by Carissa Foo
Cheryl smiled to herself, finding her thoughts interrupted helpfully by a memory of Mama and her collection of one-cent coins; the old woman diligently depositing them one by one into the red pig, saving the rusty bronze as if it were gold. She would have been enraged knowing those were obsolete now, like banana money.
“Pong,” shouted Loudspeaker Leow; her voice darted to Cheryl and dispersed the fragments gathering in her mind. She grabbed a tile from the mystery woman, and there was laughter. The woman with the dark brown shawl was blocked by Siew Eng, who was restless in her wheelchair, her body rocking back and forth. They handed out chips to Loudspeaker Leow, who quickly swept them into her drawer.
She could very well be called Eagle Leow too, since Mei Ling had eyes like a hawk, seeming to always get what she wanted. A real foodie, she was unscrupulous when it came to food. Mahjong was a means to the real prize; cigarettes were mere bargaining chips. When she won the game, she exchanged biscuits and kueh with the winnings. When she lost, she gave up the names of those who won the cigarettes to the nurses in exchange for some cereal and raisins. Either way, Mei Ling always won.
What’s the exchange rate now? thought Cheryl, as she scrutinised the mess on the table. It used to be five blue chips and three green chips for a cigarette packet, or one yellow chip for a single stick. Cheryl moved slightly to the left and tiptoed to lean forwards.
Finally, as Siew Eng bent over to grab a runaway chip on the floor, Cheryl had a better view and caught a glimpse of the mystery woman’s face.
“Ah!” cried Cheryl, squinting her eyes. What was she doing here? They had finally let her out. Being cooped up in the room was not going to make anyone feel better.
The woman waved her hand. And it was a strong hand. Definitely not ill, Cheryl thought, lifting her hand high in the air to say hi.
Suddenly, from the firmament, came a low roaring that drowned out her thoughts. Cheryl looked up; the women did too. Out of the white puffy clouds emerged a fleet of fighter planes.
“Oi, everybody come and see!” a woman dressed in red from the opposite building shouted to another resident who was stepping out of her room. “Eh quick come and see!” said another woman. The corridor was suddenly crowded; people squeezed in between people, heads were bouncing up and down as women tiptoed and fell back on their heels.
The first plane in line—it had a pointy nose—streaked across the sky, leaving a stream of thick white smoke. (“Wah, fighter jet leh!” hollered Loudspeaker Leow from the patio.) Two smaller planes followed its trail—Felicia steered her chair to the left, shouting, “Damn it! It’s disappearing! Oh wait, got some more coming!”—and then two more fighter planes sliced through the sky. (“Wah! Wah! Very fast leh!” said another. “Wait, I want to take picture—”) They flew parallel to the horizon; contrails merging with the cumulous clouds. (“Wah lau, faster lah, going to no more already!”) Then dipping slightly, one after another, the planes disappeared from the sky above them.
The moment after was quiet. The growling crowd, who had gathered in the corridor, was dismissed, the women heading back to their rooms. Downstairs, the four women withdrew to the table on the patio; the rectangular blocks of lifeless animals, flowers, bamboos, numbers awaiting them. Soon the hungry hippos were at it again.
Cheryl Dada watched the planes as they vanished, then turned away from the view of the sky, the table, the women.
It was almost time. The party was starting. She must change, she must leave now. So Cheryl Dada set off for her room, whisking through the corridor, blocking out the sounds of “pong” and “chi”, of mahjong tiles knocking against the wooden table.
IX
At the door of room 5A was a red bag hanging from the doorknob. Cheryl Dada approached slowly. She extended her arm and pinched the bag by its strap. Examining the red tag tied to the zip, her shoulders relaxed and she allowed herself to bring the bag closer to her. The tag read—51 NDP. Well, it’s about time, she thought, relieved that it had finally arrived. All week she had assumed the goodie bag would be the door gift at the party. She supposed this was a door gift too; but what was the party gift then? It had better not be something stupid like the travel adaptor. What were they thinking when they decided to purchase over a hundred adaptors for a bunch of women who went around in wheelchairs? Management had really outdone themselves with that last stint. Where did they think the residents were going?
