The Better Mother

by Jen Sookfong Lee

  And so she let them watch her, knowing they would take her image into their beds with them.

  A barber whose shop was down the block became her favourite customer and he talked to her as much as he dared. “Where are you from?” he asked, stopping her rush to another table with a thin, lifted hand. “A small town like me?”

  Val balanced her tray on her hip and smiled. “Not even a town, just a string of houses by the river. It was pretty quiet. Not like this.”

  “Yes, living here is sometimes very hard. So many strangers. And so few friends. It makes people old before their time. Did you know”—he leaned forward and pointed at his greying, receding hairline—“I’m actually twenty-one?”

  Val let out a belly laugh and walked away, looking back at his strangely crooked yet handsome face. She smiled again, over her shoulder, almost coy. When she turned her head back, she saw that Mr. Chow, a roll of dimes in his hand, was watching, his forehead heavy like a thundercloud. She looked away, confused, but when she saw him again, counting the change in the till, he seemed to be his everyday self.

  Sometimes a returning Chinese soldier came into the café, and the men would crowd around him, asking him if the stories were true, if the Canadians and British used them to infiltrate enemy lines, if they were spies in the wilds of Burma.

  “Was it exciting, Jack? Like in the movies?”

  “Those mosquitoes are vicious. Look at my scars.”

  “Things are changing, brothers,” said an older man who had been listening to the soldier all afternoon. “I can smell it.”

  Val could hear them arguing over the influence these new veterans could wield in Ottawa, parlaying their loyalty to the Commonwealth into the right to vote.

  After work, if it wasn’t raining, she walked north to the waterfront, through the smells of wet lumber and salted fish, so she could stand as close to the waves as possible. As the evenings grew lighter, she could see across to the shore of North Vancouver, the mountains looming, blue in the fog, green in the sunshine. To the west, she knew that the inlet opened into the ocean, which led to Japan and China, places she knew nothing about but created in her mind. Lacquered red. Gold dragons. Ancient pagodas somehow untouched by war. Rich incense that smelled of cinnamon and cloves. The feel of silk on bare, clean skin.

  When she arrived home, Joan was dressed and waiting. Not once did she go down to the dining room alone. If the bell rang before Val came home, she didn’t eat at all.

  It was a gloomy and drizzly Monday morning one month later, and the men were grumpy. One or two smiled at her as she poured them coffee, but the rest either nodded or didn’t acknowledge her, staring at the newspapers in front of them or the scratches on the tabletops. It’s understandable, Val thought. I don’t like this weather either. Earlier, as Joan slept with her white hands folded over the quilt, Val had had just enough time to run the comb through her hair once, button up her plain cotton dress and shove two bobby pins over her ears. Now, as she half ran to the kitchen to pick up an order of cream of wheat, she put a hand to the side of her head and swore under her breath when she realized the pins had disappeared. She hoped they hadn’t fallen into somebody’s scrambled eggs.

  Outside, the city had woken up, startled out of sleep by car horns and the beat of footsteps on the sidewalk.

  Val rushed past Mr. Chow on her way to the kitchen, carrying a tray piled high with dirty dishes. He stood beside the door, his checked shirt free of food splatter, his apron tied precisely at his waist (never crooked, never bunched or wrinkled) and drummed his fingers on the wall. Val wished he would pick up a rag and clean something, or perhaps make a fresh pot of coffee; he was taking up precious space with his tree-like body. As she kicked the kitchen door open, Mr. Chow turned his wide head and said, “You look pretty today.”

  She walked to the sink as if he had never spoken, acted like his smooth and quiet voice had never launched those words. Her shift continued, her wrists aching like they always did at lunchtime, the curls in her hair drooping in the humidity that blew from the stoves. That night she listened to Joan chatter about the young couple who had walked by their window in the afternoon. And then she bathed and lay down in bed, eyes closed.

  But she did not sleep. All she could hear were those same four words, breathed to life by Mr. Chow’s barely moving lips.

  Night air. She remembered the hiss of cold wind that used to sneak in where the walls of her parents’ house didn’t quite meet, those gaps that grew wider every year until Val and Joan slept with their arms and legs twisted together for warmth, even after every girlish fight. Even after the baby died.

  Late one day, she walked home from Chinatown through the side streets, taking unpaved lanes, sometimes walking through vacant lots choked with tall grasses, wildflowers that might have been yellow last summer but were now brown and mouldy from months of winter and early spring rain. She followed narrow trails, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and swaying through the tangled weeds.

  When she came within sight of the boarding house, she saw a slight figure fifty feet ahead. She squinted through the darkness at its directionless walk; two steps to the left were followed by one step to the right, and then a jolting hop forward.

  Val looked up at the sky and saw a break in the clouds. There, the moon.

  The awkward, marionette-like figure wore a pale dress and dark shoes. Val knew that cornflower pattern as well as she knew the sharp point of that nose. It was Joan wandering through this cold, damp night—coatless, with her face turned up toward the lit windows of the houses around them. For a second, Val wondered how little Warren might have fit into this picture if he had lived, whether they would have stayed at their parents’ house, whether he would be holding his mother’s hand and toddling down River Road, his round eyes searching the night for owls and mice, or whether Joan might carry him, her narrow spine buckling under his weight.

