Authors: Jen Sookfong Lee
End of East, The (25 page)
He wakes up at four the next morning, unable to sleep even though his flight does not leave until the evening. He knows without looking that his one small suitcase is downstairs by the
front door, that all he has to do is put in his dentures and get dressed. Really, what could be easier? Perhaps he will grow to love Toronto as he grew to love Vancouver. And maybe, this time, it won’t take so long.
front door, that all he has to do is put in his dentures and get dressed. Really, what could be easier? Perhaps he will grow to love Toronto as he grew to love Vancouver. And maybe, this time, it won’t take so long.
If someone were to ask Seid Quan about his dreams, he would say that he doesn’t have them. All his life, when he woke up in the morning, a pleasant blackness blanketed the events of the night. He went through his days—working, reading, eating—unburdened.
Tonight, he is on an airplane for the first time, hurtling through the darkness. He sits upright, staring at the small reading light above his seat. Min Lai sits beside him, her mouth slightly open as she sleeps. She shifts in her seat, draws the thin airline blanket to her chin. The cabin is quiet (human noise dwarfed by the constant roar of the engine, the hiss of stale air circulating through vents) and his eyes close.
He runs his hands through Pon Man’s hair, through the thick tuft at the top, the wispy hairs at the base of his neck. Seid Quan cannot see his son’s face, only the black hair, his thin shoulders. He is unsure whether this is the young Pon Man, the small fifteen-year-old boy, or the older, sick Pon Man, the one who lost so much weight he was like a heron, all joints and bones. He decides that it doesn’t much matter; as long as it truly is his son, he is happy.
As he trims the hair around the ears, he listens for the sounds of Pon Man’s breathing. He can hear the snip of the scissors, even the plop of the damp hair when it hits the floor. But Pon Man remains perfectly still.
It is only now that Seid Quan realizes he is cutting the hair of a dead man; worse, his dead son. But he finds he cannot stop,
and he goes on, his hands shaking as the hair drops on his wrists, sticks to his sleeves.
and he goes on, his hands shaking as the hair drops on his wrists, sticks to his sleeves.
He hears Shew Lin. “It’s over now. You can stop.”
He looks for her but cannot see her.
How is it that I can see only my son and hear only my wife?
He turns around, and there is nothing but a deep darkness.
How is it that I can see only my son and hear only my wife?
He turns around, and there is nothing but a deep darkness.
“Father? Wake up. They’re serving breakfast now.” Min Lai pats Seid Quan on the shoulder.
He rubs his eyes and stares blearily at the tray in front of him.
“We’ll be home in an hour and a half,” says Min Lai, peeling open the top of Seid Quan’s apple juice. “And then you can have a really good sleep.”
The windows across the street glow amber, the setting sun giving the otherwise expressionless houses an air of mystery, of kept-back knowledge. Seid Quan walks back to his daughter’s house in Toronto after a day of walking around a different Chinatown.
Only five months since his son’s death.
It was beyond him, then, to imagine the things he would want to say to his son, the kinds of things he would want to ask forgiveness for. Now, as he shivers in the sharp and dry autumn air, his mind will not stop. Even though his feet propel him slowly forward, his memories, the snapshots in his head, keep his thoughts circling endlessly. He walks through a pile of dead leaves and does not notice the crunch, the sound of withering, of dryness.
It was simple; he wanted his son to love him.
A father has a right to his own son.
He feels so far away, farther away than when he lived in Canada alone and could only return to the village every four or five years. Vancouver calls to him (he swears he can hear the
ocean even from here, while he walks up and down Spadina, fingering the slippers and fans and lanterns), and his face is always turned west. Here, in this strange city, he has begun to forget what Shew Lin looked like; Min Lai has never had time to organize her photos, and they sit somewhere in her attic in an unmarked box. When he wants to remember, he shuts his eyes and remains perfectly still for several minutes. Even then, he can see only a shadowy outline, a fuzzy version of his wife, as if he is looking through a dirty window.
ocean even from here, while he walks up and down Spadina, fingering the slippers and fans and lanterns), and his face is always turned west. Here, in this strange city, he has begun to forget what Shew Lin looked like; Min Lai has never had time to organize her photos, and they sit somewhere in her attic in an unmarked box. When he wants to remember, he shuts his eyes and remains perfectly still for several minutes. Even then, he can see only a shadowy outline, a fuzzy version of his wife, as if he is looking through a dirty window.
He is so frustrated that he could scream. But he does not.
He looks up and sees that he has walked two blocks out of his way. He turns around to retrace his steps, hoping that no one is looking out a window and feeling sorry for the addled old man wandering the streets.
Such small trees here,
he thinks.
Like starved children.
he thinks.
Like starved children.
His daughter’s house is brightly lit, and he can see the shadows of her family moving from room to room. Her sons are good boys and often drive him around the city, showing him the things they think he might be interested in: the CN Tower, Maple Leaf Gardens. They laugh loudly, slap each other on the shoulders, play cards at night in the basement. He is grateful for all the noise.
His son who had no sons himself.
As he walks in the door, his daughter peers out from the kitchen and smiles at him. “I’m so glad you’re home,” she says. “I’ve made your favourite dish.”
Outside, the wind picks up the fallen leaves and throws them at the house. Seid Quan turns around. “Like dead fingers tapping on the window,” he whispers.
Outside, the cars on Queen Street speed past, kicking up
fragments of dead leaves. Inside, Seid Quan lies in a hospital bed. He has had a ruptured brain aneurysm and is dying quickly and quietly. He is not conscious.
fragments of dead leaves. Inside, Seid Quan lies in a hospital bed. He has had a ruptured brain aneurysm and is dying quickly and quietly. He is not conscious.
