Before we moved to Ashfield, our family lived in Gosford. That’s where Baba opened his restaurant, a simple Chinese place where locals could go for stir-fry dishes, fried rice and noodles. We were the only Chinese family in the neighbourhood. There was also a Thai family that ran the Thai restaurant, and strangely people got the two of us confused.
The restaurant did pretty well, but Ma couldn’t stand living somewhere where there was no one for her to talk to. Ma and Baba used to live in Hong Kong, which was all Cantonese. Not long after getting married, Baba moved to Australia to help his brother-in-law with his new business in Melbourne, leaving Ma by herself in Hong Kong with baby me. He eventually got a visa and permanent residency, and Ma and I moved to Australia when I was two. But instead of Melbourne, Baba decided he was going to open his own restaurant in one of the smaller towns. So they lived in Nowra for a while, where Lily was born, and then moved to Gosford shortly after.
Ma had always been a bit anxious, but things became a lot worse when we were in Gosford. I remember her crying a lot and talking to me at length about how horrible the neighbours were, how racist all the Australians were and mostly how lonely she felt. I was still little, maybe six or seven, but Ma talked to me like I was her grown-up friend. She criticised Baba and blamed him for her sadness. I remember feeling really bad for her.
Just before Michael was born, Baba moved us to Ashfield where there were more Chinese people and a community for Ma to take part in. But he had no luck selling the restaurant even though it was always busy—maybe he didn’t really try. Instead, he would make the ninety-minute drive up to Gosford every day and run the place as if we still lived down the road. One time, he almost crashed the car coming home. It was 2 am. After that, Baba set up a cot in the restaurant office, so he wouldn’t have to make the trip when it was too late.
These days, he sleeps most nights at the restaurant. And we’re left at home with Ma.
I lay out our simple meal in chipped crockery with mismatched resin chopsticks that are too worn to use at the restaurant so have been demoted to home use.
‘You forgot the toilet paper,’ Lily grumbles.
Whoops. ‘I got distracted.’ I don’t bother trying to explain more as I set out an extra bowl of noodle and dumpling.
‘Is Ma coming to dinner?’ Michael asks when he sees what I’m doing.
Lily fastens her gaze on mine. We speak without words.
She’s not coming, says her eyebrow.
She might, say my eyes.
‘You eat,’ I say out loud to my brother. ‘Don’t let your food get cold.’
I debate taking the bowl to her room tonight, but decide against it. She’s not sick. She can come to the table. I sound like a mother—not my mother, but a mother. The thought makes my mouth go dry and I try to swallow the uneasiness bubbling in my stomach. Connie’s cackling voice springs into mind.
I shake my head, walk to my mother’s room and shove open the door.
‘Ma, dinner’s ready.’ My voice is brisk and final. Like I am the mother.
I know she’s awake even though she’s facing away from me. She doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t move.
Get up! Why won’t you get up?! I want to yell but it’s all caught up inside me, like badly-knotted cords. I’ve lost my voice again and there’s no point screaming into my arm.
I shut the door and go back to the kitchen. Lily and Michael are slurping their noodles with gusto.
‘She’s sleeping,’ I say, ignoring Lily’s confounding eyebrow. ‘We’ll put some in the fridge for her. There might be some for Baba, too.’
‘Eat, Anna, or it’ll get all cold.’ Michael speaks with his mouth full of noodle. I smile, grateful for the little things like warm, nourishing soup and pork dumplings. And silly little brothers.
5
Ng5
The thin strip of light from under the door wakes me. My phone tells me it’s two in the morning.
Lily’s snoring is breathy and rhythmic in the bed above mine. I fumble for my glasses and pull on a hoodie before padding out of our room.
‘Baba, you’re home.’ My father is standing by the sink, holding a small tumbler of beer. I very rarely see him drink, but these days I so very rarely see him at all, drinking or not.
He smiles sheepishly when he spots me. ‘Wah! Did I wake you? Go back to bed.’ He takes another swig from the glass.
I shake my head. ‘It’s okay, I was up anyway.’ This is a lie, but it’s the right thing to say. Baba and I do that a lot. He’s not much of a talker, and what he does say is rather stilted and formal. Instead, the emotions he can’t express are buried under layers of meaning.
‘Did you eat?’ His standard greeting for, How are you doing?
I shrug. ‘Yeah. We had dinner.’ My reply for, I’m okay.
We’re silent for a while and he takes another swig of beer. I’m almost tempted to ask for some. Maybe if I’d been a son, he would offer it to me, pour me a glass. But I’m not sure what it says in the Chinese handbook for fathers and daughters drinking together.
‘How’s your ma?’ This is a direct question. He always refers to his wife as ‘our mother’.
I shrug again and jam my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Same.’ It’s been six weeks that she’s been in bed this time.
Baba sighs. ‘Your mother needs a hobby. A job. Then she won’t think so much inside her head. Staying busy is the key.’
I press my lips together. Baba’s forever trying to get Ma out of the house.
‘She didn’t really like working before,’ I remind him. She used to work a little bit at a shop down on Liverpool Road. She kept a diary of all the customers that came in and out of the shop, trying to remember their names. Then she came home and cried when she got them wrong. She said they glared at her and made her feel bad. In the end, she quit after just four weeks, saying her boss put too much pressure on her when she counted out the wrong change.
‘Mmm.’ He considers this. ‘Idle minds lead to idle thoughts.’
I don’t know how to reply, so I change the subject.
‘How’s the restaurant?’ I ask. It’s so rare to see him at home, especially during the week.
He sighs heavily. ‘Big Wong left. After everything I did to sponsor him here. Bastard. Diu2 keoi1 gaa1.’
I blush at Baba’s coarse Cantonese. Big Wong is a distant cousin and initially came to Australia to learn English and work. Baba took him under his wing, gave him a job at the restaurant and eventually sponsored him to stay. That was more than seven years ago.
‘He got a job at the Chinese restaurant at the RSL. What’s the point?’ Baba laments. ‘It’s not even real Chinese, just sweet and sour pork, short and long soup. Laksa from a jar. Aiyo.’
I don’t point out that Baba’s cuisine is also more ‘Ocker Chinese’ than it is authentic flavours. I want to be the supportive daughter.
‘What are you going to do?’
Baba shakes his head. ‘I have to make Lim head chef, but that boy can’t toss a wok if his life depended on it. Ah-Jeff is still there, thank goodness, and Old Yuan said he’ll come out of retirement for a bit, but what I really need is someone on the grill.’