Denison Avenue

A Novel by Christina Wong

Dedication

For all the poh pohs, the gong gongs, the ngin ngins, the yeh yehs in Chinatowns around the world, and for all the lo wah kiu.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Jen Sookfong Lee.

Thank you to Shannon Parr and Jennifer Gallinger.

Thank you to Jessica Albert, Crissy Calhoun, Jennifer Knoch, Claire Pokorchak, and the whole ECW Press team.

Thank you to Kelvin Kong and K2 Literary.

Thank you to Lesley Wong.

Thank you to Tracy Wong and Irene Kent.

Thank you to Annie Koyama.

Thank you to Ruth Gabriel, Laura Kim, Aaron Leighton, Libby Ruberto, Donna-Michelle St. Bernard, Donna and Henry Wong, and Otto Wong.

Thank you to Shawn Micallef, Satchie Raudzus, Robert Ruggiero, Brenda Wong, and Crystal Yeomans.

Thank you to the Toronto Arts Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Canada Council for the Arts for funding support during the creation of this work.

Preface

Our story primarily takes place in Toronto’s Chinatown–Kensington Market — a neighbourhood we consider home, one we feel connected to, and one we want to pay homage to before much of what we know disappears. While we were working on this book, many of the shops mentioned closed, or were forced to close.

As the area faces pressures of urban renewal and gentrification that make it largely unaffordable for the working class, we are reminded that the displacement of communities, traditions, language, culture, and people is nothing new.

The neighbourhood sits on the ancestral and traditional territories of many nations, including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Haudenosaunee, the Anishinaabeg, and the Huron-Wendat. And as settlers, as second-generation Canadian and second-generation Chinese Canadian, we acknowledge the original caretakers of this land and share a responsibility that we, too, must take care of the land.

We hope our story acts as a catalyst for you to remember the colonial practices that continue to exist in this city and that contribute to the ongoing displacement and inequities not just in Chinatown–Kensington Market but in Toronto, and the ongoing erasure of the histories and stories of marginalized communities.

1

Lay mang mang, ah See Heeei, Mrs. Wong’s voice rang out. (Take your time.)

I peeked from my second-floor bedroom window. Next door, Mr. and Mrs. Wong were working on their front garden. Mrs. Wong had one hand on top of a shovel and the other on her hip as she stood next to Mr. Wong, who was sitting on a wooden stool with his back hunched over. They aren’t my actual grandparents, but I call them Gong Gong and Poh Poh and they call me Koh-lee, which is how they pronounce my real name, Chloe. I think I like their version better. My parents say they do too.

Aside from the two white plastic chairs that always sat on their porch, our houses were mirror images of each other. In our front yard, we had a tall tree growing by the front gate, with grooves that criss-crossed into diamond shapes on its grey bark. When the leaves were full, the top reminded me of a broccoli crown.

Gong Gong and Poh Poh had a wondrous garden both in the front and in the back filled with all kinds of vegetables like bok choy, garlic chives, goji leaves, green beans, melons (bitter, fuzzy, and winter), and tomatoes. Oh, and they also grew honeysuckle and peonies. The honeysuckle was my favourite because it gave off this jasmine tea smell in the evening, especially in August.

I watched Gong Gong take a deep breath, then slowly get up from the stool. He returned to untying the strands of navy-blue fabric and red plastic twine that held the remaining trellises together. He gathered all the broom and mop handles and wooden sticks and set them near their makeshift rain barrel, a large grey plastic garbage bin. He unfolded the blue tarp and wrapped it tightly around everything. It was a meticulous job he did every year in mid-October, sometimes in November. And at the end of May, or early June, he put the trellises back together.

Afterwards, Gong Gong took the fork and poked the soil that Poh Poh had just dug up and turned over. The left patch of the garden was left alone for the time being as the baby bok choy was still growing. We were experiencing an unusually warm October, with days that could easily be mistaken for summer ones.

Gong Gong admired the three winter melons that Poh Poh had harvested earlier and left on the steps to the house. Geem nen gor dee doong gua gee digh gor wor! Joong digh gor go Seto Seem! (The winter melons grew so big this year! I think even bigger than Mrs. Seto’s!)

