London, June 2016

i saw a fox walking towards me in the darkness.

it stalked up the street, we shared a footpath.

headlights swept sparkles across wet concrete

i reached for my phone, knowing i didn’t need an Instagram picture to prove anything

the fox froze, and disappeared through a fence into the night.

*

on the tube, a boy sat down with his young mum.

she sat hunched over him, spoke in whispers, and when she smiled it was quick, forced because he waited for it each time he said something to her

the boy chatted and rummaged through the shopping for a snack

he didn’t know or care about the unspoken tube-oath of silence

he stuffed his face with chocolate popcorn, grinning at the couple beside me with rainbows painted on their faces

ssh, his mum said

he pushed more popcorn into his mouth, then painted arches in the air with his hands

in the reflection, the rainbow-faced boyfriend smiled back

the boy’s mum shuffled in her seat. fixed the boy’s hair, pulled him closer. pressed a kiss into his head.

‘mummy,’ the boy said loudly. ‘do you know chocolate is my favourite of all the fruits? but actually you are in front of any foods is how much i love you. even more than chocolate.”

*

this city is laced with memories of the most unsure years of my life.

the triggers are everywhere –

this was when

here was where

i want to reach through time and hug myself

tell that girl,

you did the best you could.

everything is going to be ok.

20160625_182707

 

The Edge of the World

[a short story written in 2009, that I just found and felt like sharing] 

It’s like standing on the edge of the world. Evelyn’s mama lifts her high enough to see over the wall, to the land of concrete below, the planes resting between flights, the long trailers of suitcases like worms and the people like ants following each other in lines, trying to find the best way to lift the planes and carry them back to their hole.

It feels like standing on the edge of the world because behind them is Kai Tak Airport’s main building – large and multi-levelled with laminated floors and fluorescent lights, shops and food and people concentrating on getting from one place to the next. Behind that is the city, all shiny hotels and shabby apartment blocks, local people’s laundry stemming from windows and flapping over the street like flags. Evelyn’s kindergarten is in there somewhere, amidst the flashing neon signs and the sweet sizzle of fried taro. People stand beside street vendors slurping noodle soup from plastic bowls. Glossy Peking ducks hang in restaurant windows, with soy-sauce chickens and crisp pork bellies; there are businessmen in sharp shirts and pants, old men laughing behind counters of herbal medicines or hiding within caves of red incense, firecrackers, and smooth-carved firewood. Women walk with baskets slung over their shoulders, like human scales, each basket loaded with jewel-like oranges, or bean sprouts. Children play marbles in front of their parents’ shops; a blind man flicks the strings of his liu qin, sending streams of quivering, high notes into the air. There are huge white buildings with columns and arch windows, where gweilos work and they keep the British flag raised to make sure nobody forgets. All of these things, the feeling of always being in the middle of a busy market, the polished rich people and the dusty poor people, the smells of street food, the repetition of stinky herbal shops and colourful grocery stores, Evelyn and her mama’s apartment, the playground at the bottom of their building, her kindergarten, all of these things, mixed together somehow to become the same memory, are what will come to Evelyn when she thinks of her old home. In front of her, beyond the concrete floor, is the oily grey-blue water of Kowloon Bay, dotted with junk boats, surrounded by city buildings thick along the coast, and mountains so dense with trees they look like broccoli. Beyond that, Evelyn is struggling to picture anything but the man with the crinkle-faced smile, the one they are moving for.

She doesn’t want to go. But she has to – her mama says so. Her mama says her new baba will be waiting for them in Melbourne – and won’t it be nice to have a baba again? Her mama also says Australia is full of gweilos. Evelyn has seen them on the streets of Hong Kong Island, where she has lived all her life with her mama in a one-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor. Tall men and women, pinky-white skin, blue eyes, green eyes, fried daufu coloured eyes. But if Evelyn closed her eyes when they reached the front of the street vendor queue, or stepped up to buy their bus ticket, she wouldn’t have known that their faces didn’t match the Cantonese shooting out through their lips.