  Val took a step toward Joan, and then stopped. Joan had ventured outside alone, had decided it would be a good idea to explore without the help of anyone else. Val’s lips tightened. Fine. Let her do something on her own steam for once.

  But as Val turned to walk through the boarding house’s gate, she craned her neck to see where Joan was headed. Her slight form stood at the corner as she looked up and down the street. To the right, a steep hill leading south. To the left, the beach and Burrard Inlet. She seemed to quiver, like a nervous sparrow. Just when Val thought she was going to turn left and follow the sound of the ocean, Joan spun in place and began walking back to the house.

  Val slipped past the front gate and hurried through the double doors. When she arrived in their room, she pulled off her coat and shoes, then ran to the bed, where she sat, breathing as slowly as her heaving chest allowed. As she waited for the sound of Joan’s shoes in the hallway, she closed her eyes and saw her sister’s face from two minutes before: teeth held stiffly in her small mouth, her nose twitching, testing the air for impending danger or a whiff of her next prey, her eyes focused on a point. Val had seen that look before, in a similar pool of moonlight, under those blackened attic rafters. She pressed her closed fists to her eyes. The doorknob turned, and she was sickeningly afraid.

  Two weeks passed and Val never mentioned seeing Joan wandering the street. She left her alone, talking only when necessary and avoiding her eyes whenever possible. It was when she reached the narrow sidewalks of Chinatown that she finally stopped clenching her fists.

  One evening, Val arrived home from work and could hear music playing through the door to their room. She wondered if perhaps the window was open despite the spring rain and the teenaged boy across the alley was playing his radio too loudly again. As she opened the door, she saw, in the middle of the room, Joan twirling and dancing, her left foot first in the air and then tapping on the floor. Joan laughed, held her arms out in the fading grey light.

  In the chair by the window sat one of the university students, his hand resting on his own radio. He smiled and n
odded at Joan’s dance, watched her skirt as it ballooned above her knees.

  “Joan?” Val said, quietly.

  “Val!” Joan stopped dancing and ran over to her sister, taking both her hands. “I was showing Peter our old routine, from when we were children.”

  Val nodded at Peter and pulled off her coat. She couldn’t bear to look at his smug face, which was wide with a broad, lumpy nose. As she turned to hang her hat on the hook behind the door, he stood and walked over to her, his long legs covering the distance in three steps.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Nealy. There’s something I would like to discuss with you.”

  The politeness. Val was confused, but began to feel angry at his carefully worded greeting. He wants something I won’t want to give him.

  “Joanie and I were talking, and we think we would like to get married. I’ve got two months of school left, and I’ll be going to work for the Crown. We could have a wedding this summer. A small one, of course, but Joanie will ensure that it’s nice. What do you say, Miss Nealy? What about giving us your blessing.”

  Val leaned against the wall, the damp hem of her skirt sticking to the backs of her legs. She felt insubstantial, like she might dissolve into a puddle of jelly. She looked to her left and saw Joan smiling widely, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “My blessing? Do you need it?” Val stammered.

  Peter spoke again. “Yes, of course. We would like you to be the maid of honour too, if that’s all right.”

  The silence from Joan was unnerving. Val wanted to run across the room and shake her out of this act, this pretend innocence that seemed to have materialized out of the crumbs and shards of their past. But she felt pinned; Peter’s pale, sharp eyes locked her to this spot beside the door.

  “My blessing is yours. I’ll do whatever you need.” Val looked past Peter’s looming body at Joan. “Congratulations, Joanie. I hope you’ll be happy.”

  That night, as Val lay beside Joan, she felt Joan’s cool hand on her shoulder. Val opened her eyes, felt rather than saw the presence of the white ceiling, the moulding that cast shadows in streetlight, the crack that ran westward in the plaster.

  “Is this what you want?” Val whispered.

  “Of course. Why else would I do it?” Joan sounded impatient and tired.

  Val turned on her side and stared out the uncovered window. “Do you love him?”

  She felt Joan fidgeting beside her. “He’s nice enough. He’ll have money one day and we’ll be as happy as anyone, I guess.”

  “What about children?” Val held her breath in this moment of silence.

  “I’ll figure something out before he needs to know.”

  Before Val fell asleep, her body anticipating the work and hustle of the next morning, she imagined what little Warren might look like now. An unruly thatch of black hair. Long fingers. Eyes that seemed far too innocent for a real human face. A reluctant smile that grew slowly and could disappear in an instant. He’d be the sort of boy who’d feel embarrassed every time his shoelaces dragged in the mud. She could see him seeking her out in a crowded room and, when he found her, reaching for her skirt, his face opening up with relief and contentment.

  Even now, with Joan breathing heavily beside her, she could feel the weight of his small body in her hands. Reaching through the blankets, Val gently touched Joan’s neck, but Joan grunted and rolled away.

