Now That It's Over

by O Thiam Chin

  Sometimes his father would come into the room. He would lay his hand on Cody’s head and whisper his name, as if trying to call him back from wherever he had gone. Cody could hear his name clearly, but he did not respond, restrained by his own silence. His father would sit quietly beside Cody and stay there for a long time. Some nights, he would bring a face towel and wipe down Cody’s face, arms and legs, and change his clothes. Cody did not put up any resistance as his father carried out these tasks.

  One night, after waking from a recurring nightmare, his body racked with painful spasms, Cody looked over and saw his father sitting on a chair beside the bed, sleeping. In the light of the bedside lamp, he saw a sea of white hair against his scalp; how his father had aged just over a short period of time, how frail he seemed now. Looking at him asleep, Cody could feel the years that had passed between his parents, years that stretched all the way back before he and his sisters were born, to a time that existed only between them and no one else. How this immense weight of time and history was now left to his father, who had to bear the burden all on his own.

  As Cody laid his hand on his father’s head, he stirred lightly in his sleep, letting out a small cry. For a long moment, Cody imagined the thoughts running through his father’s mind, thoughts that followed their own logic, their own outcomes, into places only he would know—dark, oceanic places, teeming with life. He would never know what went on in there, in this secret place inside his father, but he would keep vigil over him, just as his father had done—watching over him, waiting for him to surface once again.

  PART THREE

  21

  AI LING

  In late October 2004, Ai Ling had told Wei Xiang about a four-day trip she was hoping to take by herself to Cha Am, a beach resort town along the western coast of Thailand, to “get herself sorted out”. When Wei Xiang asked to accompany her, Ai Ling declined, offering the answer she had prepared in advance: she needed some time on her own, to take a breather from work, to think. Ai Ling then smiled and patted his arm, brushing away his worry.

  The morning she landed in Bangkok, she took a two-hour coach ride to Cha Am, and arrived at the beachfront resort tired but elated. She felt as if she had finally pulled off an impossible feat and was being rewarded with the prize she had wanted: silence and solitude. They gave her a room on the third floor, from where she could see the silver surf on the beach and hear the white noise of street sounds—snippets of Thai songs, children playing, cars driving by. Her room was simple enough, a queen-size bed with a low bedside table, a large mirror beside the door, and a small beige two-seater sofa that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. From her luggage, she took out her toiletries bag and went for a quick shower. When she was done, she lay on the bed, hair damp, and allowed her body to sink into its silky comfort, the bedsheet cool against her skin. She fell asleep and woke up half an hour later, feeling the drag of lethargy in her body. She sat up on the edge of the bed and watched as the water swept along the coastline, the sea stretching into the far horizon.

  In her half-drowsy state, Ai Ling remembered Wei Xiang’s face at the airport that morning, how his eyes were alert with attention, searching hers for some sort of an answer to the questions he dared not ask. Again, Ai Ling had given him the details of her itinerary and the contact information of the hotel where she would be staying. When they parted at the departure gates, Ai Ling could not help but feel a deep sense of relief, as if she were finally freed from her obligations, her tiresome old self. The recollection of her relief brought a stab of guilt, and Ai Ling quickly let the feeling pass. She was not here to feel the same things or have the same thoughts. For the next few days, she did not want to be her usual self; she wanted to do things differently, and for her own sake. She only needed to answer to herself.

  Ai Ling got up from the bed and opened every window in the room, letting the breeze in, sending ripples across the rumpled bedsheet. The greasy smell of frying oil wafted into the room, reminding her that she had not eaten since breakfast with Wei Xiang at the airport, and she could feel her stomach growling. Dusk was approaching fast, scattering stolen light across the sea; Ai Ling caught her reflection in the large mirror, suspended in this quality of light, and for a moment she felt strangely out of body. “Light and shadow is all,” she said in a self-deprecating tone to her own reflection. Then she laughed and dressed for dinner.

