by Carissa Foo
Adam adjusted himself in the sofa, thinking about how thin she used to be. Not to mention how this wretched place had aged her. More white hair, he noted the moment she entered the room. His wife had been neglected in the home, her hair dry and undyed. He must remember to bring more Brand’s essence of chicken next time.
He rolled up his sleeves, and then unrolled them. She has put on some weight, he thought, slightly relieved. He raised his head to catch a view of her; Cheryl was busy examining her colourless nails. She is much better than when she first moved in, he thought, remembering how they had fought her decision to check herself into a home—a rare moment in the Dada history where father and daughter were in agreement. But Adam and Clare could not dispute the diagnosis that Cheryl was starving herself and struggling with some unnamed crisis. The doctor’s recommendation was precise: a nursing home or rehab centre. Cheryl was more than cooperative to heed medical advice. Because rehab was temporary, she chose the home that she knew would not kick her out.
At least her mood is good today, Adam thought. Parties always lifted her spirits; all the prep work and bustle kept her occupied. At least she has the strength to walk on her own without the wheelchair, he thought. He must not forget that her being here, alive, was a miracle in itself.
As if sensing his gaze, Cheryl turned from him, looking in the direction of the outside light. He could almost hear her thinking that she must get away from him, that he was some lecherous man, that he was up to no good. (One time she had mistaken him for a police investigator and demanded that Daniel send him away. Another time she had bitten his hand, calling him a representative from Management.) They had been married for 30 years now…and to be treated like this…her back towards him… It was hurtful, utterly cruel! To be treated by the love of his life with such disrespect, coldness—he couldn’t stand it, not after what he had sacrificed for her.
Cheryl did not turn around. She was almost remembering him; she had seen those deep-set eyes, the thick eyebrows before. Were they friends from university? Perhaps a very, very distant relative, or a husband of one? Cheryl wondered. Could they be— The thought scared her; the L-word half forming in her mind. But what was she afraid of? Think of the couple in the newspaper who just had a baby, she urged herself. Think of their smiles—that can’t be scary!
To give unreservedly to a point where losing oneself is okay, where what is lost becomes an afterthought, where to experience a myriad of feelings—pain, anguish, sorrow, hurt, despair, longing—that is the primacy of being, our duty as human beings, isn’t that Love? Or Life, all the same? Love is not scary; it cannot be. Love is love is love.
Love is really in the air, thought Cheryl Dada, admiring the view from the window: the tree branches formed an arch like a rainbow, the leaves wavering in the wind. Love is love is love, the words looped in her head. It seemed to her that in love the end has no end. Even Nature could not stop it.
Sitting close to the other end of the sofa, Adam shifted forwards, as if to listen to what she had to say. She was in another world, watching the birds and tree and clouds and whatnots. How can one lose oneself if Love builds us? he thought, crossing his legs. Love is—what was it she said? Love is commitment. Love is dedication. Love is action. Love is—was that it?—Love is love? How could she think it was so simple? If love is love, then what is love exactly? The question cannot answer itself. And that was exactly her problem: she would never say it because she did not have a clue what it was. Love is love, Adam scoffed, letting out a grunt.
But he was not like her; he wasn’t a flake. He knew what it meant to love somebody. Love is a decision, an action. It is not talk; it cannot be just talk. When he decided to marry her, it was for life, regardless of what might happen in the future. That was love, wasn’t it? There was nothing abstract or complicated about it. If love was something, it was action. Sure, it wasn’t always easy, but it had to be done. And wasn’t it clear to her that all these years he was always acting on his love for her? He wished she could do the same for him. Anyhow, nothing was going to change the way he felt about her. His love was a done deal, guaranteed and irrevocable. He especially wanted to tell her that.
