by Tiffany Tsao
The reason Dr. Loy took such note of the painting and its beholders was that it was he who had painted it. It had taken two years of Sunday afternoons at the Botanical Gardens, but he had finally finished it six months ago, and decided to display it in the hallway outside his office. It made him feel like a real artist. If only he had time to paint more. But he didn’t really have any regrets; he was very satisfied with the career he had made and the life he had fashioned for himself. Someday, someday, it would be that time. That time would be the time to paint. Now was a different time.
Still, he often wondered what would have happened if he had become an artist instead of an oncologist. He had never seriously entertained the notion—after all, you can’t support your parents or start a family on an artist’s income. He had always reasoned that he could paint in his spare time, but these days the practice was thriving so much that he never had time to spare. He rather liked being a doctor, but he also dreamed of the retirement awaiting him many years down the road—of spending his twilight years travelling around the world, sketching water lilies in Monet’s garden and painting giraffes lumbering across the African savannah; of the exact tints and brushstrokes with which he would recreate the peaks of the Andes, enshrouded in morning mist.
He strode into his office. “Good morning, Betty. Any messages for me?”
The receptionist looked at her notepad. “Got three. Mrs. Kwee called this morning to ask if you can issue her another prescription. She lost the one you gave her.”
“What for?”
“Posilex.”
“All right. Next message?”
“The son of James Floyd left a message last night asking for more information about his father’s breast cancer.”
“Say again?”
“The son of James Floyd wants to know about his father’s breast cancer.”
“James Floyd?” Dr. Loy’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “I haven’t seen or heard from him for over two years! He has cancer? Oh dear.”
“He left a number. Should I call him back?”
“No, no, I should talk to him. His son, you say? Didn’t know he had one. I’ll call him right away.”
“Here’s his number.” She handed him a slip of paper.
He thought for a moment. “Breast cancer?”
Betty shrugged.
“Oh dear. You know that’s very rare—breast cancer in men.”
Betty shrugged again.
“And what’s the third message?”
“Dr. Matthews wants to know if you’re still on for racquetball this evening.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’ll call him too. Thanks, Betty.”
“Eh, wait. One more thing.” Betty hefted a large stack of files from under the desk into his arms. “You asked for these yesterday.”
“Oof. Thanks.”
Loy staggered into his office and sighed. Somehow, the sight of his desk covered with medical journals, documents, and files never ceased to overwhelm him. Clearing a small space, he unloaded the slip of paper and files with a heavy thud. Then he rang up Dr. Matthews to confirm their racquetball game at the club.
Betty’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Loy, Mr. Stanley Ng is here for his appointment.”
He sighed. “Send him in.” He was very happy that it was Friday. He was looking forward to getting some painting done on the weekend.
James and Olivia Floyd sat side by side on the sofa in their living room, the coffee table covered in novels, magazines, newspapers, and empty mugs containing soggy tea bags. As Olivia typed busily on her laptop, James flipped through magazine after magazine.
“Damn it, Olivia, I’m bored,” James complained, tossing aside his two-year-old issue of The Economist.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Just treat it like a lazy Sunday afternoon.”
“But it’s not. It’s a Friday afternoon, and I am intolerably bored.”
“Do you want more tea?”
“No, damn it. I don’t want any more damn tea.”
“Well, you needn’t be so grumpy.”
“I’ll be as damn grumpy as I please. I don’t see why we have to stay home all the damn day long.”
“James, I told you,” Olivia said, lowering her voice. “We can’t risk him leaving.”
“Look, he already said he’s not going on the Quest. The boy may be stupid, but he doesn’t lie!” James stood up and began pacing around the room. “You know, I have a lot of work at the office that I could be doing right now.”
“You know, James, it’s not my fault that you forgot we agreed to stay in today. Some people brought their work home.” Olivia gestured at her laptop and documents.
James paused midstep and coldly eyed his wife. “Damn you.”
“Damn yourself. I’m going to make more tea.”
“Damn the tea too. And damn that boy. What’s wrong with him anyway? It’s four thirty in the afternoon and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed.”
“Who knows? Depressed, I suppose.”
They both cackled with glee.
Murgatroyd was indeed depressed. He was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up to his chin. There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by the sound of his mother’s voice.
“Murgatroyd, dear. Do you want me to make you a cup of Milo?”
“No thanks, Mum. I’m all right.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“What?”
“NO, I’M FINE.”
There was a pause. He heard his mother’s voice again. “Well, you needn’t shout. It’s bad enough that your father has cancer without you screaming at me.”
Murgatroyd rolled over onto his side and pulled the covers over his head. He knew that he should feel guilty for yelling at his mother. He also knew he should feel guilty about the resentment and exasperation which sat in his stomach like a ball of lead. But he didn’t. He felt unashamedly resentful and exasperated. And sick to his stomach. And ungrateful for the very bed he was lying in, and the hot water running through the pipes in his bathroom, and the miserable existence that his mother and father had given him. And he wanted to get away from this place, and he wanted to run away and meet Ann on Bedok Jetty. And he wanted to travel in the More Known World where it felt like home. And he hated stupid cancer and his stupid father and this stupid, stupid life.
