After Buddhist Mom Invented the Merit System, She Went Mad

1: 1

My mother called herself a cool and detached holy woman, and she set down a strict merit system for our family.

She was always kneeling before the shrine, telling me in the most devout voice:

Beryl Fox, merits can be traded for happiness. As long as you keep doing good deeds, any wish can come true.

So I kept doing good deeds.

I did all the housework, took the scoldings and the punishments meant for my sister, even jumped into freezing water to save someone, all to build up a thick store of merits.

But my sister was born with a rotten streak, doing every bad thing there was, never once holding back.

On my eighteenth birthday, I carefully held out that merit ledger, asking only that she spend one birthday with me.

What I got instead was a vicious slap from my mother.

She snapped at me:

"How can your heart be so filthy? You do good and store up merit, and you dare ask for something in return!"

"If your merits are spent, what am I supposed to take to the shrine to atone for your sister? Are you trying to send her to hell on purpose?"

She snatched the merit ledger out of my hands, tore it to shreds in a few quick motions, grabbed my sister, and turned to leave, leaving me alone in the empty room.

I slowly lifted my head, looking at the shrine statue on the wall, and a sudden rush of warm, salty-sweet blood came up my throat, running down from the corner of my mouth.

The doctors had told me long ago that I wouldn't live past eighteen.

Among the scraps of paper all over the floor, I suddenly smiled.

I wondered whether these merits would be enough to trade for a different mother in my next life.

Drop by drop, the red fell, first into my palm, then seeping down through the gaps between my fingers.

It was warm, with a sweet, iron-rust smell.

If my mother came home and saw all this blood on the floor, she'd scold me again, wouldn't she.

Staining the prayer cushion, that was merits docked. Offending the sacred statue, that was merits docked.

Crying in front of the shrine statue, having a nosebleed in front of it, all of that was disrespect, "foul energy," something that would displease the Buddha.

Everything my mother said, I remembered.

But I really had tried my hardest.

The truth was, I was very afraid of dying.

My mother always said that people with few merits go to hell after death.

Mountains of knives, seas of fire, cauldrons of oil, turning without end.

Every time she said these things, her voice was calm and unhurried, as if she were relaying some perfectly ordinary law of heaven.

But hearing it frightened me. I was afraid of pain, afraid of the dark, afraid of walking the road to the underworld all alone, without even a single lamp to light the way.

So I earned merits with everything I had, willing to do anything, willing to endure anything.

The winter before last, a child fell into the river.

It was bitterly cold, and a thin layer of ice covered the water, breaking at the slightest touch.

I didn't think much about it at the time, I really didn't, I just saw the child sinking and jumped in.

The water was cold enough to cut to the bone, like countless needles stabbing in from every direction, the ache reaching into the marrow.

Afterward I pushed the child up onto the bank, but I couldn't climb out myself, my fingers frozen stiff, unable to grip the stones at the edge.

It was a kind person who pulled the two of us up together.

After I got home, I ran a high fever for a whole week.

While I was burning up and drifting in and out, my mother, for once, sat down at the edge of my bed, opened the merit ledger, and wrote in it right in front of me.

Saved a life from cold water, saved one life, ten merit points added.

Ten points.

I had earned a full ten merit points.

I was so feverish then that I could barely keep my eyes open, my body heavy as if filled with lead, but when I saw that line, I still smiled.

A silly smile, straight from the heart.

Ten points, I thought. That's really a lot.

One more step away from hell.

But before I could finish being happy, my sister's crying came from the living room.

She was crouched on the floor, a butterfly pinched in her hand.

She had torn off its wings, and the butterfly fluttered twice and then went still, the colored dust from its scales stuck to her plump little fingers.

My sister cried until she could hardly breathe, saying the butterfly was dead, so pitiful, and that she hadn't meant to.

My mother put down the merit ledger and hurried out.

By the time she came back, the ink on the open page of the ledger still wasn't dry.

