by Ning Cai
I stare at their still photo-captured faces in silence. It feels all too surreal.
Lightning flashes above our heads, followed by rolling thunder. It is raining again and I am thankful for my warm hoodie, which used to be slightly baggy but is now a perfect fit on my lanky frame. Underneath it, my tank top stops just below my flat midriff. Thankfully my jeans still fit, though the cuffs end just above my skinny ankles. My black Doc Martens combat boots, with red roses in full bloom embroidered on the black leather, were once a size too large, but now fit me nicely. Dad purchased them online three years ago, accidentally getting the size wrong, for the last birthday I remember celebrating.
“Go ahead, Max, speak to them,” Luce says, giving me an encouraging smile as she points her sharp chin at my family niche. “They say that the dead can still hear the living.”
I have heard that saying before, maybe even read about it in a book a long time ago. But the words just aren’t coming through right now, even though I miss them so much. The hurt pulsates deeply in my chest.
“I don’t know what to say.” I sigh in frustration, wishing I’d thought about getting some fresh flowers for all three empty vases before we came to this remote columbarium. “This is all so weird. I mean, a big part of me is still hoping that this is all just a bad dream I’m going to wake up from.”
The wind howls again, like a melancholy lone wolf singing a tragic love song of longing and despair for the ink-dark moon. Even with my friends beside me, I feel a cold stab of loneliness I cannot explain.
“Write them a letter,” CK suggests quietly, his arms folded tight against his chest.
I turn to look at my best friend, rubbing his arms thoughtfully as another gust of wind blows across our faces, kissing us lightly with speckles of monsoon rain entering from the large open windows. “Huh?”
“All that fanfic you wrote, remember?” CK says. “The stuff you made me read but didn’t dare post because of what the haters might say.” He gives an easy shrug of his sloping shoulders. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ve always been good with words, since the first day I met you in primary school. So why don’t you pen your family a letter and write down all the things you need to say.”
“You know what, that’s a great idea!” Luce says, nodding her approval. “CK is right. Writing’s always been therapeutic for you, Max. So why not make that part of the journal project which Dr Wijeysingha encouraged you to do.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.” I exhale, shoving both hands deep into my pockets. “Thanks.”
Above our heads, another loud clap of thunder booms and I feel the resounding force of its powerful vibration through the rough stone floor beneath our feet.
“I think we should probably go soon,” CK says, peering outside at the size of the ripples made in the nearby pond by the falling rain. “Before it really starts to come down. I’ll book us an Uber,” he says, pulling out his bright and shiny new iPhone X.
“Soon,” I tell him, digging my own mobile phone out from the snug back pocket of my jeans. CK seriously eyeballs the iPhone 4 in my hand. It looks embarrassingly puny, an antique from a distant past that pales in comparison to CK’s miracle of technology. The iPhone 4 used to belong to my mother, and it still stores some of her favourite tunes. Even though I could easily get the latest model from the Apple store, keeping this relic makes me feel close to my family. Like they’re still here with me.
When Aunt Theresa found my phone and passed it to me before we went to settle the hospital bills and complete the official discharge papers earlier this morning, I tried charging up its dead battery. Cripplingly slow, it took forever, but I was eventually able to change the wallpaper to a photograph of the family at the last vacation we took together in Tokyo during the school holidays, when it unexpectedly snowed. It was the very first time I saw snow, and it was like magic.
Moving down the song list now, I find what I am searching for: “Take Me to Your Heart”. Mom’s favourite sappy love ballad from her all-time favourite pop music group, a 90s Danish boy band by the name of Michael Learns to Rock; it always puzzled me why they called themselves that when no one was called Michael in the band. The easy soft rock beats of the song start to play, and I remember Mom fondly sharing that it was actually an adaptation of a famous Chinese hit by a Hong Kong singer whom she loved growing up. But then the battery icon of the iPhone 4 suddenly flashes red and the screen goes black.
