This Is Where I Won't Be Alone

by Inez Tan

  Classrooms were overcrowded and funding was short. The median IQ was 60. As a junior teaching assistant, Curie oversaw students who were in wheelchairs, one of whom was a diehard jaywalker. The staff called him the Jaywheeler. Curie spent hours every week running after the Jaywheeler and apologising to hysterical drivers. On the bright side, the wheelchair-bound rarely defecated on the floor. Over the next few months, Curie led simple lessons, crafts and, on Fridays, singing. Her parents thought she was wasting her potential. Even on her best days, Curie wondered if they were right.

  Edison returned to Stamford, but as a different person. Having revealed himself to be a cracked vessel, it seemed that he had allowed most of his former radiance to seep away. His marks were still good, but not exceptional. Never mind that he had stopped cutting himself, and was recovering from a severe mental breakdown. Mrs Lam made an effort to meet with him every recess, but everyone else avoided him as though he carried an infectious disease.

  Those were his exact words to Curie one afternoon at the Active Minds Special Needs School. He’d started coming by after the students had gone, leaving Curie to pick up after them and prepare for the next day. They sat at the teacher’s desk, sharing a packet of Twisties that Edison had brought. Elise squatted on the floor, drawing rectangles on a sheet of mahjong paper.

  “Some people won’t even look me in the eye,” Edison was saying. “I think I make them uncomfortable.”

  Curie sighed. “It’s their own insecurity. But that’s terrible.”

  “It’s all right,” said Edison indifferently. “People have always been like that around me. I just notice it more when you’re not there.”

  He held out the bag of Twisties, and she popped a handful into her mouth. She understood that this was his way of telling her she didn’t need to say anything in response. Now that their lives had diverged irrevocably, it seemed possible for them to be close again. Or if not close, at least no longer opposed.

  “Are you happy here?” he asked.

  Curie said nothing, but took another handful of Twisties and wondered what happiness had to do with anything.

  “Maybe I should join you,” said Edison after a moment, sounding wistful.

  Could this possibly be her brother making a joke? In any case, Curie burst out laughing. “Don’t. You’d be really bad at it.”

  “I could still try.” He picked up a red colour pencil and started drawing squares within Elise’s rectangles, turning them into high-rise buildings with windows. After a minute, Curie drew circles in the squares, for people. They spent the rest of the afternoon on their knees, creating visions of a more equal city together.

  Oyster

  OUT OF OXYGEN, algae and a grain of calcium carbonate, the oyster came to be. It grew inside a metal cage submerged in the ocean, sometimes doubling in size in a day, changing from female to male to female without prejudice. For two years it remained in place, swelling soft and plump in the nourishing seawater. When it had grown to a length of five centimetres, it was dredged up by Chinese fishermen alongside the hundreds of others it had grown up with in the same metal cage. They rumbled to shore, the oysters riding in buckets of cold water to keep fresh. The oyster thought it was wonderful.

  In a factory, the oysters’ shells were split and the meaty centre pried out. Next, the oysters were poured onto moving belts, dusted with fine salt and passed through bright orange ovens until they had become hard and dry. Oysters pelted the moving belt like hard little raindrops. The oyster wound up in a plastic bag along with enough of its fellows to make up 500 grams. A noisy grey machine sucked the air out of the bag, forcing the oysters to get cosy. The world looked warped and wavy through the squiggly plastic, which the oyster found interesting, though there wasn’t much to see once the bags were piled one on top of the other, loaded in crates onto a truck, and arranged on a supermarket shelf in Singapore.

  An erratic black conveyor belt, a ticklish band of bright red light, and a white plastic bag printed with the words NTUC FairPrice later, the oyster arrived in a human house, whereupon it was placed in a refrigerator. Whenever the refrigerator door opened, a light came on. By the yellow bulb, the oyster could see that it was in the company of many other Chinese groceries, including bags of dried scallops and trumpet mushrooms, rolled up, bound with red rubber bands, and stuffed into the side of the door. Thus, despite its travels, the oyster did not experience a significant amount of culture shock. From time to time, the heavy door opened and shut but otherwise it was a period of great peace.

