Surrogate Protocol

by Tham Cheng-E

  Julian looks puzzled. “A live birth was registered in your name.”

  The response almost jolts Landon out of his skin. He locks his jaw and with difficulty, works his expression into one of incredulity. “Live birth? When?”

  “The hospital found out yesterday evening, when the serial number on the live birth notification failed to match up against the hospital’s birth register. Besides, the “mother” turned out to be someone who had reported a stolen IC a week ago.”

  Landon’s heart rises in joy. He can fit something in. “I remember now.” A smile breaks genuinely across his face. “I also lost my IC about two days back.”

  Julian folds his arms. “So you have.”

  “I’m sorry. My memory—it’s medical.” Landon scratches his temple. “I’ve got therapy sessions with my doctor twice a week and I’ve been taking medication. It’s the kind that makes you forget the recent stuff. But there’s a bit of both… It’s really bad, you see, even the memories of my past are hazy. My doctor could tell you more.”

  “Unfortunate.” Julian makes a note of it on his book. “You should’ve lodged a police report the minute it happened.”

  Landon hunches fawningly. “Sincere apologies, sir. I’ll report it immediately.”

  “At the nearest police post please, if you don’t already know.”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s my first time.”

  Julian shuts his notebook and slips his pen in the breast pocket of his damp shirt. “That will be all for now, Mr Lock. Thank you for your time.”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “Have a good day.” Julian lifts a hand and walks away.

  Landon watches him drive off in a maroon sedan and suddenly remembers that his damn IC is in the folder with the birth certificate, which by now would’ve been annulled.

  Cheok comes up to him. “Something wrong?”

  Landon doesn’t answer. His amnesia has got him temporarily off the hook, and only by the skin of his teeth has he managed to evade arrest. He has messed up, no doubt, and the dread of it pervades his heart like a drop of black ink. He tells himself it doesn’t matter because at worse they’d cut him open.

  And the thought terrifies him.

  3

  LOEWEN LODGE

  THE ROUTE FROM Clacton to FourBees is a long but scenic one; unending rows of hedges, raintrees, angsanas, rowhouses, bungalows, the Geylang River after Mountbatten, then comes the Stadium Dome from across the Merdeka Bridge.

  Landon rests his head against the window and ignores the greasy patches left there by the passengers before him. The bus cruises along Orchard Boulevard and passes the spot where the explosion occurred. He catches sight of nothing but a wall of blue tarpaulin tessellated with police insignias.

  He alights at the stop after the Botanic Gardens and saunters two hundred yards along a lonely trail flanked by walls of untended hedges. Beyond them lies a decrepit mansion called the Woodneuk House, inhabited only by thrill-seekers and sex-starved druggies. A path off the sidewalk leads into the northern tip of Dempsey Hill. An old tarmac road leads farther south towards a fork, where one road turns into Harding and another to Loewen.

  Along the way to work he passes a handsome colonial bungalow of bright whitewashed walls and black-framed windows, which sits on a patch of manicured lawn. A sign set in large black Garamond typeface against a white wall reads, “Loewen Lodge Nursing Home”, and under it, smaller italics proclaim, Where living truly begins.

  We’re being nursed in the years after our birth and the years leading to our deaths. Nursing homes are really hospices to those who die a little more slowly. It would be wonderful if only babies needed nursing homes. I’ve waited, but Death never came. To get tired of living is an unpardonable sin. But it happens.

  It is the blight of man: to get tired of everything, even himself.

  He hears singing—more like throaty voices chanting to a song which ends in a clatter of erratic clapping. It is midday and the air is sultry. Amid the rhythmic shrilling of cicadas, six old men and women play woodball on the far side of the lawn.

  On the nearer side a scraggy old man, placid and vegetative as the trees around him, sits unmoving in a wheelchair. His lower lip, glistening with drool, droops and exposes diseased gums. His freckled cheeks hang like jowls. A blue handkerchief is tucked into the front of his rumpled shirt. Landon has seen him many times before at the same spot and in the same posture. But this time it is his caregiver that seizes his attention.