Cheryl Dada rested her back against the door and rummaged through the contents of the bag: stickers of the flag and a big-eyed lion; a cap; a banner of some kind (too long to be a scarf, but maybe a table runner?); a packet of wet wipes; a plastic fan; some pamphlets and a colouring book (no crayons, she noted), a postcard and a brief historical write-up. She reached into the bag to search again. There was no Singa Lion. No Singa in red and white stripes, a camera slung around its neck. She had thought as much; the Jubilee year was over. What was she expecting anyway—a repeat of last year? But Cheryl Dada really wanted the Wally Lion. Perhaps even more than the baby who had taken it from her room. But she could not refuse a baby, especially a wailing one. And it was just a toy, for goodness’ sake. Yet she found herself pining for the red, white and blue Singa. It was Wally; Wally had found his way to her. Cheryl had treated it as a token of her younger days; its absence made her think more about the past, about Clare, about the sense of her misdoings which had assailed her so often in recent months. She thought that perhaps if she had it again, it would ease her yearning for yesteryears, even if it were just standing there on the shelf, gathering dust.
Where’s Wally was their thing—she and Clare. Where’s Wally? Where’s Wally Now? Where’s Wally in Hollywood? Where’s Santa Wally? Where’s Wally in Asia? They had the whole collection of books. Instead of bedtime stories, Cheryl and Clare would spend half an hour or so searching for Wally before all the squinting and straining tired the little girl’s eyes. To have Wally show up in her goodie bag last year was more than a pleasant surprise. To have found without searching, to be found when she thought all was lost, that had to mean something. Cheryl read it as a sign that she had done something right with Clare after all. And then she had to give Wally away without a fight.
For how can one say no to a baby? Cheryl revisited the thought, wondering about the power of babies. What was it about the tiny things that made even the toughest adult squirm? She was thinking of how Adam used to carry Clare in the wee hours of the night when she would not stop wailing, muttering gibberish while stroking her chin. Baby talk was just shrill tones, Adam whining on and on—daa daa daa, oooh oooh oooh, goo goo goo, bah bah bah. All that babbling and cooing woke her up. After the delivery, Cheryl only wanted a good sleep. Her body was aching for rest; her breasts were sore and she hated the stretch marks on her stomach, but the baby would not let up. She thought the birth was the hardest part but the worst was yet to come. No one warned her about the extent of a baby’s appetite. The thing was a sucker; Cheryl had to wake up early in the morning and during the night to appease it. Adam tried to help, he really tried; but he was not the one with breasts. He did not have the maternal warmth that she was supposed to have. She read in a magazine that a baby recognises its mother’s voice; she is the first to give it the gift of language, which is why it is called the Mother Tongue. As much as Adam wanted to give, Cheryl had to be the giver. Almost every day after the baby was born, Cheryl was dazed and irritable, on edge, surviving only on a couple of hours of disturbed sleep.
The most frustrating part was Cheryl could not understand what it wanted. She had heard people talk about the magical bond between mother and child but the only tangible connection, Cheryl felt, was when the baby sucked rapaciously from her nipple and she felt the pinch, and that was not magical at all. Sometimes its small fingers shaped like Yan Yan biscuit sticks would grab her finger and pull it into its toothless mouth. Instantly Cheryl would retract her finger, but like a siren, the baby wailed nonstop, teared like a broken faucet until she stuck it back into its mouth.<
br />
Cheryl would try anything to make it stop. She would stuff the pacifier into its mouth and rub its belly; she would pat it to sleep; she would carry it and walk around the house. She tried earplugs, loud music, soft music, sermons; but nothing could block out its deafening cries. Sometimes, out of desperation, she’d find herself whispering “Ooo ooo lah” and “Ah goo goo goo” at the doe-eyed face. Sometimes, when she caught herself doing that, she would put the baby back into its sarong and sing aloud what her grandmother used to sing to her: “Ong ah ong, ong kin kong. Kin kong kia…” She had to put the baby away; she could not bear the sight of its squishy face, its deep dimple—the stark resemblance to its father. The dimple gave the impression that it was smiling even when it was asleep, somehow still smiling through the sobs and screams. A steady happiness like that does not abate in grief or pain—but happiness at whose expense? Cheryl could not help but think of herself.
