What Remains Firm in Fracture

“What the hell?!” screamed Ming. 

Ming had just stepped out of her 2007 Nissan Sentra onto 6th Street when the canary-colored McLaren swerved, missing Ming by inches. A split second later, the McLaren had already sped away, careening around the corner onto Westview Avenue. 

Ming sighed, beginning her trek to her sister’s premiere in the September sun that beat down on her like hellfire. She was too cheap to pay for valet and Westview was notorious for lack of parking, so here she was—dripping sweat, hating life, and hating Amanda.

To wear the long-sleeved obsidian dress that itched like poison ivy was bad enough, but to see Amanda again at the place they always used to go to see Mom’s premieres—well, that was almost worse. Almost. 

Ming’s Ama had insisted that Ming wear the dress, plucked from Amanda’s dusty closet. The sleeves shimmered with brownish-black sequins that skittered over Ming’s skin like cockroaches, and the hem hung heavy around her ankles, an eternal tripping hazard as Ming hobbled her way to the premiere. 

The canary-colored McLaren in valet parking sneered at Ming when she arrived. Ming wrinkled her nose in disgust. Flashes of light blinded her as she maneuvered her way past the cacophonous mob at the front to a dark corner just outside the theater. 

“Ming?” 

Ming whirled to face the source of the voice—the ever-dazzling, disdainful Amanda. 

“You actually came?” 

“Ama made me.” 

“Guess she did. That woman was the only person who cared about our family.” 

“Is it even worth it? We’ve all been pulled apart and dragged across Brinesburg anyway, but you’re the only who managed to crawl your way out of the ruin of our family. The rest of us weren’t so lucky.” 

Amanda sighed. “Just get in the damn theater, Ming.” 

Ming stumbled backward, her dress itching and burning her skin like fire. “No. This was a mistake. I’m leaving.” 

“How long has it been since you’ve worn a dress, Ming? Since you’ve given a damn?” Ming’s mouth parted. Her eyes blazed with hate and memory and fear. 

 “Since I was nine and Mom was still alive.” 

A heavy silence fell between the two sisters. Amanda’s hand glided to her hip instinctively and her brow creased. Ming bit her tongue until her mouth swam with the metallic taste of blood. She was possessed by the sudden urge to rip out one of the sequins in her sleeve or to tug on something—Amanda’s eyes flitted to the anguish etched on her sister’s face.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that, I promise,” insisted Amanda, inching forward, fright and fluid flooding her eyes. Tears? Ming couldn’t see past her own. 

“D-don’t promise me anything. No one in this family can k-keep their damn promises,” Ming stuttered. The memories didn’t swerve like the McLaren; they hit her head-on, plowing through her like she was nothing. 

Clouds rolled over the sun. The sky darkened as throngs of people flooded into the theater. Ming could picture her mom there, shooting news anchors the smile she only brandished in public spaces, her blond hair gleaming with each flash of the news cameras, her children imitating her as if they were happy—as if they were tucked in every night by the famous Macy Li and not beaten into bed. 

As if Ming hadn’t caught Amanda icing the bruises on her hip the night Mom died. As if the promise of a happy life for their family hadn’t been ripped away like hair on wax strips. 

Seized by the sudden need to flee Amanda’s dead stare, Ming tore off her heels and bolted out of the premiere. She sprinted down Westview to her Sentra, desperate for home. 

—

Two hours later, the smell of soot and salt—the smell of home—greeted Ming as she stepped out of her car. Instead of the blinding lights and chatter of Westview, Stoneshore Street was shrouded in smog and silence; darkness oozed from its crevices.  

Ming dragged herself up three flights of dimly lit stained carpeted stairs to her apartment. No sooner had she shoved the key into the battered lock than she heard Ama call from inside in her Taiwanese-accented Chinese, “How was your sister’s premiere?” 

“Fine.”

Ming trudged over to Ama’s moth-eaten couch where Ama always rested, plopping down beside her. Burdened. Broken. Ama cradled Ming’s smooth hand in her wrinkled one. 

“I wish that crash didn’t take her,” Ming whispered in English, tugging on the edge of her dress. 

“She—she promised me that night...” blubbered Ming in Chinese, eyes pleading to her Ama, “...she was going to change. And then she was gone.” Tears of helplessness drained out of Ming’s eyes. 

Ming leaned into Ama. As if there were still one promise left in the universe that hadn’t been broken, Ama leaned back.