  “He seems quite fond of you,” the young lady calls out to him.

  He startles and chokes on his own saliva, sending him into fits of violent coughing. The young lady peels strands of her wind-blown hair from her lips and patiently waits it out.

  “I’m sorry…” Landon coughs into his fist and breaks a smile. “Beg your pardon?”

  “The old man,” says the young lady. “He rarely looks at people.”

  “Really?” Landon steals a look at the old man and catches a vacuous stare. He turns away quickly. “Maybe I look like an enemy.”

  The young lady gives off a short, expressive laugh.

  “Have we met?” says Landon. “You look incredibly familiar.”

  The young lady tilts her face. “As passing strangers perhaps?”

  “Maybe.” He gives an obliging chuckle. “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a nurse. Paediatric intensive care.”

  “I would’ve thought elder-care.”

  “They’re not so different behaviourally.” She brushes a tiny leaf off the old man’s shoulder. “Especially when they get too old.”

  “That’s an interesting perception.”

  “You are Eurasian, aren’t you?“

  “I’m unsure myself,” Landon scratches the back of his ear. “I’ve been led to believe I’m mainly Chinese and a quarter Malay, maybe with an eighth of Javanese, a sprinkling of Portugese and a dash of Dutch.”

  The young lady smiles. “I see you have that rehearsed.”

  He feels his ears heating up.

  “I thought you look like a good blend,” she adds.

  “Like a Klingon?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never mind.” Landon clears his throat to change the subject. “You’re not the usual caregiver?”

  “I’m standing in for Pam—” she slow-blinks her lovely eyes and tosses her head, “the regular one you might be referring to.”

  “Pam,” he parrots, parses and then decides against asking her name.

  “You could help out here. The Lodge is always looking for volunteers.”

  “Oh no,” Landon waves a hand across his face. “Once is enough.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “No,” Landon laughs and looks at the gravel at his feet. He finds it difficult to meet her gaze and he wouldn’t want to be caught looking at any other part of her body. “I took care of my mother the year before she died.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Must’ve been hard.”

  “Can’t remember much of it. It’s been a very long time.”

  “You don’t look very old.”

  “I have an awful memory.” Landon blurts without thought.

  At once an air of awkwardness comes between them.

  Never had a wit. You won’t find a worse moron in the world. What kind of an idiot would forget his mother’s passing?

  “That’s not what I meant,” he chuckles. “It’s medical.”

  At his confession the young lady breaks into a smile, and in it he detects sympathy.

  Medical? That’s it. Blown it.

  The old man is still staring at him. His eyes are large and cadaverous; one of them is slightly paled with cataracts. A strand of drool plops onto the blue handkerchief. Landon turns miserably away.

  “You off to somewhere?” asks the young lady.

  “I run a café at the end of Dempsey Road.”

  “Nice. You own it?”

  Blew it tw
ice over. “Wrong term.” Landon chuckles again, very uncomfortably this time. “I sort of operate it; you know, prepare food, drinks and all that.”

  “You’re a chef?”

  “No, I ah…make drinks and coffee.” He jabs at the gravel with the tip of his shoe.

  “I won’t hold you up then.”

  “No, not at all.” He wags his head and feels silly for doing so. “I’m early.” A stolen glance at his watch tells him he is ten minutes past his shift.

  The young lady lifts the old man’s free leg and puts it back on the rest. Her white linen blouse billows in the breeze. She plucks more strands of hair from her lips and tucks them behind her ear. Her shoulder-length hair glows in the sunlight, their pure, silky tones glistening in shades of natural brown.

  He breaks the impasse. “On the other hand, I shouldn’t bother you more than I have.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll see you around then.”

  Her lips stretch into a smile. “See you around.”

  He departs and resolves not to turn back.

  Sometimes one doesn’t get any wiser with age. You just become more desperate for company and reckless with words.

