China Dog (8 page)

A month later, May-Yen was propped up with pillows in her hospital bed. Leaning forward, she noisily slurped down a clear chicken broth. Su was sitting relaxed on a chair. Watching her mother, she realized how surprised she had been by the routine quality of the operation.

A nurse poked her head in the door. “Your mother’s amazing. Considering she’s eighty, she’s come through the anaesthetic really well. And her incision is healing, well, beautifully!” Su translated for her mother, nodding in agreement with the nurse.

May-Yen said to Su, “You tell the nurse the real reason I’m recovering so well is because all my life I make sure I eat hot food and drink lots of Chinese tonics.” The nurse, not understanding a word, stood smiling in anticipation.

Finally Su said, turning to the nurse, “My mother wants to thank you for the excellent care.” After the nurse left, Su smiled to herself, remembering how Kenny had once compared May-Yen to an old door that still opened and closed, but the hinges were getting rustier and squeakier.

The next day, when Su returned to the hospital, May-Yen was talking to a new roommate. May-Yen motioned eagerly with her arm. “Su, come meet Wong
Mo
. She’s the same age as me and she has an apartment in a seniors’ building.” Wong
Mo
was in the hospital for minor surgery. She was a short woman with a body as round as her face. She had high cheek bones and eyes that crinkled into folds when she laughed.

“Ah, so
you’re
the daughter,” said Wong
Mo
. “You know how to talk to the doctors and you have a university degree. Very smart.”

“Oh, not that smart. Just lucky that I came to Canada so young,” Su responded, trying hard to keep that edge of annoyance from her voice. She hated it when her mother bragged about her. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to convince her mother that although she, Su, was the only one in her family to have a degree, it really was no big deal to anyone else. But this time May-Yen hadn’t even noticed her daughter’s irritation. She was too busy talking to her new friend. And
when Su left her mother that afternoon, she felt for the first time free of guilt.

It turned out that May-Yen and Wong
Mo
were born in neighbouring villages. But when they discovered that their husbands had died in the same year, they knew they were destined to be friends.

When May-Yen left the hospital, she returned to her daughter’s home. Though it was unspoken, she knew that she would not return to her stepson’s apartment above the Lucky Star.

It had been two years to the day since May-Yen’s operation. She was lying awake in bed, in her daughter’s home, listening to taps run, toilets flush and doors bang. A few minutes later, she heard the heavy front door shut for the last time. Everyone was gone. Finally! The house was now empty except for her. It was safe to get up. Yesterday she had desperately needed to void while Su, Harry, and the two boys were preparing for work and school. As hard as she tried to be fast on the toilet, she knew she was taking what seemed an eternity. Although nothing was said, Su’s impatience filled the air like a bad smell. It was during times like this that May-Yen found herself thinking: Maybe I should fall. What if I fell while they were rushing around? What then?

The last two years spent living with Su and her family had not been all that bad. She spent a good part of each day
sleeping, but she also talked for at least an hour every day to Wong
Mo
. Thank God for Wong
Mo!
May-Yen had visited her several times in her seniors’ apartment. Twice, she had stayed for several days. On her last visit, Wong
Mo
told her that a larger unit was being vacated. Perhaps she and May-Yen could share it. As Wong
Mo
spoke, May-Yen took an extra breath and felt a slight ruffling in her chest, a long forgotten yearning. She realized that deep inside she was like a piece of dry earth, parched and cracked. Ever since she had first set foot in this country, her
thlem, gwon
, her heart and liver, had been suspended. Might they finally settle? She felt the question echoing inside her belly, “A home of my own?” She shuddered with fear as she realized that this would be her last and only chance.

