CHAPTER 3
When we get home, the landline is already ringing. Dad is checking, like he always does, that everything is in its place in our little world, and that I’m doing my homework and not snacking to the point where you get fat.
I’m still out of breath, and my forearm hurts from where it was clenched in Mum’s apprehensive claw the whole way home. I shake my head when she gestures at me with the handset. I can’t speak to him today; he’ll be able to tell from my voice that something is very wrong. I’ll have no answers to the inevitable questions about school, the icy sarcasm, the reminders of my many and various failings. I’m not in the mood to be picked on, or compared to unproductive trees today.
Mum doesn’t tell Dad about the detour because she still doesn’t understand why we were standing outside that woman’s badly kept house on the main road. She says this immediately after she hangs up on the sounds of the cooking and wait staff at the Hai Tong Tai Seafood Restaurant stuffing down a quick, early dinner before the dinner rush begins.
‘Why were you sending …’ Her eyes widen at the memory of the heart-shaped thing I shoved under the front door. ‘… notes to the Xiao boy? Is he your boyfriend?’ At the words boy and friend, in rapid Mandarin, Mum’s voice rises, panicked. ‘No boyfriend!’ she insists. ‘Too young for boyfriend! What will I tell your father?’
I can’t stop my face crumpling as I reply in the same language, ‘Henry de māmā, zìshā.’
Henry’s mum killed herself.
There is no way to dress up words like that. They are as blunt and final as they sound.
And they sound so wrong in my mouth that I can’t help crying, just like Miss Spencer did.
Mum freezes where she’s standing and inhales sharply, as if she’s drowning and going under a wave, the exact same way I did on our last school excursion to Cape Schanck to look at an old lighthouse and a bunch of rockpools. I’d lost my footing on the rocks and had to be saved out of a rip by a student teacher, who ended up with stitches trying to protect me from getting smashed. All I can remember is going under and going under and going under until it seemed that all the water was in me and through me; there was no beginning or end to the water. I couldn’t reach the light, for all the weight of the water above me, and I was so far out, by the end, that I was flotsam. It was the closest I’ve ever come to just giving up.
Mum’s eyes are very bright as she puts one hand over her mouth, briefly, then leans against the kitchen bench for support.
She doesn’t try to touch me as I cry, or come any closer. There are a thousand expressions flitting across her face as she watches me silently, and I think she’s actually going to say something else when she murmurs instead, ‘Bù zuò, bù sǐ.’
It’s my turn to inhale sharply.
The words mean, Not do, not die. What she said was: it was Henry’s mum’s fault for doing something stupid that led to this tragedy. Action, consequence.
Fay Xiao should have known better.
‘How can you say that?’ I reply, shocked, in English. ‘Henry’s mum died and that’s all you can say?’
‘To show weakness like that is … unfixable,’ Mum replies fiercely in Chinese, almost hissing in distress. ‘If every woman did that in a moment of, of … weakness, of pain, the world – it would be full of motherless children! I abhor her actions. She has cursed herself, and her son. She has marked him forever. Can’t you see that?’
‘She was sad,’ I shout. ‘She was sad enough to kill herself, Mum.’
‘We are all sad, Wen,’ Mum says, tiredly. ‘Some of us just hide it better. Now go and shower.’ She turns away and takes off her immaculate pink jacket before strapping on a black apron and knotting up her shiny hair in a low, rough ponytail. ‘Do your homework, especially your maths. It’s the only way to get better at it. Do it until he has no more words to say on the matter because words will no longer be necessary. Dinner is in twenty minutes, no arguments.’
When I think of my dad and my mum, I actually think of two different philosophies of life, two ‘Ways’ of being, if you like.
Dad, in my head, is always this famous Chinese philosopher called Confucius who said helpful things like Being good as a son and obedient as a young man is, perhaps, the root of a man’s character, and Mum is this other famous Chinese philosopher called Lao Tzu who would have replied (more calmly than perhaps he was feeling, if he was arguing with someone as infuriating and inflexible as my father):
Know contentment
And you will suffer no disgrace;
Know when to stop
And you will meet with no danger.
You can then endure.