  4

  CLARA

  FOURBEES IS A niche little cottage restaurant and café set in one of the many colonial buildings of Dempsey Hill, modelled after an old English storefront; its capitals, pilasters and cills fashioned in unfinished hardwood, spliced here and there with a bit of brass and Corten steel for a contemporary twang. The buildings were part of a barracks compound, and many have been restored and remodelled into swank restaurants, voguish fashion houses and art galleries.

  Landon hates the late shift. You arrive in the heat of the manic lunchtime rush, work through the night and get off at two in the morning. He enters and Raymond, the café manager swirls past him with four steaming plates on his arms. Landon evades his gaze and grabs his apron.

  Above him, a chalkboard lists the mains of the day. Another column lists the premium beans and brew. And between them a dab of poetry, written in a childish hand, reads:

  Baa Baa Black Brew, Have You Any Brew?

  Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Six Mugs Full

  One For Your Master, Two For His Dames

  And Three To Keep Your Little Brains From Going Insane

  A perky waitress named Samantha sashays back and forth with poise, now with a notepad and now with dishes. She has a couple of black stars on her cheeks that she touches up every morning with a skin pen.

  Landon takes the helm at the espresso machine, behind a classicmodish counter of lacquered teak and a surface of honed blackstar granite. Andy, who was supposed to be relieved some 15 minutes ago, shoulders his way past him, visibly frustrated, and slips quietly through the swing doors.

  Landon ignores him and examines the order chits, then checks the reservoir and sets the temperature from 88 to 85. He waltzes into place, lays four porcelain two-ounce espresso cups in the warmer and twists the portafilters off. With his pinky he examines the grind in them. Way too fine. I’d risk an over-extraction. He raps them into the bin and refills the grinder with fresh African arabica.

  The burrs buzz and pulverise the beans. He uncaps the hopper, tests the grind, spins the burrs for five more seconds and then empties two scoopfuls into each portafilter. He tamps them, twists them back on and the pressure-jets in the reservoir hisses. Two warmed cups go under the spouts. A concentrated concoction trickles and fills the white porcelain; a silky film of rust-coloured crema coats the surface. Its aroma pervades the space. Landon steams out the wand, holds a jug to it and gyrates the froth to a lustrous sheen. He slides one of the cups across his worktop and pours a swirl of flavoured syrup in a thin, high stream—all with the élan of a spirited dancer. The brew goes onto a saucer and Landon taps the bell.

  “Fantasia, table twelve,” he calls without looking.

  The other espresso shot goes into a seven-ounce cup. He adds a third of warmed milk and tops it up with the silky froth and swirls the pour into a rosette. The bell rings twice.

  “Cappuccino, table five.”

  Samantha glides over, dumps three more chits and takes the beverage.

  Landon gets another espresso going, tilts the cup and free pours warmed milk along its side, wiggling the trail into a tulip that skims the rim.

  “Latte, table seven.”

  The orders flow. Calls of the bell punctuate the drone of endless chattering. Thirty minutes later, the mood of the lunching crowd lightens. Ten to three, and the pace settles. The crowd thins, leaving a group of suited Germans with red sunburnt faces prattling about some humorous subject over crusted coffee cups. At a seat by the wall a girl taps away at her tablet, a scarlet fringe covering half of her face.

  Raymond appears at the kitchen doorway, twisting a towel around his hands to dry them. He is a lean, chesty man with a flat, broad face and short trimmed hair that is grey at the sides. “The druggies are always a little tamer when you’re around,” he says to Landon. “They need their caffeine shots done your way or they throw fits.”

  Landon laughs at the compliment. “They throw fits because you overcharge them.”

  “Those beans have to cost something.” Raymond folds the towel and pats it flat on the countertop. “Got the advance?”

  “What advance?”

  “You asked for an advance two weeks ago. You got it?”

  “Oh, that.” Landon doesn’t remember if he did. He empties a bag of beans into the hopper. “Yeah, got it. Thanks for accommodating.”

  “You’re welcome.” Raymond pours himself water from a plastic tumbler behind the counter. “Getting something expensive?”

