by Carissa Foo
Thinking of the party, Lulu suddenly realised that she had leverage over the older woman. Every resident had her quirks and soft spots, even those fitted with nasogastric tubes had their preferred flavour of milk. One of Madam’s many idiosyncrasies was her love for parties.
Lulu looked to Mrs Dada and said resolutely, “No medicine, no party.” Confidence was brewing in her. She knew it was enough; she had won.
Mrs Dada caught the smirk on Lulu’s face. She did not want to bow down, especially not now since Lulu had a hold on her and was delighting in the reversal of power. Cheryl Dada hated to give in more than she wanted to be given way to.
Certain that her charge would take the medicine, Lulu left the cup and a bottle of water on the porch and went inside. It was time for lunch—time to be alone.
Mrs Dada waited until she was sure that Lulu was gone. Finding herself on her own, no longer interrupted, she relaxed her tense body and carefully lowered herself until she was able to feel the ground. She took off her sandals and slowly pulled her legs under her. Her calf muscles were stiff; the spindly legs did not seem to belong to her.
Sitting down, the view was different. Mrs Dada looked around: the walls stared hues of white and yellow back at her; the concrete was grey and slightly glistening. Sunlight perforated the space and cast light on the little plastic cup that was sitting beside her. The doctor had prescribed those pills for six months now but she could not tell whether they had done her any good. She emptied the cup into her hand, put all seven pills in her mouth and swallowed some water.
The pills left a powdery trail in her mouth and the bitterness affected her taste buds. The instructions should have indicated to take them after food rather than before, because now that Cheryl had swallowed the pills, she had lost her appetite and felt more infirm than before.
Cheryl Dada associated medication with weakness. Her mother told her she had a weak immune system and that she needed to be stronger because they could not afford the doctor. Despite her will, Cheryl was prone to sickness, especially as a child. Her mother must have felt that in many ways she was a burden—Cheryl was draining her inheritance money and insensible for her age, always talking to her dolls and reading the same few books over and over again.
From the pleats of her memory came a particular August night back in block 316. It was one of those vivid memories of her weakest self; one of those nights that often arrived swiftly and without notice. There she was, sprawled on the bed, nauseous from shame. She thought if she could sleep, the pain would go away, but no length of sleep could restore the holiness that had guarded her heart, the holiness marred by her self-efforts to get right with her Heavenly Father.
Since secondary school—be it St Joan’s or St Rita’s, where she had been transferred to—Cheryl had been trying to be righteous: she was serving in the worship ministry; she was a regular in her cell group; she was about to enter university. She was doing everything right but she was never perfectly sure of her salvation, for she could not forget what had passed.
Yet what was she missing exactly? Why did she keep longing for what she could not have? Cheryl was tired of striving, tired of keeping her head high when all she wanted to do was to sleep and forget. She needed to rest; she needed a good long rest. She took one pill, and then two more. Then she gathered the remainder of her strength and held up the last pill to the lambent light. It was pristine, almost sparkling. Like the rest, it was so smooth it glided down her throat.
Cheryl waited for the medicine to take the pain away. Her mouth was dry and bitter, and her arms were heavy. The glass of water on the bedside table was untouched. The ice was melting, the water still cold. The knitted coaster underneath the glass was soaked. Cheryl wanted a sip, but the water was clean and sacred. She dared not take what she did not deserve. The water, pure and transparent, was watching her, silently judging her. Like the apparition who was sitting by the wardrobe with both knees pulled up against its chest and hands fastened to its vague body. Its back was glued to the wall—how long had the ghastly figure been there? It was inching backwards, retreating and shaking its head. But where was it going? Where could it possibly go? Behind was an impossible wall and it had already etched itself onto it.
Cheryl Dada mumbled a name that clarified the night. “Sarah,” she said, and could not restrain a tinge of melancholy. A few times she repeated the name that stirred up in her a longing to hold fast to the face that was slowly vanishing; the face belonged to the figure that was scaling the wall of the room to get away from her only to reappear in the walls upon which her memory was built.