There were two blonde sisters at Evelyn’s kindergarten. Their parents were British, but the girls were born in Hong Kong and sometimes it seemed like they had forgotten they weren’t Chinese. Evelyn never forgot, though – she couldn’t help looking at their fine blonde plaits, the way the loose strands turned white when the light touched them at certain angles. The girls’ cheeks flushed magenta when they ran around too much; their lips were the colour of lychees and their eyes reminded her of sunny day skies. When Evelyn looked at them she thought of fairies – pretty and fascinating, but also mysterious and strange. Evelyn was never really sure whether she wanted to play with them or not.

Evelyn wonders whether, in Australia, people will call her and her mama black ghosts because of the colour of their hair. She imagines going to a school full of gweilo fairy children, where all of the blonde, brown and red-haired teachers stand tall and proud. What if no one is sure whether they want to play with her? What if no one wants to be her friend? Her mama tells her she will have to learn English. What if English is too hard? All of the other children will already speak it – what if she can’t learn fast enough, and can’t talk to anyone – how will she make any friends then?

Evelyn and her mama go inside, holding hands, Evelyn’s other hand clutching her dolly tight. They wait in line, give their tickets to a man at the door, then follow everyone else onto the concrete outside. The sun is shining and the water is just a thin strip now. The planes are as big as buildings.

The echoing bang of her mama’s heels against each metal step. Rows of seats, blue carpet, hidden cupboards in the ceiling. Towards the back, Evelyn’s mama buckles her into a seat and sits beside her, nudging her handbag under the seat in front with her feet.

A loud whooshing noise sweeps through the plane. Evelyn buries her face in her mama’s body, breathing in her perfume. She feels the plane begin to move, slowly at the start, slowly for what seems like forever, and just when she thinks maybe they are already flying, and she is about to lift her head and look out the window, the plane lurches forward and she is sucked into the back of her seat. Her eyes are closed, and her mama is squeezing her.

‘Look! Can you see? We are flying!’

But Evelyn is too scared to look.

*

Evelyn’s mama says they are going to live in a house – big, pretty, with flowers in the garden – just like the Botanical Gardens! – and Evelyn will have her very own room.

‘But I want to sleep with you, mama,’ Evelyn said on their last night.

‘You can’t,’ her mama replied. ‘You are a big girl now. Big girls have their own rooms, and they sleep by themselves in their own beds. Aren’t you a big girl yet?’

‘I am a big girl.’

‘Then what is the problem?’

‘What if I have bad dreams?’

Her mama stroked her hair, coaxing her into sleep. ‘If you have bad dreams, you can come to me. But you must try to sleep by yourself, ha? Big girl now. Ha?’

‘Yes, mama.’

She had shared a room with her mama since she was born, and shared a bed with her for as long as she can remember. Every night, in that cosy double bed, Evelyn curled into her mama’s arms and wrapped her own arms around her dolly. The three of them fitted perfectly into that space; it had never occurred to her that they would ever need anybody else.

When she was born, Evelyn slept in a cot beside the bed. But then her Chinese-American baba flew back to visit his parents, and on his way to the airport to come home, the taxi crashed into another car. This is what her mama said. She told her that on the night she learned that he was never coming home, she lifted their baby from the cot and sat with her on the bed, letting hot tears fall onto the baby’s brow. The baby blinked with surprise when each one landed, and if they slipped down her fat red cheeks and touched her lips, she licked them. Evelyn’s mama lay down and continued crying, keeping her eyes on the baby beside her. A dark patch swelled on the pillowcase. Baby Evelyn, she said, looked back at her, gurgling, perfectly content. That’s when she knew that the two of them would be all right.

‘Then why do I need a new baba?’ Evelyn had asked before the wedding.

‘Mama cannot give you everything you need,’ her mama told her. ‘Your new baba will look after us; he will send you to a good school so you can grow up smart and have a good job and look after your mama when she is old. Ha?’

‘But why can’t he live here?’