Sometimes, remembering that it had usurped all the good in her and stripped her of everything she thought herself to be, Cheryl would look at the baby with a saddened gravity, a weight so heavy that she had to tear the gaping mouth from her breast and plop down on the sofa bed where she had lain awake most of the nights. And each time she got up, she felt more burdened than she was before, as though the pain did not completely pass through but clung on to her heart.
The birth had ruined her. The doctor had cut her perineum and stitched her up and she was no longer the same. Cheryl lost the slender waist and the tight skin, her body gross and sagging; she had bled so much that she no longer recognised the stench of her blood. The baby, all because of the baby. Babies have that god-like power.
For a second Cheryl wished she could be as oblivious and powerful as a child again. The feeling of being young and unmindful was lost to her. Then she thought about the women in block D who were not allowed out. “Not D for Durian, okay? D for Dementia. D for Die,” Judy Chua had said. Cheryl recalled the menacing tone and changed her mind. Instead she wished she could be like Baby Cheryl. That kid would have a great life in Canada, or anywhere as long as Clare was with her.
A bit flustered, but mentally intact and ready for tonight’s party, Cheryl Dada resumed her life. She must get into the room, wash up and change, maybe pray for a smashing evening. As she was fumbling in her pocket for the door key, Cheryl Dada turned and saw the white bag hanging from the door beside hers. Jennifer was not at home; she was at her daughter’s place. Her daughter and son-in-law had come on Sunday to sign her out for the week. She said she was staying over at their new apartment in River Valley that promised an unobstructed view of the fireworks. Good for her, thought Cheryl Dada, but she would rather stay in. It was Jennifer’s loss that she was missing the party. How could she just take off like that? It was strange that she was thrilled about leaving, especially because she chose to be here. Like herself, Jennifer was a private case.
Rumour had it her daughter was going to take her out for good. Oi Leng from block C had overheard her asking Daniel about withdrawal procedures. Apparently Admission had no clue—they did not even know what the withdrawal request form looked like—so she stopped the head social worker in his tracks and tried him instead. But Daniel was just as clueless, stumbling over his words, taken aback by the request. In the end, it was Yu Yu who came to his rescue, referring her to Keng Boon who, having worked in the home for 20 years, must know what to do.
Repeating what she had heard from Yu Yu later, Oi Leng said that in order for residents to withdraw, even for those not serious case residents, the attending physician must complete a medical questionnaire and submit his evaluation. At this Oi Leng paused and had a look of hopelessness. “Don’t need to leave liao,” was her next remark. Cheryl was shocked that Oi Leng harboured the hope of leaving. Sure, she was the youngest among them, somewhere in her late thirties, though it was difficult to estimate age as there was something in the home, perhaps in the food or air, that seemed to interfere with the rate of degeneration. Oi Leng was curvy, with a flat nose, fleshy lips and deep rosy cheeks. She had an excess of laughter and very dark hair—two undisputed signs of good health and well-being. To most people, Oi Leng was an unlikely resident. That was also Cheryl’s query when they first met. But when they exchanged glances there it was. A dead giveaway: her left eye was made of acrylic. Oi Leng must have been keenly conscious of her half-blindness, for she usually wore sunglasses, except during therapy and meal times.
Having been here for so long, was she still hoping to be out there? For her own good, Cheryl thought, Oi Leng better perish any hope of leaving. She was certain that John Pitts, Dr Yang, Dr Smart, Dr Mahendran, the whole brood of them would never consent to signing anyone out of here. What were doctors for if there were no patients, no one to attend to? There was an order in the healthcare industry; everyone had a role to play.
It was bizarre to her that Oi Leng would have thought of leaving. What kind of life was she wishing for—a married life with a HDB flat, children and grandchildren? Oi Leng might have been single but she had three nieces who took turns to visit, always bringing things like mee chiang kueh and kueh salat with them. The single women in the home, or those who were widowed or who had never been in love, Cheryl thought, were the fortunate ones.
