Ōugān

It’s not like I can avoid them. They taunt me from the front of my local fruit and veg grocer, their dimpled waxy peel catching the light as if to say nice to see you again, Sunny like some off-colour joke. A bunch of bananas poke holes in the biodegradable bag while I sweep the back shelves for this week’s food. I notice the oranges from the corner of my eye and feel my stomach turn. Looks like oranges aren’t on the menu anymore, either.

The sun has already dipped behind the buildings by the time I leave with my laptop bag cutting into my shoulder while I nurse my food in a bag threatening to split. I don’t care if it breaks, so long as it doesn’t break while I am crossing the highway to my rent-de-sac.

Another workweek done, another bag of fruit safely ferried to my front door. I drop them all over my kitchen floor, but that’s okay. Bruised fruit won’t kill me. As the thought crosses my mind, I wonder if it will instead bruise me back. My mouth turns into a grimace.

I close the fridge door, picking at a handful of grapes, and stare at my sister’s baby shower invitation underneath one of my many local handyman advertising magnets.

You’re invited to celebrate Lin’s baby shower.

Join us at Box Hill Gardens 11am Saturday 6th January

I’m pretty sure I am supposed to get her a present, but I am hoping my contribution of a fruit platter for the picnic will save me from her judgement. Mum and Dad put me on their card for the pram which cost the same as my car, but Lin will see through that pretty quickly. I will have to buy Mum and Dad a present later as a thank you for sparing my bank account this time around.

Cringy reality TV, noodles and Instagram entertain me until my eyes are sore and midnight has graced my neighbourhood with a peaceful quiet, only rarely interrupted by the drag racing on the highway. I still prefer that to a neighbour with a noisy dog. Then again, I would still get better sleep with a barking dog than with my current nightmares. I can only fight against sleep for so long until I fall into a hot and heavy slumber, bathed in the sickly light of my TV.

* * *

A familiar and yet alien setting surrounds me. It is a formless place, but holds more substance than I remember. How can something be so simple, but also too complex for words?

The dreaded mandarins are sitting in a bowl on a table, as expected.

Stray raspberries have escaped their tyrants in the bowl and rolled away, but they don’t hold my attention. Instead, my eyes are riveted to the mandarin segments floating in the air, suspended in some liminal space.

I pluck one away. The white netting is soft and fluffy on my fingertips. My nose crinkles from the citrusy sweet perfume as I squeeze the fruit and juice runs through its split skin. It leaves a sticky trail behind on my thumb. The mandarin looks delicious, but my gut tells me to toss it and run. Every piece of me is screaming soundlessly in terror. My elbow bends and I raise the fruit to my mouth. I already know what it will taste like, but my senses are assaulted and my body reels with shock regardless.

My teeth tear the segment apart and its sour, rotten juice spreads across my tongue. Its vile and bitter taste sticks to the inside of my cheeks, burning, searing. My mouth is on fire. I can’t breathe.

* * *

Drenched with sweat, I awake to reruns of a cancelled TV show and my heart pounding in my chest. My phone clock says it is four o’clock. I’m not surprised; it's my new normal.

Opening the windows of my unit brings in some cooler air, but it's an Australian summer, so there isn’t much relief. Guzzling water doesn’t help rinse away the rancid memories still vivid in my mind’s eye.

By late morning, it’s a dry heat at the baby shower, but luckily the park bench is under the shade. I find myself happier than I thought I would be to see my family again. Lately I’ve been bogged down in work and routine. My sister looks really happy and healthy, swollen with the baby. It’s almost a perfect day. Gran’s displeasure is the only dour note. She sits at the end of the bench across from me with a gloomy look on her face, separating herself from the celebration. Mum’s glare at Gran throws daggers, but the elder is unphased. As Lin opens the next present, Mum leans in and hisses something in Mandarin. Gran argues back, but doesn’t care to be quiet about it. I miss most of the words.

Gran sees my confused expression and shakes her head, flicking her hand at the party. “Unlucky. Baby not born.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “We aren’t in China, Ma. This is how they do things here.”

A wrinkled hand plunges into her handbag and she plucks out a bag of mandarin fruits. My spirits drop. Gran thrusts one out to me, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.

“Why no take? Take, take!”

“No thanks, Gran. They are in my nightmares, lately.”

Gran throws a question to Mum in her home tongue, I catch the word Ōugān, and Mum frowns before turning to me, tucking her slick black hair behind her ear. “She thinks you are saying nonsense. In China, it is tradition and common belief that mandarin fruits bring good fortune. The orange colour symbolises gold. You should take one.”

“Okay, then what does it mean if I am eating sour mandarins in my nightmares? I wake up at four every morning. I’d love to get some sleep for a change.” While I don’t expect a real answer, I give a nervous laugh in anticipation.

Gran stops peeling her mandarin and gapes at me. “Four?! Four bad luck.” Her English runs out there and she continues speaking in Mandarin to Mum, who translates for me.

“Sour fruit means your current job isn’t going to bring you wealth, and will ruin you. You need to find a new job.”

Having not spent much time in China herself, Mum gives me this doubtful look and shrugs it off before swooning over Lin’s new baby blankets. Spitting mandarin seeds on the ground, Gran devours the citrus gem happily and puts one on the table in front of me. Her smile is warm and holds a promise.

“Eat. Good luck.”

While I can hold it, I’m not brave enough to eat it. Dad throws a very pointed look at me, then at the mandarin. Of course he has been quietly watching the exchange the whole time.

“She is very wise, you should listen to her.”

The fruit travels home with me at the end of the day and sits imposingly on my table while I scroll social media in the evening. A sponsored ad for a job agency appears. The presence of the mandarin is a heavy weight in the room, and I finally cave in to my family’s recommendations. By the end of the night, I have applied to six jobs, but it isn’t enough to ward away the nightmare. By morning, the mandarin on my table seems to be teasing.

Five days on, I receive a positive email to schedule a job interview and I sleep soundly through the night for the first time in almost two weeks. The golden mandarin waits on my table to greet me, ripened to when the skin is loose and ready for peeling.

By the time I am in my eighties, I hope to have some wisdom to pass along to my grandchildren like my Gran. I can picture her waving the fruit in my face to convince me to eat it now.

The peel pulls away easily. The white netting of the first plump segment is soft and fluffy on my fingertips. My nose crinkles from the citrusy sweet perfume as I squeeze the fruit and juice runs through its split skin. It leaves a sticky trail behind on my thumb. Before I get the chance to feel fear, I pop it into my mouth and bite through the flesh. A burst of sweet and tangy juice floods across my tongue and my lips pucker into a smile.