‘You can’t come. It’s dangerous and you could get hurt.’ This is a lie, I know. I used to hang out at the restaurant all the time when I was Michael’s age. But now, the restaurant feels sacred. A special place for me and Baba where I can feel almost normal.
‘I’ll bring you back some spring rolls. You like those, don’t you?’ He nods, but I can tell he’s disappointed by this consolation prize.
Lily has finally woken up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she peers at me blearily from the doorway. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Jade Palace. Look after Michael today, okay?’ I don’t give her a chance to protest or object.
I hesitate by Ma’s door. I should go in again, check that she’s okay. I reach for the knob, but at the last second, I let my hand fall away and head outside.
Baba has already started the car and is waiting for me. I climb into the front seat and fling my bag on the floor.
‘Did your Ma say anything?’
I wince. ‘She’s fine.’ We both know this is a lie and we both know it’s as good as it’ll be. My heart is dancing with excitement. I thought I’d spend the whole holidays trapped in that gloomy apartment and Ma’s wrapped-up-doona sadness. An early morning kookaburra chortles from a branch above.
KOUHAHAHAHAH.
I take it as a good sign.
The streets are nearly empty at this time on a Saturday morning, barring a few taxis heading towards the airport. We drive in silence until we hit the freeway then Baba switches on talkback radio.
The host is fired up about a new immigration policy that’s been proposed by the Senate. He talks about boat people rorting the system and immigrant business owners abusing the working visa system.
‘These migrants come with the sole purpose of getting permanent residency. They get married to a resident, like a business transaction, so they can then get all the benefits and their resident status,’ the host says. ‘Then they start businesses right next to each other—you have two brothers both running a restaurant on the same street, for crying out loud. And why do they do it? For the sole purpose of bringing their own extended family over to work and marry. It’s a bloody rort, I tell ya.’
I fume silently at the comment. It all sounds racist to me, even though a small voice in the back of my head knows that what the broadcaster says is at least partly true. The problem is people use these types of arguments to justify their racist behaviour against Chinese people and foreigners when they treat us all like criminals because of something they heard on morning talkback radio.
Baba’s face is stony. I don’t know what he’s thinking, so I change the station to some boring market report. Baba smiles and nods, so I leave it.
Here, they’re talking housing and real estate and something about Sydney’s property market. It seems like the only thing adults ever talk about these days. Baba is nodding and murmuring along, repeating words like ‘economic downturn’ and ‘variable interest rates’.
I’ve been waiting to talk to him for a while, but now that he’s in the car with me, my questions and thoughts are all clunky and muddled.
Baba doesn’t look in my direction when he asks, ‘How’s school?’
I shrug. ‘It’s okay.’ I don’t tell him about the report Mr Murray handed back. Baba cares about Lily’s grades because of the scholarship and Michael’s because he’s so much younger. But me he seems to trust—or maybe he’s given up.
He nods, accepting my non-committal reply. He keeps repeating the host as I mull over the words I want to say next. ‘Equity management and diversified assets.’
‘Baba, I think Ma’s getting worse,’ I blurt out finally. ‘She hasn’t gotten out of bed and it’s been more than eight weeks this time.’
‘Mmm.’ It’s not a reply, but at least he’s stopped parroting the radio. He doesn’t say anything for a while.
‘Your mother has moods,’ he says eventually. ‘It’s difficult, you know. Having two teenage daughters and a young son. You have to be kind to her. Not make her upset.’
I’m heavy with guilt. ‘But we didn’t do anything.’
‘Personal equity.’ He’s back to the radio again. ‘Your mother gets lonely sometimes. You girls should spend more time with her.’
I have nothing to say to this. We try, but what can we do when she locks herself in her room?
‘Your mother thinks too much. She needs a hobby to take her mind off things. Then she will be better. She just has to keep busy. Maybe a job will do her good,’ he suggests again.
Baba says this a lot. That Ma is bored and has too much time to think. That’s why he’s always at the restaurant, he says—so that he can stay busy. That’s all he thinks is wrong with Ma, that if she was busy enough, she wouldn’t have time to be sad and afraid.
I’ve tried so many times to talk to him about her feelings, how I can tell she’s nervous or upset or feels so bad about herself. But Baba doesn’t want to hear it. There’s a saying in Cantonese about impossible tasks: laai4 ngau4 soeng5 syu6. Dragging a cow up a tree. Neither party wants to be in that situation. That’s how I feel when I try to talk to Baba.
As if reading my thoughts, Baba reaches over and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘I know. You’re a good sister, Anna. You have to look after your brother and sister, too. It’s a lot of responsibility. You’re daai6 gaa1 ze2.’ Big older sister.
I sigh heavily. What can I say? I have to be responsible and look after my brother and sister. I’m the eldest.
I cross my arms and glare out the window, conversation over.
Baba’s team used to be Big Chef Wong, Sous Chef Lim and Ah-Jeff, an all-rounder and kitchen helper. There’s also Minh, a quiet Vietnamese boy on dish duty and Old Yuan, who comes on the weekends. That’s the kitchen staff, or at least it was before Big Wong left. Out the front, Baba has Miss Chen as hostess alongside two Caucasian waitresses Baba hired from the local area.
I used to think it was strange that Baba still kept the restaurant after we moved. There’s no shortage of Chinese restaurants just down the road from where we live, so why didn’t he open one close by? I’ve come to realise, though, that Jade Palace isn’t just a restaurant to Baba, it’s his second home, maybe even his first and I can’t begrudge him that little bit of comfort.
Ma hates the restaurant. She’s barely set foot in it since we left Gosford, but she carries around its presence like a cancer. On her bad days, the really bad ones, she hurls accusations at Baba and the restaurant is usually front and centre. ‘You love that restaurant more than us. You think you’re a good businessman? How can you own a restaurant and we still live so poorly?’
Her bursts of rage just make Baba work harder.
To be honest, I really miss my time in the restaurant. I love the organised chaos of the kitchen and how everyone has their established roles and that they all work really hard. There’s plenty of swearing and lewd comments thrown around, which is probably another reason why Ma doesn’t approve. My everyday-Cantonese might be crap, but thanks to Big Wong, Lim and Ah-Jeff, I know more Canto expressions for breasts and penises than a sixteen-year-old girl from Sydney would ever need.