The man tried to continue the conversation, but Father moved away. Mother spoke to them in Mandarin to make up for Father’s rudeness, and the couple moved along on the trail.

“What did they say?” I asked her.

“They’re on their honeymoon. They’re from Kamloops.”

“They speak Chinese?” I asked.

“Mandarin. Everyone knows some Mandarin back home. The man said he studied Mandarin in university, and they’re moving to China next year to continue their studies.”

“What were they asking you?”

“They were asking us where we were from. I just said Malaysia.”

“Why didn’t you say Brunei?”

“Most people don’t know where that is.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s a small country and when people learn we’re from there, I have to explain where it is. Sometimes it’s easier to just tell people Malaysia.” I was surprised by how easy it was for Mother to lie.

“Why did Dad ignore them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he wants people to know he can speak English like everyone else.”

When we returned to our van from the five-hour hike we were exhausted and hungry. Mother pulled out the hibachi and made some ikan bakar from provisions she had picked up in Pincher Creek. She dropped the tilapia she bought live onto her wooden cutting board and struck its head with a mallet. The fish’s flapping body went limp. She quickly scaled and gutted it. She made it look so easy, yet I couldn’t help but blurt out, “Ew, gross!”

“Where do you think your food comes from?” she said. “It’s fresh and extra delicious this way.”

Bea and I watched as Mother smothered the fish with a sambal of shallots, shrimp paste, chilis, and lemongrass, and then placed it in some banana leaves inside a grill basket. Waiting for dinner to be ready, my sister and I lay on a picnic blanket. Bea grabbed the book I had been reading.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. “I’m in the middle of that.”

“Well, I have it now. You can read another one.”

I tried to yank the book from Bea, but her grip was strong.

Father spotted this tug-of-war and yelled, “Lily, what are you doing? Share with your sister!”

“I was reading that book. My bookmark is right there!” I protested.

“You’re the oldest. Just let your sister read it for now. She will give it back to you when she’s finished.”

“That’s so unfair!”

“Lily, you only have one sister.”

I knew I had lost this fight and resigned myself to looking through the pile of books strewn on the picnic blanket. I turned my back to Bea, wanting to forget I had a sister.

“I love this book. It’s one of my favourites,” Bea gloated.

Father discovered some watercress in the creek nearby, and Mother happily decided to make a soup to accompany our dinner. Since Bea had taken my book, I joined Mother in her makeshift kitchen and helped her cut ginger and place it in the pot of water.

Father was looking at a map of Waterton and suggesting other hikes we could do the next day, but Mother said, “Ayoo, we just did a hike today. Do we have to do another?”