She picked up the pen and, beside the line that read "Saved a life from cold water, ten points added," she wrote another line:

"Florence Fox harmed a butterfly, one life lost, half deducted in atonement."

And so the ten points I had traded my life for became five.

My mother looked up at me, her voice flat:

"Beryl gives half her merits to her sister, to atone for her before the bodhisattva. You're more sensible than she is, you won't hold it against her, will you?"

My fever hadn't broken, my face burning hot, but the smile was still there, only stiffening for that one instant.

Five points, then. Better than nothing.

That was what I thought at the time. There was even a trace of relief in it.

At least my sister had only torn one butterfly. If it had been two, my whole trip into that icy river would have been for nothing.

So my merits were slow to earn and quick to spend.

Three years of hard saving weren't enough to cover one vase my sister smashed.

Jumping into an icy river in the dead of winter wasn't enough to make up for one flower my sister snapped off.

The number in the merit ledger could never catch up to the speed of the deductions.

And now the blood was still pouring out, staining the scraps of paper until they couldn't be recognized for what they had been.

My body grew colder and colder, but the blood on the floor was still warm.

It seemed I really had died.

My soul really was as light as a feather.

And that me on the bedroom floor, small and thin, curled up amid the scattered paper and bloodstains, looked like an old rag doll someone had thrown away. I drifted over, wanting so badly to hold myself.

But the next moment, the sound of a key turning came from the living room.

My mother was home.

2: 2

My chest went tight, and my body moved faster than the thought. I was already at the entryway.

I chased after her, trying to explain, that I really hadn't meant to make a mess of the house.

I just... I didn't have any strength left.

I'd wiped at it with my sleeve for so long, but the blood kept coming, kept coming, and no matter what I did I couldn't get it clean.

It wasn't that I didn't want to clean it up. I just couldn't wipe anymore.

Mom, please don't be angry.

I knelt down in front of her, tilting my head up to look at her, but she didn't look at me.

Her gaze passed over me and landed on the bedroom door at the far end of the living room, standing slightly ajar.

I reached to catch the hem of her clothes, but my fingers were like a gust of wind, closing on nothing.

She stepped forward, and I wanted to stop her, wanted to beg her not to go in yet, to hear me out first.

But the next second, she walked right through me.

......

I froze, still kneeling where I was, and for a long moment I didn't move.

Only then did it come back to me.

I was already dead.

Mom reached the bedroom door, the corner of her mouth curving up, a certain smug certainty in her voice.

"I only docked a little of your merit, and you're sulking, won't even come out to welcome us home?"

"If you don't come out, I'll report it to the Bodhisattva, tell them you don't respect your elders. And then every merit you've earned gets wiped clean!"

Before, I would have already sprung up off the floor, stumbled over to the door, bowed my head to admit I was wrong, carefully tugged at her sleeve and begged her not to take away the merits I'd saved up.

Those merits, she knew how much cold I'd endured, how much I'd swallowed to gather them.

But today, there wasn't a sound from the bedroom.

Mom's brow furrowed. She put her hand on the doorknob, about to push it open.

The next second, Florence's voice came from the doorway, coaxing and impatient.

"Come on, let's go, we still have to make the concert tonight! Keep dragging your feet and we'll miss the train."

Mom's hand stopped.

She glanced back at Florence, hesitated for a second.

Then her hand came off the knob.

"Coming, coming~"

The smile rose back onto her face, and she turned toward the door.

Before she shut it, she tossed one last line toward the bedroom, like a final sweet scrap, or maybe a handout.

"Don't say I'm not good to you. I bought you your favorite cupcake."

"When we get back from the concert, I'll decide whether to dock your merits based on how you behave."

The door closed.

I hovered where I was, staring at the small cupcake on the table, dazed.

It sat there quietly, the cream piped into one crooked little flower, a thin sliver of lemon set on top.

Just one, delicate, and very alone.

The truth is, I'd lied to Mom.

What I'd wanted was never a cupcake.