If only he could recount to her the story of how they had met in the bookstore… It was a love against all odds! If only she could just sit for a moment and listen to him. It began in a bookstore… His father was Pakistani and his mother was Chinese. That he was Muslim did not seem to bother her. Even though she did not quite understand his culture—she had, like many others, mistaken him to be Indian—she received him with such openness that he was grateful and determined to marry her. Mrs Lee, however, was a different story. A fiercely legalistic Protestant, she detested him from the start, judging that he was a descendent of Ishmael. The fact that he was hairy did not help his case. Adam was set on changing her mind about that. He sent her flowers and planned fancy dinners. He shaved his face constantly, sustaining major razor burns, and took care to wear smart shirts, colourful checked shirts to distract her from focusing on his brownness. He even went to church with them every Sunday. But nothing convinced Mrs Lee of his sincerity. At his wits’ end, Adam came close to committing apostasy, but he could not bring himself to sin against his father. After a year of turmoil, he was on the brink of depression, about to give up on true love.
It was Cheryl who held on to him. Despite her mother’s objections, she continued to go out with him. She said that they did not need her blessing, that her mother was never going to be happy with whoever she went out with—Muslim or Catholic or Hindu. That she was only worried her place in heaven would be affected by her daughter’s choice. She told him that her mother didn’t really care about her so he should not care too much about what she thought of them either. Adam wanted to love her so badly that he let himself be persuaded that a mother could be selfish.
He would do anything for their love. And he was certain that Cheryl felt the same. She would sneak out of her house to meet him, often lying to her mother about her whereabouts. Because of him, she became defiant. That was proof of how much she wanted to be with him! She was even willing to forgo pork! His mother had told him that the Chinese took their roasted pork and char siew seriously. So Adam took her sacrifice to mean she was going to marry him with or without her mother’s approval. She was changing her life for him! What luck! So in 1983 when the Mass Rapid Transit Corporation was assembling an engineering team, he jumped on board. Adam did well and rose quickly through the ranks, well enough to pay for Cheryl’s dowry. Theirs was a star-crossed love. It wasn’t arranged; it was pure romance. The whole thing had a novelistic quality.
Whenever he yearned for her, he would remember her with some book in her hand and the torn one-dollar note. Oh how she spoke so little and slowly, like an innocent, cautious girl who had been told by her mother that the world was a dangerous place and every man was an enemy. But she had let him in. She let him in!
Now, looking at her delicate skin, her thin lips glossed in red, Adam felt a stir in his loins. His face was turning red. After all these years, after what life had put her through, she was still beautiful. There was an ethereal pink gleaming under the once-porcelain face.
He wanted to kiss her, to seize that chin and caress that face, to live their lives all over again. He longed for the girl in queue for the cashier and here she was sitting right beside him; yet he must not touch her.
Through the glass, Cheryl too saw herself standing in line. She seemed anxious, her hand pulling at her skirt. Even when it was her turn to pay, she was hesitant, looking to the cashier for assurance. She heard the clicks of the cash machine, the jingling of coins, the ruffling of plastic bags. And then the cashier said something and she turned red.
As she felt the rush of blood to her cheeks, the name came back to her. “Adam,” the boy said. He said his name was Adam. Alas, it dawned on her that it was him—the boy at the cashier, the man in the guest room—they were the same person. The familiar face; the curls; the dimple on the left chee
k; the olive brown skin. He was the boy, bigger and all grown up, but still the same. She saw him now. Adam; she remembered.
He caught a familiar tenderness in her eyes, a youthful reticence was possessing her. Her eyes were glinting.
“I've missed you,” he said with a boyish smile, his voice thin and quivering. “I miss you,” he tried again.
I know, she wanted to say.
Both were trying, both remembering. They had returned to each other; the girl and boy in the bookstore.
“Cheryl, my darling!” he let out without restraint, tearing up.
“Cheryl, Cheryl!” he cried out to her, fighting the want to hold her thin frame in his arms.
“Do you remember me?” he pleaded. “Do you?” His voice was almost breaking.
Her eyes were watery too. She did not have to say a word; he knew she was back. Here she was—at last—sane! Back in his life!
Now that she was facing him, he could behold her face without shame. “My love,” he said, not shifting his eyes from her. “Happy birthday, dear.” To his words, she gave a faint smile. The lines near her eyes gave away the time spent in this godforsaken place; they made her look weary and wasted.