  Landon doesn’t even know what he should be recalling. He throws out a possibility. “An overhaul of the circuitry at home. They’re a fire hazard.”

  “Can’t be too careful with electrical fires. Go grab lunch when you’re done. Donovan made some gratin at the back.”

  Donovan is a cook who comes in thrice weekly, a good chap who graduated two years earlier from a culinary school run by former convicts-turned-chefs. He did time for possession of LSD and spent years in rehab.

  Soon the patrons leave and Sam moves in to clear their table. The aftermath of the lunch-hour is dusted in the mellow tunes of the accordion played through the Bang & Olufsen speakers mounted in the ceiling. The neat rows of empty tables and chairs drowse in the afternoon serenity; their tablecloths changed, napkins folded and standing, the cutlery replaced with fresh, gleaming ones. This is Landon’s favourite part of the day.

  Samantha slumps over the counter. “That man asked for you.”

  Landon looks up from his washing. “What man?”

  Samantha throws an arm over Landon’s shoulders and, with a brightly-painted nail, guides his sight to a man in a red-chequered shirt sitting by the mullioned window at the far corner reading papers by the daylight.

  “There’s a sign outside that says ‘business from eight to three’ but I can’t possibly throw him out, can I?” Sam straightens up. “You know him?”

  Landon sniffles at the candy scent of her perfume. “What did he ask about?”

  “Your shift schedule. Careful boy, he seems to know it pretty well.”

  “What’s he having?”

  “Medici,” says Sam, accentuating the ci in a sensuous pout, as in chi. “Doppio, strong stuff.” She lifts her florid cheeks.

  “Perhaps a connoisseur who appreciates my craft.”

  “Your craft at what?” Sam puts her fist to her mouth.

  “That’s your thing, Sam.”

  Sam breezes away from him and his words fall upon nothing.

  Landon steals another look at the patron. He appears to still be reading the papers when he folds them down to reveal his large, leonine face.

  John.

  Landon tries to appear calm but his expression comes out stiff. He is sure he is being stalked, and his heart aches to know if the stalking has anything to do with what he learned from
the police officer’s visit this morning. Yet his mind roils; he can’t conjure the words he needs to confront John.

  John makes no move either. He empties his cup, gently replaces it on the saucer and scans the papers again. Then without warning he looks up and their gazes meet.

  In haste Landon picks up a tea towel and starts drying the cups that are already dry. From the edge of his sight he sees John rise from his seat, saunter past the counter and exit the café soundlessly. But he does not leave just yet. He lingers a few feet from the doorway and lights a cigarette.

  No point being docile in this. Stalk the stalker. It’s your best bet in having your questions answered. Just as Landon resolves to confront John the door comes ajar and a young lady pops her head in.

  “Are you open?” she asks. It is the caregiver.

  Sam marches up to her. “Sorry, we’re closed for lunch. Dinner’s at six.”

  “Drinks are still on.” Landon breaks in and, in his eagerness to show himself, hurls his chest against the edge of the counter more forcefully than he intended. His ribcage hurts, and against the pain he musters a grin.

  She enters, carrying a handsome little knapsack of burgundy suede edged in leather. Her hair is now an updo, loosely held together with a long silver barrette.

  “No more lunches.” Donovan’s voice drifts in from the kitchen.

  Landon’s heart leaps to his throat. “I’m sorry, but we do have snacks like pies and quiches and whatever drinks you’d like.”

  “That’ll do.” She slides the knapsack off her shoulders. “I was looking for a light bite actually.”

  “Please.” Landon beckons with an open palm. “By the counter if you don’t mind.”

  Sam gets the point and shoots Landon a dirty look and moves out of the way.

  The young lady picks the seat right in front of Landon. She folds her arms over the cool granite tabletop and tilts her head at him. “Quite a coincidence,” she says, smiling charmingly.

  Landon hands her a glass of iced water and responds in a modest chuckle. “It is, for the number of cafés we have around here.”