Free China Dog by Judy Fong Bates Page B

restaurant for her mother’s birthday celebration. Fortunately the traffic was light. It was hard to concentrate on the road and at the same time, carry on an imaginary conversation with family members. Even when alone, Sandra was always careful to rehearse in her mind what she would say. Lurking just around the corner was madness. After all if you started talking out loud to imaginary people, you might never stop. In fact, the arguing inside her head had been incessant for the last week. Her mother was lodged in her head like a permanent resident, an unwanted guest who wasn’t budging. When she woke up in the morning, she saw her mother’s disapproving broad face, floating above her like a rain cloud. Her first thought was, “How will I break the news to her?” Even last night while Victor was on top of her, thoughts of her mother edgedslyly, surreptitiously into her consciousness. Her mother was uncontrollable, coming unbidden into her mind like a wild wind brushing everything else aside. A week ago, Sandra had vowed to herself that during lovemaking she would only sigh or moan. Talking was strictly prohibited. Victor would never understand her crying out “Mah” during a moment of ecstasy.
    As Sandra left the apartment on Howland Avenue after having lunch with Victor, he had asked her again, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” But Sandra had been resolute. She knew her family, that is, she knew her mother. And this would be the best way. Of course she could handle it.
    Sandra had decided on the direct approach. She would simply march briskly into her brother’s restaurant with her chin held high. But not too high. She didn’t want to appear cocky. Then she would open her arms wide and declare, “Hey, guess what, everybody!” Earlier that morning, she had practised her smile in front of the mirror. A wide, natural smile, not so wide, though, that it appeared forced. But as she drove off the main highway and on to the two-lane road leading to Urquhart, she began to have even more doubts. The confidence that had been so solid and secure early in the morning was melting, vaporizing, leaving a distinct hollow in her heart.
    Perhaps her plan was just a little too bold, too brash. Better to simply make a quiet, friendly entrance, then find a private moment with her mother. Tell her first. Would that be the best way? The problem, though, was that there was no best way. Running off and getting married without informing yourfamily was bad enough. But Sandra had run off and married Victor. And Victor was a
lo fon
. Not that being a
lo fon
, a white foreigner, was entirely hopeless. You just weren’t supposed to marry one. To make matters worse, Victor’s livelihood was suspiciously unreliable. He was an artist, a painter, someone who worked with his hands, like a labourer.
    Sandra knew that her mother was still hoping that one day Sandra would bring home a nice, educated Chinese boy, a lawyer or an accountant. She also reminded Sandra that 1988 was an especially auspicious year. If they planned things carefully, she could be married in August, the eighth month. But now that Sandra was twenty-nine, things were becoming desperate. Any moment now, she might turn into an old maid, a desiccated little old lady. Recently, whenever Mrs. Low spoke to her daughter, her voice took on a tone of controlled hysteria. When they spoke on the phone together, she always managed to squeeze in, “Sanda-
ah
, tomorrow you’re going to turn into a
loh nui
, an old girl. Vah … nobody
hoo nay
, nobody take you.” To Sandra those words,
hoo nay
, felt more like “snatch” than “take.” She supposed that after a certain point, she wouldn’t even be snatchable.
    Mrs. Low even went to the trouble of giving her daughter’s graduation picture to Mrs. Yee, the well-known matchmaker in Toronto. She knew that by
Gam Sun
standards, Sandra would be considered fairly desirable and the matchmaker would collect a handsome