Someone in the Closet

Yifen slid the key into the iron door when she heard the microwave go “ding” in the kitchen.

She swapped into slippers, hung her bag on the hook by the entrance, and walked into the kitchen to open the microwave—the pork chop rice she’d brought back from the clinic’s bento shop at noon was steaming after reheating. She pulled it out with oven mitts, set it on the folding table in the living room, and turned to call Atuo.

“Finished your homework?”

Atuo came out of his room, still holding a mechanical pencil. He didn’t look at Yifen, walked straight to the table and sat down, flipped open the bento lid, and picked the greens to the side.

“Eat your vegetables too. Don’t be picky.”

“Okay.”

Atuo took a bite of the pork chop, chewing slowly. Yifen also scooped herself a bowl of rice, sat across from him, and opened her phone to check tomorrow’s shift schedule. The Saturday morning clinic was her least favorite slot—elderly patients everywhere, the registration system would crash, and the front desk phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Mom.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s someone in my closet.”

Yifen looked up, chopsticks frozen midair. Atuo didn’t look at her, kept chewing his pork chop, his expression calm, as if he’d just said “today’s bento has a braised egg.”

“What?”

“Someone in the closet.” Atuo repeated, his tone flat.

Yifen put down her chopsticks and glanced down the hallway. Atuo’s room door was open, the light off. From the living room, she could only see the wall at the foot of his bed and the side of the closet. A three-door wooden wardrobe, sliding type, so old that one of the doors sometimes stuck.

She stood up, walked over, and turned on the room light.

The closet sat in a recess at the foot of the bed. She pulled open the door—a stack of quilts on the top shelf, seasonal jackets hanging in the middle, a suitcase and several paper bags stuffed underneath. No room to hide anyone. She slid the other door open too, making sure there were no blind spots. Nothing. The scariest thing in the closet was a dried cockroach carcass from last season’s cleanup, stuck flat in a corner.

She turned to look at Atuo. He was still at the table, looking back at her, chopsticks still in his mouth.

“Empty.”

“You scared it away.”

“What?”

“It was there. You opened the door too loud, so it left.” Atuo added, “It said it doesn’t like loud noises.”

Yifen stood at the doorway, hand still on the closet door panel. A tension headache started at her temples. She didn’t want to argue with a fifth grader about whether or not someone was in the closet—she had to get up early tomorrow, the pork chop rice was getting cold, and the communication book still needed signing.

“Eat up. Take a shower after, and go to bed early tonight.”

She walked back to the table and took two mouthfuls of rice. Atuo didn’t say anything else, quietly finished the pork chop, put the lid back on, stood up, and threw it in the kitchen trash.

“Where’s your communication book?”

“In my backpack.”

Yifen pulled it out, signed it, and glanced at today’s homework column—Chinese vocabulary words three times, math workbook page 38, science preview. All checked off. She closed the book and put it back in the backpack.

When Atuo came out of the bathroom, she had already washed the dishes and was sitting on the couch watching Netflix on her phone. The hair dryer hummed from the bathroom for about five minutes, then stopped. Atuo came out in pajamas and headed straight for his room.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes.”

“What’s for breakfast tomorrow? Toast or egg pancake?”

“Whatever.”

He walked into his room and closed the door. Yifen heard the lock click.

She didn’t think much of it and went back to her show. She watched until about halfway through the second episode, when her eyes started to feel tired. She turned off the TV, went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. As she passed Atuo’s room, she slowed down—no light under the door, so he must be asleep.

She turned off the living room light, went into the master bedroom, and lay down. She glanced at her phone: 11:47 PM. Have to get up at 7 tomorrow. She closed her eyes and fell asleep in about three minutes.

She woke up thirsty.

Her throat was dry, like she hadn’t had water all night. She reached for her phone, the screen lit up—2:20 AM. The room was dark, the curtains not fully drawn, a strip of yellow streetlight from the alley falling on the ceiling.

She pushed off the blanket and stepped onto the cold tiles, barefoot, and walked out of the room.

As she passed the hallway, she stopped.

There was a light under Atuo’s door.

Not the bright glow of the main light—it was the dim orange of a nightlight. Atuo had a little nightlight, a bear-shaped one, plugged into the socket by his bed.

Yifen instinctively took a step forward, then heard a sound.

Atuo was talking.

Very softly, the words muffled by the door. His tone was flat, no emotion, like he was reading a textbook. She leaned in, pressing her ear against the door.

“…yeah, the science teacher said we have a quiz tomorrow, covering unit three. I reviewed it, but that thing at the end… the precipitation experiment, I kind of don’t get it…”

Pause.

“Mm.”

Another pause.

“Do you think I’ll do badly on it?”

The pause was just long enough for someone to answer.

Yifen stood outside the door, her heart racing, but her chest cold. Her son was in his room, alone, talking to “someone.”

It wasn’t muttering to himself. It was the cadence of a conversation—questions, pauses, and those little response words like “mm” and “yeah.” A fifth-grade boy, lying in bed, earnestly asking for help with a science question—to the empty air of his room.

She didn’t knock.

She backed away, walked into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and stood at the counter drinking it slowly. The water was ice cold, chilling all the way from her throat to her stomach.

She put the cup back in the dish rack and padded barefoot to the master bedroom. As she lay down, she told herself: It’s just talking to himself. Kids do that before bed. It’s normal.

But her toes curled under the blanket, the cold sensation refusing to warm up. She remembered that Atuo had never been one to talk to himself, not even when he was little.

She lay in the dark, eyes open, listening to her own heartbeat, and it took a long, long time before she finally fell asleep.