May-Yen slowly pushed herself up on the mattress and inched her legs around so that they dangled over the side of the bed. This first rising after a night’s sleep was always the most difficult. Her bones were like creased pieces of ancient paper. They had to be unfolded oh, so carefully. Any sudden movement or overexertion and her bones, like yellowed paper, would crumble. When May-Yen entered the kitchen, the crystal vase of red tulips caught her eye. She frowned and muttered under her breath at her daughter’s extravagance – spending money on something that you couldn’t eat or wear, that lasted such a short while before being thrown out. Then she saw the small familiar stainless steel pot on the stove. Su had left the porridge on low heat for her. She half-filled a cup with water and added it to the pot and stirred. Her daughter cooked porridge like the
lo fons –
thick and lumpy. May-Yen
liked it smooth and runny. Some days she added an egg for nutrition and texture.

The food at Su’s was not so bad. May-Yen liked spaghetti with meat sauce; the barbecued chicken was nicely flavoured; and Harry always produced a well-cooked roast on Sundays. But May-Yen remained unconvinced that pizza in a box was a fit meal for anyone. She thought of all the little things that she missed, like winter melon soup, dried salted fish, and fermented bean curd. Her mouth watering, she felt petty and ungrateful.

No one ever told her, but May-Yen knew. She knew the real reason why she never returned to Kenny’s. When she came out of the hospital, he had emphasized several times how much better off she’d be to stay at Su’s. He had seized her cancer as an opportunity to toss her out, like a worn-out slipper. She had outlived her use at the restaurant. For the last few years, she had been more a hindrance than a help, an obstacle underfoot while Kenny was rushing around the kitchen. Yet in a perverse way she missed the restaurant. Looking around her daughter’s kitchen with every item in its place, and the Formica counters freshly wiped, she again acknowledged to herself that things were quite bearable. She told herself that she should be grateful to have a daughter who took her in, slotting her into a busy schedule without missing a beat. Su did everything. She washed the clothes, cooked the meals, did the dishes, kept a spotless house, managed everyone’s comings and goings. Her energy and efficiency were truly formidable; she was like a general coolly leading her army. Even when May-Yen tried to help, Su told her to sit down. In her daughter’s house
she was like a perpetual guest. At Kenny’s, even though she was resented, she had a role. As long as she was able, she was an extra pair of hands, providing free labour.

May-Yen looked around again at the gleaming counters and the vase of red tulips. She thought about Wong
Mo
, about sharing a home with her friend. Tonight she would tell Su that she was moving out, that finally she was taking flight. And she chuckled to herself, as she imagined the look on her daughter’s face.

Three months later, Su visited her mother in the new apartment that she shared with Wong
Mo
. Two months earlier she and her half-brother had moved May-Yen and her boxes into her apartment. Su and Kenny gave her a selection of old furniture. At first Su had suggested buying some new items, but May-Yen would have none of it – an unnecessary waste of money. Kenny gave her an old brown plaid chesterfield. Wong
Mo
already had a used red arborite kitchen table. Su gave them her second television and bought them a large electric wall clock for the kitchen. The walls in the bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room were decorated with Chinese movie star calendars.

Su sat at the kitchen table sipping tea as her mother brought her a plate of steamed dumplings. Wong
Mo
followed behind, carrying a bowl filled with a hot, brown, pungent brew.

“Su, your mother made this, just for you,” said Wong Mo.

“After you told me you were coming, I decided to make this soup. I got up early. It’s been simmering all day. Very good for
women – made from deer antlers – keeps your womb and your organs warm,” added May-Yen eagerly.

“Mah, I’m not going to have room for dinner tonight,” protested Su, looking at the food on the kitchen table.

“Well, just eat a few dumplings, but drink all the soup,” said May-Yen. “I’ve got more for you to take home.” Wong
Mo
nodded in agreement.

Su picked up the white ceramic spoon and gently slurped the brown liquid. The two older women looked on approvingly.

“Now remember, the soup is just for women. No good for men,” added Wong
Mo
.

“Just eat a few dumplings. Your favourite – shrimp and chicken,” insisted May-Yen. “Too much for us.”

No kidding, thought Su to herself. You old girls have made enough to feed an army. She grinned at her mother and Wong
Mo
as she put down her spoon and picked up a dumpling with her chopsticks.

