By Jennifer Bisset

This technology would have been more useful in my mid-30s when she was in her mid-60s and we were the most friendly we’d ever been.

I visited her once a week. We shared a meal she had cooked, and occasionally one I would contribute from a different cuisine. Slow-cooked bolognese or home-made pizza. Mostly Italian.

I don’t know how it came about, but I had this epiphany I would never truly understand my mother if I didn’t learn Mandarin.

I really don’t know how it came about. One day, I was looking at her across the table as we were eating our rice and tomato egg soup I don’t know the Chinese name for, and my favourite mapo tofu (that, I did know the Chinese name for), and I realised we were enjoying each other’s company, but we couldn’t really speak to each other.

She told me about her day. ‘I did park run… did Aldi shop.’ She told me about her taichi group, the new members who had joined. ‘A new one lives nearby. She gave me a lift home.’

But then she paused and winced and exhaled in pain and frustration at herself for not being able to figure out the name of her new friend.

‘Jane? Janice?’ I offered.

It was Janet. She wrote the name down. ‘How do you spell?’

I watched her go find her diary and sit back down with the book splayed open. She looked across at me, waiting. She had never asked me how to spell words before.

I don’t know what exactly spurred her to be more careful with her English. I had given my spiel to her about how, for some reason, we didn’t believe we could do hard things like book a holiday or lodge our taxes without my dad’s help.

‘We rely on him too much. We think he has to help us with everything because we can’t do it right. But we can. We just have to use our own critical thinking and not be afraid to make mistakes.’

I still hadn’t learned Mandarin by the time she was 80, in fairly good health, aside from a few teeth problems and encroaching dementia. The first part to go was all her progress with English. Next, she lost her 50 years of exposure to English while living in Australia, where she had now lived for the majority of her life. She seemed to revert to her 30-year-old Chinese self. She reminded me of her mother.

I had known I would regret not learning Mandarin when I was in my 30s and now, in my 50s, I was suffering the consequences of my inaction. I felt that eldest daughter's guilt of wanting my mother to be happy, but not knowing if I had done enough to help her achieve that.

So when I discovered the room where my words would be translated to Mandarin and her Mandarin to English, I paid for a 3-hour session, knowing we may end up only using 10 minutes.

She held my arm tightly, with more strength than I thought she still had, as we shuffled out to the car. We arrived at the glass-walled centre and entered the huge echoey reception area, where the attendant directed us to the translation rooms.

We sat down in the padded booth, me on one side of the glass, her on the other. I picked up the phone on my side and pointed at the one on her side, miming to her to pick it up. I don’t think she had much awareness of what was going on, but she copied her daughter.

I spoke into the phone, in my voice, in my language.

‘Hi, Mum.’

My mother said immediately:

‘Hi, Melanie?’

It was her voice, but her accent was more well-rounded. She said the syllables of my name with a different intonation. Less staccato. The ‘Mel’ to ‘an’ to ‘ie’ sounded smoother.

‘Yes. Mum, do you notice something different?’

My mum blinked in an exaggerated, comical fashion. She lifted her chin and stared at me through the glass.

‘You’re speaking Mandarin.’

Her voice sounded pleasant. Like the voice of a calm English teacher.

I gave a big nod.

‘And you’re speaking perfect English!’

‘No, I’m speaking Chinese.’

‘We’re at a Wellhaus clinic. It’s where they have loads of technological advancements. Anyway, we can speak now. You can tell me anything you want.’

My mum went still for a moment, and I saw a haunting look grow in her eyes, like she had suddenly developed cataracts, even though her vision wasn’t that bad.

Like she had forgotten I was there, she started to reach the phone back to the holster.

‘Mum! What are you doing?’

My voice jolted her and she held onto the phone.

‘What?’

‘We were talking.’

‘Oh! Yes. Sorry. Yes.’

‘I want to ask you about your childhood.’

‘My childhood? Why?’

‘I want to know what you were like back then. Tell me about your… your high school friends.’

‘That’s so long ago.’

‘Yes, but…’

I realised I was asking her to remember back over 60 years. I couldn’t remember 20 years ago.

‘Never mind. Is there anything you want to ask me?’

I thought she was readying to say it was all too much and she didn’t understand what I was asking her. She started to twist in her chair, turn her head to one side. But she kept hold of the phone.

‘Are you happy?’

Her words surprised me. I don’t think she had ever asked me such a direct question related to my mental health before.

‘Yes. I’m really happy, Mum.’

She smiled the first smile I had seen lift her cheeks for years.

‘Then I’m happy.’

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