疋Bolt of Cloth

THE BABY WOULDN’T SLEEP. A month into motherhood I felt like I had gained no insight into caring for a baby. I tried swaddling her tighter, pushing a rolled-up muslin blanket under her, switching the side she was lying on, and playing rain sounds on the CD player. Nothing would settle her down for her nap.

Today, I planned to sit down and read the latest case dealing with immigration law that had come out of the Supreme Court of Canada. I never forgot the way Elaine Wong had conducted herself during Alfred’s immigration hearing. Her impressive advocacy skills prompted me to study immigration law to understand the disappointing decision in Alfred’s case. Later, I joined a firm that worked to obtain immigration status for people in Canada.

My colleagues told me the court had provided some helpful reasoning on what the “best interests of the child” meant in immigration applications, based on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. It had come out the week before, but I had been so tired in the evenings that I couldn’t stay awake to even peruse the summary. I was looking forward to my alone time with this judgment and my highlighter.

The court’s decision affected how children abroad could be reunited with their parents in Canada. Sitting on the edge of their seats in my office, so many of my clients would push onto my desk pictures of their children in another country and ask when they would be able to see them again. I saw the pain in their eyes but always gave a professional and unsatisfactory answer. What could I do? Sometimes, I explained the law. Other times, I said we just had to wait—wait for some faceless, nameless bureaucrat to decide. It felt awful having nothing concrete to offer someone wanting to hold their child. In some cases, I had to give bad news: their application was refused, or their appeal was denied. Sometimes, I would let my emotions bubble over and agree with my client bluntly that, yes, the law was unfair, or yes, it was ridiculous they had to wait so long. Some of my clients appreciated the candour, but some became more despondent. On those days, after they left, I composed myself and stayed at work for hours, searching for anything that could turn the tide for them.

Occasionally, I wondered if Mother showed pictures of us to someone, maybe a lawyer, far away and asked what her options were for reuniting with her children, only to find out it was hopeless. These irrational fantasies of Mother suffering without us comforted me, even as I knew she could come home whenever she wanted. I couldn’t bear to think of a scenario where she was glad to be without us. Sometimes these thoughts fed my anger—her suffering was punishment for leaving us.

The only thing I was certain of was the suffering of those she left behind. Before moving away from Sparwood, I tried to find Mother on my own. One day after school, I told Bea I had to stay to do some homework in the library. Instead, I walked to Woo’s Confectionery. When I opened the door and the bells jangled, it was as if Auntie Miriam knew I would be coming. She locked the door to the store, turning over the open sign to indicate it was closed. After shedding a few tears, I summoned up the courage to ask, “Auntie, do you know where Mom is?”