First Love Language

If home is where the heart is, then a broken home must mean that a heart is broken, too. Especially right now, since I’m supposed to be leaving for Salt Lake City. Instead of packing, I’m lying on my stomach while carpet fibers tickle that part of my waistline where my Del Rey High shirt has risen. No matter how many times I’ve vacuumed this floor, it still smells like cigarettes from the previous renters. My wrist cramps from holding my head up. I have boxes to take down to the car, yet I can’t stop staring at the Polaroid of my chubby three-​year-​old self in the arms of a biological mother whose name is about the only thing I remember.

Ya‑Fang and I smile for the camera in front of a pagoda. The pillars are as red as the lanterns lining the streets. The doorways are accented by a gold so vibrant that even in this outdated photograph, it reflects the sunlight of a bright Taiwan day. But where exactly was this picture taken? Was it in Taipei, the city where I was born? Or was it Keelung, the city Ya‑Fang grew up in?

No matter how badly I want to ask Ya‑Fang, I can’t. I was five when she and Dad divorced. She stayed behind in Taipei, and we left for America. And it’s not like I can ask Dad why they split either. When I was five, he told me it was so that I could experience America. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that experiencing America is a bribe a parent tells a child. There’s something more. Something so complex, I might be able to understand it only now. But I’ll never be able to ask him, because he’s been dead for two years. His body rests at Sunshine-Cemetery—which is a bit of an oxymoron, in my opinion.

“Mavis! I don’t want to keep having this conversation.” My adoptive mom’s voice seeps through the apartment’s thin walls. “It’s just for the summer. We’ll be back in time for your senior year. I promise.”

“If it’s just for the summer, then why did we sell all the furniture?” my sister bites back.

If I’ve heard them fight once, I’ve heard them a thousand times. For now, I’d rather focus on the resemblances Ya‑Fang and I share than listen to Mom and Mavis. Between our heart-shaped faces and petite noses, there’s no doubt that I look more like Ya‑Fang than I do my adopted family. After all, Mom and Mavis share the same blood. Even their voices sound alike—​Mom with her raspy alto and Mavis with the same but just a tad more nasally.

“You know why.” Mom’s voice filters through my bedroom door. “I’m doing the best I can for all of us.”

Mom sold our furniture to pay off our rent or else her credit score would’ve dropped. Besides, it’s not like we can find a storage unit to keep our bed frames and couches. Those are hundreds of dollars a month. Mom has just enough money to drive us out to Utah. Assuming the car doesn’t break down along the way.

Mavis doesn’t say more. Instead of a response, the front door opens and slams with so much force that the entire unit rattles. My closet door even swings open.

I used to think my room was haunted. Between the slightest drafts opening the closet, the lights flickering in the bathroom, and the strange noises that turned out to be our neighbor’s cats, I’d constantly tell Mom that we needed to move out. But I’d meant somewhere else in San Diego where Casper and his buddies wouldn’t haunt us. Not Mormon City, Utah.

I sigh and shut my baby book. Mavis probably went out to the car, which means it’s time for me to start packing again. I rise to my feet, carrying the questions I never asked Dad while he was alive: Why did you really divorce Ya‑-Fang? If you’d stayed together, would I still be destined to move to Utah? But most importantly: Why did you have Andrea adopt me instead of giving me back to my bio mom?

Because of the adoption, my American birth certificate doesn’t even say Ya‑Fang Linn anymore. Honestly, at this point, I’m not sure if her Western name is spelled with one n or two. If it weren’t for the memories printed into this photo album, I’d have nothing tethering me to her at all. Guess I’m just lucky like that.

My door opens and Mom’s voice flutters in. “Hey, Catie. How’s the packing going?”

I turn my back to her so she can’t see the album in my hands. It’s not that I’m ashamed of looking at it. I just don’t want to cause her any pain if she catches me fantasizing about a time when I’d never met her. When I never called Mavis my younger sister—if only by three months. I love Mom as if she’s my biological mother because she’s the only maternal figure I have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve ever stopped thinking about Ya-Fang. Especially now that Dad’s dead.

“I finished packing.” I force a cheery voice as I set the baby book in my box of cherished items. Inside are Dad’s old textbooks from flight school. His Bible and Book of Mormon—​books I’d carry with me if I actually went to church. Even his name tag from when he served his mission in Taiwan is already packed—​Elder Carlson, the young yellow​-haired Mandarin-​speaking kid from Idaho.

“I’ll pack this in the car right now.” I set my baby book on top of Dad’s copy of The Five Love Languages. I have vague memories of him reading this book in bed and scratching out the sexist comments to write in his own progressive advice. He seemed to read this thing a lot during that phase after the divorce and before he met Andrea. Maybe this was the book that led him to her. I never asked when he was alive. I was just a kid—​too young to realize I should take advantage of the time I did have with Dad. But asking Mom about it now doesn’t feel like the best time.

I secure the box’s lid as Mom’s hand rests on my shoulder. When I turn, she’s peering at me with a worried smile and an eleven folded between her brows. Mom and I are about the same height even though we look nothing alike. Her hair is thin and bright like the sun. Mine is thick and darker than midnight. Her eyes are blue like the skies Dad used to fly his planes through. Mine are soil brown. No wonder the school staff gives us weird looks when I bring her to parent-teacher conferences.

I offer Mom a dimpled smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Is there anything else I should carry down with me?”

“What’s wrong, Catie?” Mom asks, ignoring my question. Of course, she can see through my façade. “You’ve hardly said a word all day.”

My gaze dips to the imprint of my body on the carpet. “I’m not looking forward to moving in with Aunt Joanna. That’s all.”

Ugh. Just saying her name tastes like lead. I hardly know anything about Aunt Joanna. But judging by the scripture verses and political stances she’s posted on Facebook, I have a feeling that someone as biracial as me isn’t quite white enough for her. And someone as pansexual as Mavis is definitely not straight enough for her. And considering that Mom drinks coffee and curses occasionally, she’s definitely not Mormon enough for Aunt Joanna’s standards.

Mom sighs. “I’m not looking forward to moving in with my sister either.”

So why, then? I want to ask. But I already know the answer. We need to move in with Aunt Joanna because Mom lost her job as a personal trainer when the owners sold their gym. We need to move because the housing costs in San Diego are climbing, and Mom is unemployed. We need to move because we have no other choice.

I clear my throat and blink away tears. Now isn’t the time to whine about our situation. We should’ve been on the road first thing this morning.

“We’re already behind schedule,” I say, faking a yawn so Mom won’t notice my tears. “You should drop off the apartment key so we can get going.”

Mom doesn’t have a chance to reply because I scoop up the box and hurry out my bedroom door. I pass Mavis’s room, which is unrecognizable now that her piles of laundry aren’t everywhere. I pass the living area that Mom converted into her studio sleeping space. She’d set a paper screen between her twin bed and the couch. Not once did she ever ask Mavis and me to turn the TV down while she was trying to sleep. This place may have never been haunted by ghosts, but it will forever haunt my memories as one of the few places I’ve called home.