by Carissa Foo
What was Choon Eng thinking about when she painted that? Cheryl wondered meditatively, remembering the droopy eyelids that veiled the woman’s pretty black eyes. They were eyes that reflected the weariness of one whose brightness had been robbed by youthful afflictions, eyes that saw the world as regal and peace-loving despite what they’ve had to see.
Choon Eng’s sea was iridescent purple. Perhaps it was the cataracts that had turned the reds muddy. Perhaps she had imagined a version of the red sea—she used to be religious and wore an ostentatious gold crucifix around her neck. Or perhaps it was the sea that had asked to be painted. The waves were accentuated with spikes to show that the waters were ever moving; the outline was made bold in a red shade of purple, almost maroon, as if the sea were impenetrable. Over and over the paintbrush swept across the surface of the canvas producing a thick and uneven patch of sky with melding hues of purple and pink. Because Cheryl had inspected the painting countless times, she could roughly separate the purple sky from the purple sea. But it seemed to her that ambivalence was good and the division was unnecessary. Purple is as red as pink to the dead anyway.
Whether art therapy was advantageous to the old folks was disputable. What was supposedly really helpful were the geropsychologists: John Pitts and Barbara Smart. They were the expats with professional expertise hired to increase the quality of residential life. But they only came in thrice a week and knocked off exactly at five when they did. They were not available in the middle of the night, when help was most needed. Sometimes there would be wails in the wee hours of the night and then they would stop before one could identify the source; sometimes the sound of glass shattering woke the home and then it would cease as abruptly as it began. Those who were nosy and agile would hurry out of their rooms and find no commotion. The whole place was suddenly and serenely empty of noise. Not even the sound of people snoring. Rage was real but hushed. The home was hushed.
For better or worse, it was Judy Chua who would break the eerie silence of the night and the peace of the day. Hers was a high-pitched and grating voice that could cut through the wooden doors and pierce you in the temples, causing many to roll their eyes when she spoke. Judy Chua—they called her Chor Lor—lived on the ground floor of block A. It’s A for Apricot, though some say it’s A for Atas; yet Judy Chua was neither sweet nor uptown. She was, however, powerful—powerful enough to secure a prime room with a small private garden in the most expensive block. At 81 she had rank and years on her side. She could do no wrong, and she did no right. Her mouth was a terror—and it was not just the blatant spitting of phlegm on other people’s shoes. Cursing was her way of talking: her punctuations, accents, exclamations. What angered Judy Chua the most was if someone looked her way and the eyes lingered. Even to a look of adoration, she would throw back a death stare and start cursing. “Kan ni na kua si mi?” Her mouth would widen as she spat the words: “Kua si mi lan chiao?” as if to devour completely the transgressor.
“That woman swears like a trooper,” said Cheryl Dada to herself, shaking her head at the thought that they lived in the same block. Even Judy Chua’s gestures were vulgar. Once she had grabbed a broom to hit at Juwel, who was trimming the grass patch outside her door, and did not stop until the nurses strapped her down. Chor Lor… Was that Teochew? Boy, did she earn her name.
The spiralling thoughts brought Cheryl Dada to the firm conclusion that she was not the worst of the lot. She might not be a saint but she was nowhere as uncouth and disrespectful as Judy Chua, and not nearly as inconsiderate as Chin Siew Eng. And even if she were as bad as people thought, at least she wasn’t the only one. People ought to remember that. Not all old people are the same, Cheryl thought to herself. The word left a nauseating residue in her mouth.
“Ou…ouh…” she shaped her lips as if to whistle a tune. Although the topic of age was not taboo in the home, it was seldom discussed because it was dull. Age, to many adult women, after all, is a relative and pointless calculation.
In the home, there were women in their fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, a handful in their nineties, and three centenarians. Quite unlike in the garden-variety old folks’ homes, there were a good number of residents in their forties, a couple in their late thirties even. Felicia Phua, for instance, was 40 and Siew Eng had turned 43 last week. They weren’t old old, certainly not as old as Auntie Ah Luan or Mrs Rohan; they were just damned enough to be here.
