Sunny Days and Moon Cakes

by Sarah Webb

  I point at Min.

  “Yeah!” She jumps off the sofa and does a little wiggling-bum victory dance.

  “Thanks, Sunny,” Dad says grumpily. “She only won because I’m jet-lagged.” He’s ultra-competitive and a bad loser. He takes every game seriously, even silly ones like this. Mum says that’s what makes him so good at his job – he’s an oil trader – so we shouldn’t tease him about it.

  “Let’s play again,” Min says. “Me first this time. Boy in the stripy top with the headphones.” Min points at a good-looking Chinese boy of about fourteen who is nodding his head to his music.

  “Supersonic Ear Boy,” Mum says, sneaking up on us and making me jump. “His hearing is so sensitive that he has to wear those earphones to deaden sound. Oh, and he can even make out thoughts. So he can hear Sunny thinking he’s cute.”

  I thump her on the arm.

  Mum just laughs. “So, everyone ready? I’ve been waiting for you guys for ages. What kept you?”

  “Ha, ha, Mother,” Min says. “Very funny. Race you all to the door.”

  As she tears away, Dad shouts after her, “Min Sullivan, what did we tell you about running off?”

  Min is waiting for us outside the entrance to the hotel. It’s the early evening now, but the air outside is still warm and smoggy. It catches at the back of your throat like builder’s dust.

  “Next time, you wait inside the door, young lady,” Dad says sternly. “I mean it. This isn’t Ireland, Min – understand?”

  “OK, sorry,” Min says, the smile dropping off her face.

  “We wouldn’t want to lose you, pet, that’s all,” Mum says. “Remember what happened to Sunny at the airport?”

  “It wouldn’t happen to me,” Min says. “I’m not an idiot who won’t speak to people.”

  “I’ve warned you before about being unkind to your sister,” Mum says. “You know it’s not Sunny’s fault.”

  Min rolls her eyes. “It’s always about Sunny. Sunny, Sunny, Sunny.”

  “Min, that’s enough!” Mum snaps.

  “It’s OK, Nadia,” Dad says, putting his hand on Mum’s arm. “I think Min gets it. And you won’t do it again, will you, Min? Say sorry to Sunny.”

  “Sorry,” Min mutters, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it.

  “Ready to do a little exploring before dinner, girls?” Dad says.

  “Yes! And hurry up, slowcoaches, there’s a taxi.” Min waves her arms in the air and a yellow cab pulls up in front of the entrance.

  “Let me or your mum do that, please, Min,” says Dad.

  We all bundle into the taxi – Dad in the front, and me, Min and Mum in the back. On the way to the restaurant, Mum talks to the driver in Cantonese.

  “My daughters, Soon Yi and Min Yen,” she says.

  The driver tells Mum that we are beautiful girls.

  “Dohjeh,” Mum says. Thank you.

  I mouth the word to myself, hearing Mama’s voice ringing in my ears. It was one of the first words she ever taught me. “Don’t forget your pleases and thank yous, Soon Yi,” she always said. “It shows respect to your elders.” There are different words that mean thank you in Cantonese. Dohjeh is for when someone gives you a gift or a compliment, mhgoi is for when someone helps you.

  “Mum, when did you first learn Cantonese?” Min asks. “When you were my age?”

  Mum laughs. “No, a long time after that. I was a teacher here, remember? I had lots of Chinese students and I did some evening classes. My Cantonese came in very useful when we were adopting you, because your Chinese family spoke it too. That’s pretty unusual. Lots of people in Shenzhen speak Mandarin instead. The adoption agency was surprised – but pleased, I think – that I was able to speak to you both in your native language.”

  I’ll never forget Mum speaking in Cantonese the first time we met her. It made me feel less afraid and less alone. She said, “Hello, Soon Yi and Min Yen. We’re so happy to finally meet you.”

  “Well, I can speak three languages,” Min says. “English, Irish and Cantonese.”

  I glare at Min. She knows a few words of Cantonese – Mum taught her – but she can’t “speak” it, not the way I can. I wish I could show her, by talking to the driver. But even the thought of opening my mouth in front of him makes me feel sick.

  “Tell us about our Collection Day,” Min pipes up, oblivious to the fact that I’m staring at her.

