by O Thiam Chin
Ai Ling checked out of the hospital the very same evening after she was stitched up. While standing at the taxi queue, she called Wei Xiang on her mobile phone, telling him that she was running late and would not be cooking that night, that he should buy something back for dinner. In the taxi, she told the driver to switch off the air-con and roll down the rear-side windows. She pressed herself against the door, the warm rush of air hitting her face, and put her hands on her tender abdomen, feeling nothing except for a fist of pain inside her. Everything happened so fast, she thought, but now that it’s over, I don’t want to think about it.
She felt her skin go cold and clammy; something tightened inside her, leaving her out of breath. She had to ask the driver to stop by the side of the road so that she could get out to vomit whatever was still inside her stomach.
Ai Ling carried on as usual after the incident. She went to work at the childcare centre every day, knocked off at six, prepared dinner and ate with Wei Xiang. Sometimes she would watch the TV programmes with him, and sometimes she would read the books she had borrowed from the library. At night, she stayed to her side of the bed, quiet and still. The rush of happiness she had felt when she first held the pregnancy test indicator was now a distant memory, something that might have happened to another person in a fleeting scene in a movie. What a silly person, she would have said if she had seen such a character. She would have clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes, reaching for the TV remote to change the channel.
Sometimes, when her mind drifted as she was picking up the toys after the kids at the childcare centre, or stir-frying a dish at the stove, Ai Ling would wonder about why she had kept the pregnancy and the miscarriage from Wei Xiang. Just after they got married, Wei Xiang told her in passing that they ought to hold out on having a baby in the first few years of their marriage, so that they could enjoy their couplehood, just the two of them; since then they had not talked about it. Now her silence was sealed, and she would have to carry the burden of her secret stolidly.
For a long time after the miscarriage, Ai Ling avoided having sex with Wei Xiang. She could not bear the thought of it; her body felt depleted, sapped dry of any desire, and she did not want to do anything that might cause it to hurt in such a terrible way again. So she remained rigid and tense when Wei Xiang tried to initiate sex, brushing off his advances. She would stay up late on weekends, watching reruns of the Taiwanese drama serials on TV till the wee hours, only going to bed after Wei Xiang had fallen asleep. One time, in a fury of lust, he overpowered her, clamping down her flailing fists and legs, reaching into her shirt to grope her breasts, and she had to fight him off with every bit of strength to get away from him.
In his confusion and frustration, Wei Xiang spat: “What is wrong with you? You have to tell me.”
Ai Ling threw a pillow at him, left their bedroom and slept in the spare bedroom for a week.
Three months after the miscarriage, while she was clearing out the wardrobe drawers in the bedroom, she felt something behind a stack of old clothes. Pulling it out, she saw that it was a pair of infant shoes, still held together with a plastic band, the price tag of $5.90 on the sole. Ai Ling stared at the shoes as if they were a relic from ages ago, one that had suddenly landed in her hands, although she could not remember when or where or who had bought them, or why they were kept at the back of the drawer. She did not hear Wei Xiang until he was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder.
“What is that?” Wei Xiang said.
Ai Ling spun around and held out the pair of shoes, like a thief surrendering her loot, unsure of the punishment awaiting her.
“Wait, I remember. I bought them a few months ago when I was at the mall. Aren’t they adorable?” Wei Xiang said. Ai Ling stared at him, still holding out the shoes. She could feel the immense weight in her hands.
“Do you still want them?” Ai Ling said, putting the shoes into his hand and stepping back. Wei Xiang adjusted the laces and chuckled to himself, as if amused by his impulsive decision to buy the tiny shoes. Ai Ling bit her lip. She wanted to laugh, all of a sudden, at this scene playing out in front of her, at the absurdity, the irony. She let out a choking noise.
“Let’s keep them. It’s a waste to throw them out,” Wei Xiang said, tearing away the price tag. “Just in case we plan to have kids when the time is right.”