‘Because he lives there. Ai,’ her mama kissed her hair. ‘Everything will be better from now on. You will see.’

Evelyn looked at her mama, wondering.

‘Do you believe me, little one?’ her mama asked. ‘Do you trust mama?’

Still, Evelyn wasn’t sure.

‘Wei, can you hear me?’

Finally, Evelyn nodded. Her mama’s face stretched into a smile, and she gathered Evelyn into her arms and squeezed. ‘Do not worry about anything, okay?’ she whispered. ‘Mama will always look after you. You are my baby.’

*

‘Wake up, wake up! Look, you can see Australia!’

Evelyn’s dream, in which the blonde sisters were holding her hands and leading her into a classroom full of children who looked just like them, fades into black. The steady rumble and whoosh of the plane fills her ears again; she breathes the soapy smell of the seats. She remembers where she is, that her room for the last ten hours has had a window and an armrest, the back of her seat and the back of the seat in front of her for walls. Her mama is beside her. Her dolly has fallen onto her unbuckled shoes on the floor.

The plane is in a cloud, and when it shakes a little, Evelyn whimpers. Her mama points outside again, and she dares to look. The cloud opens up and far, far below is a land – green and yellow and brown, and as the plane gets lower, she can see that it is speckled with white square houses.

Her mama’s arm is around her when the wheels hit the ground. They collect their suitcases and wait in lines, and they are walking through sliding doors, into a room full of people waiting, watching the same doors they came through. Just as her mama had said, there are a lot of gweilos. They wear slippers, shorts and t-shirts and floaty beach dresses, their arms spread wide to greet their loved ones emerging through the doors. And then the tall, slender man Evelyn remembers appears from somewhere in between them. His black hair is flecked with more grey than there was at the wedding; it is combed and gelled to the side. He is wearing a suit and holding flowers and a new dolly with a bright pink and yellow dress. When he sees Evelyn and her mama, and they see him, his face crinkles all the way up to his hairline because his smile is so big.

April

Every night before she went to sleep, April told herself stories in which her mother returned to find her. She would send an email or a postcard, or April would pick up the phone to hear an unfamiliar yet familiar voice. Sometimes, she would open the door after the bell rang to see her standing there: older than she remembered, and smaller, but always wearing that mustard yellow coat. Her lips were red and her eyes were wrinkled, even when she wasn’t smiling. Her mother was much smaller than her (because everyone told April she got her height from her dad), as she fought back happy tears and opened her arms out for a hug.

Sometimes, the story ended with April falling into her mother’s embrace and smelling the perfume on her neck, the shampoo and hairspray in her hair. They would head inside for tea, elbows linked. April would pull the Florentines down from the high shelf and they would chat, catching up on years of stories, long after the tea had been drained from their cups and the afternoon sun had faded into night.

Other times, April would step back. More than once, she simply shut the door in her mother’s face and waited so long on the other side that by the time she opened it, her mother was gone. Sometimes, she yelled. The most satisfying endings were when she told her mother, right there on the doorstep, with her own feet inside and her mother’s clearly outside, every word that she had spoken bitterly into the dark through hot-watered eyes over the last ten years.

How could you, she spat. How dare you.

In those stories, April never wanted to see her mother again. She missed her dad like crazy, every minute since she lost him just a few months ago. But she didn’t need a mother – or anyone – who was willing to walk out on her with no goodbye. Who could just disappear from her life with no sign of returning.

How could you.

But as her own belly started to balloon, and the life inside her took shape in the ultrasound pictures – a head, arms, legs, a heartbeat – the more April toyed with the happier ending to the story.

Maybe she wanted the baby to have a grandma. Maybe she was so scared she just wanted someone, anyone, around. Maybe she wanted to understand her mother, so she could pinpoint the ways she could be different, better, and not just because she would be there.

Or maybe. Maybe. Maybe she just wanted to understand so she could let the baby go and not feel like a criminal.

[Character exploration for one of multiple current WIPs]