  “Let’s save it until Monday,” Dad says. “It’s a long way to Shenzhen, Min. We’ll have plenty of time for stories on the drive.”

  I stare out of the window again. I vividly remember seeing my new white parents for the first time. I was terrified, literally shaking all over. But once I realized that the smiling couple really was taking both of us, me and Min, and that Mum knew Cantonese, I stopped being quite so scared.

  “Sunny? Did you hear what I said?” Min says.

  I shake my head. I wasn’t listening.

  “I was asking what kind of noodles you are going to order.”

  I just shrug.

  “You’re in a very weird mood, Sunny,” she says. “I was born here too, you know. You’re lucky – at least you remember Mama and Papa. I don’t remember much. Stop being so mopey.”

  “Min!” Mum says. “Leave your sister alone. I’m not telling you again.”

  “I’m just saying…”

  “Don’t! Look out of the window.”

  “I’m bored of that.” Min pouts.

  “OK. Do you want to hear about the guinea pigs we kept at the school here?”

  “Guinea pigs? Didn’t they get a bit hot?”

  As Mum starts to tell Min about the school she used to work in and their pet guinea pigs, I feel even more depressed. How come my sister is such a chatterbox and I’m like this? It’s not fair!

  I’m so frustrated I want to scream. To take my mind off things, I gaze at the brightly lit shops, burger joints and restaurants, all carefully slotted together like building bricks.

  The taxi driver pulls down a side road and then stops. While Dad’s paying him, Min, who’s sandwiched between me and Mum, climbs over me, and swings the taxi door open. She’s about to jump out, but I grab her ponytail to stop her.

  “Ouch!” she shrieks. “Mum, Sunny pulled my hair.”

  “Close the door this instant, Min,” Mum says. “You never get out of a car on the traffic side. You could get run down. I do wish you’d use your head. Sunny was just trying to stop you killing yourself.”

  Min is still scowling at me. “But she hurt me.” She’s rubbing her head at the base of her ponytail and scowling.

  “Next time, grab her arm instead, Sunny,” Mum tells me. “Now stop the squealing, Min, and get out of the taxi on the other side this time.”

  I’m not sorry I pulled Min’s hair, even though it was a genuine accident. She’s been making digs at me since we left home and I’m sick of it. I know it’s her trip too, but she has no idea how annoying it is not being able to communicate. And remembering how pretty Mama was and how kind Papa was makes everything worse. I love Mum and Dad so much, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about my old life sometimes too. And being back here makes it all seem so real again.

  After we get out of the car, Min shoves the door closed behind her with her bum. She may be tiny, but she’s strong and it slams shut.

  “I know you’re tired,” Mum says to her, “but I want you to behave.”

  “What did I do?” Min asks, all innocent.

  “Come on, Min,” Dad says, holding out his hand. “Let’s go straight to the restaurant. Plenty of time for sightseeing tomorrow. I’m so ravenous I could eat a whole Minnie Mouse for dinner.” He pretends to eat Min’s arm and she squeals with delight.

  “Let them walk on ahead, Sunny,” Mum says, taking my hand. I wouldn’t normally let her – I’m thirteen, after all – but we’re on holiday. “I know she’s picking on you, but she’ll snap out of it soon. She just needs food.”

  I sigh and give a little nod
to say, I hope so. We walk down the street together, passing lots of strange-looking shops. They spill out onto the street. Their large baskets – full of all kinds of orange, brown and grey dried food – litter the pavement. And, boy, do they smell! Like fish that’s been left out in the sun too long. I recognize that scent. Then it comes to me. It’s dried seafood: mussels, octopus tentacles and squid. Mama used to make soup with those ingredients.

  Suddenly, I’m four or five years old and walking down the street, holding Mama’s hand tightly, the very same smell filling my nostrils. Mama stops outside a shop and starts chatting to one of the shopkeepers, while I pet his grey cats.

  The cats from my dreams! That’s where I remember them from – a shop just like these. There were at least ten of them there, perched on shelves or stools or draped around each other in baskets, all purring away as I stroked their sleek fur. I smile to myself, happy memories of shopping with Mama flooding back to me: the feel of her warm palm in mine, her tinkling laugh as she joked with the shopkeepers, and the delicious little moon cakes she’d buy me if I’d been very good.

