by Fiona Cheong
So I asked Winifred, "What have you heard?"
That was how I managed to get her to give me the details, without her realizing that I didn't know anything. Otherwise, Winifred would have gone gossiping all over the neighborhood, about how Helena Sim's daughter didn't talk to her own mother and the two of them living in the same house, blah blah blah. I had to be very careful with her.
So, quietly, I let her talk, and of course, Winifred being herself, she was quite eager to do that. Luckily, I could control my facial expression while I was listening, so I managed to hide all the telltale signs of my true feelings, which were, first and foremost, relief that nothing had happened to Rose, and second, of course, I was confused like everybody else-lah, about who would want to kidnap the poor sister. She was mental, okay? Plus, she and Auntie Coco didn't seem to be rich. What I mean is this. They didn't look as though their family had money, ya? We always thought they were living off life insurance, something like that. Of course, everyone just assumed this. Auntie Coco was quite a hermit, so she never shared anything with us about her life, but we thought, probably she was married before, and then her husband must have died-lah.
What Winifred told me was this.
Babi! Babi! That was what everyone heard around eight o'clock the previous night, Auntie Coco's voice shouting for her sister outside on the road. Must have sounded a bit funny-lah. You know what babi means in Malay. Pork! Pork! As if Auntie Coco was a hawker trying to get some business. Who knows how her sister had ended up with a nickname like that. Ya-lah, it must be short for Barbara but when you translated it, it still meant pork, okay?
So anyway, according to Winifred, Auntie Coco spoke only to Rose, Shakilah, and that boy Ivan when he went over to join them outside Valerie's gate (Rose was having dinner over there). Valerie herself hadn't stepped out, which wasn't surprising-lah. Poor thing, ya, losing face like that after she had spent all that money on her daughter's education. You know how expensive an overseas education can be, in America, especially. Ya-lah, Shakilah had become successful in her career, I'm not denying that, but her success wasn't enough to save the family's name, okay? If she had been a son, then of course, but she wasn't a son. Given people's mindset here, there's nothing more shameful than to have your daughter come home with a dumpling in the oven and no husband. Whether right or wrong, that was the situation, and it still is.
You know Winifred's friends with Teresa Albuquerque. (Birds of a feather-lah, those two, always boasting to each other about their sons, as if no one could tell that they were secretly competing over whether Adrian or Simon was getting more As in each subject. At least I never did that to my Rose. I only told her, "Do your best," even though her results were never as good as Shakilah's. She's always been hardworking, you know, my Rose, but she never had Shakilah's brains, and luckily-lah. If she had wanted to go overseas for further studies, I don't know how I would have sent her.)
So anyway, Simon happened to be at Ivan's house at the time for extra maths tuition, so he knew it was Ivan who called the police. Must be because Auntie Coco herself was so distraught, poor thing.
"So, Hel, what did Rose tell them? They ask her the same questions or not?" Winifred was asking me again, after she had finished spilling her news.
I pretended some more. "More or less the same." (They sounded like routine questions to me. When was the last time people had seen the sister, what was she wearing, that sort of thing, and also whether anyone had noticed any strangers lurking about recently.)
"More or less? What you mean, more or less?" See how gila she could be, that Winifred. Crazy woman.
"Wait-lah," I said, hoping for the best. "Let Rose tell you in her own words." I thought surely she would understand that, she who always wanted to be the first to tell people things herself.
She kept on trying. "Aiya, you can't tell me first?"
"No-lah, better not. You know my memory nowadays. I don't want to get the facts mixed up. Better you let Rose tell you."
"Aiya, okay-lah, okay-lah."
I was surprised. For Winifred, that was giving up a bit fast, okay? Then I noticed she was looking past me at Ying Ying Coleman, who was at that moment coming into the market, walking as usual two feet behind her husband as if this was China. If I didn't leave right away, Winifred was going to start jabbering about those two, and to be honest, any other day I wouldn't have minded chitchatting a bit. But I needed some time to absorb the news about Auntie Coco's sister. Plus, I was wondering what Rose herself knew, and also what Ivan had said to her, and what his manner had been-lah.