And he felt selfish and childish.
And he felt trapped.
Trapped. He pulled the blankets around him tighter and began to feel drowsy with despair. Trapped . . . trapped . . .
The next thing he knew, there was a faint ringing sound in his ears and a voice yelling at him through the door. He must have dozed off.
“Murgatroyd! Can you get the phone?”
Even though it was never for him, even though the phone was in the kitchen, closer to them, and he was in his bedroom, it was his job to answer the phone. With the exaggerated sigh of a melodramatic teenager, he threw off the covers and got out of bed.
“Hello?”
“Ah, hello. May I please speak with . . . erh . . . Murgatroyd? Murgatroyd Floyd?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“The son of James Floyd?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Loy, returning your call. Unusual name, Murgatroyd.”
“Oh. Hello, Dr. Loy. Yes, I just called about—”
“Sorry, I meant to call earlier today, but I was busier than I thought, and then your number got lost on my desk, and then—”
“It’s okay. I just wanted to know about my father’s—”
“Ah yes, your father’s—oh dear, oh dear. Let me just say, I was so shocked when the secretary told me. I am sorry. How is your father, by the way?”
Murgatroyd felt confused. “Erh . . . he’s okay, I guess?”
“Oh good. Give him my best. We should really play racquetball sometime.”
“Erh. I don’t play racquetball.”
“Ha ha. Sorry, I meant
your father, not you.” Dr. Loy paused. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. You . . . you could play too, if you like.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
“Dear me. Sorry, again. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. Perhaps racquetball might not be the best, given your father’s condition.”
“Oh.”
There was silence, which was eventually broken by Dr. Loy’s voice.
“So . . . why did you call me?”
“Huh? Oh. I wanted to ask about my father’s cancer.”
“Yes, breast cancer. Very rare in men, you know. I am sorry. How is he taking it?”
Murgatroyd peered through the open door into the living room where his father was sitting, eating vanilla ice cream straight out of the container with a spoon.
“Erh. He seems okay. He was very sad a few days ago, though.”
“Yes, I can imagine. That’s terrible. Do you know how advanced it is?”
Murgatroyd frowned. “Sorry. Say again?”
“I said, ‘Do you know how advanced it is?’”
“What? Don’t you know?”
“Why would I know?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“He has cancer?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“No, no.” Murgatroyd took a deep breath. “He said that you said he has cancer.”
“Come again? I’m very confused. He does have cancer, doesn’t he?”
“Doesn’t he? I thought you knew!”
“I only got the news when you called. I haven’t seen your father for two years!”
“What?! But he said you told him he has cancer.”
“What? I never told him he has cancer.”
“I—”
A wave of dizziness swept over Murgatroyd. Leaning against the wall, he peered again at his father comfortably ensconced on the sofa, contemplating his spoon. A rivulet of melted ice cream dribbled slowly down his chin. James looked up and glanced in his son’s direction.
“Ah, dear boy! Glad to see you’re up and about, finally! Could you look in the fridge and see if we have any chocolate syrup?”
“I—”
“Who are you talking to?”
Murgatroyd stared at him. “You. You—”
“Yes, I know you’re talking to me,” his father said impatiently. “But who are you talking to on the phone?”
“You . . . you . . .” The phone fell from his hands and clattered onto the floor. Dr. Loy’s voice sounded faintly over the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”
Murgatroyd took a step in his father’s direction and pointed a trembling finger at him. “You don’t have cancer.”
James lowered his spoon. “Who told you that? Who was that?”
“It was Dr. Loy. You don’t have cancer.”
A look of panic crossed James’s face. Eying his son as he might a hungry wolf, James slowly set the ice cream carton down on the table. He called out to his wife. “Olivia!”
“I’m in the loo! What is it?”
“Olivia, just get out here now! Hurry!”
There was a flushing sound, and Olivia emerged, hands unwashed, from the bathroom. “James, what is it?”
James looked at his wife, then again at his son. “He knows.”
Olivia was quiet for a while. “How much does he know?”
“I don’t know,” James answered. With apprehension, they both regarded their son.
Murgatroyd couldn’t believe it. And yet, he could. He believed it, and moreover, somehow, he had known it all along. Staring at his mother and father’s faces, taking in their expressions of shock, dismay, nervousness, and a certain something else that had always been present but that he had never been able to quite figure out, Murgatroyd realized that he knew everything. He felt out of breath, lightheaded. As if the air around him had become thinner, as if his body were only barely anchored to the ground beneath his feet. Weightless. Stretching out his arms, he steadied himself against the kitchen door frame.
When he tried to speak, he choked, and tears sprang to his eyes. He tried again. The voice that came out of his throat was thin, small, pathetic. He knew what the certain something else was. And he wanted to know why it was.
“Why do you hate me?”
Much to their surprise, James and Olivia too felt the warm saltiness of tears running down their own faces. James answered truthfully.