You can tell which Way makes more sense to me, because I’m not a son, and I’m not a man, not even a young one, not now, not ever. Confucius, I always think, when Dad hits me with another round of ancient philosophical wisdom, or just with whatever is handy in warning against talking back, is a fish bicycle to most Chinese girls. His Way has no room for us in it anywhere, and I have to suppress an acute eye-roll every time I hear a quote about what a gentleman or scholar would do in similar circumstances, or the shortcomings of small men.
Not my actual, specific problem, Dad, I always think. No men in this house but you. Small or otherwise.
I’m reminded of all this the minute Dad gets home, near midnight as usual. He always makes a huge racket coming into the house, because he can; he’s worked hard all day, and he’s tired, and he wants Mum (and me) to know exactly how tired he is, how very late the hour. I haven’t been able to sleep anyway, wondering what Henry and his dad are doing right now, in that cold, unwelcoming house.
I hear Mum tell Dad hurriedly about Henry’s mum’s suicide before Dad’s even had time to hang up his overcoat. And Dad uses that actual word, disgrace, after a moment of shocked silence, and then says dismissively, ‘Fay Xiao was weak, that much was well known. She did not conduct herself properly while she was alive, and now she has brought Ah Yuan and his connections great shame. We must all learn from this.’
I lie there in the dark, unable to sleep after Mum and Dad move away down the hall towards the kitchen, burning with the great unfeelingness of him, how the biggest crisis in Henry’s life has been reduced to a teaching moment – a veiled warning to my mother to endure, or else.
On the way to school in the morning, Mum picks up her pace in her tan high heels as we pass Henry’s house, which looks as closed and blank as ever.
As she drags at my arm, hissing, ‘Hurry, you’ll be late,’ her head turned sharply away from the Xiao house so as not to have to look at it, or consider what’s going on beyond its bland, blond-brick façade, I see a man’s hand draw the closed curtains in the front windows even more tightly shut. I crane my neck back in wonder that Henry’s dad is actually home, during the day.
Because Mr Xiao brings the fresh stock back from the wholesale fruit and vegetable sellers in a rusty truck before the local market opens, then hauls things like huge bunches of bananas all day, he has to get up every morning before it’s light (except Mondays), returning around four in the afternoon to see to Henry’s dinner. My dad is usually at home in bed until at least ten in the morning because he works like a dog until late and doesn’t leave home for work until just after eleven.
Dad’s and Mr Xiao’s paths should never cross, but the Chinese community here revolves around the local market and the local shops, and I wonder how Mr Xiao can bear everyone knowing. When we stopped (very quickly) at the pharmacy for more bandaids for my eczema, even the pharmacist, Mrs Xenakis, wanted to have a chat about the Xiao family and asked if she could do anything to help that poor boy and his father.
When we reach school, and Mum has tottered away in her impractical shoes, matching tan bag and neat mauve skirt suit with discreet repairs to the lining under the armpits that no one ever sees except me, Miss Spencer catches me at the lockers before she goes in to mark the class roll. In her hand is a plain manila envelope stuffed so full of papers that it can’t be sealed properly. She has a thinner one for me, with my name on it.
‘Henry’s not here again,’ she says hurriedly. ‘When I called his house this morning, his father said he wasn’t feeling well, and I didn’t want to push it. I know you go past his place on your way home – Henry’s told me that before. Can you leave him these? We can’t let things slip. It’s too important – especially now. It’s revision. You’ve got the benefit of me talking at you all day, Wen, but he doesn’t.’
I have to remember to shut my mouth after Miss Spencer walks away, and put the envelope for Henry into the mesh side pocket of my backpack so that seeing it, facing out all day, will remind me about what I have to do. We’re going to have to make a stop on the way home whether Mum likes it or not.
‘Not again,’ Mum says in Mandarin as I halt outside the Xiao house. ‘No. There’s nothing we can do. We shouldn’t get involved. Your father, his father, wouldn’t want that!’
I give Mum such a fierce look that she drops her hand from my elbow as if she’s been scalded. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and place it on the ground, crouching to pull the rolled-up envelope of papers Miss Spencer gave me out of the side pocket. Before I think too hard about what I’m doing, I march to the door and press the doorbell three times.
Henry will speak to me, I’m sure of it.