  The two people who opened the door most often were an older woman and a younger woman—a mother and a daughter. The mother opened the refrigerator and took out many items at once, sometimes returning them later artfully combined into a single dish. The daughter was in the habit of taking out chocolate bars and putting empty, chocolatesmeared wrappers back into the refrigerator. Sometimes she returned afterwards and removed them; usually, the mother beat her to it. Gradually, the oyster became attuned to their voices. It noticed that a conversation that began casually could go on and on until it sounded like a wire drawn tight. This pattern persisted on the day that the mother cut open the bag of oysters and shook out a handful before returning the rest to the refrigerator, from which location the oyster overheard the following conversation several hours later. The mother said the daughter was eating too little. Or didn’t she like this food? The daughter replied that she loved everything the mother cooked, but especially this dish. The mother said she would give her some dried oysters to take back to the United States. The daughter said there was food in the US, and anyway, it was too much trouble. The mother insisted that it was no any trouble at all. By this point, both of them sounded quite unhappy.

  Meanwhile, the oyster was troubled, because it couldn’t follow the logic of the conversation. In fact, the conversation was illogical. No wonder the humans themselves were so confounded by their interactions, the oyster thought. They spoke as though they expected their words to mean something, but they acted as though they did not. This theory was confirmed as the mother took out the rest of the bag of dried oysters, poured them into a Ziploc bag, and held it up in front of her daughter, pointing out that it would be easy to fit into a suitcase. The daughter, who had not seemed to want the oysters previously, said they should double up the bags. The mother said that would be wasteful. The daughter said that she didn’t want her clothes to smell like a provision shop. They passed the bag to each other and held it up to their noses, taking deep experimental sniffs. The mother said there was no smell, yet she was the one who placed the Ziploc bag of oysters within a second Ziploc bag.

  The mother said not to wait too long to cook them. The daughter said they were dried and probably full of preservatives. The mother said that even dried goods spoil. The daughter said she never had time to cook. The mother said that was why she was giving her these oysters; they only needed to be soaked in cold water for an hour beforehand and then they were ready to use. It’s very easy, she said, very easy: marinate your chicken in salt and pepper for thirty minutes, cook your rice, add in the chicken and the oysters, then crack in two eggs mixed with soy sauce. That’s all you need to do. I won’t have time to do all that, the daughter groaned, and the mother snapped, make time.

  While the oyster pondered the concept of making time, every morning from then on, the mother took out the Ziploc bag of oysters, looked at them and then placed them back in the refrigerator. After about a week, the mother noticed the little drops of water beading on the inside of the bag. Whenever she had opened the bag, the oysters had absorbed moisture from the humid air, which they now sweated out, compromising the thin layer of salt that kept them inert. So the mother transferred the oysters to foil-lined trays and left them out by the kitchen window where they sat nakedly in the sun. This made them warmer and drier, though unbeknownst to the mother, they continued to take in moisture from the air. From time to time, the daughter walked by and stared at the sunbathing oysters in disbelief. But she did
not disturb them. Only when they had taken on a more wrinkled appearance did the mother put them back into the Ziploc bags and return them to the refrigerator.

  The day of the suitcase came. The bag of oysters was squeezed into a narrow space, next to bulky new clothing: thick socks, long-sleeved shirts and a vest with warm downy lining. The oyster envied humans their clothes. How comfortable they must be in them! The suitcase was swung shut, zipped closed, rolled along and flung heavily into the cargo hold of a plane. With a loud hum, the plane lifted off into the air, landing thunderously many hours later. The suitcase was dragged again, down pitted roads and up numerous flights of stairs. Zip, zip, zip, the suitcase opened, and the oyster looked eagerly around.

