Our Little Reunion

by Cheryl Chen

Three Words

I could often hear the soft thumping of your footsteps circling the living room; the restless shuffling of your slippers as you paced around. I don’t think I had seen you this anxious since I spilled a pot of boiling hot pu’er tea on your favorite mahogany chair, the fancy one that was embellished with moire patterns, each swish and swirl of the clouds carved meticulously into the wood.

This is a family heirloom! you cried, though your exasperation back then was preferable to your humming agitation: troubled and tired, filling your nights with endless calls instead of a dreamless sleep; letting your hasty whispers accumulate a hefty phone bill—communication can be costly when your mother lives in China. Sometimes I forgot that I wasn’t the only daughter in this house. You had a mother too, my Lao Lao, one who had a sharp tongue but a soft heart for your obnoxious jokes and endearing stubbornness—and a soft spot for mine as well. Your childish air never managed to fade with adulthood.

These nighttime calls involved hours of back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

It seems like such a hassle.

I’ll take care of the arrangements for you.

It’s far away from home.

But you’ll get settled in soon.

I’m perfectly settled in my apartment.

Just try it out, we have better air quality.

I’m breathing just fine, thank you.

That’s because you haven’t breathed Canadian air, Ma.

I would really rather stay here.

Ma, I need help with the kid.

And then the conversation would pause, followed by a weary I’ll think about it.

I knew you didn’t need help with me. When I was little, you would juggle work and ESL, all while making sure that I didn’t miss a single extracurricular class. Debate, swimming, art, and the obscure tutoring class you found on WeChat advertising. If I didn’t want to go—and that happened often—you would scoop me up from behind, lift me as I kicked and wiggled my legs, and drag me to the backseat of the car.

I’ll think about it.

So close, but not enough to convince Lao Lao to board a 12-hour flight and come stay with us. I knew what you had to say to her; what you wanted to say so desperately but couldn’t. Not on these phone calls, not since you left that tiny apartment in China, ambitious and determined to build a better life here. In those moments when I saw your breath catch, those three words almost escaping your lips just for you to swallow them again, I wanted to snatch the phone and say it for you.

She misses you, can’t you see? It’s been ten years and she misses her ma’ma. Come get her, come stay with her.

But before I had the chance, you called again. “Wei?” Hello? Lao Lao’s voice on the line.

A pause.

“Ma, I miss you.”

A few days later, the plane ticket was booked. Sometimes I wondered if Lao Lao was waiting for you to say those words; if she was waiting to say them back.

The Snowy Days

Lao Lao arrived a day later, hauling her bright red suitcase to the front porch by herself. She always liked doing things alone, swatting away the hands of others if they dared to offer help.

“I may be old, but I’m healthier than all of you combined,” she would say, a hint of pride in her voice.

She unraveled her scarf, cheeks still rosy from the cold air. Winter in Canada didn’t faze her: she came from Dong Bei, China’s northeast, infamous for its unforgiving winters and acres of snow. I glanced at you as you fussed over Lao Lao’s coat and urged her to quickly take off her shoes.

“Come in, come in. It’s freezing outside,” you said.

Lao Lao's first days in Canada were spent entirely indoors. There had been a mini snowstorm, speckles of white pouring down like rainfall. You were determined to remove all of the snow from our front yard. I helped too, my fingers red and stinging as they gripped the handle of the shovel, eventually numb from the biting winter air. I could tell from the furrow of your brow and the scrunch of your nose that you were vexed by the snowfall. It hindered you from showing Lao Lao the rest of our world, outside the confines of this house. It didn’t occur to me that one could play poker alone until I saw her sitting on the single mattress that sat on the hardwood floor (you insisted on Lao Lao occupying your bed during her stay, but were met with a firm “Your room has horrible feng shui”), hands fiddling with a set of poker cards, shuffling and scrambling them together. By the third day, Lao Lao no longer bothered with poker and instead took frequent naps during the day.

“Ma, get out of bed and walk around a little,” you pleaded, but to no avail. Lao Lao remained still on her side, her body glued to the old mattress.

Perhaps it was a phase of winter blues, but Lao Lao seemed to be in better spirits a week later. The snow had taken mercy on our town and we were even greeted with occasional sunshine. Light reflected off the blankets of white, illuminating the world outside.

“I’m going to take a stroll outdoors,” Lao Lao said. Walking was Lao Lao’s favorite pastime. I used to accompany her when she took trips around the small neighborhood in China. Her hands were always behind her back, head tilted downwards, mouth humming a soft tune to an old country song that I didn’t know the name of but knew the melody by heart. “I’ll go with you, Ma,” you said and your eyes lit up. You quickly grabbed her coat and shoes, like a little kid eager to run out and play.

***

I was curled up on the couch, cozy and enjoying my book, when I heard the loud click of the door lock. The door flew open and you guided Lao Lao inside. Sensing that something was amiss, I quickly rushed to her side. Lao Lao’s face was scrunched in discomfort.

What happened?

She slipped on the ice, you replied. Your expression was uneasy, voice carrying an underlying shame.

I helped Lao Lao take off her boots and coat, automatically wrapping my hands around her shoulders as if she were going to fall a second time.

