BY LYDIA YEH

•••••Hands can give so much pleasure and inflict so much pain. It’s funny what your memory retains – the color of the kitchen table, the musky smell of winter just sloughing off its murky, slushy coat into spring, or the way your chest tightens.
My pink and purple pajamas stuck to my skin that night. I was fresh out of the shower, and the dampness of my skin made the cotton fabric cling to the backs of my knees, my underarms, and my collar.
It was like this every night, me staying up 'til 11:00 p.m., waiting for Daddy to fumble through the back door, swept in with the night chill and the smell of Chinese restaurant cooking and oily sweat. I’d perch atop the radiator, you know, the old model that had to have its fill of water to run properly. The top leveled with the front window, facing the cars streaming back and forth on Belmont Avenue, and I’d scrunch down sitting on my hands, straining my eyes for Daddy’s shadow as he turned into the catwalk.
When Daddy came in, I’d still be facing the window, pretending I didn’t hear him. It wasn’t 'til he’d dropped his bags and taken off his coat that I bolted, little legs flexing as I launched off the radiator, hitting the floor with the slap of flushed feet. Barreling down the hallway, I’d coil myself up, then leap onto him, toes hooking the top of his belt, arms slinging around his back as I threw one leg up over his shoulders and neck. With a little twist, I was on, balanced on his shoulders with two handfuls of black hair for stabilization.
Mama never approved of my tardy bedtime.
This night, it was different. My insides jostled around, threatening to burst through my chest. All the while, I tried to jam myself further into my hiding place. It was a rather pathetic hiding place now that I think of it. I don’t remember much. In fact, I was so young that I don’t even remember any of the dialogue.
But I can remember how hot the side of the refrigerator was. It vibrated and gurgled with venomous breath, the ashes from its mouth grinding their way between my bare toes, mixing with the sweat to plaster itself underneath my toenails.
Daddy roared, flailing his arms at my mother. My body recoiled, heels sending me deeper into the slot. I jerked to a stop as the corner of the rusty, yellow countertop jabbed me between the ribs.
Mother ripped off her dish gloves and threw them with the sponge into the sink. The yellow rubber collapsed with a funny flopping noise. The screeching and clunking of the oak chairs tumbled back as Daddy shoved his way around the dining room table, making me jump. He grasped the dish rack and hurled the entire basket to the red and black speckled floor. I cringed.
We have a new rack now. It’s tan instead of pink. I look at it and wonder to myself, how could something so small make so much noise? Mom has managed to keep it so clean. It still looks new, but in the corner there’s a tiny patch of mold. Those little patches of black and blue remind me of the stripes I wore for weeks after. Sometimes I wonder how I survived.
I didn’t even relize the noises were coming from me, those puppy-like whimpers somehow slipping from between my lips. Maybe that’s what triggered it. I trembled, transfixed by the freckles on my ma’s nose bridge.
Mother was famous for her composure. How odd that my mother’s figure flushed this way. Her rotund figure drew straight up, hands akimbo, veins bursting through the top of her hands. Her arms were pink from washing dishes in steaming water, sleeves neatly rolled in three inch intervals. I stared at the hands that tucked me in at night. Her lips pruned and thinned 'til they disappeared altogether. Complete silence made me look atmy father.
Oh good, Daddy was going to give me a piggyback ride.
The aluminum trim around the table reflected the smoky blue of Daddy’s jacket as he made the turn. Two hands grabbed me by my forearms, and I saw the blur of a pin- striped collar shirt as I landed on top of my metal booster chair, my tailbone jarred by the edge of the seat. His voice sounded distant, like a roaring whisper. My head snapped back and to the side. The breath whooshed out of my lungs, cheek, nose, lips all stinging. My jaws felt heavy, struck to one side. I couldn’t breathe.
My neck twisted in the opposite direction, jaws shifting yet again, this time pinching my tongue between the molars. Neon rings rippled outward on a black background. My right eye throbbed. With a nauseous lurch, my body went into free fall. Red flooded my vision. Black splotches zoomed up, melting into huge pits of tar. The floor slammed against my left side, catching my left wrist under the armrest.
My diaphragm suddenly released, and cool air rushed into my lungs. The smell of bleached floors and mud wafted through my nasal passages. My cheek made a suction sound in that puddle of slush and mud from Daddy's work boots. I gagged on something warm and sticky coating my tongue and teeth. My face was plastered with snot and thick, salty water.
Hands pulled at me again, and I tried to push away, but they were gentle this time, and the scent of elderly flesh and Olay face cream calmed me. I was lifted up into the air. My head flopped over her shoulder, and through blurred eyes, I stared at the curiously dark red speckles along the bottom left corner of the fridge. "That's a pretty color..."
That was my last coherent thought.
I still use that Olay cream. Grandma left me a whole box-full before she passed on. I use it in the morning, particularly on hard mornings, when the rings around my eyes are too dark, like moldy dots on an old dish rack.