Another time

I dreamt that it was the end of the world. I was carrying a heavy
suitcase, waiting to board a ship. I held my younger brother before we
parted.

"I'm sorry," I said to him.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked.

*

Like many Chinese people, my younger brother has a beautiful poetic
name. Literally it means Water Happiness. But for reasons nobody knows,
we have always called him Ah Di.

My mother belonged to a generation completely ignorant of
contraception. She was over fifty years old when she became pregnant
with Ah Di. Three years earlier she had given birth to me, her tenth
child. She was tired of bringing up children and didn't want another
one. She tried to terminate the pregnancy with a herbal brew
recommended by a local Chinese doctor.

It didn't work. Ah Di was born seven months later, with Down's
syndrome.

My mother had always blamed herself. "It's my fault for wanting to get
rid of him," she said. "The medicine must have damaged the growing
baby. It's my punishment."

We tried to explain to her that it probably wasn't the herbal brew, but
the fact that she was old when Ah Di was born. But she brushed aside
that kind of genetic nonsense. Retribution from the Chinese Gods was
something she could relate to. But not chromosomes.

My parents were born in mainland China. My father was an abandoned
child. A family found him on the doorsteps and took him in. They fed
and clothed him, but they didn't treat him particularly well. They
reasoned that when he grew up, he would be useful as an extra pair of
hands to work the land. That was all.

Many of my elder siblings were born in China. Times were hard and it
was difficult to make ends meet. In 1956, my father decided to leave
China. He sold all his personal possessions, took my mother and five of
his children and left for Hong Kong, where I was born ten years
later.

I don't remember much about my father, except that he was a quiet and
hard-working man. He never raised his voice at his children. But when
he was angry, his face turned into a dark sky, with thunderstorms
lurking behind his eyes. When he looked that way I knew not to approach
him, especially not with a bad school report requiring his
signature.

My father was generous and loved his children in his quiet way. He was
not the kind of man who showed his affection openly. He never hugged
any of us or told us he loved us - that is not the Chinese way - but
once he put a ten-dollar note in a story book I was reading and waited
for me to find it. That was his way. When I saw the note I smiled at
him and he smiled back.

He had a little shop in the local market and he worked hard to support
all his children. Sometimes I'd go to the shop after school, knowing
that he would give me a couple of dollars. I'd hang out round the
market, looking for ways to spend my money. Sometimes I'd wait for him
to finish work and we would go home together.

My father rarely had time off work. He would open the shop even when he
was ill. The only time he had a rest from work was for a few days
during Chinese New Year. His own childhood had left him with a strong
sense of duty towards his children and he never complained about the
long hours he had to work to get food on the table.

The only luxury my father had was playing mah-jong or cards for a few
hours in the evening with his friends, who were all traders in the
market and had a similar lifestyle. Small gambling was his form of
relaxation. A time when he could escape from his family
responsibilities and his nagging wife. I could always tell when he had
won something because he wouldn't be able to hide the big grin on his
face, and he would give Ah Di and me extra pocket money or buy us some
delicious snacks. Financially he didn't have much to give, but he was
incredibly generous.

One night my father was late home from playing mah-jong. My mother
moaned at him for being late and not helping out with the housework. My
father flew into a rage. "All my life I work for you and the children.
And I can't even stay out late one night!" While he said this he threw
a bunch of keys on the dining table. He threw them down so hard that
the table top cracked. My mother never moaned at him again after
that.

Ah Di went to a special school for Down's children. I remember my
mother's daily routine very well. She would take Ah Di to school in the
morning by bus, rain or shine. She would come home, go to the market
and prepare lunch for me and my elder brother. When we had gone to
school she would do the never-ending housework. Then she would collect
Ah Di from school in the afternoon, go to the market again to buy
ingredients for supper. In the evening she would cook for all of us.
She would then wash up the dishes, sweep the floor, tidy the house and
wash everyone's clothes. The next day she would go through the same
routines all over again.

Sometimes when things got too much she would snap and shout at Ah
Di.

"What did I do wrong in my previous life to deserve such punishment?
Why did God give me a son like you? Why?" she would shout.

"How many times have I taught you how to tie your shoe laces?"

"If only I didn't have to look after you!"