  Chapter 14

  I roll over and look at the alarm clock beside my bed. Four in the morning. Last time I woke up it was three-thirty and I forced myself to go back to sleep. But now I’m wide awake. Min’s still spark out. I can hear her snoring. The curtains are open a crack and there’s just enough artificial light from outside to read by. I take my book from the bedside table, but I can’t concentrate, so I put it down again. I wish it was seven o’clock. Mum and Dad said they didn’t want to see Min until after seven and I promised I’d keep her entertained until then. But right now I’m the one that needs entertaining.

  I climb out of bed as quietly as I can and creep towards my rucksack, which is on the floor beside the armchair. After pulling out my red sketchbook and a pencil, I curl up in the chair. I push the curtains open a little more with my foot and look out. There’s an old-fashioned green ferry boat chugging across the harbour, so I start to draw it, and soon I’m lost in my picture.

  After I’ve finished the ferry sketch, I do one of the skyscrapers across the bay in Kowloon and when I’ve completed that, I open a fresh page, and before I know what I’m doing I’m sketching a large room filled with lots of metal cots, my hand moving faster and faster over the page. There are baby walkers neatly lined up against one wall and a row of metal sinks against another. Each cot holds a baby or toddler. In one, to the far left of the picture, I draw a toddler standing, her little hands reaching out. She’s small. A wispy ponytail on the top of her head is tied with a bow.

  “Is that me?” Min asks, surprising me.

  I was so caught up in what I was doing I didn’t notice her getting out of bed.

  “The girl with the bow,” she says. “That’s me, right? In the orphanage?”

  “Yes,” I say. “You were cute back then.”

  “Hey! I’m cute now. Is that what it was like in the orphanage? Or are you making it up?”

  “It’s how I remember it. I guess we’ll see how true it is when we visit.”

  She tilts her head. “Was the orphanage noisy? Sometimes I hear babies crying in my dreams.”

  I’m surprised. She’s never mentioned anything about her dreams. “Yes, when new babies arrived, they cried a bit.”

  “What did Mama and Papa look like? Can you draw them for me?”

  I think about showing her the photos, but I’m not ready to share them with anyone yet, not even Min. “Where is all this coming from, Min? You’ve never asked me much about them before.”

  “I know, but I guess being over here makes it all kind of real. The past stuff, I mean.”

  “I’ll draw them for you one day,” I say, “but not right now, OK? This is Puggy, though. Our dog.” I flick back a few pages and show her my earlier drawing.

  She runs her finger over the sketch, smudging it.

  “Min!”

  “Sorry.”

  I snap my sketchbook shut.

  “Is that why you’re being so weird?” she asks. “Because you keep remembering things? About when we were little?”

  “I’m not being weird, Min – I’m just being quiet. Come on, you must be used to it.” I don’t want to talk about it right now. Besides, Min doesn’t need to know how hard it was when Mama and then Papa died and we went to the orphanage, or about my constant worry that we would be separated.

  “It’s more than just your anxiety about talking in front of people,” Min says. “Ever since we arrived, it’s like you’re on another planet.”

  “Min, you’re from another planet.” Then, to change the subject, I ask, “Are you up for having a Jacuzzi? Mum and Dad won’t be up for ages.”

  “Can we put loads of bubbles in it?”

  “Sure. As long as you don’t make a mess.”

  “Me? Never.”

  I start to laugh.

  * * *

  Min is dancing around the bathroom completely naked and covered in foam when Mum bursts through the door. “Girls! What on earth is going on in here?” she says. “It’s not even six.”

  “Oops,” Min says.

  I can’t speak. I’m laughing too hard.

  Mum tries to look cross, but the edges of her mouth are twitching. She starts to laugh. “What are you like? Get into the shower, both of you, and wash those bubbles off. There’s foam everywhere.”

  “Dare you to get into the water with us,” Min says, jumping back into the huge Jacuzzi. She poured so much bubble bath in that foam is spilling over the top. It’s like one of those mad science experiments you see in the movies.

  “Please?” Min begs. “You can wear your togs like Sunny.”