“They don’t write songs like that any more,” Luce quietly muses, leaning sombrely against the stone pillar with her eyes shut. I nod my head in agreement and sigh wearily as I tuck the old phone back into my pocket. I really will need to get a new battery installed.
Reaching up to wipe away fat drops of rain from the frozen faces of my family with the back of my sleeve, I feel a dull throbbing ache in my heart as I study them quietly. Who did this to us? And why? I need to find the answers, if only I have the chance.
“Okay, our Uber is arriving in two minutes,” CK says, shaking me from my deep reverie. He flips his shaggy fringe out of his eyes as he glances up from his phone, which is well-protected in a bright green TMNT phone case; he always has been a huge fan of those four heroes in a half-shell. CK abruptly does a double-take and squints hard at something in the distance behind me. “WTF?”
The look of alarm on his face perplexes me and I turn to see: an advancing horde of hungry journalists with their flashing cameras pointing in our direction. A boisterous reporter waving a microphone hollers my name and I realise they must have learnt I was just discharged from the hospital. Pushing off the pillar she was leaning on, Luce breaks into a sprint towards the exit. “Come on, we have to go!”
I take off after Luce, who is already heading down the stairs. CK follows close behind me, and we flee the frightening mob just in time, jumping into the small silver car CK points out. From the safety of the back seat as our ride swiftly pulls away, we watch the flurry of reporters stare at us like despondent zombies.
“That was scary,” CK says, slouching down low in his seat. “You okay?”
I nod, catching my breath.
“Damn tabloids,” Luce says, sitting in the middle. She crosses her arms, irritation written all over her pretty face. “Seriously, just how desperate are they to sell newspapers?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning back to peek at the receding group, a murder of crows gradually disappearing behind us. “Damn tabloids.”
“Everybody wants your story,” CK says. “Last week, Jon told me that the executive editor of The Temasek Times offered your aunt a big chunk of money for an exclusive, but instead of granting the man an interview, she chased him out of her restaurant!”
I stifle a grin, imagining Aunt Theresa in her feminine sarong kebaya and dainty beaded slippers throwing the pompous man out of her restaurant. Over the last month, I have come to realise that despite coming in “fun size”, Mom’s little sister is one tenacious woman, having raised Jon all by herself while also running the family business that my mother had no interest in.
Following her A-Levels, she had planned to attend the National University of Singapore to study political science after a gap year travelling Europe, but instead gave birth to Jon and took over My Sayang. I recall Dad telling us that there was plenty of drama as Aunt Theresa refused to tell her mother and sister who the baby’s father was, and decided that managing a Peranakan restaurant made more sense than blindly chasing after a paper qualification she wasn’t exactly crazy about. Aunt Theresa is an amazing and modern woman, showing me that the concept of family truly does come in different permutations, and not just the traditional form. Unpretentious, gutsy, unapologetically vocal and way more street-smart than anyone I know. And Jon has turned out more than okay.
“Sure you don’t want to reconsider staying with them?” Luce asks.
Her question brings me back to the moment. I purse my lips and slowly shake my head, honestly uninterested in staying with my aunt and cousin at the old heritage shopho
use that once belonged to my late grandmother. I am truly excited about going back home. In fact, sleeping in my own bed has been the main motivation for getting better since I woke up from the coma.
Our driver suddenly comes to life, grunting softly as he reaches over to turn up the volume on the radio. Exchanging glances, we take it as our cue to keep quiet in the back of the car.
“…though no one has yet claimed responsibility for the murders that have shocked the nation over the last six days, authorities have officially confirmed this to be the work of the same serial killer. Investigators are working around the clock, and while police investigations are underway, the public is reminded to stay vigilant and to contact the police immediately to report any suspicious activity. More updates coming your way as this story develops. Maureen Lum, reporting for 938NOW.”
