by Chan Ho-Kei
Ngau had been at the company longer than Fai, and he’d met Yee-Chin a few times, so the Yu Hoi boss Mr. Tang asked him to have a “chat” with her. According to him, the firm had indeed arranged worker’s insurance for Au Fai, but when the insurance company got an adjuster to look into the case, they denied the claim. The accident took place after Au Fai’s shift ended, and there was no way to prove he’d been operating the forklift for work purposes. Besides, they’d found nothing wrong with the vehicle, and they couldn’t rule out the possibility that Au Fai had simply passed out.
“I heard they even wanted to pursue damages for the forklift, but the boss said you shouldn’t kick a man when he’s down. Fai worked hard for our company, and even if the insurance company won’t honor the claim, we have to do something for him. So the company is offering this small sum as a condolence. We hope you’ll accept it.”
When Yee-Chin reached out to take the check, her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. The words “pursue damages for the forklift” had filled her with such rage, she could have burst into tears, but she knew Ngau was just passing on what he’d been told. This money—the equivalent of three months of Au Fai’s wages—would be a drop in the bucket.
Yee-Chin sensed that the boss was hiding something, but she didn’t see any way to fight back. She had to accept the check and thank Ngau.
Yee-Chin hadn’t worked full-time since the children were born, had only helped out now and then at a Laundromat to earn a bit of pocket money. Now she had no choice but to go back to waiting tables at a dim sum restaurant. Although the cost of living had skyrocketed in the ten years since she’d last done this, her wages were about the same as before. Realizing there was no way she and her daughters could survive, she was forced to take a second job. Three days a week, she worked the night shift at a convenience store, getting off work at six a.m. and sleeping barely five hours before heading to the restaurant.
Quite a few neighbors urged Yee-Chin to quit her jobs and go on welfare, but she refused. “I know I’m only earning a bit more now than I would on welfare, and I could take care of Nga-Yee and Siu-Man full-time if I stopped working,” she would say, smiling sweetly. “But if I did that, how will I ever teach my girls to stand on their own two feet?”
Nga-Yee noticed and remembered every time she said such things.
Losing her father was a big blow for Nga-Yee. She was just starting secondary school, and Au Fai had promised that after her final exams, the whole family would take a three-day trip to Australia to celebrate—but he was ripped away from them before this could happen. Nga-Yee had always been an introverted child, but she became even more withdrawn. Yet she didn’t give in to despair—her mother’s example showed her that no matter how cruel reality was, you had to be strong. With work taking up all of Yee-Chin’s time, Nga-Yee had to be in charge of the housework: cleaning, food shopping and cooking, and taking care of her four-year-old sister. Before turning thirteen, Nga-Yee was already adept at all these chores, and she understood how to scrimp and save. Every day after school she had to turn down social invitations and miss extracurricular activities. Her classmates called her odd and a loner, but she didn’t mind. She understood where her responsibilities lay.
In contrast, Siu-Man’s development didn’t seem affected by her father’s death.
Sheltered by her mother and elder sister, Siu-Man had a fairly normal childhood. Nga-Yee sometimes worried that she was spoiling her, but one sight of Siu-Man’s innocent smile and she’d decide it was perfectly natural to adore her little sister. Now and then Siu-Man would get too mischievous, and Nga-Yee would have to put on a stern face and scold her. Yet when Nga-Yee got stressed and burst into tears—after all, she was only a secondary school student—it was Siu-Man who comforted her, stroking her face and murmuring, “Sis, please don’t cry.” There were times when Yee-Chin got home late at night to find her daughters curled up together in bed, having made up after an argument.
It wasn’t easy for Nga-Yee to get through five years of secondary school, but she survived, even managing to get some of the highest exam results in her year. She did well enough to get into a sixth-form college, and her form teacher thought she’d have no problem winning a place at a top university. Yet no matter how her teachers tried to persuade her, she refused to be swayed, insisting that she was ready to get a job. This was a decision she made the year her father died: no matter how well she did in her exams, she would give up her shot at a university education.
“Mom, once I start work, we’ll have two wages coming in, and you can take it a bit easier.”