Not that I was harboring any false hope, okay? (Rose used to have such a crush on him, poor thing. She wouldn't admit it, but when she was a teenager, it was so clear she was pining for an impossible dream. Calling him Ivanhoe, of all things. You could see from an early age, that boy was going to grow up into a casanova. Look at him now, already thirty-plus and still swinging from girl to girl. That Serena should know better. Ah, and his poor parents, ya? They were in that TWA crash-lah, killed without the hope of any grandchildren. You see the problem when you're given a son who's too handsome for his own good.)
Anyway, it took some will power, but I told Winifred I better get on with my shopping. Alamak, you can't imagine how delicious the noodles smelled as I walked away. Garlic, sweet soya sauce, that aroma of fried cockles melting into the heat.
Supposedly that was when the old fellow had come through the gate after Ying Ying and her husband, and then followed them from stall to stall. Whether they themselves were aware of him or not, I don't know. And whether that old man had anything to do with what happened later, I don't know. As I was saying, I was too preoccupied with Winifred's news, because as you know, Singapore's so small, okay? People don't just disappear here.
That was where my mind was as I left the market (without finishing my shopping), and that's the truth. I don't know anything about the old fellow. (As for the girl, only now I'm hearing about that.)
W I I A I I R E M E M B E R most clearly after that begins with the light. So bright the air became suddenly, blinding as frozen lightning, and it wasn't just my imagination, okay? The road shone like water as I was walking home, and people's fences and the leaves in the trees all seemed to be full of mirrors. And I mean all along River Road and up our slope. Definitely, that light was what gave me the headache. By the time I reached my own gate, I thought surely I was going to faint, so I quickly put out my hand for balance. That was when I felt something move in front of me, as if someone was stepping away. So, startled, I looked around at once. Don't know what I thought, but, eh, what was that? I asked myself. You see how I wasn't so superstitious as to jump to conclusions right away. I even wondered if maybe because of the headache, I was hallucinating-lah. Because of course, there seemed to be nothing there. Only the light and my headache, both getting worse.
There was no one in front of the gate-I remember staring at the gate design. You know our gate design. Every house still has the same one, with the four watchful dragons. My Hock Siew used to say that the architect or the contractor or whoever designed this neighborhood must have been very Chinese, that's why all the gates have dragons. But, you know, seems to me there could be another reason also. Remember how, according to Malay folklore, dragons guarded the Pauh Janggi during the days of Creation? Of course, that's Malay folklore, but so what? That's the tree-lah, supposed to be buried somewhere in the Indian Ocean, not far off the coast of Sumatra. Rumor has it, the Bataks used to gather the fruits when they broke loose and floated to the surface. To sell, of course. Supposedly, the fruits looked just like coconuts and had powerful medicinal properties. I don't see any contradiction with the Bible, so who can say the story's not true?
But my Hock Siew didn't like looking at the dragons. That's why he had our gate repainted black. See how in the daytime, only when you stare at it a while, then you can see the dragons? Otherwise, the gate looks like repeated pattern and that's all. Black also helps with the dust, you know.
/> So, as I was saying, I could see there was no one in front of the gate. Nor was there anyone on the road, no one anywhere. Not even Gopal Dharma, who was living next door, was outside watering his precious fruit trees. According to the time, which was around half-past nine, I think, he at least should have been in the garden, watering his beloved trees. But that morning, you know, he wasn't.
So then, I reached through the gate to unlatch it, and again something moved past my face, like a whitish, transparent figure or shadow crossing in front of me. Then I knew.
Quickly, I made the sign of the cross. I began to pray, Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name-as I opened the gate. I didn't stop praying until I was inside the house. Then I locked both the front and back doors, and I hurried upstairs. Don't ask why I thought locking the doors could keep out the ghost, but that's what I did.
He didn't follow me in.
