by Lisa Beazley
January 2 Cass—
I’m sitting here in what has to be Singapore’s oldest and saddest shopping mall FOR YOU. You have convinced me to get over my moral opposition to hiring a helper and to let you live vicariously through me. What was it you said at Christmas? That me not taking advantage of this perk of expat living was a slap in the face to people like you, who would kill for that chance? Well, far be it from me to slap you in the face—literally or figuratively. Plus, I wouldn’t mind another adult in the house to talk to. (Adrian’s in Bangkok again.) So I’m at this mothball-smelling storefront office looking through a pile of résumés—each with a grainy black-and-white photo, which is weird because the women whose résumés I have are all just milling around in the hallway. It’s like a Pantene casting call in here. The hair on these women! It’s jet-black and thick and so shiny. Oh, here comes my first interview. To be continued. . . . Okay, I just met the one I want to hire, and now I’m waiting while Mrs. Lee finishes up the paperwork. I couldn’t get anyone to say anything other than “Yes, ma’am,” or “No, ma’am,” in response to every single question, which means each interview lasted only five minutes. So I gave up on getting an actual answer from anyone and went with my gut. Her name is Rose and she had me at “Good morning, ma’am,” because of her dazzling smile. They have all seemed so nervous and afraid, but Rose’s nervousness came across in smiles and giggles, and since she’s going to be living with us, I figure the more smiles, the better. She has three children back in the Philippines, and she’s been in Singapore only two years. Can you imagine leaving your kids? But that’s what they all do. She worked the last two years for a Chinese family. Almost every woman I interviewed is with a Chinese family and hoping to land a Western one. From the sounds of it, the Chinese don’t treat their helpers very well. One girl told me that she was given a single chicken a week plus a ration of rice, and that’s all she got to eat! I tried to foist a granola bar from my purse on her, but she refused it. Another welled up with tears. “To work for you would be a dream come true,” she said, holding my hand. I almost hired her just to rescue her. Her “sir” requires her to massage him every night, and her cell phone was confiscated for talking on it during “work hours,” which are six a.m. till ten p.m. Today was her one day off for the month, so this is her only shot at landing a new job until next month. Can you believe that? This is all so weird. I feel like I’m adopting a forty-three-year-old. I had to watch a video and take a quiz to make sure I understood that I’m not allowed to beat her or make her climb out of high windows to wash them. It’s sickening, and part of me wants nothing to do with it. But once I started on this path I felt like I had to continue. I don’t know, maybe I can help in some way. Here comes Rose with all of her worldly possessions in a roller carry-on bag. I think some of them are living in a back room in Mrs. Lee’s office. Love, Sid I couldn’t enjoy this letter as much as I wanted to. According to the postmark, she’d sent it the day after I sent my letter, so while it would have been impossible for her to have read what I wrote to her, it stung a bit to get no acknowledgment of my confession. It took a while to get used to waiting weeks to hear back from her on something I’d written. Often I’d forget that I’d asked her about something and puzzle over her weeks-later response and have to open the scanned letter to figure out what she was talking about. When the letter I was waiting for did come, it gave me great relief. Singapore