But they’re also marks of wisdom, Adam quickly consoled himself, recovering in a split second. (“You’ve either a degree in optimism or oblivion,” his daughter had said to him.) “Lines of wisdom,” he repeated in his mind. His wife was a person who thought deeply and excessively about people, the sagacious type who brooded too much for her own good. Always in the mood for thought, she was tormented by depressive ruminations, which made her more prone to… Adam paused to find the word. She…she is more prone to— No, no, no! These were Dr Pitts’s words! Why was he parroting him? Adam castigated himself for thinking like the doctor and was filled with shame. No! How could he think that! She was his wife! It wasn’t that she thought too much (Dr Pitts was wrong this time!), she just thought too highly of the world and its lodgers. Her heart was too big for the world. She thought it could fill her but not even two earths and all the oceans would quench her want. Adam, knowing that no content would fill her, tried to tame the heart. Great love was meant to be given; he took it upon himself to help her spread the love. He saw in her what she herself did not know: she would be the perfect wife, the perfect mother to their children.
At first he was unsure about how she would feel about marrying him. There were too many obstacles: her mother, their religions, the six-year age gap. His mother told him not to rush and that marriage was not always the first thing on the minds of new age girls like Cheryl. Adam was torn: he could not wait to propose to her but agreed that his mother had a point. He went back and forth, entreating God for signs and imagining the possible outcomes, thinking he might hold off the thought until after her studies. Then, as if his diligent prayers had paid off, and they were destined to be together, all the weeks of fretting and agonising were suddenly relieved after a telephone call from Cheryl. She had rung him from Mount Alvernia and was sobbing. He thought he had heard wrongly because her voice was quavering. He waited on the line until she calmed down; then she said: “Seven weeks.” She was seven weeks pregnant.
It was the best news. Now, Cheryl would say yes to him. Even her mother would have to oblige. He did not have to hesitate any more. For Adam—and this was the truth of the matter—all his life—and he had difficulty admitting this to himself—was terrified of rejection. It was for this reason that he never asked Cheryl how she felt about the pregnancy or if she was happy about it, because what if she wasn’t?
Fondling the ring that wrapped his finger, Adam felt some scratches. Their marriage had taken some hits and this was another storm. But like the ones before, they would get through this together. They did, after all, manage to coax her mother to attend the wedding—which was one of the toughest battles he had to fight. Only on the account of her granddaughter and a 10-course Chinese banquet at Shangri-La Hotel did she agree to show up. They were triumphant because they stayed together. That’s what married couples do in the face of trouble. His parents had set a good example for him. His mother had run away from her family to be with her father; his father had never left his mother, even when she became bedridden, a consequence of terminal lymphoma. Until the end he was with her, holding her, assuring her of their love.
Adam’s father hated the cancer as much as he loved his wife; and since it was part of her, he learned to love it too. In him Adam saw what love looked like. He promised to be true to Cheryl in good times and in bad, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. He promised he would love her and honour her all the days of his life. Today was no different.
Through it all, Adam was thankful for Cheryl. He believed she was thankful for him too. For one moment, absentmindedly, he relaxed and leaned back.
“I love you”—the words gyred, and hovered above them. She made no comment, but he understood that expression was not her strength. He moved slightly towards her; she was composed; the clock on the wall was ticking. Then, seizing the moment of intimacy, finally casting aside his fear of rejection, Adam rested his hand on her thigh and stroked her gently.
Feeling his hand on her, Cheryl stiffened. She looked fixedly at the unmasculine fingers that were gripping her skin.
“Come to my party,” she said in a toneless voice, reeling in the invisible line that joined their memories.
Adam roused from his stupor. “Of course,” he said, shifting himself away from her along the sofa. As if he, too, were aware that the room was shrinking.
VII
Mrs Dada woke up to a light knock on the door.
“Hello, Mrs Dada,” said Daniel, hesitant to enter the guest room. “Is this a bad time?”
