The Aftermath of “May Kindness Souls Be Treated with Kindness”

N's mother was discharged from the hospital after about three weeks.

During this time, his father, the tall, thin white man, did not appear again, and even N was seldom seen.

About a week ago, I met N in the kitchen and asked about her condition. The doctor said she needed to stay in the hospital for three months for treatment.
Since another friend of mine had a similar situation, I asked N for more details.

If you’ve been a taxpayer in Los Angeles for over a year and the doctor determines that you need treatment at a community hospital, everything is free. If it's severe and requires treatment at a major hospital, it depends on your insurance. I didn't delve further, considering how N might be feeling.

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About three days ago, I met N again, and he said his mother could be discharged early. But seeing his expressionless face, I held back my congratulations.

Then, the next day, I heard his mother’s screams again.
It sounded like long, suppressed moaning, as if she was at a loss for words, and without meaning to be offensive it was like a zombie's yell in a movie that went on and on all day.

But the key point is that this condition was exactly the same as before she was admitted. Has her condition really improved?

The treatment was supposed to last three months, but it was shortened to just half a month. What happened during that time?

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Today, while working, the internet went out. Since it seemed like it would take some time to fix, I went downstairs to wash my car.

While washing the car, I heard a deep voice behind me say, “Hi.” I turned around and saw it was N’s father.
My hands were wet, so I couldn’t shake hands and opted for a fist bump instead. It turns out he had parked in my spot, and I hadn’t noticed it was an Arizona plate.

We chatted for a few minutes, and he said I was a good person, and that my English was good (well, I’ll accept the first part).

C (that’s his name) was halfway through talking when his phone rang. He smiled and pointed upstairs, saying it was his wife calling. I told him to go ahead, and we’d talk later.

He ran upstairs like a child with a sweet smile on his face. His love for his wife shone before my eyes. N’s mother actually initiated contact.

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After washing the car, I met the landlord. She wanted me to accompany her to the housing office and to test drive her new car. I had a feeling she had something to say, and since I also wanted to gain some experience, I closed my laptop and went with her.

As expected, she chatted about N's mother.

N's mother was previously a artist from China and later married C, but they didn’t live together, and N always referred to him as “my mother’s husband” instead of “my stepfather.” Of course, I didn’t ask about the reasons.

She and N lived together, and when they first moved in, she was so talkative that it was almost excessive. The landlord said she was sometimes like an elderly, talking to anyone she could.

About half a year ago, she underwent a major surgery, with some physical changes made, likely for medication or medical equipment. It must have been a serious illness.

Since the surgery, she became withdrawn, emotionally distant, and fearful of meeting others, avoiding people whenever she saw them.

The landlord said she had already talked to N about finding a detached house for his mother to aid in her recovery.
Moreover, it was affecting landlord's piano teaching; the children kept asking her what that scream was.

N had already agreed to move out.

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Since C’s arrival, I haven’t heard his wife’s screams again. And I often saw them walking together nearby.

Sometimes in the evenings I chatted with C in the kitchen while preparing food. We talked about everything from pickled cabbage pork stew to the Dissolution of the Soviet Union. I realized I could talk a lot, but my English listening needed improvement.

Traditional Americans are very averse to communism, and we exchanged some political views. I told him that when I was a child, I had seen the poor Soviets come to China after the Dissolution of the Soviet Union, and from then on I knew what communism real looked like.

To my surprise, I could almost talk without pause. So, the rumor that you can’t discuss politics with Americans seems to be untrue.

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I am going to make the pickled cabbage pork stew for everyone on Friday, before the family moves out.

These past few days, N's mother has been coming out more often and has even dared to meet others. This is a significant improvement. Although she still doesn’t respond, her expression isn’t as wooden as before. I think she might be wanting to speak.

Surprisingly, only another friend and I could hold a conversation with C.  Aren’t you all Americans?

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The fire rainbow captured that night.

That Friday, everyone gathered, and I made the pickled cabbage pork stew. It was well-responsed, though I felt it was still 30% off from the authentic taste. Given the limited ingredients available locally, it was the best I could do.

C wasn't used to the flavor, so he went upstairs to eat with his wife, which is understandable.

I wanted to record more about this family, but a few days later, they moved out, and I haven't heard from them since.

They left a deep impression on me. I tried my best to record our time together, but many details now only remain in my memory.

I hope that God watches over them and keeps them safe and joyful.