This went on for an hour, and the game was tight. Beads of sweat formed on the teenagers’ foreheads, and the sheen on their arms and legs made them look oiled. Mother, a bit out of breath, didn’t sweat much. She adjusted her tennis cap and occasionally wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts, but she did not look worn.

In the last set, Mother’s team was up 5–4. Theo called her the Asian curse, and her opponents surged with energy. The rally turned aggressive.

“You losers gonna let a little Chinese lady whip your asses?” Bryan taunted.

While Mother’s partner made valiant efforts to protect her, the balls kept coming directly at her. I saw her pivot. As she was turning around, Bryan was able to get to the ball, but it hit the net. Mother’s body, however, did not recover from that last play. One part of her body was going in one direction, and the other part went in another direction. She landed hard on the pavement. Bea, Auntie Miriam, and I stood up in the bleachers and the game stopped. As the yellow tennis ball rolled out of the court, everyone stood like statues. Mother was on the ground clutching her ankle. Bea and I ran over with Auntie Miriam. Mother tried to get up but shouted in pain with each attempt. She pushed her sock down to reveal the large swelling.

“That does not look good,” Bryan commented.

“I think this means we won.” The other team gave each other high-fives.

Auntie Miriam took control. “Swee, I’m going to help you to my car,” she said, handing me her keys and instructing me to put our bicycles inside her store and then lock it up. Mother did not argue, and by the time we reached the car, there was no sign of the teenagers. They had fled with their racquets, our balls, and the money. It was as if the game had never happened.

Auntie Miriam drove us to the health centre. “I hope it’s nothing serious,” she murmured. There was no hospital in Sparwood.

“I’m sorry you had to close your shop,” Mother said, embarrassed.

“Nonsense! I’m happy to help,” Auntie Miriam insisted.

Mother only had a sprain, and the doctor said that icing and stretching it would improve it in a few weeks. Mother nodded silently, eyeing our tennis bags empty of the balls that had run away with her teenage opponents.

When we finally got home, Father was upset we were so late, but Auntie Miriam had brought some takeout from Oriental Palace, the one Chinese restaurant in Sparwood. She calmed Father by explaining that Mother had tripped outside of Woo’s Confectionery. Bea and I looked at each another in silent complicity.

That night, while I was sitting at the top of the stairs, unable to sleep, I watched Mother through the wooden banister as she soaked her foot in a bucket of ice and massaged it with a Chinese ointment from her medicine cabinet. She rubbed her aching ankle, and then wrapped her foot tightly. The bandage made Mother’s foot look more slender, her arch much higher.