  Mum grins. “OK then.”

  We’re having a full-blown foam fight by the time Dad comes in a few minutes later. Mum has slid under the water to avoid Min’s latest attack, so Dad doesn’t see her straight away.

  “Girls!” Dad’s voice is way louder than Mum’s, especially when he’s cross. “Stop that this instant. Your mum’s going to kill you.”

  Mum resurfaces, rubbing bubbles off her face, and grins up at him. “Hi, Smiles.”

  He groans and shakes his head. “You’re all insane. And you’re the worst, Nadia. My three crazy Sullivan girls.”

  Chapter 15

  We’re visiting Kowloon today. Tomorrow we’re taking a tram to the top of The Peak – the highest part of Hong Kong Island – and on Friday, Saturday and Sunday we’re doing more sightseeing here before going to Shenzhen and the orphanage on Monday. I’m trying not to think about that trip. I know it’s going to bring back sad memories.

  We’ve just had lunch (little Chinese dumplings called dim sum) and now we’re walking up a wide, busy road called Nathan Street. Mum keeps veering off into shopping malls and I think Dad’s getting a bit fed up.

  “A toy shop. Can we go in?” Min squeals with excitement. She loves shopping as much as Mum does.

  “Must we?” Dad complains. “I’m all shopped out.”

  “Just one more, Dad, please?” Min begs.

  He allows her to pull him into the toy shop, and me and Mum follow them. Inside, it’s small – the size of a caravan – and packed with shelves and shelves of Hello Kitty and Snoopy toys.

  I spot a wall of cuddly monkeys. I pick one up – a fellow the size of my hand, dressed in a tiger costume, complete with a hood and ears. He’s adorable and I stroke his soft fur with my fingers. I’ve seen one just like it before. Then it comes to me in such a rush I almost gasp.

  When Mama got very sick and had to stay in bed, I slipped my favourite toy – a monkey just like this one – under her sheet to look after her. I don’t know what happened to it when she died, but I never got it back. Papa must have thrown it away.

  Mum comes up behind me. “That’s a Monchhichi. Sweet, isn’t it? I had one when I was a child. Would you like it?”

  I nod.

  I watch Mum talking to the shop assistant as she pays for everything – my one monkey
and what looks like an entire Hello Kitty army for Min. Dad and Min are chatting to each other outside, and I feel very alone.

  Up the road a bit, another familiar smell – this one exotic and sweet – is making my nose twitch. Where’s it coming from? I stop dead in the middle of the street and look around.

  “Sunny, what are you doing?” Dad asks, looking at me with concern.

  I squeeze my nostrils to try to tell him about the smell. He just looks confused until Min says, “What is that?” She sniffs the air. “It’s like sweets being burned on a bonfire.”

  Mum smiles. “Incense,” she says. “They burn it in the Chinese temples. I think there’s one down that side street, in fact. Would you like to find it, Sunny?”

  “What about me?” Min says. “Maybe I’d like to see this temple thing as well.”

  “Yes, Min, you can come too,” Mum says, her voice a bit weary. Min would wear anyone out.

  We walk down the side street and then into a small open park. There are women sitting on benches under leafy trees, feeding the birds with scraps of bread, and old men standing around marble chessboards watching a game.

  The smell is coming from the large building facing the park. It’s amazing – like something out of a fairy tale, with its ruby-red pillars and tiered golden roof. Mama Wei used to take us to a temple just like this one to pray to her family gods. Min was only a toddler and I was allowed to push her pram.

  “Would you like to go inside?” Mum asks me and I nod. Dad has wandered off to take some photographs.

  “I want to come too!” Min says. “What is this place? It’s cool. Is a temple like a palace, Mum?”

  “It’s a church,” Mum says. “You can only come inside if you’re quiet. Think you can manage that?”

  “I’m brilliant at being quiet,” Min says confidently.

  I give Min a look and she sticks her tongue out at me. Inside the temple, the smoke from the incense is so strong it makes my eyes water.

  “What are those?” Min points up at the smoking spirals hanging above our heads. They’re like huge bed springs.

  “Incense cones,” Mum says. “Impressive, aren’t they? They must take days to burn. Watch out the ashes don’t land on your head.”