An August for My July Mother - by Karina Ko
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
‘Augustus is an interesting name for a Vietnamese man,’ I’d said to Felix when we first met in a community hall in Parramatta. We were upcycling fences into benches. He’d told me that he lived with an Augustus after I asked whether his own name was inspired by something ancient Roman, or the fat cat. Felix said they’d gotten to know each other at local bushcare events. Augustus worked for the Department of Education in videoconferencing support. Felix hadn’t managed to land any acting jobs for a few months, so Augustus offered him a spare room for very reasonable rent if Felix maintained the small garden.
Felix said Augustus was fifty-eight. But when Augustus walked into the kitchen in a sleeveless shirt, his arms looked so shiny and pumped from the gym, I thought they could have been the arms of a thirty-year-old.
‘Hi Gus. This is my friend Alice.’
When Augustus smiled his face crinkled like his whole being was focused on meaning it. He pulled out one of the glass containers from the fridge. It looked like the beef broth I had seen earlier. Then, a container of thick rice noodles. Appliances lined a shelf next to the fridge: a slow cooker, air fryer, food processor, blender. In the early afternoon, when I asked Felix about them, he said Augustus prepared batches of meals each Saturday. On the shelf above were some bottles of supplements Omega 3 fish oil tablets. I’d read the labels when Felix was in the bathroom. The clear brown bottle was half full; it was expiring next year. Felix was vegetarian, so these must be Augustus’s. My mother would like a man who didn’t let his supplements expire. A man who looked after himself so that he could look after her.
She would approve of how he was heating his dinner in a bowl covered with a plate. She’d often said this minimises the radiation in food. I told her I doubted that this was how microwaves worked. I imagined Augustus introducing himself to my mother, and my mother mishearing, ‘August?’ And he would let her call him August, smiling his thousand-wrinkle smile. ‘My name is Julie, like July,’ she would say.
The lounge room smelled of sweet star anise, cardamon and onion from August’s dinner. He retreated into his bedroom to eat. He probably sat at the desk I’d seen through the window earlier, when I was in the garden cutting lemongrass to make tea. When Felix opened a jar of apple cider vinegar, the sourness pierced through the room. Felix had darkened the vinegar by leaving a steel scourer in it. He was painting the legs of the desk that we’d built, while I worked on the top and bottom surfaces. As I brushed the stain onto pale pine, I listened to the hum of excited spectators from August’s room. The preaching voice of a sports commentator, the crunch of chips from a crinkly foil packet. I didn’t know how to ask Felix about whether Augustus was single and interested in women or not. Felix and I were only new friends. I’d already asked about August’s age and job. Why was I so interested, Felix might ask?
Felix was telling me about a Buddhist vegetarian restaurant in Belmore. I should have talked more with August to gather reasons to invite him along. Perhaps I needed some video conferencing help for an event about changing careers. I stood up to stretch my back and admire the reddish brown desk. Felix joined me and we high-fived.
Now August was singing. His rich baritone soared over the sound of the shower from his ensuite. It vibrated into the lounge like he was rehearsing for a Shakespearean performance. He was bellowing bum dee dum, something jazz, blues, or do they call it swing? A happy song. He was so absorbed in it that when Felix knocked on the bedroom door to ask if he could borrow his car, August kept on singing. He couldn’t hear Felix over the shower and his own song. I laughed and told Felix I would catch a bus.
Felix’s knuckles brushed against mine when he walked me to the bus stop. He didn’t move away, so I did. I asked him if he was religious. He said he’d been to Anglican schools but his parents had taken him to Buddhist temples. I was thinking about introducing him to a Christian friend. I considered telling him about the woman I had a crush on at work, but that would have been too jarring. He might cut me from his life. I ran for the bus when it approached, thanked the driver and waved at Felix out the window. There were only two other passengers. We were quiet, being carried through the night. Outside were lit-up rectangles, dioramas of people’s lives held in apartment windows and balconies, floating through the darkness. I imagined August singing to my mother in one of those apartments.
*
She sings along, filling in the words she doesn’t know with gibberish. He takes her hands and they dance around the room. My mother has the brightness of a child. She hates decisions, so he offers suggestions about lunch, and reads her umms and ahhs like tea leaves in a cup. He takes her to places she is most likely to enjoy, according to the day’s forecast. He holds her hand when they go shopping at Costco. His other hand pushes an oversized trolley as she examines boxes of cherries. ‘Yes, I think that’s the perfect box,’ he tells her.
They are taking the box of cherries to Hong Kong. My grandma loves cherries. Her mind is going, but she is happy to see her daughter happy. She pats the seat on the couch next to her and nods to August. My mother cooks them pork with lemongrass; snowpea sprouts with garlic; and the red fish with an overbite of jagged teeth, pan-fried whole with chopped tomatoes and onion.
At their wedding, my mother wears a long pink cheongsam and a matching jacket. There are about twenty people in August’s garden and townhouse. Felix is there. So is the woman from my work. Felix hugs her when I introduce them. ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ he says.
During their wedding vows my mother speaks some Vietnamese, poorly, but looks so proud of herself that August smiles reassuringly and replies in his broken Cantonese, ‘Yut sun yut sei’ – for a lifetime.
*
When we last visited my grandparents, my mother told me that Grandpa was Grandma’s second husband. ‘Why don’t you find a second husband?’ I asked her. The week before we’d left for Hong Kong we found some messages on my father’s phone. It wasn’t his first affair.
My mother said she owed him for some deed from her past life.
‘Yut yun dut yun sun,’ I said. A person only has one lifetime. We are fleeting.
Perhaps in my next life, my mother said.
*
I crossed the road from the bus stop and walked along the narrow street next to a nursing home. I stepped around a cardboard fruit tray on the pavement. It contained a large lump, which I recognised as faeces. The street stank of it. I held my breath as much as I could on my way home.
My mother was in the front lounge researching index funds on her tablet. I hugged her. I wanted to wrap her in fullness. She told me to drink soup. Lotus root, pork bones and green mung beans. Then she continued swiping at the screen. We lived in a two-storey house even though there were only three of us. Perhaps my parents wanted a large house so that they could avoid each other. My father was watching a documentary about one of the Chinese dynasties on the television upstairs. A chorus of men were yelling, charging on horses. Metal clanging.
Outside, the dickhead motorcyclist sped down our street. The sound was so loud I felt as though all the air was being sucked out of my ears. It sucked all the other sounds out of my mind; of my grandma patting her couch and Felix talking about the vegetarian restaurant. All the sounds of August and my mother singing. ▼
Image: Camila Aramayo
If you liked this piece, please share it. And please consider donating or subscribing so that we can keep supporting writers and artists.