Luckily I always kept my rosary on top of my bureau so that morning there it was, waiting for me. I grabbed it and went to lie down. For some reason, I began with the Sorrowful Mysteries. Normally I would have started with the Joyful Mysteries, because of course, that's the way Our Lord's life started, with the Angel Gabriel appearing to the Blessed Virgin while she was praying, and then St. John the Baptist leaping in his mother Elizabeth's womb when he felt his mother's sister coming up the road, and so on. But as I was saying, I was led to pray the Sorrowful Mysteries, instead. Of course, the Holy Spirit was using me as a vessel, but I didn't realize it at the time. I was quite frightened, you know. Already Auntie Coco's sister had vanished without a trace. Now with that ghost waiting for me outside the gate-for all I knew, it could be a spirit from the Abyss.
What if that same ghost had been waiting outside Auntie Coco's gate? The sister, with her lopsided brain, she wouldn't have known not to follow him. Those were my thoughts while I was praying. See-lah how weak my faith was, exactly one-mustardseed size.
ER FIRST MORNING. the angsana tree was full of rain outside the window, the gray sky bursting with lightning. Eleven chickens drowned that morning, in the water lily pond. No one knew where they had come from, how they could have been smuggled into the hospital garden without anyone noticing. We didn't know if this was an ill omen or a lucky sign. Some of Ben's aunts thought it was lucky. It meant Shakilah would have an extraordinary life, they said. But I wasn't so sure. It was the first important fact of Shakilah's life, and it was out of our hands. Imagine knowing this as a mother. Imagine if you had given birth to your daughter on such a day, how closely you would have watched her, your eyes hiding in her shadow day after day, until your soul becomes like an onion, layered with the years of your daughter's life. She grows up, moves on, shedding her old skins, leaving them with you. Understand how it was. Think what it took for me to send her away. I didn't know if I would have the strength a second time.
Those details, as I was saying. Maybe it was wrong for me to go through her things, but truly I felt I had no choice. She wasn't telling me the truth, as if I wouldn't know, as if I couldn't hear the doors snapping shut in her mind as she spoke. The way she had hesitated before telling me the fathers name was Marlowe, I knew what she was thinking-that if she gave me a ridiculous name like that, I would believe her. She had forgotten whom she was talking to. Now that she herself was carrying, she should have known. I was the one who had carried her. I knew before she said, "His name is Marlowe," it was a lie. I could hear how she was swallowing her feelings, the same way as when she was a child. All her feelings, her true feelings. Everyone was fooled, except me. The rest didn't know. Wab, you so blessed, Ben's relatives used to say. Such a happy girl you have. She never gets angry-ah? So good-natured.
Why lie about his name? That was what had worried me. That was how I knew something more was up. Giving the father's real name would not have hurt him. If he were Singaporean, it would have been a different matter, because then there would be his reputation to consider, and if he were married, worse. I had considered that he might be married. Maybe he already had children. But he was in America. Nothing that happened here was going to touch him. Why go through the trouble of hiding his name? Especially since this was one lie that was doomed to show up as a lie, sooner or later. This baby was going to be born, and there was going to be a birth certificate to fill out. How far was Shakilah willing to go? Was she going to lie to her child as well? My grandchild. Imagine the love already planted in me for this sweet chiku in my daughter's womb.
When had I known she would be a girl? I knew it without having to put my hand on Shakilah's womb, which is the easiest way to tell with babies. But this one was my own granddaughter. I could hear her. Shakilah didn't know this, or if she did, she never let on that she knew. You were quiet. I didn't even know you were there. But your sister's soul could speak, and before she realized your mother didn't want her to speak to me, we were already communicating. No, not with words. Not her. Only I used words, because after birth, the body always needs words, when the soul goes into hiding. But your sister and her soul were still one entity. She didn't need words, yet. I could hear her clearly every time, like windy music, like rain on a leaf. Then suddenly she stopped. I kept calling to her, but she would not answer, and I didn't know why, at first. Tell me why you're angry with me, I asked her. So then she told me, and poor thing, I could feel her nervousness. I didn't ask her how she knew, because some things between mother and daughter mustn't be interfered with, and I thought I could set an example for her. I knew from the very beginning, for her own sake, there were questions she must never ask.
