by S. L. Lim
She wants to throw up but isn’t very good at it. She stuffs her fingers down her throat, but her gag reflex must be located too far down. She hunches over the toilet for a while, then goes to her room and lies there with the blanket on her face.
There’s nothing else left for her now, so like a drowning person happy to drown, she sinks back into her schoolwork. If she can’t have Shuying, then at least she can have a life. Knowledge, competence – and one day, she hopes, even independence. She can’t stand the thought of growing up to be like her mother, at the mercy of a hypothetical husband: his moods and his money, his skills at life, his competence at business or lack thereof. But then, being her father doesn’t seem very attractive either: provincial enough to be boring even to other provincials, a head full of trivial arithmetic, extreme distress over sums of money which an even moderately comfortable family would laugh off. The best things in life are very far from free. She wants learning, travel, experiences; a chance to get knowledge, to create real art. These require education and money, or money and education, in that order. Money is the escape velocity, money is the rocket that will free you from the gravity of this world. Where people die where they’re born, and are born where they die, wherever chance decided arbitrarily they should be.
She helps out in the family shop, working with her father. When she was little they were close; she has a memory of him feeding her, a sticky lick of sweetened condensed milk from the back of a spoon. As she got older he drew back with a stuffy, conscientious look, as if afraid to be debased by the work of a young girl growing: he seemed to ascribe to her an exaggerated femaleness, all hair ties and periods. Now they meet again over an exercise book and pages of figures. At first, he watches on with effortful patience, humouring her, as she explains how to adjust your profits for inflation: it looks like revenue is holding steady, but it’s actually diminishing slightly. His eyes widen faintly behind his cheap, thick, black-rimmed glasses. You can tell that he’s impressed.
Yannie turns seventeen. The what-are-we-going-todo-about-the-children’s-future conversation starts all over again. She makes it known that she, too, would like to go to university. ‘It’s a lot of money,’ her mother says dubiously. ‘Can we really afford it?’ She looks at Yannie’s father, the way she does whenever she asks a rhetorical question with a pre-specified answer.
Her father doesn’t answer immediately but continues picking at his molars with a toothpick. ‘We will worry about that when it happens,’ he says. ‘She has to qualify for it first. The question is, if not Yannie, then who is going to take over the shop?’
She sits her final exams. Upon the hall there descends a deeper, thicker silence than usual. She knows she is fighting for her life.
Her results come in. She’s been offered a place at the national university, the most prestigious in the country. With marks like that, she could even be accepted overseas, if she had the money, and put in an application. She doesn’t let anybody see her cry. Tears are for the weak: never show them your fear, once you’ve made it to the other side. Never let them know you were worried you might not.
There is no wild excitement at home, no celebrations the way there were when her brother qualified. The first child of the family to attend university is a triumph. The second is just anticlimax. This suits her just fine; she’s not interested in anything so vaporous as praise. What she wants is cold hard cash, so she can flee this family, this city, this life.
‘But can we really afford it?’ her mother repeats.
‘Of course we’ll find the money,’ her father snaps. Yannie feels a sudden uprush of love for him. ‘We’ll do it, for Yannie’s sake. This is not a choice, it’s a necessity. It’s for her future.’
*
Yannie’s grandmother has been living with them almost four years now. She says little, eats even less, and spends a lot of time in the kitchen, making meatballs. She and Yannie have never had a conversation which wasn’t logistical in nature. Have you eaten yet? Are you warm enough?
Up till now, her grandmother has always got on well with Yannie’s mother. Unusually for mothers and daughters-in-law, they share a certain feminine camaraderie. Years ago, Yannie overheard them laughing about her brother’s sheets, a laugh she never really understood until much later. But now, over the months leading up to Yannie’s exams and then just after, they start quarrelling. There’s nothing specific that sets it off. It’s like they just can’t help irritating each other, like an eyelash stuck between your lids. Why is it so stuffy in here? Well, open a window then. What did you open the window for? You told me to! Well, now you’ve let all the mosquitoes in. Do you want us to catch dengue fever? Are you trying to kill us all?