Sometimes she'd hit him, on the face.

Ah Di didn't understand anything my mother said. He only knew that she
was upset about something he had done wrong or failed to do right. When
she hit him he would cry quietly in one corner. I would watch him and
wish I wasn't there to witness the scenario.

My mother did not have an easy life. Even as a child I could see that.
But I couldn't understand why she treated her own son that way.

This isn't fair, I used to think. It wasn't Ah Di's fault that he was
born with Down's syndrome. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't look
after himself and needed constant care. It wasn't his fault that he
couldn't understand the world around him.

Sometimes my mother would cry. And I would cry with her. But we did so
for different reasons. She out of frustration and self-pity. I because
the look of shame and fear on Ah Di's face broke my heart.

I hated my mother. "Stop it! Leave him alone! He's your son!" I wanted
to yell at her.

In contrast my father had always been kind to Ah Di. He would buy him
toys or take him out for a good meal. But my mother would say it was a
waste of money because Ah Di would never be able to appreciate
anything. He would never become anybody. My father would reply that
it's his hard-earned money and if he wanted to waste it on his own son
he was entitled to do so.

When I think of Ah Di now I always see this particular image of him: He
must have been six or seven years old. He was squatting down, holding a
plastic ball between his legs. He was ready to throw this bouncy ball
with all his might. He had a huge smile on his face. He looked like he
could do anything. I had never seen him as happy as that since.

As Ah Di grew up, he realised that he was different from the rest of
us. Sometimes he would get frustrated by the things he could not do,
like tying his shoe laces or writing a complicated Chinese character.
He would become quiet and distant, withdrawn into his own world. At
other times, however, he was mischievous and enjoyed playing practical
jokes on other people.

When I was a teenager I used to teach him many things. How to write his
name in Chinese. How to count. How to read simple characters. He loved
learning and enjoyed the mental stimulation. When he got something
right he would smile his big smile and I would be overjoyed with
sisterly pride.

Then I grew up and began to have dreams about my future. I left Hong
Kong for England to pursue those dreams. He stopped learning new things
after I was gone. Nobody else had the time and patience to teach him.
Every time I went home for a short visit I could see that he had become
more mentally stagnant. Sometimes he would just sit and stare into
space.

Two years after I left Hong Kong, my father was diagnosed with lung
cancer. He spent the next eight months in hospital. He told my family
to keep his illness from me, because he didn't want to worry me. I only
found out that he had lung cancer after he died. I've always regretted
the fact that I wasn't there to say goodbye.

My mother never visited him once in hospital, not even when he
died.

Gradually my elder siblings got married and left home. After my father
died, Ah Di and my mother were the only people left in a once crowded
family. Many times I told my mother that she should let Ah Di join a
special care centre. There he would be able to learn new skills and
make new friends. He would love it. But my mother wanted to keep Ah Di
by her side for selfish reasons. She was terrified of being on her own.
She wanted someone to be there in case she fell ill. So Ah Di continued
to be a prisoner, locked in a cell with my mother.

I felt immensely guilty towards Ah Di. I felt that I could have done
something for him if I hadn't come to England. But what? Wouldn't I
still have left home one day, like my brothers and sisters? Would I
have given up my dreams for him? Was I any less selfish than my mother?
Why did I hate my mother so much? Was it because I saw a bit of her in
myself?

*

She is old and frail now. I haven't seen her for two and a half years.
Occasionally we talk on the phone. She says she misses me and wants to
see me. I look everywhere within myself for a shred of tenderness
towards her, but it's difficult. There is nothing to connect us except
our blood.

She tells me that she can't walk anymore and requires a wheel chair.
Most days she just sits around until the day is over, and wonders why
her children rarely visit her.

Not long ago I suddenly realised that my mother has never talked about
herself. I know nothing about her parents, her childhood, her life as a
young woman and how she met my father. Why is it that I know her so
little, yet dislike her so much?

I will persuade her to tell me her story one day, before she dies.
Perhaps then I will be able to see things through her eyes, and
understand why.

*

I dreamt that it was the end of the world again. I was carrying a heavy
suitcase, waiting to board a ship. I held my younger brother before we
parted.

"I'm sorry," I said to him.

"Forgive her. She did her best."