Felicia, plagued with severe kyphosis, who had been in a wheelchair since she was 33, was known around the neighbourhood as the Hunchback of Ang Mo Kio. As for Siew Eng, the woman was a one-legger: her right leg had been amputated after a freak car accident on the winding slope of the Cameron Highlands. Still more damned: Felicia used to be a competitive runner in school and Siew Eng, a tour guide. Both had relied a great deal on their legs. Thank God, they had met in the home and bonded through prayers to Saint Servatius—the patron for those with foot troubles.
Much like Cheryl Dada, they were women whose lives became associated with those of the invalid, damned, handicapped, infirm and spouseless. Regardless of age, they all gathered in the home. The three of them were part of the small minority, barring the Malay and Indian ladies. They were the English type who preferred to say “fuck” and “shit” and “damn it”, and watched Wheel of Fortune instead of Channel 8 soaps. Nothing like the other Chinese women who spoke Hokkien and Cantonese, and who swore just as much, if not more.
Cheryl stood by the conclusion that she was not the most vulgar one in the home. Besides, English could never sound as crass as Hokkien. But her face grew solemn as she contemplated this more: for how could someone be vulgar when she mostly spoke Hokkien? To say she was vulgar would be racist—or “dialectist”. If so, was it right of them to call Judy Chua Chor Lor? Was it right of them to call her geh ang moh? Why did they assume she spoke Mandarin and Malay? Some even thought that she knew Indian—she had to correct them: “Indian is the ethnicity. Tamil is the language,” and then clarify that she did not speak Tamil. But their faces remained bewildered, others suspicious.
Unlike those who spoke dialects—and there were many in her generation—Cheryl Dada only knew English. She could manage a bit of Teochew, as much as her grandmother had taught her, a few words in Mandarin and Malay; but Hokkien she could not speak. Her grandmother told her it was unladylike. “Ah Le, you don’t be chor lor like them ah,” she warned. “Better don’t be like them.” Cheryl never knew exactly who “they” whom her grandmother spoke against were. Sometimes they were the rowdy neighbour boys, sometimes they were the hawker uncles.
Anyhow, she promised her grandmother that she would not be like them. She had never sworn while the old lady was alive. It was only after her arrival at the home that Cheryl began to pick up the curses. For one abides in the colonial language, not swear in it. Unless it was “bakero”, which was the exception, because her mother had used it all the time. She said the Japanese were always shouting “bakero”; they came knocking at her door and spat “bakero” at her mother when she let them in. That they shouted “bakero” when they left her crying. Cheryl had always thought her mother was quoting the soldiers verbatim. It was only when she was older, after taking a survey course in Asian History, that she realised what her mother had been trying to tell her. She understood then the grit in her mother’s voice when she told her those bedtime stories, the swift hand that switched off the radio whenever “Sukiyaki” came on.
“Damn this sun!” said Mrs Dada, feeling the heat wrapping around her. Her fringe was falling onto her forehead; half a can of hairspray was not enough to hold her hair on this muggy day.
Also, the haze was back. The news said the PSI reading was 70. That was a lie, for Cheryl Dada smelled the char in the air. Looking up at the vacuous sky, she felt an impulse to pray. The old habit returned carelessly to her. She found herself searching the sky for signs of a divine being, someone who would make it rain, provide shelter and refuge from the tireless sun; but the firmament hung de
tachedly above her, mostly clear and blue. No sign. No God; nothing came, as usual.
Cheryl Dada wanted many things in her life. But recently she had been latching on to the littlest things—as though she could be easily pleased. For instance, she had been all excited about learning French earlier this year. Daniel had told her that everyone was given a $500 credit to pick up a new skill (“It’s a government initiative to help develop the best in us,” he said), and she immediately decided that it would be a language. But not Korean—which was what most of the women in the home wanted to learn. Cheryl never got into those cheesy Korean soaps like the rest of them. She would rather spend the afternoon walking aimlessly than sit through one episode of people crying and falling ill and dying in car crashes. Wasn’t the world dead enough, the home depressing enough? She could not understand why so many people would crowd in the TV room for romance. Neither could she understand why Clare was into Korean dramas when the fair-skinned, chiselled men did not interest her.