When I was little and we passed the bakery, I'd press against the window and stare at those big round cakes, cream ones, fruit ones, chocolate ones. Under the lights they were beautiful, like the lotus lanterns set out before the Bodhisattva.

I used to dream of having a whole big cake of my own on my birthday.

But every year, right before my birthday, my merits always got used up by Florence, right down to the last.

She broke a vase, docked from me. She tore up the neighbor's flowers, docked from me.

She was loud in the temple and offended the Bodhisattva, still docked from me.

So I settled for the next best thing, trading what little scraps of merit were left for one small cupcake.

Every year, the same.

And so Mom thought I loved cupcakes.

I drifted closer, closer to that small cake.

The cream on its paper cup trembled faintly in the draft leaking in from the balcony.

Without thinking, I wanted to block the wind for it, but my body was too light, too light to hold anything back.

The cake wobbled on the table, then rolled off without a sound, flipping over, landing upside down on the floor.

I reached out on instinct to catch it, but my hands touched nothing.

I just crouched there, hands still held out in the shape of catching, staring blankly at the smear of cream on the floor.

The tears came all at once.

No sound, just falling drop by drop, crying like a stray cat that had lost its way.

3: 3

The moon was already high before Mom came home with Florence.

The door opened and the laughter poured in ahead of them. Florence had a glowing headband on, all lit up, and one of those glow-stick wands from the concert in her hand, her little face flushed pink as she hummed a song she'd just learned.

Mom was smiling too, which didn't happen often, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes smoothed out, Florence's jacket in one hand and an empty popcorn bucket in the other.

"Did you have fun today?"

"Yeah! I want to go again next time!"

But in the next second, something seemed to yank hard at Mom's face, and it dropped cold all at once.

Florence leaned in, spotted the smear of cream on the floor at a glance, then looked back up at Mom's face.

There was a familiar, testing note in her voice.

"Mom, today is Beryl's birthday, after all do you think she's holding a grudge against us?"

"But throwing the cake on the floor, that's wasting food. That's a merit deduction."

Mom lifted her eyes from the cream and stared coldly toward my bedroom. Still no sound from in there.

Then her voice filled, layer by layer, with disappointment and anger.

"I've really been too good to you."

"I dock you a few merits and you have the nerve to go on a hunger strike? Fine, if you've got the guts, keep not eating. See if you starve yourself to death!"

No one answered her.

She waited a few seconds, gave a cold snort, and turned away.

"Come on, Florence, no more sulking to watch. Mom will make you something good."

"Okay!"

Florence answered sweetly and followed her toward the kitchen.

As she passed the table, she lifted one little foot and gave the lemon slice that had rolled into the corner a small kick, then went skipping after Mom.

The living room went quiet again.

I crouched where I was, looking at the cream on the floor, then at the light coming on in the kitchen.

The pan started to sizzle, and the smell drifted out slowly, scrambled eggs and scallions, warm and rich, the smell of the living world.

I drifted to the kitchen doorway. Mom had her back to me, tossing the pan with quick, practiced flicks, Florence standing at her leg with her face turned up, waiting to be fed.

Mom glanced down at her, lifted a piece of egg, blew on it, and fed it into her mouth.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched, quietly.

Mom, do you know? Florence doesn't lose any merits for this piece of egg. She doesn't have to trade anyone else's merits for it either.

All she has to do is stand at your leg and tip her face up, and she gets it.

And me, I could kneel before the shrine and bow a hundred times and still not earn a single bite.

But saying all this now, it doesn't really mean anything anymore.

Mom lifted another piece of egg and set it, without thinking, in the empty bowl beside her.

I froze for a moment before it hit me. That one was set aside for me.

She'd told me to starve, and she still left me a share.

I suddenly wanted to laugh a little, and to cry a little.

Mom, thank you for saving me this meal.

But, forgive me.

I'm afraid I'll never get to eat your cooking again.