“Come in.” She yawned, moving herself to the edge of the sofa.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
“It’s all right,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “I must have dozed off.”
“Cheok said you’re looking for me?”
“Yes. I want to know the seating arrangement for tonight,” said Cheryl Dada, in what she thought was a commanding tone. “Have you got that sorted out?”
“Yes, I have. Your table is somewhere in the middle—”
“Who is coming?” she cut in. “Who’s on the guest list? Do you have the full list with you?”
“I—”
“Who’s at my table?” persisted Cheryl Dada.
“I don’t have it with me.”
“How come?”
“It’s on my desk,” said Daniel. He cleared his throat.
“Do you know who’s sitting at my table?” she asked again.
“I don’t know that yet. But I will as soon as I go back to the office,” said Daniel, keeping his eyes on her slightly ruffled hair.
She’s getting on, he thought to himself, especially of late. Still, he thought, she had a prominent face; the strong cheekbones gave her a natural dignity. The face of Mrs Dada with wisps of grey and white hair reminded Daniel of Bai Fa Mo Nu. She wasn’t old too, just heartbroken. Ling Qing Xia’s hair turned white overnight because she had been betrayed by Leslie Cheung. Mrs Dada was just as belligerent—a virago in her own right. Maybe she was hurt by love too. But her husband seemed nice and patient; he was one of those hopeful family members. Mr Dada came thrice a week—whether Mrs Dada wanted to see him or not was a different thing. The daughter visited often too, though her visits had been getting sporadic the last couple of months—Lulu mentioned that she was travelling to Canada a lot. Apparently she was busy with the visa application and sorting out some housing matters.
Mrs Dada seems to have a loving family, Daniel thought, trying to recall the last time he had seen the three of them together, but could not remember anything concrete. The real story of Cheryl Dada was not in her files. Rather than a family issue, he wondered if the reason why she was here was because she thought too much about things and just would not let them go. Overthinking and stress can cause hair to turn white prematurely, as does smokin
g. Some residents were like that: they smoked too much and hung on for nothing, making life harder for themselves. Some of them, as they stayed longer, lost faith and hope and, sitting in their wheelchairs, reran the pages of their lives and tried to cancel every mistake they could find, to descend gradually into madness. Might this be the decompensation that Dr Pitts was talking about?
“You cannot remember who’s at my table?” The loud voice spiralled over his head and broke his train of thought.
“Not at the moment, but I will check and get back to you,” Daniel said, remaining somewhat calm. “I know Adam is coming; I just saw him. Clare—”
“She’s not coming.”
“Okay.”
“So did you get the drinks?” said Cheryl Dada, looking at him.
Daniel threw her a perplexed look; then said yes. That he would get it later.
“So you didn’t…” she said, with an elevation of the eyebrows.
“No. I had to go somewhere so—”
“Oh. I thought you went out with Yu Yu to get the drinks…” said Cheryl, searching his eyes. She spoke slowly so that the words sounded less interrogative.
But his eyes shifted to avoid hers.
Cheryl caught the expression. Then she knew, as he knew too.
A long pause settled in the room.
After a bit he said in a measured tone: “I’ll get them right after this.”
“Remember to come back and tell me who’s at my table,” she said.
“Yes, I will.”
“Don’t forget again,” she added.
“I won’t.” He blinked, and took a step back, almost turning around to leave. Then, recalling his errand, he stopped and said to her: “Oh, there’s a letter for you that came in this morning.”
His casual tone was an attempt to hide his nervousness, for the postman did not deliver on public holidays. He had meant to pass the letter to her yesterday but it completely slipped his mind. He also forgot to inform her about Mr Dada’s visit and forgot to get the drinks. The one thing on Daniel’s mind was ousting the rest of his thoughts, the things on his to-do list, the events on his calendar; but it would be over soon, after today his life would change. All things led up to this evening. He would do it in the herb garden, knowing Yu Yu relished the smell of rosemary. With fireworks in the sky, he would go down on his knees and Lucky would scamper out, the ring tied to his collar. It was going to be a romantic night.