The storm eases to a drizzle as our car comes to a stop. We climb out and I stare at the façade of the simple two-storey terrace house I have known all my life. There is something off about the shade of paint on the exterior walls, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. The main gate looks shorter, and even the carport where I first learnt how to ride my bicycle after Dad took off the training wheels now looks a whole lot smaller. The tyres on our vintage Morris Minor are flat, and the car seems tinier than I remember. The little garden that my parents were so proud of is now badly overrun with weeds. Our bougainvillea tree is still flowering despite the gross neglect, but the white stone pagoda below it is chartreuse with velvety moss. Everything feels unreal, like my real house has been carelessly reproduced in a virtual reality game.
“Hey, ready when you are,” CK gently prompts.
Beside him, Luce nods and gives me a tight smile. With my friends behind me, I swing open the rusty gate—the same one I helped Dad paint when I was 10, gone to rust after the house was abandoned—and walk through.
The front door still displays the badly discoloured Year of the Goat poster celebrating the 2015 Lunar New Year, which my parents never got to take down. I reach up to pull off the tired decoration, but upon looking again at the innocently grinning zodiac animal clutching a welcoming scroll in its comical cartoon hoofs, I stop and reconsider, eventually deciding to leave the poster alone. I insert the key into the lock and push the door open.
A zephyr of staleness greets us as the wooden door creaks inward, and we enter in silence. The dark pencil markings by the door jamb still chart my and Danny’s heights over the years. Taking care not to rub them away, I carefully trace Mom and Dad’s distinct handwriting. Looking now at the way my parents scribbled on the pale beige wall of our narrow hallway, I realise that I never quite noticed or took care to appreciate it before. Mom had an elegant, flowing cursive style of writing, while Dad wrote in large, blocky letters, a very telling indication of their different physiques and personalities. The last time my parents measured me was on my fifteenth birthday, before our entire world was shattered.
On a whim, Mom and Dad had measured each other’s height as well, and according to the red pen marks on the wall, I am now much taller than my petite mother, closer to my father’s tall frame marked out in a neat blue line. A shadow of a smile comes to me as I remember Mom having to carefully perch herself on a stool just to get up there.
Walking down the hallway, I stretch out my arms and allow my fingers to gently brush the dusty walls, leaving long trailing streaks as I make my way into the living room. I feel my heartbeat quicken. A large, clear plastic sheet has been thrown over the leather sofa; our white marble floor, which Mom always kept polished and pristine, is now marred with dull curlicues of sienna and dirty ochre in places, the residue of spilled lifeblood. I bite my lower lip and scuff the sole of my shoe over the ominous splotch of red; it refuses to go away.
Moving towards the dining area, I notice a similar dark patch of red marking the formerly perfect white marble, so I decide to skip the dining room and kitchen. Instead, my tour continues upstairs. I trace my fingertips along the railing of our parquet staircase, hearing the all-too-familiar squeak of the top step once I reach the second storey. The sound comforts me. At least some things stay the same.
Luce and CK follow me as I peek into the master bedroom, where Danny used to sleep with Mom and Dad. I feel terrible about it now, having teased my little brother about his bed-wetting problem all the time. The room looks pretty much the same, yet feels so very different. The wallpaper seems old and tired, and the vibe of the entire space is cold, empty, untouched. Like the room hasn’t had laughter in it for a long time.
My hands get clammy when I stop at my door. Reaching out for the doorknob, I stop short when I suddenly remember the massive row I had with Mom about my lack of privacy many years ago, since I wasn’t allowed to have a lock on my bedroom door. It all ended quite dramatically, with me slamming the door shut and blasting Taylor Swift until Dad, who hardly ever got angry, put a stern stop to my teenage angst.
Seeking the courage to open the door, I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. Goosebumps appear on my arms and I notice the hairs standing on end, but I don’t know why. CK places a reassuring hand on my left shoulder, and Luce on my right. Exhaling slowly, I close my fingers around the doorknob, twist it, then open it to step into my bedroom. In three long strides, I reach the mauve window drapes and yank them open, allowing pale light from overcast sky to flood into the room, illuminating the gifts from Uncle Kayne, Dad’s brother, the concert promoter: a generous collection of signed posters on my violet walls from Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez, Justin Bieber, Sam Smith and One Direction.
