school, and summer camps. Although we didn’t necessarily enjoy all of these at the time, we grew to appreciate the experiences when we got older—just as our mother always said we would.

When I collapsed from a nervous breakdown during my first year of college, my mother drove the six hours round-trip to take me home. I had kept silent about my condition for years prior to the incident, because I so dreaded and hated her preaching. But instead of lecturing me for being sick, she tried to be supportive and find help. When you come from a culture that has only recently begun to acknowledge depression as a “real” illness, this means a tremendous deal.

Thus, here also was a woman who loved me and always tried to make me happy; who wanted to help with any task or favor, regardless of scope; who genuinely believed all this was for my benefit and wellbeing.

One night, our plans to go out for dinner in my neighborhood were foiled by a sudden, raging tempest that hit right when my mother arrived at my apartment building.

“Can we stay in and eat here? Do you have any food?” she asked.

All I had were pasta ingredients, but my mother had always found marinara sauce repulsive, calling it “that disgusting red stuff.” I had never seen her try it once.

“I do,” I said reluctantly, “but you wouldn’t like it.”

“Yes, I will! I like anything you make!”

I prepared some spaghetti with marinara sauce and served it to her. Before she even took her first bite, she declared, “It’s so good!”

I sighed internally, amused, annoyed, worried, and feeling a little something like love.