  As Ai Ling passed through the foyer, she glanced over at the alfresco hotel bar, where a few occupants were having drinks; a television was blaring a football match with loud commentary. A face turned to her and she was surprised to recognise who the person was: a man who had taken the same coach from Bangkok to the hotel, whom she had barely acknowledged during the bus journey. He was in his late twenties, lean and bespectacled, with neatly parted hair. Ai Ling had wondered whether he was a fellow Singaporean and was apprehensive about making further contact, even with a glance.

  But the man was smiling at her now, and Ai Ling felt compelled to return it. He watched as she passed through the foyer, and she was suddenly conscious of her movements and her loose, knee-length sundress. She quickly erased the thought from her mind; still she could sense the curiosity emanating from the man’s stare, like a source of heat. She quickened her steps.

  At thirty-five, Ai Ling knew she was already past her prime, that words like “pretty” or “attractive” no longer applied to her. She had not cared much about such things—these vacuous aesthetic labels that differ from person to person—though she was aware of the gradual fading of her looks, something beyond her control. She knew she had crossed some line, one that had separated her younger self from the current one, and often wondered how this transition had taken place, and at which point in her life. She felt centuries old in her body, in her mind.

  Yet, it was times like this—a cursory glance from a man or a woman, weighing and assessing her looks—that Ai Ling was called back to her own physicality, and was reminded once again that every feature of her flesh was being calibrated and compared against different measures of beauty. She often felt shrunken by the limitations of these judgements, by the narrow-mindedness of the people who employed such measures. She did not want to be part of this, yet she somehow felt drawn in—no, unsettled—by the young man’s look, which carried some sort of response to what she was unconsciously looking for. In his look, she was remade in a different light—a more attractive light—and this thought was oddly refreshing, the transformation of her self in another person’s determined gaze.

  She was still pondering this when she stepped outside onto the busy street, and her attention was swiftly diverted to the flow of cars and people, almost crashing into a group of children playing at a standing water tap and splashing water at each other. The hem of her dress got wet, though it did not bother her. Strolling along the long stretch of Ruamjit Road, she swung her glance from the restaurants, convenience stores, massage parlours and dingily-lit bars that lined the main street to the setting sun that was submerging itself into the dark water. The nearby crash of the waves fought its way into Ai Ling’s ears, rising above the din of loud music and human chatter. After walking almost the entire length of the street, Ai Ling backtracked to the restaurant that had looked promising when she first saw it, a chalkboard outside advertising seafood phad thai and green curry. The restaurant was not much more than a large seating area made up of six tables, with an open kitchen at the entrance and living quarters behind the beaded curtains where the owner and his family supposedly lived. She was ushered to the smallest table at the front of the restaurant. Seated, Ai Ling pointed to the chalkboard, indicating what she wanted. The server, a slim girl in her late teens, wearing cut-off jean shorts, took her order and went into the kitchen. The only other two occupied tables were taken up by locals. A beat-up television hanging in a corner of the restaurant featured a drama with mostly frowning actors. Ai Ling took in her surroundings and the conversations around her with a detached interest; she always liked this sense of separaten
ess from other people, of watching from a distance.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw someone standing outside the restaurant, studying the menu on the chalkboard. It was the same young man from the hotel bar. His eyebrows arched when he saw Ai Ling sitting there, and in the next moment, he was asking whether he could join her table. Ai Ling, finding no excuse to offer, nodded her head.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” the man said, levelling his gaze at her.

  “No, it’s okay,” Ai Ling said, before turning to watch the show on the TV. The man, after a pause of a few seconds, began to talk.

  “I saw you just now at the hotel. Are you travelling alone?”

  “Yes, I’m on holiday.”

  “That’s great. Cha Am is a great place. It’s my second time here. You’ll love this place.”

  “I hope so.”

  “This restaurant is one of the best here. They serve the best phad thai, with the fish sauce they use. You won’t find any place that serves better.”