There’s a long silence before I hear the shuffle of slippers approaching the front door. There’s the sound of a chain being pushed across and the wooden door finally opens, but I can’t see who’s standing there because the heavy wire security door is impossible to see through in the bright afternoon sunlight – I can only make out a vague dark shape. I say politely in Chinese, ‘Miss Spencer, the teacher, she wants Henry to do this homework. It’s very important.’
If it’s Henry, or even his dad, mentioning Miss Spencer will get their attention.
But the dark shape says nothing, and begins to close the front door. ‘Wait! Please!’ I say, but the door clicks shut and I’m still standing there, holding the envelope.
From behind me, Mum says firmly, ‘Henry is his father’s responsibility, not ours. You are embarrassing them. It is not our business. Let them grieve in peace.’
Ignoring her, I pull a pen out of the pocket of my tracksuit pants and scribble a maths problem and answer onto the envelope, not even deliberately mucking up the answer because I still don’t get long division. Just about all the numbers are in the wrong columns.
I say fiercely, ‘If that doesn’t get your attention, Henry Xiao, nothing will.’ Then I bend and stuff the envelope through the gap under the wire door and it’s so overfull that it tears a little as I keep shoving it through under the wooden door behind until nothing can be seen from the outside.
Mum has to take little running steps all the way home to keep up with me.
‘What are you doing?’ Mum exclaims, as I get a colourful plastic lunchbox out of the bottom drawer beneath the cutlery drawer and the tea towel drawer, and bring it to the table. Our simple dinner of a whole steamed fish, rice and beans fried with a little minced pork and pickled vegetables, is sitting on it. I shovel rice, a handful of fried beans and a long piece of fish from near the spine into the box, and shut it tight.
‘As soon as we eat, I’m taking it to Henry’s,’ I reply firmly. ‘I bet he’s not even eating. I couldn’t smell any food being cooked when I was at the door before.’
‘That’s enough!’ Mum snaps, snatching up the lunchbox and ripping off the lid before tipping the food into the empty bowl in front of me. ‘There’s only enough food here for two people. It’s terrible what happened to that … what that woman did, but it’s not up to us to raise her son when she couldn’t do that herself ! It’s not our business. She obviously wasn’t properly taught. Now, it’s a great shame, but her son will not be either. And you’re not taking food out of your mouth to put into his! He’s not one of our people.’
As calmly as I can, I pull the lunchbox back towards me and dump the uneaten contents of my bowl into it again and close the lid, placing the box on the seat beside me so that Mum can’t reach it. I pick up my chopsticks and start serving my mother some of the remaining beans and fish while she stares at me in disbelief.
‘He is my good friend,’ I reply quietly in Chinese, ‘and he still needs to eat. If it had happened to me –’ Mum inhales loudly at the highly unlucky suggestion, unluckily spoken aloud, ‘– you would want me to be taken care of because Dad would not be capable, he would not be willing. You know this. How many times have you heard him say, Raising children is not a job for a man! It’s the least we can do. Henry can’t study if he’s hungry.’
I don’t remind Mum how often Confucius himself banged on about how important it was to be a benevolent man, because I can see how stricken she is at my words. There is not much time for benevolence in our house, but now is one such time. Underneath the fear, Mum’s a good person. She’s kind, and softly spoken, and so very desperate to please. Without the fear, I know she would be a different person, a braver one. She might even have already cooked the Xiaos a proper meal and taken it over herself on a tray, while it was still hot. But she’s been conditioned to stay in her box, so she does. She can’t see over the sides of it, wouldn’t even think of testing its edges and dimensions, and it’s both sad and terrifying to me.
We don’t really talk as we put on our coats after cleaning up the dinner dishes. Mum trails behind me, looking around anxiously as if Dad might somehow pop out of the bushes, roaring and pointing accusingly, as I walk back to Henry’s house holding the lunchbox balanced across my palms like an offering.
When we reach the Xiaos’ place, the whole house is as dark as the night outside. If they are in there, they’re at the very back of the house, or they’re pretending to be asleep in their separate, tiny bedrooms. When I ring the doorbell, three times firmly with a decent pause between each ring, no one comes to the door, and no lights turn on.
‘Wen,’ Mum says quietly, ‘just leave it now.’
When Dad gets home that night, near midnight, like always when he’s working, I listen hard to what they say to each other, but Mum doesn’t mention stopping at Henry’s house at all.
And I think to myself, It’s a step.