Nothing teaches like example. Understand what this means about why I tell the story this way.
So I had to find another way to find out who your father was. No, not to satisfy my own curiosity. This wasn't curiosity. I was taking an enormous risk when I went into your mother's room that day. We were already estranged. It wouldn't be an exaggeration for me to say we had spoken no more than twenty sentences to each other, in the whole week since she had come home. I didn't know why, but I could feel your mother's anger swimming around me. I wouldn't have gone into her room if it weren't out of necessity. Love was what led me there, love for her, love for your sister. How could I protect a granddaughter whose strengths and weaknesses I didn't know? Sometimes it's possible to foretell the evils that await a birth. Think of inherited strengths as scars from previous births, like antibodies in the blood, left from battles fought by the ancestors when they themselves were born. That was what I was looking for. I was looking for clues.
SHAKILAII ('01 11.1) HAVE hidden everything better. That was what made me wonder if she had suspected I might go through her things. Maybe she was hoping I would. I thought this at the time. I thought it was her way of telling me what she couldn't bring herself to say. Either she couldn't say it to me face to face, or she was afraid to hear her thoughts turned into words, afraid to give them that physical reality, so to speak. Words would harden them, surround them with borders and sharp corners. Words would imprison them. Shakilah knew the price of speech. She knew language was a cage with no door. Start speaking, and the only direction possible is forward, deeper into the cage. Speaking is not writing. Understand the difference. Writing happens between the body and the soul. Speaking happens outside the body, always threatening the soul, just as food threatens the body even as it feeds it. For all her Americanness, my daughter knew there was no such thing as free speech. Truly, it was just an American dream.
The matchbox was the easiest to find, lying in the side pocket of her satchel. Her satchel was lovely, all leather and well stitched, with three compartments on the inside, and five loops to hold her pens. That was how I knew she was doing well over there, so it wasn't a money situation that had brought her back. And the matchbox was a perplexing clue, obviously a souvenir, but very odd. When I picked it up, it seemed to glow for a moment, but I thought maybe it was just a trick of the light. This was around half-past twelve in the afternoon. The air was still damp from the previous night's rain,
even though the ground outside looked dry, so the light felt strange, so glossy and fluid, a diaphanous film pressing over us. But it was only because of the dampness, I told myself. There was nothing wrong with the sun. I could see it overhead when I peered out of the window and looked up. There it was, that morning draped in a white circular mist suspended in the sky. The left eye of our first ancestor, the eye closer to the heart, understand. I had never seen it look like this, but truly, I thought nothing of it. No, I wasn't ignoring what had happened the previous night. Let me tell the story my own way.
The matchbox had been painted red, on the sides and on the back. On the front was a picture, also painted on, of a bride and bridegroom, holding hands inside a wavy border made with gold thread glued onto the box. It looked like a wedding picture to me because of the way they were dressed, the man in a black tuxedo, the woman in a red satin gown, and she wore flowers in her hair. Bougainvillea, I thought at once, even though the flowers were tiny. They had the fragile air of bougainvillea. The wall behind the woman's head was bright yellow, and decorated with a few floating leaves, dropping from a tree branch that wasn't in the picture. Both the man and the woman had black hair, and beige skin. I assumed they were American, maybe from California, where the climate's warm enough and sunny enough to grow bougainvillea.
So the father isn't blond. That was the first conclusion I drew, before looking inside the box. The second was that his eyes were not blue, because the man and the woman both had dark eyes. Then I pulled out the little drawer, because I could feel the weight of something rolling about inside.
There was a tiny transparent capsule containing reddishbrown dirt, a tiny doll made of threads of different colors, and a tiny strip of white paper, folded in half. Was the doll American voodoo? Knowing your mother, I wouldn't have been surprised, but when I moved my hand over the open drawer, I felt nothing. No energy from anyone's soul was trapped inside. Then I unfolded the strip of paper. On it was printed, Leave the past behind.