  “I’m sure I’ll like it.”

  Despite her best efforts, Ai Ling found herself gradually entering into a conversation with the young man, Daniel, and coming to learn certain aspects of his life. How he had quit his job recently, as a logistics engineer in a manufacturing firm, and was planning to backpack for a while before he returned home (yes, he was a Singaporean, as Ai Ling had expected), that he did not know where he would head next, planning to be spontaneous about the places he wanted to go. In return, Ai Ling told him that she too was taking a break from her work, that she had heard about Cha Am from a colleague, that she loved the hotel and the view her room offered.

  When the food came, they ate in silence. Whenever Daniel’s gaze strayed—when he turned to grab the tray of condiments or talk to the server—Ai Ling would glance at him. She noticed the dimples near his mouth and the slenderness of his ears. His smile was uneven, the left side of his lips tilting upwards in a slight smirk before the right side caught up. Even when Ai Ling was hesitant to talk, Daniel pressed on with questions that were never too specific or personal.

  After their meal, Ai Ling decided to head back to the hotel.

  “So early? The night is young,” Daniel said as they stepped into the cool night air. Traffic was light at this time of the evening.

  “I’m a bit tired,” Ai Ling said.

  “Then I’ll walk you back.”

  “No no, it’s okay.”

  “Nah, there’s nothing to do here when it’s dark. May as well head back to the hotel where I can catch a football match or something on TV, and maybe have a drink.”

  They walked back slowly, occasionally turning their attention to other passers-by, to the patrons that had filled the bars. They chatted across a range of topics, and before long they were back at the hotel. There, Ai Ling bade her companion a good night and climbed the stairs to her room, not turning back for another look.

  In her room, Ai Ling took another shower and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the evening she just had. She could not keep hold of her own thoughts, which seemed to pull her in many directions, so she turned on the bedside lamp, took out a paperback from her bag—Toni Morrison’s Beloved, highly recommended by Cody—and tried to focus on the words on the page. After several attempts, she switched off the light and watched the parade of shadows on the ceiling near the open windows, waiting for sleep to come.

  For the first time in a long while, Ai Ling woke up without a thought in her head, her eyes snapped wide open to the first light of the day. She took in the silence of the room, immersed herself in it. She stayed in bed until the alarm on her Nokia phone went off, and then she forced herself to get up.

  After putting on her running attire and shoes, she headed out for a run. The hotel was quiet at this hour, with only a concierge manning the reception desk and a young woman setting up continental breakfast in the hotel lounge. The morning air bristled with a slight chill, which Ai Ling shook off with a quick warm-up. The street along the beach was largely devoid of people, except for the street hawkers peddling vegetables and fish, and the housewives shopping for groceries. Ai Ling took off in the direction of the hill, on the western side of town, keeping a comfortable pace. A mangy stray dog with garish pink patches of skin came up to her, sniffing at her heels, and ran with her for some time before it was distracted by an old man seated on a bike who threw something—leftovers of his breakfast, some bones and rice—in its direction. Ai Ling slowed her pace, thinking the dog might catch up but it did not return to her side. When she came to the foot of the hill, she turned back, this time running on the beach. The rising sun shone across the water, causing the crests of the waves to sparkle in explosive brilliance. Ai Ling squinted.

  Near the hotel, she collapsed onto the sand, her perspiration forming a dark U on the front of her grey shirt. Nearby, an elderly man with a basket in hand was combing the wet sand for crabs, while two boys played in the water, their thin torsos shiny in the morning light. Ai Ling sensed someone approaching from behind her, and she turned to see a small Thai boy walking towards her, five or six years old, wearing a dirty purple T-shirt and tattered shorts and hauling a dirty cloth bag over his shoulder, a bottle of mineral water in his hand. Closer, Ai Ling noticed the boy’s large sunken eyes, turned-up nub of a nose and set of crooked brown teeth. He looked gaunt, as though he had gone for a long time without proper rest or food. His smile was hopeful, expectant.