Everything was about Sarah. Like a birthmark, she was always already there. To know Cheryl was to know Sarah.
Cheryl Dada now saw her more clearly; the car park, the driveway, the round tables, the empty cup on the porch receded. The open space before her narrowed into a four-walled room. She saw Sarah there, and here, in the classroom on the second floor with the window overlooking the field. The exact year escaped her. It must have been around ’77 or ’78. The year the Carpenters released their greatest singles on cassette. Cheryl had this set in her mind because she had spent all her ang pow money on the tape to find out that “Only Yesterday” was not the same as “Yesterday Once More”. That was four dollars blown on the wrong compilation of songs. Though it was no one’s fault, Cheryl secretly blamed the band. Her interest in them began to wane from then on. It was also about that time that Karen Carpenter began losing much of herself and stopped playing the drums.
So it was that year, one rainy morning, they met in Home Economics class. The teacher was demonstrating how to pare and segment an orange. Up until this moment—Mrs Something was removing the rind—Cheryl had not noticed the new student who was sitting beside her.
Details were coming back to her. The moment of realisation, of discovering the unfamiliar figure sitting beside her, was one of delight mixed with horror. Cheryl was enchanted by the girl yet genuinely frightened by her sudden appearance. Where had she come from? When did she come into class? The other students did not seem surprised by the new addition at all. The nonchalance made Cheryl wonder if she was imagining things again. Around this time, her mother told her that badly behaved children who sinned against God were punished with the curse of the third eye. With fear Cheryl became hypervigilant about her surroundings, checking at all times that she was not afflicted with the visual abnormality. For a while she hid Doraemon and her white rabbit away lest they were demonic. She kept her eyes to the floor in case she saw what she was not supposed to see. Thus when Cheryl beheld the curious face in class that day, she assumed its owner was unreal.
The boyish figure was hunched over the table, staring dreamily at the teacher. (Mrs Something was trimming the pith.) From where Cheryl was sitting, the new girl boasted a strong jawline that narrowed into a full and haughty chin. As she propped her head up on one elbow, her tousled hair, more brown than black, fell to the side and revealed a childish face. Her nose reminded Cheryl of a button mushroom. It twitched when she sniffed. The new girl was set apart from the neighbourhood kids at St Joan’s—so how had she not noticed her earlier? Cheryl asked herself, as her gaze roved over the stranger who was stuffing stray wisps of hair behind her ear. She was outstanding, taller than most of them. The girl had a bronze tan that was unusual around here. Also, she was very lean, Cheryl noted. She would have been called sangpo, if not for the long and wiry arms that suggested that she played sports. Cheryl thought it was weird that her hands were darker than her face. Did she play basketball? But that was a boy’s sport. Maybe it was netball.
The memory was clear but confusing. She had come to herself through Sarah; yet it was as if she had come to herself after passing out, in a state of delirious torpor, reaching for something that was describable only in terms of its absence. Things do not have to be verifiable, just veritable. Upon waking, what Cheryl felt was real, but reality was in its vaguest form. Without form, Sarah had no consistency; her very existence was carr
ied by an eternal principle of confusion and absent-mindedness. Sarah was temperamental like that. Sometimes she was the villain, other times she cried victim, each image supplanting the other. It was as if Sarah preceded Sarah, and Cheryl did not know which version she preferred. Only even the worst version of Sarah was better than none of her.
It must have been nearly 40 years since the day they had met. The events of the day were escaping Cheryl Dada; flashes of the kitchen classroom slipped in and out of her mind. The air was now smelling like fresh orange. The little things of Sarah came rushing into the present, teasing her of better times, but would not stay long enough to take her back. When is the past ever enough for the present?