Ahh, chaa mm or. Hor see kwuy day joong ngay sip thlay bong wor! (They might be about the same. I think they grew some that were twenty-four pounds!)

Geem sigh lay! (That’s incredible!) Gong Gong shook his head in disbelief as he picked up one melon at a time. Knee joon high ngay sip thlay bong wor! (This has got to be twenty-four pounds as well!)

Lay mang mang ah, Poh Poh said.

Ngggggggggg.

The screen door closed behind him.

And for a moment, it was just Poh Poh left outside.

Her hands clasped behind her back.

She surveyed the garden and took a deep breath.

She looked towards the front door, as if in anticipation.

Gong Gong came back out, left a bowl of food scraps on the steps, and quickly returned inside. Poh Poh took the bowl and scattered the egg shells, lemon and orange peels, and onion skins on top of the soil. From the second floor, the oranges, whites, and yellows speckled the dirt the way stars dot a clear night sky.

The screen door opened slightly and Gong Gong stuck his head back out. Ah Cho Sum ah, lay heck far sang ma? Gnoi how hun. (Would you like to eat some peanuts? I’m getting cravings.)

Gee ehm ah? (What time is it?)

He looked at his watch. Thlay ehm. (It’s four o’clock.)

Ah, jor lay heck fahn wor. (But it’s almost dinner time.)

Che! Ja far sang naaah! (They’re just peanuts!)

Ahhh, okay, okay. Gnoi heck siew siew. Lay yew mor sigh dee mai ah? (I’ll have a few then. Have you washed the rice?)

Yewww! Gnoi da geem jor gor deen fahn bow! (I have! And I even pressed the button on the rice cooker!)

Wah, geem nget yew gee sing. (Your memory is great today.)

Cheee! Gnoi may mo yoong jee! Eh, eh, eh, lay bigh gor doh! Gnoi ut joon sigh. (I’m not useless yet! Leave those there! I’ll wash them later.)

Poh Poh then lay the fork and shovel next to the recycling bin and wiped the dirt from her hands onto her pants. She grabbed hold of the railing; chips of paint fluttered to the ground. She stopped for a moment, then went up the steps, one at a time. The screen door closed softly behind her.

2

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

Car racing.

Tires screeching.

3

The streetcar dings.

The car honks.

The sound of my heartbeat.

The faded white lines.

The pale yellow lines.

The metal from the streetcar track.

Everything was spinning.

And then

it stopped.

Dundas. Dun da.

This familiar street.

This street I’ve walked on almost every day

is now on its side.

The pavement feels cold and grainy against my face.

Sir . . . sir.

It . . . it is . . . hard . . . to move.

Has someone called 9-1-1?

Voices suddenly come from all directions, but I can only make out fragments.

Sir, what’s your name?

Hen ry

Henry

See

Hei.

See Hei.

Wo ng. Wong.

My words can’t be heard.

I cough.

It’s gonna be okay.

The sound of my heartbeat starts to drown out the sounds around me,

then quiets as the voices around me return.

And again.

An ambulance is on its way!

I try to move my fingers,

my hand,

my arm,

my head.

Sir . . . sir . . .

"Sir,

try to stay still."

Toong, I try to say. (It hurts.)

Everywhere, pain.

Eyes searching.

Ah Cho Sum, lay high nigh ah? (Where are you?)

Breathing.

"It’s going to be okay.

The ambulance is coming."

I close my eyes.

Breathing.

Drifting.

A light.

Mama.BaBa.NingNing.YehYeh.PohPoh.GongGong.Hoyping.Guongdong.

Moving.Running.

HongKong.TheviewfromVictoriaPeak.

Redtricycle.Firstbikeride.Firstcatch.

Goodbye.Hello.Goodbye.

Firstplaneride.Flight006.VancouvertoToronto.Startingover.SeeHei.Henry.WaltonStreet.

MongGok.SaiWoo.LicheeGarden.NankingTavern.ElizabethStreet.

Citizenshipcardinhand.Canadian.Voting.Apologies.