“Yee, you’ve worked so hard and done so well. Don’t give up now. You don’t have to worry about money. At worst, I can find a third part-time job …”
“Enough, Mom! You’ll wreck your health if you keep going like this. It’s been such a struggle paying my tuition for the last couple of years, I can’t let you go on worrying.”
“It’s just another two years. I heard that universities have some sort of assistance plan, so we won’t need to worry about tuition.”
“They’re called student loans, Mom—I’d still have to pay them back after I graduated. Starting salaries aren’t great for degree holders these days, and arts students like me don’t have many jobs to choose from. I’d probably wind up making loan repayments out of my tiny salary. There’d be hardly anything left over. Another five years of you supporting all of us, and then probably another five or six when I couldn’t contribute much. You’re forty, Mom. Do you really want to keep working this hard till you’re fifty?”
Yee-Chin had no response. Nga-Yee had been rehearsing this speech for almost two years now, so it was a pretty watertight argument.
“If I get a job, everything changes,” Nga-Yee went on. “First, I can start earning now, not in five years. Second, I won’t be in debt to the government. Third, I can get some work experience while I’m still young. And most important, as long as we both work hard, by the time Siu-Man finishes secondary school, we’ll have saved enough that she won’t have to worry about any of this, but can focus on her studies. Maybe we’ll even be able to send her to an overseas university.”
Nga-Yee had never been one for making speeches, yet these heartfelt words came out smoothly and persuasively.
Yee-Chin gave in to Nga-Yee in the end. After all, looking at the matter objectively, she’d made many good points. Still, Yee-Chin couldn’t help feeling sad. Did it make her a bad mother that her elder daughter was sacrificing her future for the sake of the younger?
“Mom, trust me, this will all be worth it.”
Nga-Yee had it all planned out. Between housework and taking care of her sister, the only hobby she could fit in was reading. As they had no money, most of her books came from the public library, where she now hoped to find a job. And sure enough, she successfully applied for the position of library assistant at the East Causeway Bay branch, making her an employee of the Hong Kong’s Leisure and Cultural Services Department.
Although Nga-Yee was working for the government, she wasn’t considered a civil servant, and thus got none of the associated benefits. In order to cut costs, the Hong Kong government, like many private businesses, cut permanent staff in favor of contract employees, usually for one- or two-year terms, after which the job naturally came to an end without any hassle or payout. Thus, in times of economic downturn, there could be “natural attrition” of payroll, while contracts could be renewed if there was money to spare, with the employer retaining complete control. In addition, the government outsourced some jobs, so it was entirely possible that someone stacking shelves at a public library might actually be working for a contractor, on even worse terms than the contract employees. When Nga-Yee learned all this, she couldn’t help thinking of the way her father was treated, and seeing him in some of the library’s old security guards.
Still, Nga-Yee wasn’t discontented. Her position was low-ranking, but she took home about ten thousand Hong Kong dollars a month, which greatly imp
roved the Au household’s situation. Yee-Chin was able to give up her second job, easing her burden after years of toil. She continued working at the dim sum restaurant, but got to spend more time at home and gradually took back the task of raising Siu-Man. Nga-Yee’s shifts kept changing, so she didn’t have a definite schedule and as a result spent less time with her sister. To start with, Siu-Man would seize on her exhausted sister as soon as she got back from work, gabbling away about any and everything, but eventually she seemed to accept the fact that her sister was busy and stopped pestering her. Nga-Yee’s family slowly became normal. She and Yee-Chin were no longer constantly worried about making ends meet. After all their suffering, they finally had a taste of something better as their once-chaotic lives settled into regularity.
Unfortunately, this respite lasted only five years.
The previous March, Yee-Chin had fallen at the restaurant and broken her right thighbone. When Nga-Yee got the news, she took the rest of the day off and hurried to the hospital, not expecting to receive even worse news when she got there.
“Ms. Chau didn’t break her bone in the fall—she fell because her bone snapped,” the consultant said. “I suspect she may have multiple myeloma. We need to do more tests.”
“Multiple what?”