My bedroom also acted as the family library, and my sports trophies, mostly awarded for various parkour competitions, line the crowded shelves filled with books. Danny’s tattered superhero comics and dog-eared manga; Mom’s pristine paperbacks by Keigo Higashino and Haruki Murakami, which look like they still belong on the neat shelves of Books Kinokuniya; Dad’s well-thumbed reads by Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett and JRR Tolkien; along with my treasured collection of the poets of my generation: Lang Leav, Sarah Kay, Amber Tamblyn, Rupi Kaur.
There is an odd discolouration on the wall next to the bookcase. I close my eyes and press my palm against the tall rectangle of purple, trying to remember what was there before. Another wall poster? No. Not quite. My eyes open.
It was my wall mirror. The one I would stand in front of to braid my long hair every morning before my parents dropped me off at school. My fingers graze the dark purple perimeter and I suddenly recall that strident explosion of a million shards of light.
A piece cuts me.
Just above the left eye.
There is blood.
Lots of it.
“Dude.” CK’s concerned voice brings me back to the present moment. “You okay?”
I nod weakly and sit on the corner of my bed. Dust motes rise as my bum touches the mattress, speckling the fading light from the window. A big part of me feels like crying, like drowning myself in an ocean of tears, but I can’t. It just doesn’t happen. My head hurts and so does my heart and it is getting harder to breathe. But still, the tears don’t come.
“Hey, take it easy, Max,” Luce whispers. “We’re here for you.”
I look back up at the empty space where my mirror used to be, wishing I could punch something. Maybe breaking something will make me feel better. I scrub my face angrily with my hands, once again feeling that hateful scar slashed across my eyebrow. I ball my hands into fists, squeezing them so tight that my knuckles turn white.
“What happened? Who hurt me? And killed Mom, Dad and Danny? Why? Why would anybody want to do that? And how do the police still not know who did it? The murderer is out there, somewhere, a free man! While today, I paid my final respects to my family. It’s not fair!”
“You’re right. It’s not,” CK says, squatting so that our eyes are level. “We’ll find out who did this to your family and make sure they pay for what they did, I promise. But right now, you really shouldn’t be alone h
ere by yourself.”
“Yeah,” Luce nods at me. “C’mon, Max, listen to CK. You know he’s right.”
Tucking his long fringe behind his ear, clearly revealing the large port-wine stain he was born with, CK looks up at me with a small smile playing on his lips.
“You know, I actually do have a surprise for you. There’s someone I really want you to meet right now. Let me take you?”
I look around at a room that no longer seems to be mine. In a house that feels like a stranger’s. The decision is too easy.
FOUR
CK IS BEING extremely mysterious about the surprise he has in store for me, to the point that he completely ignores my requests for clues. Luce and I follow him back to his place, which I have walked to countless times, to the point where even the condominium’s security guards and neighbours still recognise me. Apparently, punching the much feared school bully on your first day of Primary One, for needlessly picking on your scrawny, defenceless classmate for the birthmark on his face, automatically scores you a week’s worth of after-school detention with the disciplinary mistress, a special closed-door meeting for your less-than-thrilled parents with the school principal, and some kind of legendary status and mad respect from your peers for your entire student career. And, most importantly, a best friend for life.
After stepping out of the small lift and walking towards CK’s unit, I pick up the sound of a familiar bark and the unmistakable noises of enthusiastic furry paws scratching on the other side of the door. My heart leaps to my throat and my breath catches right away. The excited canine barking gets progressively louder, and the impatient pawing against the wood turns more frantic.
“He’s never like this. I think he knows you’re here,” CK says as he jingles the house keys and pushes open the heavy teak door. “Get ready now.”