Free China Dog by Judy Fong Bates

it was unspoken, she knew that she would not return to her stepson’s apartment above the Lucky Star.

    It had been two years to the day since May-Yen’s operation. She was lying awake in bed, in her daughter’s home, listening to taps run, toilets flush and doors bang. A few minutes later, she heard the heavy front door shut for the last time. Everyone was gone. Finally! The house was now empty except for her. It was safe to get up. Yesterday she had desperately needed to void while Su, Harry, and the two boys were preparing for work and school. As hard as she tried to be fast on the toilet, she knew she was taking what seemed an eternity. Although nothing was said, Su’s impatience filled the air like a bad smell. It was during times like this that May-Yen found herself thinking: Maybe I should fall. What if I fell while they were rushing around? What then?
    The last two years spent living with Su and her family had not been all that bad. She spent a good part of each daysleeping, but she also talked for at least an hour every day to Wong
Mo
. Thank God for Wong
Mo!
May-Yen had visited her several times in her seniors’ apartment. Twice, she had stayed for several days. On her last visit, Wong
Mo
told her that a larger unit was being vacated. Perhaps she and May-Yen could share it. As Wong
Mo
spoke, May-Yen took an extra breath and felt a slight ruffling in her chest, a long forgotten yearning. She realized that deep inside she was like a piece of dry earth, parched and cracked. Ever since she had first set foot in this country, her
thlem, gwon
, her heart and liver, had been suspended. Might they finally settle? She felt the question echoing inside her belly, “A home of my own?” She shuddered with fear as she realized that this would be her last and only chance.
    May-Yen slowly pushed herself up on the mattress and inched her legs around so that they dangled over the side of the bed. This first rising after a night’s sleep was always the most difficult. Her bones were like creased pieces of ancient paper. They had to be unfolded oh, so carefully. Any sudden movement or overexertion and her bones, like yellowed paper, would crumble. When May-Yen entered the kitchen, the crystal vase of red tulips caught her eye. She frowned and muttered under her breath at her daughter’s extravagance – spending money on something that you couldn’t eat or wear, that lasted such a short while before being thrown out. Then she saw the small familiar stainless steel pot on the stove. Su had left the porridge on low heat for her. She half-filled a cup with water and added it to the pot and stirred. Her daughter cooked porridge like the
lo fons –
thick and lumpy. May-Yenliked it smooth and runny. Some days she added an egg for nutrition and texture.
    The food at Su’s was not so bad. May-Yen liked spaghetti with meat sauce; the barbecued chicken was nicely flavoured; and Harry always produced a well-cooked roast on Sundays. But May-Yen remained unconvinced that pizza in a box was a fit meal for anyone. She thought of all the little things that she missed, like winter melon soup, dried salted fish, and fermented bean curd. Her mouth watering, she felt petty and ungrateful.
    No one ever told her, but May-Yen knew. She knew the real reason why she never returned to Kenny’s. When she came out of the hospital, he had emphasized several times how much better off she’d be to stay at Su’s. He had seized her cancer as an opportunity to toss her out, like a worn-out slipper. She had outlived her use at the restaurant. For the last few years, she had been more a hindrance than a help, an obstacle underfoot while Kenny was rushing around the kitchen. Yet in a perverse way she missed the restaurant. Looking around her daughter’s kitchen with every item in its place, and the Formica counters freshly wiped, she again acknowledged to herself that things were quite bearable. She told herself that she should be grateful to have a