“Multiple myeloma. It’s a form of blood cancer.”
Two days later, as Nga-Yee waited with trepidation, the diagnosis arrived. Chau Yee-Chin had late-stage cancer. Multiple myeloma is an autoimmune disease in which a mutation of the plasma cells causes bone marrow cancer in many places in the body. If detected early, patients might survive another five years or more. With proper treatment, some even make it past a decade. But in Yee-Chin’s case, it was too late for chemotherapy or stem cell transplants. The doctors thought she had six months.
Yee-Chin had noticed her symptoms—anemia, joint pain, weakening muscles—but attributed them to arthritis and exhaustion. Even when she sought treatment, the doctor hadn’t seen anything other than normal degenerating cartilage and inflamed nerves. Multiple myeloma mostly strikes older men, rarely a woman in her forties.
To Nga-Yee, her mom had always seemed as resilient as Úrsula Iguarán, Buendía’s wife in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and sure to reach a healthy old age. Only when she looked closely at her mother did she realize with a start that this woman of almost fifty was no longer young. All those years of backbreaking labor had eaten away at her, and now the creases around her eyes looked as deep as cracks on tree bark. Holding her mother’s hand, she shed silent tears while Yee-Chin remained self-possessed.
“Nga-Yee, don’t cry. At least you got through secondary school and have a job. If I leave now, I won’t have to worry about the two of you.”
“No, no, don’t …”
“Yee, promise me you’ll be strong. Siu-Man is delicate, you’ll have to take care of her.”
As far as Yee-Chin was concerned, death wasn’t something to be afraid of, especially as she knew her husband was waiting for her on the far shore. The only thing tethering her to this world was her two daughters.
In the end, Yee-Chin didn’t make it as long as her doctors predicted. Two months later, she was gone.
Nga-Yee held back her tears at her mother’s funeral. In this moment she completely understood how her mother had felt when sending off their dad—no matter how sad she was, how heartbroken, she had to stay strong. From now on, Siu-Man would have no one to rely on but her.
In Siu-Man, Nga-Yee saw herself a decade ago: hollow-eyed, grieving her father’s death.
That said, Nga-Yee suspected that their mother’s death was hitting Siu-Man harder. Nga-Yee had always been quiet, while Siu-Man was the talkative one. Now Siu-Man grew silent and withdrawn. The contrast was so great, she seemed like an entirely different person. Nga-Yee remembered how lively their family dinners used to be, with Siu-Man chatting animatedly about school—which teacher embarrassed himself saying the wrong thing at assembly, which teacher the student aide snitched to, what pointless fortune-telling game people were playing. These happy moments might as well have taken place in a different world. Nowadays Siu-Man shoveled food into her mouth, barely looking up, and if Nga-Yee didn’t make the effort to start a conversation, Siu-Man would just say “I’m full” and leave the table. She’d retreat into her “room”—when Nga-Yee started work, Yee-Chin had rearranged the furniture to give her daughters a little privacy, carving out two little nooks with bookshelves and wardrobes—to tap blankly at her phone.
I should give her some time, thought Nga-Yee. She didn’t want to force her sister to do anything, especially at the awkward age of fourteen. It would only make matters worse. Nga-Yee was sure that before too long, Siu-Man would find her own way out of this depression.
And indeed, after about half a year, Siu-Man returned to her former self. Nga-Yee was glad to see her sister smiling again. Neither of them could have imagined that fate had an even worse calamity in store.
2.
A little after six p.m. on November 7, 2014, Nga-Yee got an unexpected phone call and hurried with a heavy heart to Kowloon Police Station. An officer led her to an office in the Criminal Investigation Department, where Siu-Man, in her school uniform, was sitting on a bench in the corner, next to a female officer. Nga-Yee rushed over to hug her, but Siu-Man didn’t respond, just allowed her sister to wrap her arms around her.
“Siu-Man—”
Nga-Yee was about to start asking questions when Siu-Man seemed to come to herself and clutched her sister tightly, pressing her face into Nga-Yee’s chest, shedding tears like rain. After sobbing for ten minutes, she seemed to calm down.
