Damp Season

The mold stains spread across the walls and ceiling. Raw. Stubborn. Like something that won’t heal. No matter how hard I scrub them with disinfectant, they return with the rain. This year it hasn’t stopped for three months. Even though we keep the doors and windows shut and run the dehumidifier, dampness seeps in like a ghost through every crack.

Mei drifts out of her room, her face ashen, fatigue pooled beneath her eyes. I force a smile. She says her room feels suffocating, that she can’t breathe. I tell her to turn on the air conditioner. She looks at me with those eyes once so bright but now like a dry well.

“It’s already on,” she says. “It doesn’t help.”

The air smells of mold. I want to tell her the rainy season will pass, but the endless rain icons on the forecast choke the words in my throat. I never find the courage to tell her. Yet despite my every effort to hide it, she fits together the signs that something is wrong at home.

In the afternoon, I resume my war with the mold. I put on disposable gloves and an N95 mask. I climb the step ladder and spray the walls. Sweat runs down my neck. It takes a long time to finish the living room. Then I knock on her door. Before she answers, I push it open.

She is sitting at the desk. Study materials are piled all over it, but she is not studying. She is pulling out her hair. One strand at a time, facing the mirror, using her hand to pull. The movements are slow. Careful. Dozens of hairs lie scattered across the desk, across the floor. She doesn’t even turn when the door clicks.

I walk over and catch her hand mid-tug.

“Want some ice cream?” I open my mouth, and that is what comes out.

The bald patch on her scalp stings my eyes. I remember her baby hair, thick as a black dream. She stands, turns toward me. I embrace her and lead her into the living room. She accepts the carton without a word. Milk ice cream freckled with chocolate chips, the same pattern as the mold spots spreading on the walls. She takes one bite before setting down the spoon.

“What is it?” I ask. “Isn’t this your favorite flavor?”

She shakes her head. “Mom, my throat tastes bitter. My whole mouth tastes like mold.”

I bite my lip.

“I’ll take you to the doctor,” I rasp. The damp air sticks in my throat.

A flicker of hesitation and pain crosses her face. She thinks I mean her mind. But no. The oncology ward. It’s time she knows about my breast cancer. And I need to ask the doctor if one day it might come for her too.