Ai Ling said nothing. Then she turned away and returned to the task of clearing out the drawers.
Wei Xiang kept the shoes, hanging them by the laces near the dresser table, where Ai Ling could not avoid them. She decided one day, when Wei Xiang was at work, to throw them out. She put the shoes in a plastic bag and left for the neighbourhood park.
It was late afternoon, and the park was quiet except for several runners and a few mothers pushing strollers or chatting on the benches near the children’s playground. Ai Ling walked past them and avoided looking into the strollers. She headed for the large pond located near the south exit of the park. The water was jade-green, overrun with water lilies, arrowheads and duckweeds, giving off a raw, earthy smell. There was no one around as Ai Ling made her way down to the edge of the pond. The water touched the tips of her toes, darkening the fabric of her sandals. She could step in and sink right to the bottom, and nobody would notice or save her.
Ai Ling stirred the water with her fingers and watched the ripples rouse the clump of duckweeds. Taking out the pair of infant shoes, Ai Ling placed them on the surface of the pond, making footsteps on the water. She relaxed her hold—the shoes seemed to float for a moment—and then quickly pulled them out and put them beside her on the soggy ground. Slipping out of her sandals, Ai Ling sank her feet into the water, feeling the coldness permeating her skin. Stirring the water, she could imagine the disturbance her feet were causing, scaring away the tadpoles and fish. She waited for something to bite her, to pull her down into the depths.
But all she could feel was the slow, heavy movements of her kicks. She picked up the infant shoes again and dropped them into the pond. The bright colours of the appliqués on the shoes—of an elephant and a bear—were quickly darkened by the water. The shoes suspended for a breath of a second in the water before sinking. She stared at the spot, watching the bubbles form and then pop.
Ai Ling heard a cough and saw an old man with a cane looking at her from the pebble-strewn path a few metres away. She withdrew her feet from the pond, the sensation of chilliness lifting off her wet skin. Without looking back, or paying heed to the old man, Ai Ling walked away. It was only when she was almost out of the park that she realised she had been walking barefoot, having left her sandals beside the pond. She considered heading back to retrieve them, but gave up the thought. She could always buy a new pair. There was no rush.
As Ai Ling had hoped, Wei Xiang did not notice the missing pair of infant shoes, and she did not care to remind him about them. He was forgetful, she told herself, and it was not necessarily a bad thing.
9
CHEE SENG
It was Christmas night, and I was alone. The moment I stepped from Exotica’s main hall into the tight space of the toilet, the sound of loud dance music became muffled. My battered eardrums hummed, as if a field of insects were chorusing inside. No matter where I turned in the dance club, the volume of the music was uniformly deafening; it would take a few days for the humming to fade. I checked my watch; it was almost two, maybe time to make my way back to the hotel. The amount of alcohol I had consumed numbed my thoughts, but still I wasn’t ready to face Cody just yet. I washed my hands at the shallow aluminium trough that functioned as a wash basin, and splashed my face with water. I dried off, then made my way through the thumping music and writhing bodies to the front door of the club.
Cody and I had planned to check out Exotica together, but he suddenly changed his mind. We were back in the hotel after dinner with Ai Ling and Wei Xiang—they had headed off for a walk—lazing around and watching the local news on TV. He wanted to stay in and rest, claiming exhaustion from a
whole day of activities.
“Come on, it’s Christmas,” I said. “There’ll be lots of people there, it’ll be fun. You said you wanted to go just now.”
“I’m pretty tired though. Why don’t you go and enjoy?” he said.
“It won’t be the same without you,” I said. “So typical of you, agreeing to something and then backing out in the end, so fickle-minded.”
“I’m just really tired now. Anyway, you know clubbing is never my thing. I only ever went because you wanted me to go.”
“Fuck, now you tell me this.”
