Chanted invocations hung in the air, punctuated by the sombre tok-tok-tok of a prayer mallet. Wisps of smoke rose into the framed black-and-white photograph of Chen on the altar. 

Lili’s knees dug into bamboo fibres as she knelt and bowed with each batch of mourners. Scratchy white robe, black arm band, the appropriate colours of grief. She had even worn her good bra, one she had never worn for Chen.  

Hundreds of joss sticks, a troupe of swaying monks. The whole town was going to attend. In the haze, Chen’s thin lips looked distorted, curled into a moue of distaste. 

The same look when I serve him ngor hiang rolled the wrong way, thought Lili. Or dumplings on a Tuesday, not Friday.  

‘Condolences,’ whispered the thirty-something neighbour with the perm that Chen would bang whenever Lili went grocery shopping.

‘So sad,’ said the sister-in-law, who had scowled in all of Chen and Lili’s wedding pictures. 

‘Tub of fried rice,’ said Chen’s mother. ‘Homemade food for Jun.’ As if Lili’s son had survived on ashes and hot air for thirteen years. 

A crash of the monk’s mallet, and Lili remembered how Chen had tipped the bowl of sweet almond soup onto the floor. How he enjoyed the quiver of her chest, the sharp intake of breath, a fillip of blood rushing to her cheeks. Jun had kept his eyes on his bowl, absorbing everything, like the wasted soup seeping into the ungrateful carpet. ‘Doesn’t taste like Mama’s. You need real Chinese almonds,’ Chen had declared. 

She had run out to get some. Mud brown, shrivelled hearts of once-lush apricots, ground with a stone pestle, moistened with Lili’s tears. Furious boiling, their essence leached into hungry waters, becoming innocent white, hues of shit erased. Then, the addition of rock sugar until all bitterness was masked, almost saccharine. A final garnish, before she proffered the fresh bowl, hands shaking.

‘Not bad.’ He had smacked his lips, droplets running down his jowls. ‘Why don’t you go out now and buy more?’ He stood up, adjusting his belt under his belly, the front of his pants already bulging.

A new group of mourners entered, faces set in displays of sorrow. The local shop owners, here to pay their respects. Jun looked up briefly, then went back to texting, his white robe sleeves rolled up high, the garment barely tolerated. Lili stood like a perfect stone tableau: face downcast, hands knotted, rheumy eyes, hardened within and out. 

Hadn’t they all known, this community of clucking tongues and vicious whispers? Hadn’t the grinning butcher suggested she try his new pork sausage, in a tit-for-tat special? The kind greengrocer, slipping her extra apples, as if they were a balm against humiliation?

Only one woman had truly understood. She ran the herbal shop, the one that sold real Chinese almonds. Lili saw the woman shuffling in with the others, her rounded shoulders straighter than usual, eyes lambent in a sea of wrinkles. Their gazes met. They bowed.

Grace O’Malley turned on the kitchen radio and tuned into Hits and Memories. To the Hollies’ The Air That I Breathe, she poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

She rifled through the mail, separating the junk from the Police Union memos, disability pension statement, receipts for the month’s psychiatric treatment, and a Neighbourhood Watch newsletter. She set them aside and unrolled the morning newspaper.

Her gaze hardened at the headline, “Third grisly find in Riverlands”; shifted to the image of a red brick toilet block shaded by river gums; then fell to the caption, “Victim was a known meth dealer.”

She read the report slowly and carefully, halting at the line, “Forensic investigators believe the male victim, aged 32 years, was surprised from behind and garrotted with a tempered steel wire.”

A tremor passed through her left hand. The Hollies faded into Blondie’s In the Flesh. She reached for her meds case and took from a row of compartments labelled ‘Saturday’ a half-dozen colored pills which she swallowed and washed down with her coffee dregs.