Watching her mother and Wong
Mo
fuss in the kitchen, Su thought about the woman who hid and worked all those years in the shadows of her father’s laundry. And again in the kitchen of her brother’s restaurant. Was she finally seeing a glimmer of the woman who had lived and worked in China so long ago? Su felt a flush of heat in her cheeks as she remembered her protests when May-Yen told her about moving. Why do you want to move? I do everything here for you. You don’t have to do a thing. You’re going to have a hard time managing.

An hour later, Su stood at the apartment door, ready to leave. First she hugged Wong
Mo
, then her mother. May-Yen
gave her daughter two white plastic bags of food. Su walked down the apartment hallway with a bag of dumplings dangling over her wrist and both hands around a jar of hot tonic soup wrapped inside a plastic bag. Taking special care to keep the jar upright, she held it against herself, feeling its heat warming her hands and her chest.

IT WAS SUNDAY
morning, the day after Valentine’s Day. Sandra had been married to Victor for eleven days and no one in her family knew. She was driving to her brother’s restaurant for her mother’s birthday celebration. Fortunately the traffic was light. It was hard to concentrate on the road and at the same time, carry on an imaginary conversation with family members. Even when alone, Sandra was always careful to rehearse in her mind what she would say. Lurking just around the corner was madness. After all if you started talking out loud to imaginary people, you might never stop. In fact, the arguing inside her head had been incessant for the last week. Her mother was lodged in her head like a permanent resident, an unwanted guest who wasn’t budging. When she woke up in the morning, she saw her mother’s disapproving broad face, floating above her like a rain cloud. Her first thought was, “How will I break the news to her?” Even last night while Victor was on top of her, thoughts of her mother edged
slyly, surreptitiously into her consciousness. Her mother was uncontrollable, coming unbidden into her mind like a wild wind brushing everything else aside. A week ago, Sandra had vowed to herself that during lovemaking she would only sigh or moan. Talking was strictly prohibited. Victor would never understand her crying out “Mah” during a moment of ecstasy.

As Sandra left the apartment on Howland Avenue after having lunch with Victor, he had asked her again, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” But Sandra had been resolute. She knew her family, that is, she knew her mother. And this would be the best way. Of course she could handle it.

Sandra had decided on the direct approach. She would simply march briskly into her brother’s restaurant with her chin held high. But not too high. She didn’t want to appear cocky. Then she would open her arms wide and declare, “Hey, guess what, everybody!” Earlier that morning, she had practised her smile in front of the mirror. A wide, natural smile, not so wide, though, that it appeared forced. But as she drove off the main highway and on to the two-lane road leading to Urquhart, she began to have even more doubts. The confidence that had been so solid and secure early in the morning was melting, vaporizing, leaving a distinct hollow in her heart.

Perhaps her plan was just a little too bold, too brash. Better to simply make a quiet, friendly entrance, then find a private moment with her mother. Tell her first. Would that be the best way? The problem, though, was that there was no best way. Running off and getting married without informing your
family was bad enough. But Sandra had run off and married Victor. And Victor was a
lo fon
. Not that being a
lo fon
, a white foreigner, was entirely hopeless. You just weren’t supposed to marry one. To make matters worse, Victor’s livelihood was suspiciously unreliable. He was an artist, a painter, someone who worked with his hands, like a labourer.

Sandra knew that her mother was still hoping that one day Sandra would bring home a nice, educated Chinese boy, a lawyer or an accountant. She also reminded Sandra that 1988 was an especially auspicious year. If they planned things carefully, she could be married in August, the eighth month. But now that Sandra was twenty-nine, things were becoming desperate. Any moment now, she might turn into an old maid, a desiccated little old lady. Recently, whenever Mrs. Low spoke to her daughter, her voice took on a tone of controlled hysteria. When they spoke on the phone together, she always managed to squeeze in, “Sanda-
ah
, tomorrow you’re going to turn into a
loh nui
, an old girl. Vah … nobody
hoo nay
, nobody take you.” To Sandra those words,
hoo nay
, felt more like “snatch” than “take.” She supposed that after a certain point, she wouldn’t even be snatchable.