“She was very commanding. I remember that, too.” Alfred looked down at his napkin, folding it into smaller sections.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” I rested my hand on his arm.

“No, I think she did what she could. It’s just hard to believe you’ve grown up! And what about your sister?” Alfred said, the sparkle returning to his eyes.

“Bea’s a history professor in Montreal. Oh, and I have a daughter, Leo. In fact, we’re having a delayed red egg party for her. You should come! Auntie Miriam will be there. A lot of people you knew from Sparwood will be there. I’m sure everyone would love to see you.”

Tears welled in Alfred’s eyes, and we hugged. After a quiet moment, Alfred ventured, “You called me to talk about your mother, didn’t you?”

I nodded in anticipation.

“I know where she went,” he said.

I didn’t know what to say. My suspicions were correct. After all these years, it was Alfred who held the key. I looked into his eyes and plunged headlong into the past.

赤Red

FOR MANY YEARS, I had wild ideas about where Mother was and what she was doing. Some were painful, like she was off on some tropical island in Asia with a new husband and children, laughing and eating durian and mee goreng. Other fantasies were more comforting but just as painful, like Mother was toiling away in a faraway country as a seamstress, begging a lawyer to help her find a way to reunite us. When I was a teenager, I saw a gaunt woman meandering on the street in downtown Calgary. She had long black hair and was smoking a cigarette, the fumes rising in front of her dark-circled eyes. She reminded me of E gui, the hungry ghost, a malnourished spirit haunted by starvation and the insatiable need to fill the emptiness within. I imagined she wore Mother’s face. Was she astray somewhere with her memory lost? Would I recognize her if she was standing in front of me? What if she needed help and I hadn’t tried harder to look for her? These guilty thoughts tormented me in nightmares for weeks after I saw that spectral woman. I fought hard to push them out of my head in my youth, alternately tending and hiding the wound.

Now, sitting in the pub with Alfred, it was like a knife had suddenly gashed open the scar. The prospect of learning the truth about Mother induced a bout of hyperventilation. Alfred looked at me with concern and waited, saying nothing for some time. After I had regained my composure, Alfred gently placed his hand on mine and said, “I’m so sorry. I should have known that this would be a painful topic.”

“Alfred, please. It’s not your fault. You’re right, it still hurts after all these years. I think I just needed to ready myself. I’ve been asking everyone about my mother. I thought I could get some answers from my father, but either he doesn’t want to talk about it, or he doesn’t know.”