  Val stood at the rocky shoreline, kicking pebbles with the toe of her shoe. Seagulls circled, their small black eyes on the shallow hole she was inadvertently digging. The piles of sulphur on the opposite shore gleamed weirdly. Val wanted to fling her coat into the frigid water. She wanted to scream until blood bubbled up in her throat. She wanted to pull out each of her fingers, one by one.

  The sound of crashing waves pounded at her ears, seemed to stir her thoughts into a teeming, brackish swamp. She was the one who cared for Joan, whose body was once broken. Each day that Val had gone to work at the café, it had been for Joan, so that her little blond head would have somewhere to sleep. It was Val who kept them from starving, from having to take jobs that traded on their young skin and narrow waists. Their escape to Vancouver had been a plan for both of them; they were supposed to dance together, live together, share everything they had. And now Joan was leaving to marry a man who looked like a cauliflower on legs.

  A sharp rain began to fall, but she didn’t feel it. Anger, at least, was warming.

  PART THREE

  THE INEVITABLE

  1982

  This street is one of his favourites. Mature maples line the sidewalk; neat little apartment buildings stand in the shadows, their walks lined with bright annuals and ferns. He feels refreshed here, protected from the sun by large leaves, enlivened by the dampness of the grass. These few blocks south of Denman are a part of the city that isn’t quite city. This is a place that blurs the line between merely surviving in a humid, outgrown mill town and really living in a place that coddles you with gentle sea breezes until you fall asleep.

  This damned city, in Danny’s experience, is often both at the same time, in the same place.

  He turns right and starts to cross the street, mindful of the mothers taking their children to the beach, mothers whose ears and eyes are trained on the hungry, whining children in the back seat and not on the men in the crosswalks. A blue sedan speeds past and a face turns to look at him from the back seat. He flinches. Maybe he isn’t as invisible as he thinks.

  In the window of the diner, he sees the back of Frank’s head, the collar of his blue-striped T-shirt. Danny’s stomach turns over violently, and he pauses to steady himself at a newspaper box. Its metal top is burning hot from the sunshine, but Danny leaves his hand there anyway, almost savouring the sizzle of his skin, the numbness that washes over him once the first wave of pain dissipates.

  “I am not a fuck-up,” he whispers. An ancient woman, her hair permed, turns to stare at him and then hurries away, pulling a wire shopping cart behind her.

  When he steps into the restaurant, it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the cavernous gloom. Most people sit alone or in pairs, some silently eating, their mouths full of ham and toast and french fries, some talking with barely touched plates of food congealing in front of them. One wall is completely covered with a frameless, tinted mirror intended to brighten up the place, but all it does is extend the sense of being underground in an endless suburban basement with a fuzzy television and a table-tennis set.

  Danny waves away the hostess who comes to seat him and makes his way to the small table by the window where Frank is sitting, his face partially covered by the hand that props up his head. Danny sits down opposite him and picks up a menu. He hasn’t any idea what to say or where to look, so he stares at the list of sandwiches, hoping that all these letters will coalesce into some kind of sense.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello?” Frank’s voice is soft, teasing.

  When Danny looks up, he braces himself for the inevitable image of the Frank he dreams of, the Frank with wavy, abundant brown hair, the Frank with eyes that laughed and laughed and sometimes blazed, the Frank with broad shoulders and perfect posture.

  But this is not the Frank he knows. This Frank sits there, hunched over a cup of coffee, his hands holding the mug as if he needs the heat to keep his blood moving. His eyebrows seem to have collapsed into his eye sockets. Slowly, he reaches up and scratches a dark red spot on his cheek, and then, like he is thinking better of it, drops his hand and rests it on the table. The stubble on his chin is grey. And his eyes. His eyes tell Danny everything in a way that spoken words can’t, in a way that is understood without thinking.

  “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else. Before it got so bad that other people started to notice.”

  Danny wonders how anyone could miss this. Frank is not himself. Frank is indisputably, undeniably sick. Danny feels his hands twitch on his lap, but doesn’t reach over the table to grasp Frank’s arm. He simply
stares. Frank smiles, lips closed.

  “I feel pretty good right now. I haven’t lost much weight, and I only have a couple of these Kaposi’s spots. I hide them with makeup when I have to go to work.”

  Outside, a mother, wearing a mint-green tank top and matching shorts, carries a screaming toddler, stopping once to shake him slightly, to glare directly into his eyes. The child continues to scream, to kick at his mother’s stomach.

  “I don’t know how long the bank will keep me on. I’ve been telling them I’m getting over a lung infection, which is true, but not completely.”

  The mother drops the toddler on the sidewalk, snatches away his brown stuffed bear and slaps him on the cheek. Danny jumps.

  “I know it’s scary,” Frank says.

  The child gulps in air, his mouth wide open, his eyes shut. Danny wonders if he is crying silently or if he hasn’t yet inhaled enough to make a sound.

  “Have you been feeling all right?” Frank continues. “Because if you haven’t, then you should definitely go see a doctor, not that anyone knows anything right now, but still. Maybe the key is to go in before you start to feel even a little sick.”

  The mother snatches up the toddler again and hugs him, holding his chubby body close to hers, her hand on the back of his head. He sniffles, nods when she speaks, and they are off again, heading toward English Bay.