“
Eiyah!
That dress cost a lot of money. So what if I keep it?”
“But Mah, it’s never going to be in style again. Don’t you think this is a bit ridiculous?” Su opened another box and found a pair of sheepskin boots that she had bought for her mother many Christmases ago – never worn, still in the original package. She knew better than to say anything more. She knew that her mother was watching her, that her mother saved everything. And anything that was new stayed new – for those elusive “good” occasions.
In another box there were jars filled with water chestnut powder for diarrhoea, gnarled brown roots for tonic soups, square green envelopes of bitter tea for influenza, and vials of pink
Po Chai
pills for nausea – talismans against the effects of Western food. She sighed as she looked at her mother’s possessions, which now filled the room, providing May-Yen with protection and security like an invisible cloak. Her treasuresand her demons were stuffed into those boxes. As bitter as May-Yen’s memories might be, she was not about to part with them. Su shook her head and left to write Jason’s psychological assessment.
More than forty years earlier, Su arrived in Canada with her mother on a propeller-driven airplane. They were met at the airport by her aunt and uncle, since her father lived several hours from Toronto. The next day she met her father, Lum Mun Lek, for the first time. He nodded at May-Yen and patted their daughter on the head, saying her name, “Su Jing.” He was a small wizened man with large calloused hands and lines of suffering deeply engraved into his face.
Later that afternoon, Su and May-Yen followed Mun Lek aboard a Gray Coach bus that took them to his hand laundry in Sydney, a small town in Ontario. Su sat with her mother while her father sat across the aisle. Throughout the journey, her mother suffered from motion sickness. When she wasn’t vomiting into a brown paper bag, she sat with a look of desperation, squeezing Su’s hand until the knuckle joints popped against each other. Her father sat with the muscles in his face taut, his eyes bewildered, staring straight ahead, saying almost nothing.
After a four-hour ride, they arrived in Sydney. Mun Lek warned them about the snow and ice on the sidewalks. When May-Yen stepped off the bus, she slipped. The bus driver grabbed her by the arm, and she awkwardly steadied herself.Mun Lek picked up the large tan leather suitcase and carried it to the laundry. Su and May-Yen struggled behind with the smaller bags.
The laundry was their home. May-Yen looked up and saw a tired building, the paint flaking and blistered on the wooden exterior like boils on a bad complexion. From the front door she could see the railway tracks. She stepped inside after her husband and saw a long, dim, silent place filled with ancient machinery – a large wooden-barrel washing machine with a motor attached, wooden laundry tubs for rinsing, and an old table tightly wrapped with years of worn sheets and blankets. In the middle of the table stood an upright iron, cold and still in an expanse of white. There was a slight depression in the floor in front of the table where Mun Lek always stood while ironing. It was late afternoon, and the narrow shadows cast by the equipment stretched long and thin across the floorboards like the bars of a prison. To the side was a small room with a double bed. Su would sleep in the middle, her parents lying rigid on either side of her.
After the Second World War, Mun Lek had returned to China from Canada to look for a wife, someone to help in the laundry. His prospects were not good. He was over fifty, a widower with a family of two grown sons; he was considered past the prime of his life. He ran a hand laundry. Everyone knew that the restaurant business offered a more promising future. When May-Yen met Mun Lek, she was over thirty, also considered past her prime. She had lost her husband during the war and was living
Eiyah!
That dress cost a lot of money. So what if I keep it?”
“But Mah, it’s never going to be in style again. Don’t you think this is a bit ridiculous?” Su opened another box and found a pair of sheepskin boots that she had bought for her mother many Christmases ago – never worn, still in the original package. She knew better than to say anything more. She knew that her mother was watching her, that her mother saved everything. And anything that was new stayed new – for those elusive “good” occasions.
In another box there were jars filled with water chestnut powder for diarrhoea, gnarled brown roots for tonic soups, square green envelopes of bitter tea for influenza, and vials of pink
Po Chai
pills for nausea – talismans against the effects of Western food. She sighed as she looked at her mother’s possessions, which now filled the room, providing May-Yen with protection and security like an invisible cloak. Her treasuresand her demons were stuffed into those boxes. As bitter as May-Yen’s memories might be, she was not about to part with them. Su shook her head and left to write Jason’s psychological assessment.
More than forty years earlier, Su arrived in Canada with her mother on a propeller-driven airplane. They were met at the airport by her aunt and uncle, since her father lived several hours from Toronto. The next day she met her father, Lum Mun Lek, for the first time. He nodded at May-Yen and patted their daughter on the head, saying her name, “Su Jing.” He was a small wizened man with large calloused hands and lines of suffering deeply engraved into his face.
Later that afternoon, Su and May-Yen followed Mun Lek aboard a Gray Coach bus that took them to his hand laundry in Sydney, a small town in Ontario. Su sat with her mother while her father sat across the aisle. Throughout the journey, her mother suffered from motion sickness. When she wasn’t vomiting into a brown paper bag, she sat with a look of desperation, squeezing Su’s hand until the knuckle joints popped against each other. Her father sat with the muscles in his face taut, his eyes bewildered, staring straight ahead, saying almost nothing.
After a four-hour ride, they arrived in Sydney. Mun Lek warned them about the snow and ice on the sidewalks. When May-Yen stepped off the bus, she slipped. The bus driver grabbed her by the arm, and she awkwardly steadied herself.Mun Lek picked up the large tan leather suitcase and carried it to the laundry. Su and May-Yen struggled behind with the smaller bags.
The laundry was their home. May-Yen looked up and saw a tired building, the paint flaking and blistered on the wooden exterior like boils on a bad complexion. From the front door she could see the railway tracks. She stepped inside after her husband and saw a long, dim, silent place filled with ancient machinery – a large wooden-barrel washing machine with a motor attached, wooden laundry tubs for rinsing, and an old table tightly wrapped with years of worn sheets and blankets. In the middle of the table stood an upright iron, cold and still in an expanse of white. There was a slight depression in the floor in front of the table where Mun Lek always stood while ironing. It was late afternoon, and the narrow shadows cast by the equipment stretched long and thin across the floorboards like the bars of a prison. To the side was a small room with a double bed. Su would sleep in the middle, her parents lying rigid on either side of her.
After the Second World War, Mun Lek had returned to China from Canada to look for a wife, someone to help in the laundry. His prospects were not good. He was over fifty, a widower with a family of two grown sons; he was considered past the prime of his life. He ran a hand laundry. Everyone knew that the restaurant business offered a more promising future. When May-Yen met Mun Lek, she was over thirty, also considered past her prime. She had lost her husband during the war and was living
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