TheWongs.LoWahKiu.Oldandnewbridges.CityHall.

Writingyou.Youwritingme.Meetingyou.Youmeetingme.

Ourwedding.

Banquets.SittinginKimMoon.Eggtarts.EatingcongeeatKing’sNoodle.Dimsum.Forestview.HongFatt.

ChinaCourt.

TheBlueJays.WorldSeries.

Ourgarden.Thegreens.Theyellows.Theflowers.Thebirdschirping.Thecicadassinging.Thejoy.

Sweetpotatoes.Persimmons.Freshmantou.

Snowfalling.

Starsshining.

Reflections.

Oldrecordsplaying.Dancing.

MoviesonSundays.

Ourwalksaroundtheblock.

Theparks.Thelibraries.

Thesilences.

Chinatown.KensingtonMarket.

DenisonAvenue.Home.

You.

Yoursmile.

AhChoSum.

YourlaughwhenIsaidyournameislikethevegetable.

Yoursmile.

AhChoSum.

You.

Ourhearts.

AhChoSum.

You.

Fading.

My eyes snap open.

A blur.

Shadows move around me.

Ah Cho Sum,

high mwuy nay ah? (Is that you?)

"Sir,

try to stay with me."

Breathing.

Gnoi hwuy migh fan see. (I went to buy sweet potatoes.)

Breathing.

Yeet bong, teet hor giu seen. Ho leng ah. (Seventy-nine cents a pound. Nice ones too.)

Breathing.

Thlay gor ahn tat. Ngeem ngeem gook hor. Hoong muy thlay gor jee jigh bao. Lay juw joong yee. (Four egg tarts. They’re freshly baked. And four Vietnamese bread rolls. Your favourites.)

Breathing.

Breathing.

And then

a different kind

of light.

The ambulance is coming.

Breathing.

Brea

thing.

Is this it?

Eyes closing.

Brea thing.

Please

don’t

let it

be.

Let me stay awhile longer.

A siren wails in the distance.

Please.

Gnoi mm seng hang knee geen low jee. (I’m not ready to walk this road yet.)

Gnoi yew hor dor yeh joong may do. (There are still so many things I haven’t done yet.)

Breathing.

Hoping.

Feeling hot,

cold,

numb.

Pain. So much pain.

Eyes opening.

Droplets trickling down.

Approaching.

Ah Cho Sum, gnoi ho geng ah. (I’m so afraid.)

Geng lay wuy deem yeng. (Afraid of what will happen to you.)

Inhaling.

Exhaling.

Eyes closing.

Ah Cho Sum . . .

Gnoi yew seem gay. (I have the will.)

Gnoi mm hwuy jee. (I won’t go yet.)

Gnoi yew seem gay.

Gnoi yew seem gay.

Gnoi yew seem gay.

Inhaling.

Exhaling.

Gnoi geng ah. (I’m scared.)

Gnoi wuy deem seem lay. (I will worry about you.)

Sir, can you hear me?

Eyes opening.

Ah Cho Sum, high mwuy nay ah? (Is that you?)

Reaching

out.

We’re taking you to the hospital, okay?

Eyes closing.

I stretch out my hand,

grasping,

holding on.

Holding on to your smile.

Sir, stay with me.

Eyes fluttering open briefly.

I think I’m staring at the sky now.

There’s a speck of blue.

Like the colour of a blue jay.

And then shadows around me again.

Like a dark curtain coming down over my eyes.

Sir, try to stay awake, okay?

My eyes get heavy.

My body starts to feel light.

My breaths begin to soften and shorten even more.

It feels like I’m getting further

and further away.

Dwuy mm jee. (I’m sorry.)

Sir . . .

Ah Cho Sum.

Ah Cho Sum. Gnoi mm hwuy jee.

Ah Cho Sum.

Ah Cho Sum. Gnoi mm hwuy

Ah Cho Sum. Gnoi mm

Ah Cho Sum. Gnoi

Ah Cho Sum.