“Chee Seng,” Cody said, but I had turned away, storming into the toilet.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for the anger to run its course. My mind was a train wreck from the events of the past few days, after discovering the chat messages on Cody’s computer. The guise under which I kept my emotions in check had been rudely ripped away, and all the old hurts had resurfaced. More than anything, I was angry with myself for losing my cool yet again. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, but it was hopeless.
When I opened the door, Cody was standing right outside. He stared at me, and said, “Okay, I’ll come with you.”
“No, don’t. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to do. I’d rather have a good time at the club, without you sulking and hating every second of it.”
“But I want to go,” he said weakly. And because I knew he was doing this only to pacify me, it infuriated me even more.
“I don’t want you to go, you understand? Just fucking do what you want to do.” I grabbed my wallet and watch from the bedside table, slipped past him and left the hotel room.
Outside the club, someone took my hand and pressed his mouth to my left ear. “Hey, what are you thinking?”
I turned around and looked at the young man, the same one I’d been dancing with for nearly an hour; with the thunderous music sweeping over us, I could not get his name—was it Danny, or Benny? He had approached me at the bar, where I was downing my third bourbon and Coke, and pulled me onto the dance floor. Danny or Benny, twenty-six, Malaysian, was holidaying in Phuket (“second time here”) with some friends (“all straight, and boring”). With his toned frame and pale, smooth complexion, he looked much younger than his supposed age.
“I thought I lost you after I came back from the bar,” he said, gripping my hand. “Are you leaving already? It’s still early.” His face was flushed. I kissed him on the cheek; my head was spinning from the alcohol I had consumed. Even standing on my feet was becoming a challenge; the world shuddered under my feet, seemingly about to give way.
“Yes, this old man needs to have his rest soon. He’s not getting any younger,” I said.
“Aw, you’re not that old. I like you. Come with me,” he said, pulling my hand, dragging me onto the sidewalk. A few locals, chatting and smoking under the club’s bright signboard, looked in our direction; one of them laughed and threw his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under a heel.
“Steady, steady,” Danny or Benny said, pulling me closer to him. I detected faint cologne, mixed with the scent of cigarette smoke. Exotica’s house music gradually softened as we moved away from the club. Under dimly-lit lampposts, the busy streets, lined on both sides with bars, clubs and drinking holes, were still choked with people at this time of night—a bevy of drunk Caucasians arguing outside an Irish pub, two locals haggling with a youngish-looking prostitute at a corner, the street hawkers hollering and delivering food orders to customers sitting around rickety, makeshift tables. In the muggy air, the smell of pungent spices, diesel oil and dusty tarmac mixed in my nostrils. Someone called out. I glanced back to see where the sound was coming from: a crash, and a burst of laughter. The bright neon lights scorched my retinas, and the music continued to ring in my ears. The night was alive in a thousand ways, fragmented into light and music and movement.
“Down this way,” Danny or Benny said. We slipped into a dark alleyway, between a beachside hotel and a three-storey shophouse. He pressed me to the wall, his arms moving down my back to my ass, his tongue frantic in my mouth. He pulled back—a gaping pit of desire opened up inside me—and grabbed my hand, then led me through the darkness. I followed, drunk on lust.
As we progressed, I could feel the dense, salty air of the sea on my face, the night breeze tunnelling through the alleyway, through our hair and sweat-drenched clothes, touching our warm skins with light, ephemeral brushes. And then, as though we had finally broken through the diaphanous veil of the night, we were out in the open, on a patch of sand, facing the sea. The waves, glittering with moonlight, broke on the shore, sending up sprays of froth. I stopped, out of breath, and stared mutely at the dark sea.
Danny or Benny was looking at me, a smile on his face. He stretched out his hand, sweeping across the view.
“Beautiful, right?” he said.
He took two steps forward and glided down the small dune, swinging his arms to balance himself. I followed him and fell on my back into the sand. He reached out to pull me up, and guided me towards the deck chairs hidden in the shadow of a wide umbrella on the beach.