  Ai Ling raised her hands to indicate that she did not have any money with her and the boy frowned. Then, with a series of hand gestures, Ai Ling pointed to her hotel across the two-way street, indicating that she would run up to her room and grab some money, and the boy, following her gestures, smiled and handed over the bottle. Ai Ling thanked him and spoke a few short phrases in English, but the boy shook his head, waving his small hands. He sat down on the sand and opened the dirty bag, which held bottles of water and juices, and Ai Ling noted that the bag was nearly the same size as the boy. She lifted her arms in a gesture to tell the boy that he was strong, and he burst into laughter, his face brightening instantly. They sat for a while in silence, looking out at the sea.

  When Ai Ling finished her water, the boy asked for the empty bottle. He put it into his bag, preparing to leave. Rising with her, Ai Ling told the boy to follow her to the hotel. When she offered to carry the heavy bag of drinks, the boy politely shook his head and hunched forward to counter the weight. At the entrance of the hotel, the boy stopped, his eyes on the staff inside, looking wary of trespassing into a place where he did not belong.

  “Wait here,” Ai Ling said. The boy nodded.

  Though it took only a couple of minutes for Ai Ling to dash up to her room to get the money, by the time she returned to the hotel entrance, the boy had disappeared. Ai Ling examined the street in both directions and then at the beach, hoping to catch sight of the boy, but he was not there.

  Thoughts of the boy stayed with Ai Ling as she went about her day. At breakfast, she expected to see Daniel once again, and just as she was about to grab a plate at the buffet table, he was right beside her with a morning greeting. His hair was damp from a shower, his face scrubbed pink, his cheeks unshaven. In his sleeveless shirt, he looked younger than his age, more rugged. This time, he sat at Ai Ling’s table without asking. As they ate, Ai Ling brought up her encounter with the boy on the beach.

  “I see those kids in the street here all the time,” Daniel said, slicing a wedge out of his pancake, dripping with syrup, and forking it into his mouth. “Their earnings go back to their parents or relatives or whoever hires them, you know. I heard that some of them have been kidnapped from elsewhere and brought here to work from morning to night, sometimes surviving only on scraps.”

  “How come nobody is doing anything about this?” Ai Ling said.

  “Maybe it’s not their business to interfere. It’s much easier to close your eyes to what is happening, to pretend nothing is wrong. Maybe it’s just too much trouble.”


  “I wish more could be done for these kids somehow. To help them out of their situation.”

  “And then what? What happens after you’ve saved them? Who’s going to take care of them, give them a shelter, feed them? It’s not so easy.”

  Ai Ling said nothing; perhaps Daniel was right. She was a tourist, an outsider, after all. In two days’ time, she would leave, go back to her life in Singapore, and things would remain the same here, the kids continuing to hawk their wares—drinks, cigarettes, mineral water, cut fruits—and living the only life they knew. It was foolish to think that she could befriend a boy, make him laugh, and that would be all to fix things.

  “So what are your plans today?” Daniel said, changing the subject. He eyed her with interest.

  “I think I’ll do some reading, and perhaps shop around later. Maybe go for a swim if it’s not too hot.”

  “If you want, I could rent a motorbike or a car and we can head somewhere. There’s a forest park a short ride away, with limestone hills and caves we can explore. It’ll be fun.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I appreciate your offer though.”

  “Sure, anytime.” Daniel shrugged, the intensity gone out of his smile.

  Back in her room, Ai Ling willed herself not to think about Daniel or the boy, but her mind kept returning to them. She smiled to herself at Daniel’s flirtation, at how he was trying to get her to go out with him. If she had been a different kind of woman, living a different life, she might have taken him up on his offer. In her seven years of marriage to Wei Xiang, Ai Ling might have felt unhappy at times, but she had never questioned her love for him, even as she sometimes felt drained by his dependence on her, which often left her weary.