Ah Cho

Ah

4

Two of the eight fan see rolled out of the white Hua Long Supermarket plastic bag and made their way to the middle of Dundas Street West. The small white cardboard box that contained four fresh ahn tat from Kim Moon Bakery was now crushed. A black fur trapper hat and a silver cane lay not far from the scene.

It happened at 4:17 p.m.

A series of dings came from the streetcar, each one more urgent than the last.

But it did not matter.

The driver of the car passed the open streetcar doors and continued speeding east along Dundas, ignoring both that the light had turned red and that a man had started to cross the street.

Man in 70s critically injured after being struck by a vehicle in downtown Toronto

Vehicle flees scene after seriously injuring elderly pedestrian near Chinatown

Senior in life-threatening condition after hit and run by Kensington Market, police say

The suspect’s vehicle would later be described as a black Porsche SUV, 2010 or 2011 model, with probable front-end damage. The police would urge the driver to seek legal counsel and come forward. Investigators would also ask the public to contact police or Crime Stoppers with any information.

Following this, officers would remind pedestrians to exercise caution when walking and to be aware of their surroundings, particularly at night, and that dark clothing should be avoided.

The story and its variations have become all too familiar in this city. Some garner more coverage than others; some are forgotten.

And what is left is not always known.

5

Thlump!

It was the sound of recycling bin lids opening and closing out on the street that woke me up.

I lifted my head abruptly off the kitchen table. Geem haak. (It’s so dark.) I let out a loud yawn, stretching my arms up in the air, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.

Say ah! Gnoi foon jor gow. Ah See Hei? (Oh no! I must’ve fallen asleep.)

My stomach grumbled softly.

What time was it?

I got up and turned the light on in the kitchen.

The fluorescent tube flickered once before lighting up the room.

The clock on the wall read 6:05. Ai ya, luk ehm?! (It’s six o’clock?!) I glanced at the kitchen table: the two bowls of plain rice, the two bowls of winter melon soup, and the plates of stir-fried green beans with fermented bean curd, steamed spare ribs with preserved black beans, and steamed pork patty with salted fish remained untouched.

Ah See Hei? See Hei ah? Lay fahn jor gwuy may ah? I called out. (Are you home yet?)

No answer.

I looked at the coat rack; the space beside my coat was still empty. Joon high may fahn? Mo lay wor. (You really aren’t home yet? How can that be?)

My stomach growled again.

It shouldn’t take this long to walk home from Hua Sheng, or from Hua Long, or even from Hua Foong.

Maybe you went to Kim Moon too?

Or maybe you ran into a friend?

Or a quick visit to the Wong See to see if Peter was in?

Did you have a book to return to Sanderson? Or maybe you went to Lillian Smith instead?

Where could you have gone?

High, mo deem seem. Mo see, mo see. (Don’t worry. Everything is okay, everything is fine.)

Deep breaths. In and out. In and out. In and out.

I took the bowls of rice and scooped the grains back into the rice cooker, poured the soup back into the pot, and covered the other three dishes with the small plates used for scraps and bones. I started running the tap to wash the bowls.

Hiiiiiigh, I should’ve just gone with you! But you said it would be fine and I wouldn’t have to worry.

Creeeeeaaaaaak.

I quickly pushed the lever of the faucet down and stared at the front door. Ah See Hei?! High mwuy nay ah? High, knee gor say giew uk. Ah See Hei? (Is that you? This damn old house!)

I wiped my hands with the towel and called out again, Ah See Hei?

I stood still, careful to not make a sound.

No answer.

I headed to the living room. Blue and red flashing lights leaked through the beige lace curtains and illuminated the room in intervals. I parted the panels and peeked through. Something must have happened down by Dundas, but it was hard to tell from here.

I grabbed my coat and hastily put it on and went outside. The storm door slammed behind me. I stood on the porch, then walked down the steps and stood in the yard just before the gate. I looked in both directions, hoping to catch your familiar shape coming up, or down, Denison.

Nothing.

I looked towards the corner and counted at least three police cars parked there. There was yellow tape surrounding the intersection, the ends flapping as the wind blew. I wondered what had happened.

A sudden gust of wind made the front gate swing back and forth. I clasped it shut.

