三个人的多伦多

大妞

那笔钱像一场未散的雪，一直下在我们家的心头。

父亲说，那是通往未来的门票；母亲说，那是体面的续命；我——安吉拉——当时只是想离开大连。那座海风永远带着咸味的城市，吹不干我和前男友买房争执后的那场尴尬。

我们一家人卖了房、卖了车，把多年的积蓄连同父母最后一点尊严，一并打入一个名叫“投资移民计划”的账户。八十万加币，买一个梦。三年后，签证批下来了。

飞机降落多伦多的那天，正下雪。那是父母第一次看到加拿大——另一个干净、寒冷而陌生的世界。

一

刚开始，我们谁都还带着信心。母亲报名了英语夜校，父亲打听着加盟连锁超市的事，而我则在语言学校背单词。我们常在晚饭后围坐在租来的公寓客厅，商量未来的打算。那时父亲还笑，说等英语好一点，他要再开一家家具店，把大连的牌子做到北美去。

后来母亲学了半年英语，和老师闹翻了，说那人歧视她；父亲跑了几趟银行，被问得面红耳赤，最后连银行职员也看出了他不会英语。

我看着他们渐渐变得沉默。

我那时二十六岁，体育教育本科。可加拿大不承认那文凭。体育老师的工作，一个也找不到。

我去送过外卖，也做过幼儿园助教。最穷的时候，我们仨靠退税过活。

母亲开始整天算账。她把手上那串金手镯反复拿出来，又放回去。

“剩三十万了。”她说。

父亲抽烟，一声不吭。

二

那年冬天，我认识了一个伊朗男孩，叫阿米尔。

他总笑，说：“你看上去不像中国人，更像地中海那边的。”

我们租了间地下室，房顶低到一抬头就能碰到管道。

我白天上语言课，晚上做护士预科的作业。他去做油漆工。

我们都说在存未来的生活费。

有一次他带我去见他的朋友，一个白人律师，谈什么“年分红投资项目”。那人穿着深蓝色西装，语速快得像在念咒。他说这是政府备案的基金，保本保息。

我回家劝父母：“就这一次，每年都有分红、生活应该没有问题，不然我们的钱会被通胀吃掉。”

父亲犹豫了几天，最后把银行卡递给我。

“你做决定吧。”

他那时的眼神，还带着一点信任。

钱投进去后不到半年，律师卷款消失。邮箱退信，电话停机。

父亲第一次在我面前摔了茶杯。

母亲哭到失声。

我跑到警局备案，警察只是摇头。那是我第一次感到语言有重量——每个单词都像一块石头，从嘴里掉出来砸在脚上。

三

那之后，我们的家散了。

母亲搬去和教会里一个希腊老头住，说那人能让她“心安”；

父亲跟着一个东北老乡去铺地砖，手指裂了口子还笑，说“干净活儿”。

我在大学继续读书，转入了医学基础。

我们再没一起吃过饭。

偶尔，我会在超市遇到母亲，她染了头发，拿着欧式长棍面包。她说：“我挺好，别担心。”

父亲有次来找我，告诉我他在网上认识了一个大连的女人，从朝鲜逃过去的，有两个孩子。

“她懂我。”他说，“她会来加拿大。”

我劝他别糊涂，他脸色沉了下去。

几天后，他换了电话号码。

四

后来，我一个人住在士嘉堡的小公寓，窗外是无尽的雪。

我在医院做夜班护士，给陌生的身体测血压、注射、记录。

有时我觉得，这些病人比我的家人更接近我。

他们痛的时候会喊，我的父母只会沉默。

三年后，投资移民的基金终于开始分红。那笔钱从政府打入账户，银行短信提示的声音在凌晨响起。

我看着屏幕上的数字——像回到了出发的那天。

那一刻我突然明白：

那三十万并没有被骗走，它只是换走了我们之间的爱。

五

母亲的希腊男友后来去世，她搬进养老公寓，偶尔给我寄橄榄油；

父亲真的把那女人接来了，带着两个男孩，一家四口住在北约克的旧公寓里。

听说他还在铺地砖。

我没有再见过他。

有时候下班路过地铁线，我会看到一些亚洲面孔——疲倦、沉默、提着廉价的布袋。

我知道，他们中可能也有安吉拉、也有父母。

冬天又到了。

雪落在街灯下，亮得刺眼。

我走在回家的路上，忽然想起一句话：

在这个城市，我们三个人仍然活着，只是再也不是一家人。

Three People in Toronto

The money hung over our family like an unfinished snowfall—quiet, relentless, never melting from our hearts.