It happens so gradually they hardly notice it: the grandmother starts to change colour. At first they think nothing of it: old people creak and stain, it’s what they’re for. But one day Yannie’s aunt comes over to visit and lets out a yelp. The grandmother has turned yellow, the colour of artificial chicken broth.
‘Maybe she’s been eating too much MSG,’ suggests Yannie’s father.
They take her to the doctor, who sighs voluminously at all of them. Then he writes down the name of a specialist. Even from his handwriting, you can tell that it’s going to be expensive.
‘But I feel fine,’ her grandmother grumbles while being escorted to the bus. ‘What’s wrong with you? I feel quite normal.’
They visit the specialist. This time Yannie is asked to wait outside. That evening, she hears her parents whispering furiously to each other.
‘Everybody has to die eventually.’
‘Don’t talk like that! She’s not everybody, she’s my mother. The doctor said that sometimes they can last a few more years.’
‘Of course he says that! Would he say anything else, while we are paying him? She may be your mother but she isn’t immortal. People get old and sick, and then they die. It’s not such a surprise. We don’t have infinite resources, you know. Your brother, he could help –’
‘I can’t believe it! You talk like you’ve given up on her already. I thought you cared for her. I thought you liked my mother.’
‘Well, I do. I mean, I did, before this thing started happening. But can’t you see how much she’s suffering? Anyway, both my parents died long ago, so I know what it’s like.’
‘Oh, and so you want to kill my parents too?’
Yannie knows her mother is less vicious than she sounds. It’s always been her way, to put up a barrier of rage; she will not be destabilised by anything so insubstantial, so mercurial as feeling. But it’s her father who breaks her heart. At times like these she thinks, with no irony at all, that she could die for him.
Meanwhile the whole household, without discussing it, has entered into a silent agreement never speak the word ‘cancer’. Instead, they develop a complex system of euphemisms: the ‘condition’, the ‘development’, the ‘growth’. A growth of what? Yannie wants to ask. She thinks her clever grandmother will see through it immediately. To her surprise, though, the old lady has grown newly docile and uninterested. She was always silent most of the time, but before it was a watchful silence, which you did well not to underestimate. Now it’s more like a cocoon. Except that a cocoon is something you emerge from, eventually. Though she complains all the time, her complaints lack rigour, definition: she can’t tell if she’s thirsty or only nauseous, if it’s the left side or the right side that hurts. She’s needy and brittle, but also oddly compliant when it comes to their efforts to deceive her. All the ruses they built up to stop her from learning about the cancer seem unnecessary. Whenever they mention something to do with treatment, she nods and smiles, her eyes not properly focused, as if they’ve lost their ability to track the light.
‘How long does she have?’ Yannie asks once. She says it to her mother, while it’s just the two of them, purging moths from an old wardrobe.
Her mother doesn’t answer at once. ‘Long enough to kill us all,’ she says at last. ‘Long enough t
o bleed us dry, and longer.’
These next few months, Yannie continues working in the shop. There is a pleasure to this work, simple goals and tangible achievements. She reorganises the space, the narrow aisles, so that the goods are more convenient and attractive. The items on which they have the highest margins, she positions at eye height. She takes pride in recognising regular customers, in remembering their names and their favourite snacks. It doesn’t hurt that so many of them, hearing how well she has done in her exams, shower her with praise. ‘Clever girl! Sweet girl! So slim. So pretty.’
Better still, she likes the feeling she gets when her father comes up behind her and she senses he’s there without turning around. Even without seeing him, she knows the pride he feels in her, a warm radiance shining on her back. But just as much, maybe even more, she likes the way the sardonic lines around her mother’s mouth relax when she sees that Yannie is at work. She knows she’s good at what she does, knows the impact is already being felt on the family finances.
