The Nameless Woman

"Time for the acrobatics," she muttered. Like a tired horse being whipped, she forced her exhausted body up. She went downstairs, washed her face quickly, and slung her bag over her shoulder. She quietly opened and closed the heavy studio door and stepped out.

The elevator was filled with Chinese women heading to the garment factories. Their loud shouts grew louder as the elevator rose, then faded like they were sinking underwater once it passed her floor and reached the seventh. When she stepped into the now-empty elevator, the operator leaned against the wall, looking as if he couldn't bear to open his sleepy eyes. The smell of the lunch boxes the women had left behind was nauseating. She covered her nose, gasping for breath. As soon as they hit the first floor, the operator, who had been hunched over like a sack of grain, hurried her out with a sharp wave of his hand. She pushed through the crowd of women waiting to get on and stood on Grand Street. She looked up at the sky and took a long, deep breath.

She tightened her collar and dragged her heavy feet forward. Someone shouted from across the street. Startled, she looked over. It was an Asian woman in a floral blouse and purple pants. She was screaming at another woman behind her in a striped shirt. Their shouting tore through the morning air of Grand Street. People glanced for a second and then hurried on, as if this were just another ordinary morning.

Accustomed to the dark, her eyes stung in the light. She walked with her head down, stepping on the patches of sunlight, and entered the subway station at Canal Street and Broadway. On the Brooklyn-bound R train, she leaned against the window in the same posture as the elevator operator. Her reflection in the dark glass looked like soggy, wilting paper—frail and worn out.

She got off the subway and walked toward the clothing store. As she got closer, she could see the two female employees and the watchman. She handed the keys to the watchman. He raised the shutters and patted her on the shoulder as he gave the keys back, as if to say, "Hang in there today."

She organized the cash register and got ready for business. After a quick breakfast of a bagel and coffee, she stared out the window. A scruffy young man with a small build was standing outside. When their eyes met, he quickly turned away. She unpacked new arrivals and told the staff to organize them. When she looked out again, the man was still there, pacing nervously like he was tied to a post.

A little later, his appearance became bizarre. He was standing in the same spot, but now he had a pair of rolled-up stockings perched on top of his shaggy hair. "What a weirdo," she snorted. But she couldn't help glancing out the window; his strange presence was distracting.

The store got busy with customers. When she looked out again, he was gone. But suddenly, there he was—standing right in front of her, his face distorted behind the stockings he had pulled over his head. It was so ridiculous that she leaned in and narrowed her eyes to get a better look, a bitter smile on her face. The man flinched, then thrust a brown paper bag toward her. "Give me the money!" he shouted. "You're crazy. You've got to be kidding me," she snapped, reaching out to grab the bag. The robber was the one who looked surprised and stepped back. "Give me the money or I'll kill you! Everyone, get on the floor!"

He didn't look like a professional at all. She didn't even believe there was a gun in that bag. Looking at his twisted face through the stockings, she wondered if this was a movie or reality. Perhaps she had lost hope in her exhausting life, which made her feel no fear. Or maybe it was just stubbornness—she wasn't going to give away money that wasn't even hers. In that brief, threatening moment, her weariness outweighed her terror.

Faced with her defiance, the robber shoved her aside and threw the cash register to the floor. He kicked it until it popped open, grabbed whatever cash he could, and bolted out the door. As she tried to chase him, one of her employees grabbed her ankle, sobbing. "Are you crazy? You could have died! A pizza shop owner just a block away was shot and killed last week!" Reality finally hit her like a wave. She began to shake. She sat in the restroom for a long time, the whole event feeling like a distant, hazy dream.

The police and the store owner arrived. "If a robber asks for money, just give it to them! Why did you do something so dangerous?" the owner asked. "How much was in there?" "About 250 dollars." The owner whispered, "Tell the insurance company it was 750. That’s the only way we’ll even get 250 back."

She left work a little early. At her building, the loud voices of the women returning from the factories poured out of the elevator. The street became a chaotic scene of floral patterns and loud chatter. She went up to her floor and opened the heavy door. Her unemployed husband was sprawled on a stained gray sofa, looking as exhausted as if he had actually done something productive. Their roommate was hunched in a corner, focused on something. Both men glanced at her as she walked in early and empty-handed.

Usually, she would go straight to the tiny kitchen to cook dinner with groceries from Chinatown. Instead, she climbed up to the loft bedroom. She crawled under the fine ramie (mosi) blanket her mother had given her when she got married. Seeing the small, delicate flowers embroidered on the fabric made the tears pour out. She shook violently. The thought that she couldn't go on with this hopeless life kept circling her mind. She buried her face in the pillow and cried herself to sleep.

She woke up to a sharp pain in her stomach. At first, she thought it was a dream, but the pain was real and agonizing—like someone was clawing at her insides. She writhed in pain and saw blood on the blanket. She realized then that she hadn't had her period for a few months.

On the white blanket, the blood spread like tulips blooming, then roses, and finally like dark red cockscomb flowers being poured out. The pain felt like a knife twisting inside her. She wrapped the blanket around herself and crawled down the stairs. The two men stood up in shock. She collapsed where her husband had been sitting. She screamed, rolling on the floor in agony.

Her husband brought over a hemp blanket to cover her, but it too was soon stained red. She dragged the bloody blankets across the floor, clawing at the walls. Her husband just followed her around, trying to cover her exposed body with more blankets. In the corner, the two men whispered to each other, sounding as if they were worried about the hospital bills. She opened her eyes wide and looked around. "I won't die in this rotting hole!" she screamed through her fading consciousness. "Call an ambulance! Please, call an ambulance!"

She opened her eyes on a white hospital sheet. The smell of disinfectant filled the air. Her body felt light, as if she were floating on a cloud. The pain was gone. To make sure it was real, she softly touched the sheet. The crisp, fresh fabric felt as comforting as her mother’s bed. "Oh, if only I could stay in this clean, cozy place forever." She fell back into a deep, peaceful sleep, as if sinking into clear water.