Why did she keep thinking, thinking? How did she get so good at thinking? Her mind could not stop; all that activity, that thinking turned her head grey. When she was younger she assumed it was Math that sucked the colour from her hair. Later in life she blamed it on precoital anxiety, prenatal stress, postnatal blues, post-postnatal blues. Now that she knew the real issue was her dramatic mind, next time she’d try feeling instead. She must stop thinking. Might as well, for soon it would become blur, as it always did when the effects of the seven pills kicked in.
Just then the watch struck two. It expelled the last vestige of Sarah from her memory. Cheryl Dada closed her eyes for a quick rest, though in the darkness she hungered for more to see. Then her mind was a blank. All she could hear was her heart pounding, more and more slowly, against the rhythm of the beeping watch.
IV
When she opened her eyes, the weather was still scorching. Mrs Dada remembered she was supposed to get the flowers. She had given up on the breeze and cool temperatures; also her light, airy top was not cooling at all. The sun was bent on burning this side of the island. Mrs Dada was beginning to see that she had no choice. Someone had to get the flowers, and since going to the Hub was no more an option and the sun was merciless, she might as well head to the garden now.
She put on her sandals, adjusted her chiffon top and slowly pulled herself up. She felt a little wobbly; her bad leg was acting up again. Maybe she should have listened to Clare and bought the walking cane after all. Cheryl Dada was starting to regret her decision. Some things were non-negotiable. Age was something that she could not fight; there was no use fighting the pain in her leg.
Arthritic fingers, swollen knee, gout, migraine—what was next? Hopefully death, she grumbled. Her arm reached for her knee and gave it a gentle rub. Not today, she beseeched her reluctant body.
She stiffened a little when she came to the edge of the porch, wondering which route she should take. She considered going for lunch but decided she was not hungry. Also, the thought of bumping into Lulu in the hall was sickening. It was too soon to be reminded of her defeat.
Looking at the clear driveway, Mrs Dada contemplated her choices. The long way, which was her usual path, had been barricaded to make room for the guests’ cars. She would have to go by way of the secondary route—a shortcut nonetheless—with less greenery and fewer squirrels. She did not mind it much, but for the dreadful slope.
Mrs Dada crossed from the porch to the driveway and walked parallel along the iron gate. As she walked, her fingers ran along the vertical bars, sounding a melodious dong dong dong that disrupted the quietude of the afternoon. Where was everybody? Where were the nursing and FM staff? Daniel said more people were put on duty today, but few were present. Lulu, she knew, was probably in the kitchen and Juwel was already gone. Daniel and Yu Yu were also not in sight. They were the most sensible ones, the heads of their departments, yet they too were missing.
Maybe they aren’t going to come tonight, she thought. They must have hated her for all her demands and extra requests. But it was important to her that the chairs had cushions on them; the wooden chairs were too hard to sit for long. The guests must be most comfortable tonight, she thought. As for the candles, they were necessary to light up the venue—those sharp white fluorescent lights were awful! She could not bear those void deck lights. She must have her vanilla-scented tea lights!
So it was a specific list, Cheryl admitted to herself, kicking the pebble that was in her way. What was wrong with wanting starry napkins and some flowers for the tables? The theme was red and white, stars and the moon—did they not get the memo? Tonight has to be perfect! Absolutely perfect!
Cheryl Dada walked to the pebble and kicked it harder. The pebble struck the security post window with a force that startled the sleepy guard.
“Hello!” The man stuck his head out of the stained window.
“Hello, Cheok,” said Cheryl. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay lah. Where you going? The weather so hot today,” said Cheok, holding a red battery-operated fan to his face.
“I’m going to get some flowers.”
“Flowers?”
“Yes,” said Cheryl, perturbed by the white blades that came very close to the security guard’s unshaven face.
“For what?”
“They are for the party tonight,” she said.
“Oh yah!” Cheok exclaimed. “Tonight big event… I think ang pows will also be very big this year. They cannot lose to last year. You think?”
Cheryl Dada smiled sagely.
“Must be lah. I think at least fifty,” Cheok went on. “Cannot be lesser than last year mah.”
“Fifty is good,” said Cheryl.