And all of this time, everything revolves around two central questions: how much longer her grandmother will live, and whether Yannie will go to university. Time dilates, slows down as it approaches the point at which the decision must be made. Her grandmother deteriorates, but so slowly and with such fluctuations that you hardly notice it. In the morning she’s as sharp as ever. But sometime in the evening she loses her bearings, her sense of time and place. She can’t remember if it’s day or night, what year it is, and who is or isn’t still alive.
One day Yannie’s grandmother wanders away from the house. Everybody goes crazy, but she’s not far off, since she isn’t physically capable of covering much distance. Sure enough, they find her bruised and scratched but otherwise OK. She’s crying like a toddler, the same vacant expression, bewildered at the magnitude of the world. Her flesh is sallower than ever. They all know that there’s only so long to go.
Her father says, ‘Yannie, come here.’ She sits down before him with her legs crossed respectfully, miming a propriety she does not feel. He commences a longwinded monologue. First he reminisces about a teacher he remembers from high school, who as far as Yannie can tell was an utterly unremarkable person. Then he segues into an anecdote about a fortune teller he consulted on her birth. This doesn’t sit right with Yannie. Visiting a fortune teller doesn’t sound like something either of her parents would actually do. Too much money up front, no guaranteed pay-off.
Apparently this astrologer, or whatever, said that Yannie was a gifted child but unstable in personality. He said it was important to be satisfied with what you already had … Yannie tunes out, thinking of chores she must complete, while also wishing her father would just come out and say what he means without the preamble of a stupid story.
‘Do you remember what the Buddha said?’
Oh God, now it’s Buddha. She thinks back on her childhood. It was a fairly irreligious one. She can’t remember anyone bringing up the subject of the Buddha at all, although she supposes they must have. ‘Um, I don’t know. That you’re not meant to eat meat?’
Her father frowns. ‘No, not that. Well, I suppose he did say that, but that wasn’t what I was thinking.’ He pauses. ‘Life is suffering, Yannie. Suffering and loss. I’ve been thinking – I’m sorry, but we really can’t afford to send you to university. We just don’t have the cash right now.’
She feels no surprise at first. Just the dull sensation of a long-delayed but still expected blow. Hesitantly, almost apologetically – since when has he apologised to her? – her father sets out his reasons. How they are not even out of debt: some years ago, he took out a loan to refit the shop, and they are still in the process of clearing it. The house, which they inherited from a wealthy uncle who died of leukaemia, needs significant repairs. He and her mother didn’t want to tell her, but certain items which have recently disappeared have in fact been sold. A radio set, two of her mother’s old cheongsams. Then there are the sporadic, violent assaults perpetrated by her grandmother’s illness on the family finances.
Yannie feels the room go slack. She has always known that her family is poor, but this has been a logical fact, not an emotional one. Money is tight, but this has been her parents’ problem, not hers. She has thought of herself as virtuous while she works behind the counter, as if money should spring naturally from their loins, while she herself is only a helpful and occasional bystander. For all the loneliness and violence, her childhood has been hopeful. For the first time, she appreciates the lengths to which her parents have gone to make it so.
She looks at her father. Not as the man who gave her life, but just a man. A human being who does his best: never pushy, never arrogant, but indomitable in service of his family. Well-meaning; not the brightest perhaps, but who knows what talents might have been revealed if he’d had his chance? Whatever they were, they would never come to fruition now. A good man, perpetually losing a war of attrition with his circumstances. And yet no bitterness, not a sprig of resentment against the children for whom he has sacrificed his life.
‘You’re a knight, you know,’ she says. She uses the English word for knight.
Her father looks confused. ‘How do you mean, a knight? Oh, you mean like King Merlin?’ He slaps his knee and laughs, and she laughs too. Then, in that abrupt, serious way that she loves, he gets up and walks out, touching her shoulder as he goes past. The girl that they’ve hired is about to end her shift; it’s his turn now to stand at the counter, watching men and motorbikes go past. In the hope that one of them will develop a craving for cough drops, chewing gum, a cigarette. The shop will always be open, always, so long as there is a single person walking past who might want to buy something. Her father will be there, sentinel of the corner store, smiling his pliant smile at customers unmet and possibly imaginary.