  Here was a different human house—smaller, plainer and not very clean. The daughter lifted up the bag of oysters and placed it into a different refrigerator, this time on the bottom shelf. Months went by. The oyster huddled in the shadow of new and varied companions, feeling shy and intimidated. The upper-shelf items were constantly in flux—pushed aside to make room for more of the same, taken out and replaced with different ones. The oyster gave up introducing itself to the bottles of beer, a flashy fraternity not inclined to mix with others. It had slightly better luck with the yogurt cups, who appreciated cultural diversity. Still, none of these other guests stayed for long. The oyster came to perceive itself as a historian of the refrigerator—wise, elderly and of little relevance to the youth. This might have caused the oyster to feel sad and lonely, were not exciting, yet unhurried developments taking shape right in its own double Ziploc bag. The subtle moisture along its surface was thrilling, teeming with life. Repressed but not conquered by the chill of the refrigerator, bacteria in the water multiplied, tingling faintly. And so the oyster got a buzz.

  All day, the refrigerator door opened and closed, like the rough striated shell the oyster had possessed as a young bivalve, when yet no dream was out of reach. Underwater, it could have grown to the size of a mountain; in the supermarket, it could have gone to any place and into anything. Or had it always been destined for this life? Hypnotised now by the predictable motion of the door, the oyster began to wonder if its potential had been forgotten. Perhaps it would perceive nothing more than this humdrum bottom-shelf existence until its mind gave out from neglect. And then one day from across the world, the mother spoke into the room. Are you eating properly? she demanded. Have you cooked the oysters?

  The oyster marvelled to hear its own name being called. It had never known its own worth before. How excellent were mothers! As the conversation spooled on, the oyster could barely contain itself. Perhaps this was the day when it would be soaked in water, cooked in rice, seasoned with a dash of soy sauce and consumed. The oyster shivered. It said its prayers, as the mother said, No matter what, I just want you to know that I love you. I know! the daughter roared, and then the voices stopped.

  The refrigerator door was flung wide. The daughter bent down, retrieved the bag of oysters and dumped it on a scratched kitchen counter. She unzipped the double bag, looked at the oysters and shook them about. She reached into the bag and picked one up between two fingers. She brought it close to her face and studied the fluffy white mould that was growing on it. She raised it to her nose and gave it a sniff.

  First she tried to pick out the oysters with mould on them. Then she tried to pick out the oysters that didn’t have mould on them. Finding none of those, she put her hands on her hips. She stood looking down at the oysters as though they had committed a great sin against her. Eventually she resealed both Ziploc bags and dropped them into the open trash.

  The trash was full of coffee grounds and mushy banana peels. The oyster in its double bag was right on the very top of this heap. The daughter kept giving the oyster rueful looks. She got up from her desk, peered at the trash, sat down, got up again. She sighed, grunted and muttered things out loud. Finally she knotted the handles of the black trash bag, lifted it up, carried it down many flights of stairs and slung it into an enormous lidded chamber loaded with other bags of trash. The heavy lid swung down, and her footsteps padded away through the snow as the oyster lay in darkness. For the first time in its life, it had been abandoned.

  Panic set in. But the oyster tried to pull itself together. It reasoned that it had travelled thousands and thousands of kilometres from ocean to land, across climates and time zones. Its life so far had been quite exciting. Now it even had a delicate white covering of mould, a soft coat of fur to call its own. Dressed and decorated, the oyster steeled itself for more adventures. I can still do this, it thought. I can change into something new. I just need a little time and I’ll be ready, ready as I’ve ever been. It repeated these words to itself for a long time, as mothers and daughters kept closing themselves off.

  Lee Kuan Yew Is Not Always the Answer

  I WAS PASSING by class 4J during recess time when two girls rushed out, saying, “Miss Lim, Miss Lim, can we show you something? Miss Lim, Miss Lim!”

  This can’t be good, I thought. I made a big show of looking at my watch. I could have looked at my chipfeed, but like many other teachers, I still wore a watch so students could see when I was keeping an eye on the time. “I have to teach another class in five minutes,” I said.

