Fiction: Group 4
are so young, she said, voice dreamy. Work hard in school, Mei... You will work hard all your life...
The diagnosis. When Mama heard it, it turned her face, slapped her cheek around to face briefly the wall
where no one could see what emotions flashed across it. When she turned back around there was nothing
there, wiped completely blank of any expression, a blank and impersonal canvas.
Early-stage Alzheimer’s.
The doctor told Grandma. Mama translated. You will experience some memory loss.
Ni you xie shi qing
hui wang ji de
. Sometimes the past and the present will melt into each other, blur together.
You shi guo qu
he xian zai hui rong hua yi qi de.
I am sorry, but there is no cure. Mama’s throat moved.
Zhe ge shi zhi bu
liao de
.
Who’s Lan, Grandma?
This was the truth of Qin: a crack in the stone, hands grinding corn, a weed sown in rock still growing. You
wanna live, girl?
Yes I do yes I do I do yes I do.
B.
Dogs were bloated. Tongues black and swollen. Stomachs, drum-like, hung distended, near touching the
ground, scraped shallow trails in the dirt when they panted along the streets, roads turned slick and dull grey
under sheets of rain and sleet. They died in droves, lay down with a sigh and died, their bodies vanished
almost as soon as they hit the ground, people were hungry and hungry, and bowls were empty.
No rats were left. There was bark. Peanut shells. Whatever Qin thought could be food she put into the big
cooking pot and stirred and stewed, anything that could be mashed between teeth, downed, digested, to live
another hour, another day, two days: the bark snatched from the highest branches Qin alone was light
enough to climb to, pilfered from squabbling hands and screaming bodies all fighting for the last skin of trees
not stripped naked, leaving forests peeled raw, standing skinless in the grey snow. Mama and Baba were both
an upturned patch of land slightly darker than the dirt around it and two slim stone markers. That left the
two of them.
Qin’s fingers missed the texture of yams, she missed the feel of something solid between her teeth. Hunger
was a dull ache and a fickle presence. It stabbed rude and heavy just when Qin thought she’d gotten used to
it. She caught Jie’s glance sliding sideways, thrown longingly at the corner where piles of yam cakes and
corn bread used to lie stacked higher than they were tall. Now little food. No food.
Food smelled good, better than good. Pickled cucumbers in small delicate dishes, peanuts roasted and salted,
lotus preserves sweet and cold arranged in perfect circles. Vegetables heated on plates and glistening, squares
of tofu sitting poised and perfect. Rice was steaming and hot. Roasted pork sizzling, Mei’s mouth watering.
Mei dug in, eager and hungry, scooping up rice flavoured with meat sauce.
In her slow, deliberate fashion Grandma began to transport steaming yams to her plate, measured,
methodical. Chopsticks, poised over the target for slightly over a second—then to secure the target, carefully