*
When she wakes up hearing laughter she can hardly believe it. They’re not the kind of family that has in-jokes, going into paroxysms over funny little incidents. Since her grandmother got sick, there’s hardly been any laughter in the house at all.
In the kitchen, she finds her mother lit up like a Christmas tree, a disco ball. These are metaphors only: she’s never seen either of these objects in real life, but then she’s never seen her mother happy, either, so the whole event takes on an unknown quality. Her mother is clasping a piece of paper. Yannie recognises her brother’s handwriting.
‘What does it say?’ she asks.
Without speaking, her mother turns and holds out the piece of paper. Yannie is shocked to see that her eyes are glowing, wet with tears. Her mother never cries. Her mother has said explicitly that you should never trust a person who cries in public. Crocodile tears, her favourite saying.
Yannie unfolds the note, too distracted to read it properly. She picks out nouns, conjunctions, random words. Oxford. Qualified. Acceptance. What does it mean? The dots are all there, but she refuses to join them. It simply isn’t possible.
‘Yannie, Yannie.’ Her mother places a caressing hand on her shoulder. ‘Your brother is going to do a postgraduate degree. He has been accepted into Oxford. In England! The best university in the world!’
‘I don’t understand.’ Ridiculously, she feels her vocal cords vibrate to enunciate the words. She can barely keep her face from trembling. ‘What – what is this for? What is he going to study? What about Por Por’s appointments? What about the house?’ She hears her voice rising, she’s embarrassed: hysterical, they’ll say, but she’s unable to stop. ‘How are we going to pay for all of this?’
‘Oh, really!’ Her mother waves a hand. ‘Don’t be like that, Yannie! Don’t be so stingy. We’ll find a way – something will come up. The shop’s been doing better lately, anyhow.’
‘You can’t be serious. The shop is doing better because I work there all the time, and you don’t have to pay me. What the hell –’ she’s never sworn at her parents before – ‘what about my university fees? I haven’t even got one degree, and you’re paying for him to do
another!’
‘But Yannie, this is Oxford. Haven’t you heard of it? The Pakistani man, Mr Bhutto, went there!’
‘Of course I’ve heard of it. But that’s not the point. What about Por Por’s appointments? What about the house?’ Her own voice coming from elsewhere; she is like a stranger, shouting and strident. She’s embarrassed, and ashamed of herself, and unable to stop. ‘What are we going to do? Is there even a plan? How are we going to pay for all of this?’
‘Oh –’ her mother sweeps a vague finger through the air, as though warding off a dirty particle – ‘Yannie, you are so negative! We can find a way to manage. Anyway, your father and I are very grateful for your help. You’re a wonderful daughter.’ It sounds so sincere that Yannie looks at her sideways, suspicious. ‘In fact, we’ve been able to use the business as collateral for another loan.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, your father managed to negotiate it.’
‘You mean my father knows about this?’ She feels like she’s been slapped in the face by her own stupidity. Of course he knows – how could her mother go ahead with a plan like this all on her own? She grabs her mother by the shoulder, as if to shake out the truth. ‘Where is my father?’
She runs outside, cramming her toes into her mother’s flipflops, slamming the door behind her. The strap is too tight between her big toe and the second one, digging in to her flesh. She doesn’t care. She runs down the street, the thick humidity clotting in her mouth beneath the violent sun. Runs past the library, past the field where she and Shuying clung to each other’s bodies …
She finds her father at the coffee shop, the cheapest one, drinking a mug of black coffee and eating a piece of eggy kaya toast. He’s engaged in an animated discussion with the coffee shop owner. Both of them are shaking their heads and laughing in a way that connotes rueful agreement. She stares at him from the street. If minds could bend spoons, his coffee stirrer would be looping the loop by now. Surely he will sense her watching, and look up – but no, it’s all coffee and toast to him. A perfectly ordinary day, as if he hadn’t just thrown away his daughter’s life. She turns away, too enraged to speak.