“No worry, no worry. Just a little fall is all.” Lao Lao brushed it off.

Our eyes met, your mouth pressing into a tight line.

“No more going outside, Ma.”

Tai Chi

Almost two weeks later, Lao Lao was still on “house arrest”—courtesy of you, though you had the right to be paranoid. Unlike me, who’d get a sore bum and a few blows to my pride after a fall, Lao Lao could risk a fracture. Especially with so much ice out there, you said, how could I have been so careless? You were never careless again after that. Always looking out for Lao Lao around the house, hovering over her like a stubborn guardian angel whenever she left her room. For the first few days, Lao Lao would take our bright yellow kitchen cloth, wetting it and dragging it over the counters, the tables, even the furniture. You hated it when she was scrubbing all day. I don’t need my mother acting as my maid, you said. So you’d gently take the cloth out of her hands and usher her to the couch or the kitchen chairs.

“Stay here and relax, Ma.”

Lao Lao never stayed put for long. She yearned for movement, and when you didn’t let her clean the house, she’d shuffle to the stoves and pots, boiling noodles, frying rice, cooking up all sorts of dishes and meals. But you always stepped in.

“I got it, Ma. You don’t need to bother with cooking here, go rest and I’ll take care of it.”

From then on, whenever Lao Lao reached for the knobs on the stove, you would cup her hands and guide her towards the nearest chair. You were only at peace when Lao Lao assumed a sedentary position, when she was resting and conserving her energy. I remember the last time Lao Lao asked if I needed help cleaning my room. As usual, I refused. I thought my room was tidy and neat in the way I liked it: organized, but with enough scattered items to make the space cozy. I regret it now, not letting her help with my room. Sometimes I still replay the moment in my head, thinking that if I responded differently, maybe things wouldn’t have ended the way they did.

Do you need help cleaning your room? It looks like it might need some tidying, Lao Lao would say.

Yes, please. Thank you Lao Lao, I would reply.

Lao Lao would smile, and before she entered my room, I would ask if she would like to play poker afterwards.

Yes, why not? she would respond, happy.

But that was not the conversation we had, and so Lao Lao stopped fussing around the house. She came downstairs less and less, and when she did, her footsteps were quieter. She tip-toed around the house like a child freshly scolded, hunching in on herself whenever she set foot in the kitchen. It startled me when I realized Lao Lao had barely left her room for more than a week. In my memory, she was always an active person. I remembered how Lao Lao used to spend her afternoons practicing Tai Chi. It was always done in the small neighborhood square, where groups of tai tais dressed in loose button downs gathered in neat rows. They practiced Tai Chi together, movements slow and steady, each balancing on one leg. Lao Lao always moved her arms purposefully, her body swaying with the motions as she pushed and pulled the tides with controlled precision.

But Canada didn’t have bustling town squares filled with local Tai Chi enthusiasts. What they did have instead were a few indoor Tai Chi centers. Lao Lao could practice away from the slippery ice and possibly be with a few tai tais as well. I proposed the idea and you were ecstatic. We selected on a place called Tiger Tai Chi—the only one nearby.

I knew something felt off the moment we pulled up in front of the place. It looked worn down, a block of white concrete with giant Chinese characters inscribed in red and a battered down door. There was a blonde man sweeping the floor inside. I stared at the skull tattoo on his bicep.

“Sorry, we’re closed for the next two months. Winter’s brutal out here, too much snow on the roads.”

I remember apologizing in the car, rambling about how they didn’t announce the closure on their website. But I knew that muttering about their mistake wouldn’t compensate for the disappointment we felt.

“We could try the other ones,” I suggested.

A beat.

“The next one we looked at is a twenty minute drive,” you replied.

“No matter, no matter. I would rather stay home anyways,” Lao Lao said.

The next night, I was already dressed in pajamas when I heard muffled voices coming from the dinner table downstairs. Fragments of words fell into a rhythm, like a poem that I couldn’t quite understand.

Please.

Snow.

Understand.

Back.

Stay.

Home.

A jumble of pleading, desperate and defeated.

I stepped towards the staircase railing and leaned downward as best I could to get a better listen.

“Okay, Ma. Zěn me shū fú zěn me lái.” Whatever you’re comfortable with, you said.

Two days later, the bright red suitcase reappeared, and Lao Lao’s clothes were gone from her room. I think I’d known what was coming that day we returned from Tiger Tai Chi, defeated, cold, and tired.

Unspoken

It was a Saturday morning when I found myself sitting at the dinner table with two platters of steaming dumplings before me. We ate our last meal with Lao Lao in silence, a suffocating sound. Lao Lao reached over, her frail hands shaking slightly as she picked up a dumpling with her chopsticks and gently lifted it onto my plate. You had your head down; even now, you were trying to feign a bored—no, a neutral—expression.

Minutes passed before you finally lifted your head, eyes darting towards Lao Lao. There it was, the slight hitch of your breath, the hasty swallowing motion, shoving the words

down,

down,

down your throat.

I’ll miss you, Ma.

Cheryl Chen is a sophomore student at Havergal College and uses she/they pronouns. She’s passionate about refining her writer's craft in literary fiction. Some of their favourite authors include André Aciman, Hanya Yanagihara, and Ocean Vuong.