She reread the story. Then she sat back and pondered the photographs on her cluttered sideboard: one of herself in uniform, another clutching the Australian Police Jiu-jitsu Champion trophy, another of her being presented with the Best Marksperson of the Year award. Her gaze rose to a framed photo of her teenage daughter in school uniform on the wall above.

‘Got another one for you, love.’

The murmur had hardly left her lips when the doorbell chimed. She flinched and shot a glance at the wall clock. 10:35 a.m.

‘Shit—’

She opened the door to a young man in a lavender polo shirt. He was carrying a leather satchel. ‘So sorry to be late,’ he said.

‘Oh, god. No, I’m sorry. I forgot all about the extra lesson. Come in, please. Would you like something to drink? Coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’

In the living room, he asked, ‘So, how’s the practice going?’

‘Like everything else, a little rough. But I’m hanging in there.’ She smiled weakly.

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ He hee-hawed. ‘Well, let’s run through the scales first shall we?’

She seated herself in front of the old Yamaha upright she’d bought with her disability payout, lifted the fallboard, flexed her fingers and began to play.

‘Oh my,’ he said suddenly. ‘Sounds like you’ve lost a note.’ He leaned over her, lifted the lid and peered inside. His eyes widened. ‘Your number one bass wire is gone.’

She joined him, looking down. ‘Oh, yeah. It broke,’ she said.

‘But that’s the thickest string in the entire piano. What on earth were you playing?’

For a while she stared back at him, unable to think of a suitable reply.

From the kitchen, Hits and Memories played a new song; an old favourite of hers.

‘Skin Deep,’ she said, holding his gaze. ‘By the Stranglers.’

My hands tremble so much I have trouble entering the phone number. Taking a deep breath, I study my perfectly manicured fingernails until the shaking subsides. I try again, this time pressing the digits in the right order. 

A woman picks up my call.

“I-I have information about your s-son,” I stutter.

“Who is this? How did you get this number?”

I didn’t expect her to sound so suspicious. It’s been almost two decades since her baby was taken from a toilet block after she parked his pram outside her cubicle. Perhaps she’s sick of timewasters, fearing her answers will never come.

“My name’s Liv. Don’t you want my information?” I ask. “I thought you wanted to find your child?”

She sighs heavily. “Of course I want to find him! What can you tell me?”

“I saw the photograph on the news.” I comb my fingers through my long ponytail. “The recent one with your husband and daughter.”

“And?”

My eyes fill with tears, and I dab them with my sleeve to hold them back. “Your daughter looks so much like your missing child.”

“You’ve seen him?” Her tone becomes urgent. “Please don’t waste my time. You’ve seen my Jacob?”

I nod, which is foolish given she can’t see me. But I’ve momentarily lost my words.

“Where?” she presses. “He’d be nineteen now.”

“He used to live in my house,” I whisper. “I saw him every day, although I never recognised him … not even when he was small.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying you know who took my son?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m almost definite. The age is right, and the resemblance is remarkable.”

I think of all the things I want to tell her but can’t just yet. The lost birth certificate. The lack of photos as a newborn. The birthmark that always needed to be covered.

“Where is he now?” Suspicion returns to her tone. “You said he doesn’t live with you anymore.”

“He no longer exists.” I wince, knowing this will hurt her. But it can’t be helped. It’s time the truth was exposed.

She gasps. “Is this some kind of sick joke? If you really know anything, call the police—”

“Wait!” I take a deep breath. She hasn’t hung up, her hope holding on tighter than her doubts. “I’m certain my parents took Jacob. They wanted a son and couldn’t have one themselves. They changed his name to Oliver and raised him as their own.”

She’s quiet for a bit. “You said your name’s Liv.”

Tears spill freely down my cheeks. “I was raised as Oliver, but I’m Liv now. My parents kicked me out. They said I’m no longer their son. But you see, I never was. I look so much like your daughter in the photograph.” 

The woman lets out a sob, and I know she’s not just any mother, she’s mine.