Father said it was a ticket to the future.

Mother said it was a dignified way to survive.

I—Angela—only wanted to leave Dalian, that seaside city where the wind always smelled of salt and where the fight over a down payment with my ex-boyfriend had left me hollow.

We sold our apartment, our car, and what was left of our savings—and with it, the last trace of my parents’ pride. All of it was wired into something called an Investment Immigration Program. Eight hundred thousand Canadian dollars, to buy a dream.

Three years later, the visa was approved.

The day the plane landed in Toronto, it was snowing.

That was the first time my parents saw Canada—a world clean, cold, and utterly strange.

I

At first, we were all still full of faith.

Mother signed up for evening ESL classes, Father asked around about buying into a franchise supermarket, and I attended a language school memorizing vocabulary lists.

We used to sit together after dinner in our rented apartment’s living room, discussing plans for the future.

Father still laughed then, saying that once his English improved, he’d open another furniture shop—bring the Dalian brand to North America.

Six months later, Mother quit her classes after fighting with her teacher, saying the woman discriminated against her.

Father made several trips to the bank; after every failed attempt to communicate, his face burned red. Eventually, even the teller could see he didn’t understand a word.

I watched them grow quiet.

I was twenty-six, with a degree in physical education—but Canada didn’t recognize it. There were no jobs for a gym teacher like me.

I delivered food, worked as a preschool assistant. During our poorest months, the three of us lived off tax refunds.

Mother began keeping accounts day and night. She would take off her gold bracelet, turn it in her hands, then put it back on.

“Thirty thousand left,” she said once.

Father smoked in silence.

II

That winter, I met Amir, an Iranian boy.

He smiled easily. “You don’t really look Chinese,” he said. “More like someone from the Mediterranean.”

We rented a basement suite whose ceiling was so low you could touch the pipes if you stood up straight.

I went to language classes in the daytime and studied for my nursing prerequisites at night. He worked as a painter.

We told ourselves we were saving for the future.

Once, he took me to meet a friend of his—a white lawyer in a navy suit—who spoke fast as if casting a spell. He talked about an “annual dividend investment fund,” government-certified, safe and profitable.

I went home and told my parents, “Just this once—there’s annual profit. We won’t have to worry about expenses anymore. Otherwise, inflation will eat our savings.”

Father hesitated for days, then handed me the bank card.

“You decide,” he said.

There was still trust in his eyes then.

Six months after we invested, the lawyer vanished.

Emails bounced back. The phone was disconnected.

Father smashed a teacup against the floor.

Mother cried until she lost her voice.

I went to the police. The officer only shook his head.

That was the first time I realized the weight of language—each word fell from my mouth like a stone, landing on my own feet.

III

After that, our family broke apart.

Mother moved in with an old Greek man from her church, saying he gave her “peace of mind.”

Father followed a fellow Northeasterner to do flooring jobs. His fingers cracked and bled, yet he laughed, saying, “Clean work.”

I stayed in school, transferring to a medical program.

We never had dinner together again.

Sometimes I ran into Mother at the supermarket—her hair dyed, a baguette in her hand.

“I’m fine,” she’d say, “don’t worry.”

Father once came to see me, saying he’d met a woman from Dalian online, a North Korean defector with two kids.

“She understands me,” he said. “She’ll come to Canada.”

I told him not to be foolish. His face darkened.

A few days later, he changed his number.

IV

I lived alone then, in a small apartment in Scarborough, outside my window an endless field of snow.

I worked night shifts at the hospital—checking vitals, giving injections, charting for strangers’ bodies.

Sometimes, I felt closer to my patients than to my family.

When they hurt, they cried out. My parents only stayed silent.

Three years later, the immigration investment fund finally began its payouts.

The government transferred the dividends directly to our account. The text message notification came in the middle of the night.

I stared at the numbers on the screen—

and suddenly, it felt like the day we first left home.

In that moment, I understood:

the thirty thousand wasn’t lost.

It had only been exchanged—for the love we no longer shared.

V

Mother’s Greek boyfriend later died. She moved into a senior home and sometimes mailed me bottles of olive oil.

Father did bring that woman over, with her two sons. The four of them now live in a cramped North York apartment.

I’ve never seen him again.

Sometimes, on my way home from work, I pass the subway station and notice Asian faces—tired, silent, clutching cheap cloth bags.

I know among them there could be other Angelas, other parents.

Winter has come again.

Snow drifts through the streetlights, painfully bright.

I walk home and think:

In this city, the three of us are still alive—

just no longer a family.