He hears the shuffling of his daughters, grandsons and nurses around him and their soft murmurings; it is as if they think that loud words will frighten him into death. He can see nothing except the differently coloured stars underneath his eyelids. He is dizzy. Faces spin, lopsided. He sees Lim slowly cracking in two, blood pouring from the split. He sees Shew Lin’s brown, lined skin. Babies. Little girls. Heads of hair.
He wonders if that sound is breaking glass, or if it is simply the sound of his hearing splintering off before it stops working entirely.
He has not moved and has no wish to. There are many things he has outlived, and ninety-four is too old to want to remember. When he sleeps, he dreams as he never has before.
On the last day of his life, when, to everyone else, it seems that nothing has changed, Seid Quan sees his son as he was when he first arrived in Vancouver in 1951. His boyish face smiles; as he turns to walk away, Seid Quan’s eyelids flutter and he goes to follow.
Seid Quan and Shew Lin walk together in a park not far from their house, taking a break from their son’s growing and noisy family. As they hold each other’s hands and look north toward the mountains, they both tuck the minutes away inside their minds. These are moments not to be forgotten.
It is so easy,
she thinks
, to forget, to wake up in the morning and see nothing but the old man beside me.
she thinks
, to forget, to wake up in the morning and see nothing but the old man beside me.
Those trees are so green,
he thinks
, and the mountains so blue, the colour of truth, if we could but see it.
he thinks
, and the mountains so blue, the colour of truth, if we could but see it.
I don’t often return to Chinatown. It’s hard to look, really look, at the messy beginnings of our lives here, the bustling community whose backdrop consists of damp produce boxes and alleys criss-crossed with sagging power lines and trails of urine. It doesn’t sound pretty, and it isn’t. The beauty of these twelve square blocks is not why people stay—or are unable to leave.I walk toward Gore and stop in the grassy area just in front of my grandparents’ old apartment. I look down at my feet, firmly planted in the uneven lawn; I don’t want to move. A bus drives by and the trees sway in the after-breeze.
In my head, I can hear my father complaining about having to come here. “It’s dirty, and there are always street people hanging around.”
It’s easy to forget about Chinatown, bypass it altogether when you’re moving through Vancouver. The tall buildings of the downtown core dwarf it, and there is really nothing here
anymore that you can’t buy somewhere else. But it remains an uncut diamond in the back of my mind—shining dully, its glow persistent and unflagging.
anymore that you can’t buy somewhere else. But it remains an uncut diamond in the back of my mind—shining dully, its glow persistent and unflagging.
In this place, which is both familiar and anonymous, no one cares about the rest of the world, only about the price of gai lan today, or the freshness of the cocktail buns. I can become anything I want: the girl who is no longer afraid of herself or the one who spends her nights numbly trying to escape her own body. I have travelled here because I am looking for my mother.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar moving shape. I turn around and watch my mother struggle with five full grocery bags stuffed with food so she can fill the stomachs of my sisters, their husbands and their children, all heading home tonight for the first family dinner in a long time. She tries to make her way to the bus stop as I stare at the apparent emptiness of her body (the hollowness, as if there is nothing under the skin anymore; is she still unbreakable or even scary?). She looks small and worried, and I feel ashamed somehow. I take a step toward her. She sees me, and the lines drop from her face like a garment. I take her bags and we go home together.
To Kendall Anderson for her incisiveness, diplomacy and vision.
To Louise Dennys, Diane Martin and Marion Garner for their enthusiasm and faith.
To Carolyn Swayze for knowing from the very beginning that this novel would find a home.
To Mary Novik and June Hutton of the SPiN Writing Group for ideas, solutions and unflagging good cheer.
To Andrew Gray and the Booming Ground Writers’ Community for the opportunity.
To Thomas Wharton for knowing my novel could be something better and being the very first person to say so.
To Keith Maillard, the best teacher I ever had, for pulling my real voice out of the muck.
To Alden Habacon for shamelessly promoting me everywhere he goes and truly believing I can write no wrong.
To my sisters for recognizing the writer in me when I was seven.
And finally, to Troy, for everything.
JEN SOOKFONG LEE was born and raised in Vancouver’s East Side, where she now lives with her husband. Her poetry, fiction and articles have appeared in a variety of magazines, including
The Antigonish Review, The Claremont Review, Horsefly
and
Jasmine
. She was a finalist in the Stephen Leacock Poetry Contest and was a Knopf Canada New Face of Fiction for
The End of East
.
The Antigonish Review, The Claremont Review, Horsefly
and
Jasmine
. She was a finalist in the Stephen Leacock Poetry Contest and was a Knopf Canada New Face of Fiction for
The End of East
.
Visit her Web site at
www.sookfong.com
.
www.sookfong.com
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
THE END OF EAST. Copyright © 2007 by Jen Sookfong Lee. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
First published in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada
eISBN 9781429989503
First eBook Edition : February 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lee, Jen Sookfong.
The end of East / Jen Sookfong Lee.—1st U.S. ed. p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-37985-8
ISBN-10: 0-312-37985-4
1. Chinese—Canada—Fiction. 2. Immigrants—Fiction. 3. Family—Fiction. 4. Aging parents—Care—Fiction. 5. Chinatown (Vancouver, B.C.)—Fiction. 6. Vancouver (B.C.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.L438 E53 2008
813’.6—dc22
2008004747
First U.S. Edition: May 2008
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