If Cheryl Dada were to learn a language, it would most certainly be French. Much to everybody’s surprise, two other women were also interested. Lulu was too, but she did not count because she was neither a resident nor Singaporean. Cheryl Dada was suspicious of Felicia and Siew Eng; she thought that they only wanted to get out of the neighbourhood. The younger ones often had the most mischief up their sleeves. Some aunties called the pair Che Lun Jie Mei: Felicia was always itching to relive the thrill of speed, while Siew Eng would sit herself in any vehicle just to get a lift out to buy cigarettes.
Even though three names were put down, Daniel warned her that it was going to be difficult to get people to sign up for something as exotic as French; in fewer words, she should not get her hopes up. He explained to her that Management would not want to arrange transport for only three people and they did not have the funds to bring in instructors to conduct the classes. He was right: plans for the French class fell through. It was about practicality; nothing personal. He was right again: nothing’s personal here.
If Management really wanted to talk about practicality, then what was practical about giving a woman like herself $500 in credit? She’d much rather have the cash. Exactly how practical was it for her to learn something? Daniel suggested dance: “It’s trendy and fun. Be an active ager!” He gave her a list of courses including hand jive, Chinese fan dance and ballroom dancing, but it was clear he included those only because they were convenient. The Chinese dance group met every Tuesday in the multi-purpose hall and the hand jive class rehearsed in the common room of block B on Wednesday mornings. There was less paperwork, fewer arrangements to be made if she took up dance. Daniel’s optimism must not be confused with genuine concern, although Cheryl could not deny that he was one of the feeling ones. She was thinking about how he had kept yawning and scratching his eyes so that no one would notice that he was tearing up at Choon Eng’s service.
“The little things…” she mumbled, putting her hands together. “God, I would like some clouds,” she said. It seemed the most practical thing to ask for; and if practical enough, it might be granted to her. All Cheryl Dada wanted this very moment as she stood on the porch was some relief. She wished the sun would go away. Clouds would be very nice; a drizzle would be nice too—anything to freshen up the lazy afternoon. It should rain soon; there’s no such thing as drought in this country. Was that why the old specky said cool temperatures expected? Was he calling it into existence? Perhaps they were going to make it rain with those calcium salt things.
Argh, this fucking heat, Cheryl Dada let out in her mind. No way she was going to walk to the garden today. No way she was going to pass by potty-mouthed Judy Chua to get to the other side. No way she was going to get into a fight today.
“No, I’m not getting the flowers,” Mrs Dada said, looking over to Lulu, who was busy setting up the tables in the parking lot. Her feet were starting to sweat.
At this moment a couple of passing clouds smudged the blue sky. Funny how they had sneaked in and filled up the sky, and the air was suddenly cooling down. Even so, the sun seemed to be chasing her with a dogged pertinacity. It made her peachy skin flare up and her lips dry. On days like today, Mrs Dada thought resignedly, even the clouds don’t help.
And, she thought with conviction, she could not brave the heat for the flowers, for she would not be able to stand it. Anyway, the Hub was too far and her only escort was ignoring her. The other option was the garden. It was reasonably near and she did not need permission to go on her own. Also—and this was probably the best part about today—she had the freedom to roam around and could spend more time in the garden or her room because the hourly care plan was not enforced on public holidays and special occasions.
Still, Cheryl thought, if she were to make her way to the garden, near as it was, she might develop a rash from walking under this sun. Her skin was easily irritated lately and she had had enough of those antihistamines—they made her sleepy all day.
Examining the pink patch near her right elbow, Mrs Dada thought about eczema and melanoma, but decided the rash was too mild to be an augury of cancer. There was neither blood nor suspicious moles. It could not have been acne, she persuaded herself. Surely she was past the age for that. Must remember to ask for QV, she noted silently. And prickly heat powder too.