“Eh what kind of party flower you getting anyway?” asked the security guard.
“Lilies, maybe.”
Slouching back in his chair, he burst out: “Eh don’t get gek huay hor. That one for dead people!”
Cheryl kept quiet, slightly smiling when he dropped the fan in a fit of laughter.
“Also better don’t get jasmine. That one for praying!” Cheok guffawed, bobbing his head. “Fake flower also cannot hor!”
“Yes,” said Cheryl with finality. He looked like one of those Japanese fortune cats: bulging eyes and jovial and fat.
Cheok was still laughing, verily proud of his joke. Cheryl was unmoved by the bit of humour. She found him uncouth and vulgar. Perhaps it was because he never tucked his shirt in. And he did not wear socks. It was also the way he mispronounced words, like the time he kept saying “penis” when he meant “finish”, and how he said “supplies” instead of “surprise”. He also snorted when he laughed. What an old Ah Beng, she thought.
“Have you seen Daniel?” asked Cheryl in an abrupt tone.
“What?” Cheok reached down to pick up the fan.
“Daniel. Have you seen him?”
“Cheh. I still thought what are you saying… Daniel is with the Myanmar woman lah,” said Cheok, scratching his ear. “The nurse manager lor, who else.”
“Yu Yu?”
“Yah, Yu Yu,” he laughed. “I think they go Ang Mo Kio Hub buy drinks for tonight lah. They very gum you know—”
Cheryl said she supposed so.
“Aiya, I tell you that Yu Yu is—” Cheok paused, searching for the right word. “She is…how to say…” he tried again, putting the fan down.
She nodded detachedly, letting him go on.
How to say? Cheok thought harder, turning in his chair, looking left and right, as if the word were somewhere in the room. He was clicking his tongue. Tsk! What’s the word!
“You know what is gum or not?”
Cheryl declined to entertain him.
“Aiyo you don’t know ah? Gum…means like…”
She resented his tone. She could make out the thoughts forming in his mind and wished he did not find the words for them.
“You know what is lao niu chi nen cao?” asked Cheok hopefully.
Cheryl Dada shook her head.
Cheok glanced at her, wondering if she were Chinese. A Chinese who cannot speak Chinese? Funny leh, he thought. Dada’s a funny surname too. Even if she married an Indian, she shouldn’t forget her Chinese. What did she see in him? A big man who dresses like a geena, Cheok thought, recalling that her hu
sband always wore a colourful checked shirt when he visited. He could not understand Mrs Dada’s taste in men. It was just as well that she could not understand him too. Cheok guessed that their difference might be attributed to the fact that she was from an English school. One of those fake ang mohs.
Cheok was getting restless, rubbing the tip of his long pinkie nail. How to say? How to get her to understand?
Then, surrendering to the unbendable distance between them, for he thought in a different language from the one she spoke, he said, “Never mind lah. I also don’t know how to say. Later Daniel come back I will tell him to find you.”
He leaned back in his chair and picked up the fan again; she took it to be a sign that it was time to leave.
Cheryl Dada was relieved that the conversation was over. She waved a hand to say bye and continued walking. Daniel and Yu Yu must have gone to NTUC to get drinks, she thought remotely, as she passed by the iron gate again. She was pleased that they did not forget about the drinks and they were coming to her party tonight.
Daniel is on top of his job, she thought, walking around the set tables in the car park, and touching their surfaces to check if they were wiped down properly. He has grown so much, she thought again smilingly, pleased about his advancement and that there was not a speck of dust on the tables.
For the longest time Cheryl was worried for him. His degree in Social Work did not teach him how to manage people who were much older than he. He’ll be out of here in a month, she remembered thinking at that time. He was 23 when he first arrived; his cheeks were still pink and glowing. How’s this boy going to run the place? Cheryl had thought when she saw him stepping out of the taxi in his oversized suit and sneakers, and walking up to her and smiling genially. She was positive that HR made a mistake.