  “It’ll be very fast, Miss Lim! Please, please. Please.” Reluctantly, I followed them into the classroom. As Primary Four students, they still sat with their desks pushed together in groups of five, forming little islands. The desks were only separated when they had to take exams in strictly spaced rows to prevent cheating. Today, they’d rearranged their desks to create space in the centre of the room, where they had placed three desks in a row. One student, Lola Pang, lay giggling on the floor beneath them. Lola was always in the thick of things like this.

  “Girls, the floor is dirty. Your uniforms are white,” I said ruefully, but really they were drain-water grey, and this explained why.

  “Are you watching, Miss Lim?” asked one girl breathlessly.

  “Yes,” I sighed.

  “And, action!”

  Lola crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes. Three other girls stepped up onto the desks, hands to their foreheads, and delivered dramatic recitations:

  “Oh no! Singapore is under attack! Our total defence has been breached!”

  “Oh no! The economy just crashed! We are losing our competitive advantage!”

  “Oh no! The opposition party just won the general election by a landslide victory!”

  “What!” cried Lola, startling awake. She kicked her knees up towards her, rolled out from under the desks and jumped to her feet. “I will get up!”

  “Gasp! It’s Lee Kuan Yew!”

  “Lee Kuan Yew?”

  “Lee Kuan who?”

  “It’s me, Lee Kuan Yew!” shouted Lola. “I will save you, Singapore!”

  She raised one fist in the air, like Superman, and pretended to knock each of the other girls off the desks. Each girl jumped down and did the death they did best: one staggered around holding her head, one pretended to choke, the third lay on the floor and thrashed energetically about.

  “Lee Kuan Yew, he’s our hero, he’s saved us!” chorused the other girls from the sidelines.

  “Just remember, Singapore,” said Lola importantly. “Even if you are going to lower me into the grave and I feel that something is going wrong, I…will…get up!” With that, she rolled under the desks again and resumed her former position, mummy-like.

  All the girls stood, bowing and clapping for themselves. “Miss Lim, Miss Lim, what do you think?” they asked.

  “I hope you put just as much effort into studying for your exam this Friday,” I said. They started whining and groaning, the usual. “See you in class tomorrow,” I said, blinking through my chipfeed on the way out. The feed showed that I still had 22 minutes before my next class, and it suggested a list of tasks I could complete in that time. There’s always work to do. I dismissed the feed and kept walking.

  It was impor
tant to show the students that you weren’t amused by them. That made them work harder. People need to work hard if they want to survive. At least the girls were using key terms, like “landslide victory”. They’d need that for question 32 on their upcoming exam: “Explain the significance of the 1959 legislative assembly general election.” Was it too much to hope they would all remember that the People’s Action Party won 43 out of 51 contested seats?

  As I headed down the corridor, I could hear them restarting the game: “I will get up! I will rrrrrise from the grave!” Already I could hear them amending the script, elaborating where fiction better served their purposes. They are the future of our nation.

  I teach Social Studies. The girls call it Propaganda, as in, “Sorry, Miss Lim, I forgot to bring my Propaganda homework today.” They are very proud that they learnt the word. My Primary Four students are ten years old. Some of them are beginning to wear junior bras. More of them need to be told about deodorant. It’s a tender and baffling age.

  Lola and her gang are always coming up with something ridiculous. They’re full of nonsense, I might say if I were over forty. When I became a teacher I promised myself that I’d try to remember what it was like to be my students’ age, and sadly, that isn’t hard for me. Well, I’m only 24. Also I’m still wearing some of my own junior bras. My mum makes snide remarks about them when she goes to hang them up on the bamboo poles outside our flat. “Why still no boyfriend?” is another thing she says.

  But back to the little skit the girls put on, “I will get up,” etc. The next week, as they were filling in the blanks of a difficult worksheet on their tablets, I heard Lola say commandingly to her group members, “Just put Lee Kuan Yew. It’s usually Lee Kuan Yew.”

  When they passed up the worksheets, I saw that some of them really had written Lee Kuan Yew’s name down more times than was reasonable. I marked them wrong; they were wrong. I thought that’d be the last of it.