4: 4

In the days that followed, my mother never said my name once.

The smell in the apartment first turned obvious on the fifth day.

At the start it was only the faintest thread of something, and my mother assumed the trash hadn't been taken out. She sent my sister to carry the kitchen bin down.

But even with the trash gone, the smell stayed, like an invisible snake, coiling through the rooms in thin, drifting strands.

"Is the drain clogged?"

She bent over the sink and sniffed, then crouched by the floor drain and sniffed there too.

Florence came running in from the living room, pinching her nose, her little face screwed up.

"Mom, it stinks in here. Like there's a dead rat."

My mother straightened, and without meaning to her eyes drifted toward my bedroom door.

That door had been shut for half a month now, a dusty seam of shadow packed under it.

She wiped her hands on her apron, hesitated, then walked over and knocked twice.

"Beryl?"

No answer.

She knocked twice more, harder.

"Beryl! Do you hear me? Is something dead in your room? Get out here and clean it up!"

Still, only dead silence.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she turned and stalked off, furious.

"Fine, leave her."

"If it stinks, she brought it on herself. When she can't stand it anymore, she'll come out on her own!"

But before I came out, the neighbors came first.

Marjorie Chavez was the first at the door.

"Mrs. Fox, my husband said the smell coming from your place... it isn't right. Won't you go check on Beryl's room?"

"She's sulking, locked herself in, won't see anyone. Don't go sticking your nose in."

"Sulking? What kind of sulk lasts half a month? What kind of sulk keeps a kid out of school? Mrs. Fox, just open the door and let me look. If Beryl's fine, I'll leave right away."

"Is she my daughter, or yours?"

My mother's voice went cold.

Marjorie opened her mouth, and in the end said nothing.

She stepped back, looked at the shut bedroom door, then at my mother, and turned and went down the stairs.

Half an hour later, the knocking came again.

This time it was three people.

Officer Abraham James from the community station, the district's auxiliary officer, Evelyn Dickerson, and Marjorie standing behind them.

My mother opened the door, and when she saw the group her face went from annoyance to wariness.

"Ms. Fox, someone reported that your older daughter hasn't left the apartment in a long time."

"We're just here to check on the situation."

"What's there to check?"

"My daughter is fine. She's throwing a fit at me, that's all. What kid doesn't fight with their parents? Is that against the law now?"

Abraham didn't take the bait of an argument.

Behind him, Officer Dickerson tilted her head slightly, her gaze settling on the shut door deep in the living room.

A dim seam of shadow was packed under it, as if something had lain there a long time.

Abraham drew his eyes back, his voice still unhurried.

"Then could she come out and see us? Just once. It would put our minds at ease."

My mother glanced back at the door, her tone thick with impatience.

"Beryl, do you hear me? The officers are at the door now. Get out here!"

But there was still no sound from inside.

"Beryl!"

She strode to the bedroom door and started pounding on it, her palm slamming against the wood, slap after slap, until dust shook loose from the frame.

"Do you hear me? Quit playing mute!"

The door boomed under her hand. Nothing inside.

"Where's the key?"

She whipped around and screamed at Florence, her voice already cracked out of shape.

"Mom, she's obviously acting again."

"My classmate's older sister does the same thing. One scolding and she plays dead, then waits for the adults to go soft so she can hit them up for money"

"Shut up! Give me the key!"

Florence froze for a second.

She had never heard her mother speak to her in that tone.

Then she pouted, dug a key out of the TV cabinet drawer, and muttered as she handed it over, "What's the big deal..."

My mother snatched the key, jammed it into the lock, and turned it twice.

It wouldn't turn.

The door was bolted from the inside.

Her hand froze on the key, her whole body stalling for a second.

Then she let go of the key, stepped back half a pace, and kicked the door straight on.

The door was old, its hinges long since rusted.

One kick and the latch sprang free, the door slamming into the wall with a heavy, dull crash.

And then a smell carved deep into human instinct came pouring out of the dark.