by Carissa Foo
Cheryl wondered if there was time for a nap. She could really use some rest. She wanted to close her eyes, to stop thinking about the past. The heavy body secured her to the bed; but it did not stop her prodigal heart and mind from their reckless, wandering ways. They seem to be growing and growing, thoughts and feelings uncontrollable and in excess, until they pressed on the white walls, blindly feeling for an exit.
Cheryl had to get out. It was really time to change; the party was starting soon. The red dress matched with a crystal waist belt were waiting for her. (Lulu had done a remarkable job of ironing the dress; it was difficult to get crinkles out of chiffon.) As much as Cheryl wanted to wear it, it seemed impossible that the clothing would fit this antique body of hers. She felt that the arms resting by her sides had become swollen, hard and bulky like Clare’s softball bats.
She willed them to move but only some fingers curved upwards. Her body was reluctant to rise. It seemed to have sunk deep into the bed. The entire day had taken its toll on Cheryl Dada; the long hours of thinking and feeling about the past 51 years. She thought of the black sofa and her father. Maybe it was time to let go. She remembered her grandmother had said that he went in peace and was probably in heaven with God. Probably did not even see death coming in the form of the taxi that was charging towards him. Maybe it was time to let the body take over. Her heart and mind had hardly worked to her advantage, so why not try the body at this hour? If it was bent on lying down, then she must not fight its will. Maybe it was time to rest. In the room, her body stretched out on the bed, she was moored; she was cool; she was ready.
Outside the room was nothing. No one lived above her, only the blazing sun that had disappeared from the dimming sky, day blending into night. Life was harsh out there: the heat of the day, the haze, the humidity. And there was the hullabaloo. What was the racket? What were they talking about?
The party must be starting. Cheryl heard a male voice—it was Adam’s. Was he talking to Judy Chua? She was gabbling about something petty again. The shrill voice stuck out among the sounds of patriotic songs and the clanging of bowls and plates. Loudspeaker Leow was deafening as usual, fanning so-and-so’s grievance. There were other voices too; most were female and old-sounding. The strident voices travelled through the half-open windows, carrying bits of conversations: “I din see her today—” “You got see the flag just now?” “You got see the ang pow how much?” “Wah this year big budget you know.” “I saw the plane fly leh! Got five fighter planes!” “Got meh—” “Who say?” “Who—” Then there was a lull in the noise, and a disembodied voice ejected: “Minister come already!”
Everyone rose. The VIPs, the residents and their healthcare aides; Lulu and Vikash, who were standing at the back; Adam, who was bothering John with his questions; Daniel and Ling Na, who were shuttling between the reception and kitchen. The crowd came to a standstill; all eyes were fixed on the man on the stage. Juwel was not there (he was on his way to some multi-storey car park), but he would hear from the rest of them tomorrow that the party had been smashing.
As the crowd clapped, Cheryl saw herself getting changed and heading downstairs. She would appear in her red dress, tall and ravishing, just before the applause died down. They would turn and there she was. They would be enthralled by her presence; they would say, “It is Cheryl Dada.”
But first she had to get up. Cheryl fidgeted on the bed, loosening the nails of age. Tonight was her night, she was not going to miss the party. She shifted her weight from side to side and her muscles finally began to relax. She yawned and tried to bring her hands to her tearing eyes. Her hands were trembling but slowly made it up to her face.
Cheryl Dada was trying; but she was interrupted again. A sound moved her. A melodious sound crescendoing from under the pillow filled the room: “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah. She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeahhhhh…”
It was their favourite song. She used to sing it to her: “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah—” Clare would ask, “Who loves me, Mum?” And Cheryl would kiss her, hoping she would understand without words. The melody led her hand into the sheets. From under the pillow she reached and pulled out the tablet. With effort Cheryl turned her head and saw the face smiling at her. She smiled back and opened her mouth, as if to say something. The face continued smiling. Paul, George and John were singing: “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah…”
Cheryl let her weary fingers wander over the face; she was moved by its hopefulness. They paused over the red lips that curved in the happiest kind of way; and she knew the smile. A sense of peace fluttered over her. She was finally ready.
“She loves you, yeah…”
The ringing stopped. It was quiet for a moment. Then the watch beeped twice. The fingers that held the face stopped trembling. They slackened, and the tablet rested on the bed. On the screen the face twitched, the smile fading. The red lips began to part.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to Angela Frattarola who showed me the beauty of moments. For help with the manuscript, I must thank Sheri. Many thanks to Edmund for his faith in local stories.
I am blessed to have family and friends who make every step on this earth lighter. Special thanks to Conny, Jun, Mitch, and the earliest readers: Dippy, Cheryl, Xiaohui. Not forgetting God who first loved me.
About the Author
Photo by chong yew
Carissa Foo received her Ph.D. in English Studies from Durham University and is currently teaching at Yale–NUS College. Apart from her research interest in modernist women’s writing, she also teaches conversational English to migrant workers. If It Were Up To Mrs Dada is her first novel.
The annual Epigram Books Fiction Prize promotes contemporary creative writing and rewards excellence in Singaporean literature. The richest literary prize in Singapore is awarded to the Singaporean, permanent resident or Singapore-born author for the best manuscript of a full-length, original and unpublished novel written in the English language.
For more information, please visit ebfp.epigrambooks.sg