There, he held his body against mine on the deck chair and straddled me, his hands kneading my chest and arms. He lifted my head and pressed his lips to mine; I tasted beer, cigarettes and mint. I bit his upper lip. Our tongues met. I moved my hands across his muscled back and into the back of his tight jeans. He arched to allow my hands to slip easily under his underwear, breaking our kiss, releasing a soft breath into my ear. I felt the firm curve of his buttocks and trailed down the smooth groove between them with my fingers. He pressed his erection to my stomach, grinding it against me, then unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans. Already I could feel the dampness on my underwear, the strain of my erection against it. Tracing the contour of my cock against the underwear, he whispered into my ear: “I want you to fuck me.”
He removed his shirt, and I licked his chest, tasting the salt on his skin, nibbling his hardening nipples. The sea breeze swept over us, drying the sweat on our skin, raising goosebumps that heightened the sensitivity of each touch, each kiss. Against the lapping of the waves, we could only hear our own breathing, and the soft groans that escaped our mouths.
He reached into my underwear to free my erection, touching his forefinger to the tip of my cock. “You are dripping wet,” he said, and brought his finger to his tongue, licking it. Then, throwing me back on the deck chair, he bent down to kiss my chest, moving down my torso till he came to my crotch. I arched towards him. Teasing the head of my cock with his tongue, he looked up at me suppliantly, as if waiting for me to give the go-ahead. I grunted my approval; he took my cock all the way into his mouth, slowly. I closed my eyes and sank into oblivion.
After a while, he stopped and looked up at me. “Let’s go back to your hotel room,” he said, his look expectant.
“Sorry, I can’t.”
“Why? Don’t you like me?” he said, his hand gripping me tighter.
“My boyfriend is staying with me.”
“Oh.” His voice registered a hint of irritation. He released his hold on my cock and pulled away, putting his shirt back on. After straightening up, he planted a light kiss on my cheek.
“You should have told me earlier,” he said. And then he left.
I shook my head, suddenly overcome by a surge of crippling lethargy. I sank back onto the deck chair and stretched out the heavy sack of my body. The wind had turned chilly, stinging my face and arms, but I made no move to leave. The light of the crescent moon played on the rippling surface of the sea. I folded my arms across my chest, curled up my legs and closed my eyes. As I listened to the waves, I could only think of Cody, alone in the hotel room, waiting for me to come back to him.
Yet, even if I could muster all my strength and brace myself for what was to come, I knew it was impossible to return to the way things were before, to the lives we had.
10
C
ODY
Your mind is raw and foggy, skinned of any real memories, floating without thoughts. You close your eyes and, almost instantly, they flip wide open, unable to rest. Your shorts are damp, and the fabric sticks to your legs. Have you pissed without knowing it?
Your body is now a separate being, acting on its own will, keeping your mind hostage. You force your mind to sharpen, to will your arms to move. Your fingers twitch and your hands tremble; you ball them into weak fists. It’s enough to send a tightening ripple along the length of your arms. Slowly you lift your hands to your face, and stare at the creases on the palms, the deep lines that crisscross across the surface of the skin.
It’s bewildering to think how the years can pass so quietly, so mercilessly; you looked up one day and noticed the deep, unseen shift in the things of your life—the places, the people, how they had changed, imperceptibly and fundamentally, over time. You know, in the core of your heart, that you too have changed, and in ways that are completely unknown to you; and in this newly-unravelled knowledge, you are left grappling, surprised not by the facts—because these changes have taken place right before your eyes, even though you could not truly see them yet—but by the realisation that time changes everything in its sweep, always moving in one direction, ahead of you, leaving you behind, stranded.
Your life is in your own hands—but how foolish it is to think that one could have any real, permanent control over one’s life, over every aspect of it, when life is as random and faithless and fragile as it comes. For a moment, your existence is a thick fog that hangs in the air, obscuring the landscape; in the next, it lifts and vanishes into nothing.