I shivered and wrapped the coat around me tighter. I glanced up and down the street once more before going back into the house, bringing in the cold, crisp air with me, and then I gently closed the storm door.

Aiiiiii, joong gee doong. (It’s still very cold.) I hung my coat back on the rack.

Even though it was almost two weeks into spring, the warmer weather never seemed to arrive until the middle or end of May.

Right before you left, I handed you your winter gloves and fur hat, insisting. Joong doong ah. Mo gam taam leng ah. (It’s still cold. Don’t be so vain!)

You protested, Swuy moot ahhh! Gnoi wuy hor figh nah. Mm high lay geem yeng, hang gor Chaan Lau yeet, lerng gor joong tow! (What for! I’ll be so quick. I’m not like you who walks around Honest Ed’s for an hour or two!)

Cheee! Geng lay seng foong ah. (I’m just worried you’ll catch a cold.)

You finally agreed and begrudgingly placed the Blue Jays baseball cap on the kitchen table and put on the thick hat and the gloves.

I muttered under my breath Ah sor jigh as you went down the porch stairs. (You silly man.)

You shouted over your shoulder, Gnoi may yee loong jee! (I’m not hard of hearing yet!)

I leaned out before closing the door. Mo lam koh oah yeh ah! Heng mm heng geen ah?! Swuy gnoi mang lay gor ngee jigh ah? (Don’t buy too much! Did you hear me? Do I need to pull your ears to remind you?)

Hiiiiiigh! Gnoi heng geen! Mm swuy deem seem naaaaaaaah!! Hiiiiiigh!! Figh dee saang moon naaaaaah! Ut joon doong chun laaay! Hiiigh! (I heard you! Stop worrying!! Now go and close the door behind you! You will catch a chill if you don’t!)

I retorted, Cheee. Lay gong mm doong. (Thought you said it wasn’t cold.)

You lifted your right arm and gave a slight wave with the cane.

That was at 2:45 p.m.

I returned to the sink. High, ah See Hei, lay hwuy nigh ah? (Where could you have gone?)

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

6

A cloud of steam rose as I carefully unwrapped the foil. I brought you a fan see today. Steamed — the way you like it.

Lay juw joong yee. Na, joong ngit ah. (It’s your favourite. See, it’s still hot.) I placed it on the bed and broke it in half. I unpeeled the dark purple skin slowly, blowing to cool it down at the same time.

Ah See Hei. Laaay! Fan see!! Ngeem ngeem jing. (Look! A sweet potato!! I just cooked them.)

I glanced in your direction.

Your nose always knew that sweet smell. Wherever you might be in the house, you knew. And you’d come to the kitchen and hover around the stove before I even took them out of the pot and put them all in the bowl. You’d try to reach for one and I’d brush your hand away, fearing you’d scald your hand.

You did this every time.

But this time, there was no hand reaching, no scolding, no coming to the kitchen.

I took one half and held it under your nose and sang softly as if you were a baby just learning to eat. Joot joot seng, joot joot seng. I took a small bite, hoping the familiar chewing sound might wake you.

But it was just stillness as you lay there in that light blue patterned hospital gown.

Your wiry hair now matted.

Your chest moved up and down.

An IV taped to your arm, your hand, a tube ran through your nose, and another in your mouth, all connected together somehow.

A clear plastic bag with liquid hung from a metal pole.

A machine made a steady beeping noise.

Another machine made sounds like heaving sighs.

Lines moving on the screen.

Numbers changing.

And I wondered

if you knew

I was here,

in the same way

you were there

for me

that day.

7

September 1965

Gnoi high how been chor, you reassured me. (I’ll be sitting at the back.) Mm swuy deem seem nah. (You don’t need to worry.)

My heart was beating so fast and I could feel myself getting anxious as I fiddled with the jade bracelet on my left wrist.

We rode the subway to get to the Citizenship Court at 55 St. Clair Avenue East. We walked up the stairs to the second floor, our heels clicking and clacking on the staircase with each step we took.

We sat on the wooden bench just outside the room and waited.

You wore your charcoal-grey suit with the tan oxfords,