The lady officer said, “Miss, you don’t have to be scared. Your sister’s here now. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
Seeing a flicker of hesitation in her sister’s eyes, Nga-Yee grabbed Siu-Man’s hand and squeezed it in silent encouragement. Siu-Man glanced at the policewoman, then at the statement form on the table with her name and age already filled in. Letting out a breath, she began to speak in a small, unsteady voice about the events of an hour ago.
Siu-Man was studying at Enoch Secondary School on Waterloo Road in Yau Ma Tei, close to other elite prep schools such as Kowloon Wah Yan College, True Light Girls’ College, and ELCHK Lutheran Secondary School. Enoch’s exam results weren’t quite as good as these posh schools, but it was still considered one of the better mission schools in this district and was also known within educational circles for its emphasis on the internet, tablet computers, and other high-tech teaching innovations. Each morning, Siu-Man took a bus from Lok Wah Estate to Kwun Tong station, then another half hour’s MTR ride to Yau Ma Tei. Enoch’s classes ended at four p.m., but she sometimes stayed back at the library to do her homework. And so, on November 7, she headed home a little later than usual, leaving the school around five.
That September, mass protests had risen up in response to proposed electoral reforms, and the government had escalated the situation by sending in the riot police. Huge numbers of disgruntled citizens poured out into the streets, occupying the main roads of Admiralty, Mong Kok, and Causeway Bay, paralyzing part of the city. With the roads blocked and buses rerouted, many people switched to using the Mass Transit Railway, causing massive congestion, particularly at rush hour, when platforms got so crowded that two or three trains would come before you were able to squeeze on. It was even worse in the cars—never mind grabbing a handrail, you’d be hard-pressed even to turn around. Commuters were squashed like sardines, back-to-back or chest-to-chest, even standing on tiptoe, swaying forward or back as the train sped up or slowed down.
Siu-Man got on at Yau Ma Tei station and found herself a space in the fourth car, pressed against the left-hand door. On the Kwun Tong line, Mong Kok and Prince Edward are the only two stations where the doors open on the left, so after those stops, Siu-Man was effectively boxed in. This was her usual spot. She got off at the terminus, and this way she could stay put rather than having to step aside at each statio
n to let other commuters on and off.
According to Siu-Man’s statement, something went wrong as the train pulled out of Prince Edward station.
“I … I felt someone touching me …”
“Touching you where?” asked the policewoman.
“My—my ass,” Siu-Man stammered. She’d been clutching her schoolbag, facing the door, and hadn’t seen who was behind her, but she felt a hand groping her. She looked around, seeing lots of ordinary faces. Apart from a few foreigners chatting among themselves, a stout, yawning office worker, and a curly-haired woman talking loudly into her phone, everyone else had their heads down, staring at their screens. Never mind how crowded the train, they weren’t willing to miss a single second of social media, chat, or movie streaming.
“At … at first I thought I was mistaken …” Siu-Man’s voice was as thin as a mosquito’s hum. “The train was so full, maybe someone was just taking their phone out of their pocket and accidentally touched me. But then a while later, I felt—aah …”
“He touched you again?” asked Nga-Yee.
Siu-Man nodded, agitated.
As the policewoman asked more questions, Siu-Man blushed furiously and continued her account. She’d felt the hand passing slowly across her right buttock, but when she made a frantic grab for it, there were too many people in the way and she couldn’t reach it in time. There was no way to turn around, so she twisted her neck as far as she could, thinking she would glare at the pervert to warn him off, but once again she had no idea who’d done it. Was it the man in a suit right behind her, the bald geezer next to her, or someone out of her line of vision?
“Didn’t you call for help?” said Nga-Yee, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. She didn’t want to sound like she was blaming her sister.
Siu-Man shook her head.
“I—I was scared of causing trouble …”
Nga-Yee understood. She’d once seen a girl screaming and grabbing her attacker after getting groped on a train, but it was the victim everyone looked at with disgust, and the culprit yelled at her, sneering, “You think you’re a supermodel or something? Why would I touch your tits?”