“We don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Murgatroyd repeated. He was panting, sucking at the air in long, painful draughts. “How . . . how long?”
Olivia answered this time, as gently as she could, for it seemed as if the boy was going to collapse.
“Ever since you were born.”
Ever since you were born. The words astounded him. And somehow, he knew that too. Ever since I was born.
“So everything. Everything . . . sleeping on the floor . . . the salt . . . the games me and Dad used to play . . .” his voice gave out as, mentally, he penned an interminable list, a list with no end. The toilet incident at the YMCA. The food poisonings. The girls who never spoke to him again. The persistent, mysterious rash on his buttocks. The cheese problem in primary six. The terrible smell that lasted for three months. The haircut. The accident at the orthodontist. And how many more? Was it all of them? Where did it begin and where did it end? How had they done it all?
“We’re sorry, dear boy,” Olivia said. “We just can’t help it.”
With frightened eyes, they watched their son stand there for what seemed like an eternity, his scrawny body stretched out and suspended in the doorway like a delicate, trembling spider web. What could they have done differently? They couldn’t help it. He had to understand. They couldn’t love him. They could never love him.
Then, without a word, he went to his room. Half a minute later, he re-emerged, carrying a little plastic bag. He picked the phone receiver off the kitchen floor and dialled a number.
“Hello? I need a taxi. Goldenview Towers, 349 Stamford Lane. Going to Bedok Jetty, East Coast Park. Yes, I need it now. Okay. Thank you. Bye.”
“Murgatroyd, wait,” Olivia cried as he hung up the phone. “You can’t leave us.”
Standing in front of the door, he refused to look his mother or father in the eye. He stared determinedly at his feet, clenching his plastic bag in front of him with both hands. “Why not?”
“It’s true we don’t like you. But—”
James finished his wife’s sentence: “—we need you.”
Murgatroyd kept his eyes downcast. “You need me?”
James answered. “You’re the only reason for us.”
“‘For us’?” Murgatroyd asked. “What do you mean?”
James tried to explain. “Making your life . . .”
“. . . a living hell,” Olivia finished, bluntly. “It’s the only thing keeping us together.”
James chimed in again. “It’s the only thing that keeps us happy.”
Murgatroyd didn’t speak.
Cautiously, James walked over and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. Murgatroyd didn’t move away. James hesitated, then continued. “We . . . haven’t been good to you. We really tried, dear boy. We tried hard. But we couldn’t stop hating you. It was terrible for us.”
“Terrible . . .” Olivia murmured.
“Do you think we wanted to be like this? Do you think we wanted to hate our own child?” James gave his son’s shoulder an affectionate-like squeeze. “We can’t help who we are, Murgatroyd. But you—”
He searched for the right words to express what he truly felt. “But you’ve been good to us. More than good to us. You loved us, when you had no reason to. And . . . I know it’s true that we can never love you back—”
“We just can’t,” Olivia explained.
“But we appreciate it.” James nodded firmly to emphasize just how much he and his wife appreciated Murgatroyd’s love. “And we would appreciate it . . . appreciate it very much, if you stayed around.
Even though we don’t deserve it.”
“Without you, we’ll fall apart.”
Still staring at the floor, Murgatroyd lifted his father’s hand from his shoulder, and held it in his own. James was right. He did love them. He loved them very much. Even after all that they’d done to him, he couldn’t help it, the anger and love and pain all tearing at his chest at once. It seemed ridiculous, but he didn’t want to hurt them, didn’t want to leave them alone, miserable, in the shambles of their love for each other.
He gave his father’s hand a short squeeze, and then he slipped his feet into his orange flip-flops and left.
CHAPTER 21
“Uncle, can drive faster, please?”
“Young man, I drive as fast as I can, okay?” the driver snapped. “You want to get speeding ticket, is it? Then how?”
Murgatroyd glanced nervously at his wristwatch. Six forty-five. They would make it just in time. To relieve his anxiety, he began to count the hairs sprouting from the shiny dome of the taxi driver’s head. After counting seven, he couldn’t contain himself anymore.
“Uncle, how much farther?”
“Don’t worry, lah. Not very far.”
Murgatroyd twiddled his thumbs. This time, the driver spoke.
“Eh, young man. How come your accent like local one?”
“I grew up here.”
The driver contemplated this.
“So . . . your mother local, is it?”
“Erh, no. I went to local school.”
“Ah. I see.” There was another pause, as the driver mulled over this additional piece of information. “So . . . your father local, is it?”
“No, no. They’re both from England.”
The driver took a few moments to digest this.
“Ah, I see. From England, is it? British, is it? You know something? Between you and me, you British, not so bad, lah.” Briefly checking over his shoulder before exiting the freeway, the driver continued. “What’s past is past, right or not? Now we’re independent, not colony anymore, can be friends, what!” The driver chuckled to himself. “Eh, you British, right? You like football? I’m big Manchester United fan. You British play damn good football, what!”
“Uncle, stop here! Stop here!”
“What, here?”
“Yeah. Right here.”