Looking to the parking space tucked away in the corner of the driveway, it occurred to her that transport might also be an issue. Her ride was giving way—well, it was technically her mother’s; Cheryl Dada had inherited it when her mother acquired one of those motorised wheelchairs. The wheels were wonky; the seat cushion was wearing thin. She must remember to get Lulu to see to it. This time she would ask for a brand-new one, preferably American. No more second-hand stuff, she promised herself. Definitely no more bakero Japanese brands.
But it was not up to her. The actual purchase was subject to Management’s approval and its preposterously long red tape. They took weeks to go over simple forms and urgent requests, forgetting that time was not a luxury in the home. Many of the residents still remembered Auntie Ah Luan. She had been the first of them, in the home for 29 years, respected for her seniority and life experiences, loved for her unflagging warmth and generosity—especially for her never-ending supply of Khong Guan biscuits that she always gave away freely. Auntie Ah Luan was a typical genial granny: small, slightly hunched, had white hair tied up in a bun and wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. Though she carried a hypertensive heart and the cartilages in her joints were wearing away, she never had the slightest hint of fatigue or bitterness.
An image of Auntie Ah Luan staggering along the garden path slowly came to Cheryl Dada, vivid as if it had happened yesterday. She was one of the first people whom Cheryl befriended; Ah Luan was a dear auntie and confidante to her. The 93-year-old lady loved nature and the sun; weeding was her favourite thing to do in the afternoon. The joy of working in the garden was what propelled her to put in the request for mobility aid in the first place, even though she was shy to use a wheelchair. “Jin pai seh, jin siu li,” were her exact words. The garden, all for the garden.
Management took so long to process the purchase. They claimed that they needed to send for a qualified assessor to evaluate her condition before approving the request for an assistive device. Couldn’t they see that ageing was not a social problem but a sentimental one? For God’s sake, the old lady was confined to her bed! She could not move her legs—what more proof did they need?
Auntie Ah Luan spent her last days in bed. She did not get to smell the pandan she planted or feel the warmth of the sun. She died in her sleep, in a room without a view. The wheelchair arrived two days later and was allocated to Mrs Rohan.
The lesson was loud and clear. Auntie Ah Luan’s death reminded the rest of the residents that time was not on their side. Their Casio watches synchronised to a common time beeped on, with or without their owners. The hours of decay pursued them to the fatal climax, the clock soldiered on after each denouement.
&
nbsp; Even though Mrs Dada did not really need the wheelchair, she wanted to have it changed. It was hitting the 10-year mark anyway. Wasn’t 10 years the standard usage period for vehicles? She wondered why people made such a big deal out of it. Daniel was miffed about the predicament of his car too. He’d been trying to sell his beat-up Mazda for some time now, but there were no takers. Even Keng Boon, the old clerk who was usually contented and placid, had been so worried about his ageing car that he had to take a leave of absence. He reappeared a week later with a fresh haircut and brown-dyed hair as though his recently-bought Picanto had given him a new lease of life.
The expiring COE was haunting the men who shuddered to think about their cars becoming valueless when they hit the 10-year mark. It seemed to Cheryl Dada that a pandemic called Time (whose catchline went something like, “No time already lah!” or “Still got time meh?”) had spread throughout the nation, and the men were wearing mechanical watches in their minds while the women had biological clocks sewn onto their wombs to avert the First World phenomenon known as depopulation or, to use the term Clare had taught her, voluntary childlessness.
Mrs Dada stared at the watch on her wrist. It looked like it belonged to a man. She did not understand cars and the other things that made men happy, but she assumed that an opportunity to buy a new car would be welcomed by most people. A decade seemed like a reasonably long time, long enough to collect substantial dents and dirt, so why did people not jump at the opportunity to change their cars? How long were they intending to keep their rides for—until the bumpers fell off? Anyway, when things get old they ought to be scrapped, she thought, running her eyes over the rusty silver on the rims of her wheelchair. And after all, 10 was the number of perfection, of an entire cycle, of… Of what? Mrs Dada could not remember.