The question of singlehood made Cheryl think of Poh Choo, whose status was an enigma. According to Yu Yu, when Poh Choo had first arrived, she used to carry with her a black-and-white photograph of a man in uniform, which she would show to the residents and staff, and speak of him as though they were married. Mrs Rohan, her longest and best friend, corroborated this, adding that she would introduce the man as her sayang or ah lau, depending on whom she was talking to. Poh Choo, as one anecdote began, had in her sanest moment described how her sweetheart used to park his bicycle outside her kampong house. Cring!—that was their secret code. And she would run out to meet him—a Raffles boy, she apparently told Mrs Rohan. Poh Choo would laugh exultantly, retelling the story, her fists raised in the air to make a turning gesture, as though the bicycle were a scooter. Some residents thought the mystery man could be a brother; the sceptics reckoned he was a delusion. No one knew which version was true, for her longtime friend and the only insider to the story, Mrs Rohan, was also transferring out of block A to join Poh Choo next month.
Cheryl turned around, and she cast her eyes over the gated block that was diagonally across from where she was. Little was known about the residents of block D; some like Poh Choo were occasionally allowed out, but the severe cases never left their rooms. There was a rumour that the oldest resident was not Auntie Ng Ah Moon, who was bedbound in block C and on liquid feed, but actually an unnamed lady on the third floor of block D who was pushing 110 years. No one verified this. None of the women from the other blocks would reach out to the banished or probe further for fear of association with block D and its miasmic history. They had mistaken connection for relation and many good women were abandoned as a result, left to face their demons alone.
Poh Choo might still be hanging around the other blocks, saying hello and chatting with the women, but she was already regarded as stranger. Soon she would be a stranger to her best friend too. The anecdotes that would have helped her to uncover her past would also with the extrication of the last and only witness be reduced to hearsays, much like the black-and-white photograph that nobody saw again. Vanished and therefore impossible, the story was silenced and Poh Choo was mostly believed to be single.
Cheryl stopped herself at that thought. She, too, was guilty of doubting Poh Choo’s story, guilty of cutting her off. Distractedly, she took a glance at her watch. It was almost six. There was not enough time for absolution today.
After a sigh, Cheryl lifted her head and turned her attention to the bag. “I guess Jennifer wouldn’t mind,” she said inaudibly. It’s just a stupid bag. Jennifer did not need stickers or another Singa.
Looking around, certain that the corridor was clear, Cheryl slipped the strap of the bag off the doorknob and held the ba
g to her chest. Again she rummaged around thirstily, hoping to find Wally.
As she felt the inside of the bag and combed through the edges and curves of the memorabilia, hope began to dissipate, and the corners of her lips slowly dropped as she reflected on the meaning of the empty search. Slowly, Cheryl Dada hooked the bag back onto the doorknob and walked towards her room. In that half a minute or so, she thought about the party and another glimmer of hope came to her. There was still the door gift.
X
The room was bright and airy. Cheryl Dada drew the curtains and undressed herself. “Finally, we’re alone together.” The room welcomed her as she sat down on the bed. All she had wanted the whole day was some space for herself and air conditioning.
“I made it here,” Cheryl Dada announced, looking round the spartan room, in awe of the solace. The quietude; the white paint; the four walls; the window with bars to fend off pigeons and stray cats; the view of the back garden. The most recent addition was the shelf on the wall that she had got Juwel to install. On it were some aged books; a thick wooden bookend kept them from falling off. Right in the middle of the shelf stood a red and silver Ultraman, arms crossed, tilted towards the empty, undusted spot where Singa Wally used to be. A long jade rosary lined the edge of the shelf like fairy lights.
It was a small and light, squarish room. Here, on the highest floor, Cheryl Dada felt in control of her life. More in control than on other days, she thought, lying down and adjusting her head on the pillow, to find the ceiling fan above her beginning to spin, slowly picking up speed. By force of habit her hand reached for the controls near the headboard and pushed the lever downwards. She looked at her legs rising, her toes twitching, as the bed made a humming sound, as the watch beeped twice. How fascinating it was, strange, even exhilarating to be able to do what she pleased, as if she now held the remote control for the life that was her own.