Miss Seetoh in the World

by Catherine Lim

  Anna Seetoh had replied sadly, ‘I will pray for her,’ adding, ‘as I am praying for you, Maria,’ for she believed that even non-believers would be eventually saved by the persevering prayers of their loved ones, through God’s merciful establishment of a place called Limbo, a kind of holding station for the unbaptised or those who had renounced their baptism, whose fates had yet to be decided.

  Rosiah had brought gifts for Por Por – her favourite coconut pudding, a bead bracelet and a new cotton blouse. The old woman stared uncomprehendingly at her and her own grand-daughter, and let the gifts drop from her hands on to her lap, then to the floor. In the brief time that she had been at the home, her mental condition had deteriorated alarmingly, as if she had lost all will to live. The large staring eyes carried a reproach: you have abandoned me. Maria sat numbly beside her throughout the visit, her heart too heavy for words, while Rosiah chatted brightly and at one stage, took out a comb, to comb Por Por’s long, untidy strands into a neat bun at the back of her head.

  If at Yen Ping’s wake she had reflected on the tragedy of a young life cut short, here in the Sunshine Home she saw the dereliction of old lives waiting for death that was too long in coming. A very old woman, probably in her nineties and sitting in a wheelchair, looked around with the terrified look of a small child lost in a crowd. Another, equally old, sat in a large chair, carrying in her arms a life-size plastic doll dressed in a pink dress and rocking it to sleep; the doll must have been given to soothe the pain of the revived memory of a dead infant so very long ago. A nurse in blue was attending to a woman in a wheelchair specially constructed to accommodate her massive obesity which oozed out at the sides, like some giant, boneless monster from the depths of the ocean floor. There was a woman who looked too young to be in a home, being in her sixties at the most, dressed in a floral print blouse and black pants. She could be taken for a visitor except that she was being attended by one, a young woman, probably her daughter, who had brought her a box of biscuits and a plastic bag of grapes, and was speaking to her in the cajoling tones one used for a recalcitrant child. Was the woman suffering from early dementia, like Por Por had, years earlier, and had the daughter put her in a home for the same reason – it was no longer possible to cope even with a loved one?

  The term invariably appeared in obituary and memorial notices, whether the deceased one was loved or not, whether indeed, he or she, in the last stages of disease or dementia, had become so unmanageable as to become unloveable.

  A faint smell of dried urine and disinfectant filled the air, despite the presence of pots of green plants to sweeten the decrepitude of old age. Somewhere from one of the nearby rooms a thin wail followed by incoherent mumbling, like someone having a bad dream in the midst of day, floated out to add to the desolation. Maria and Rosiah sat two hours with Por Por who ended up petulantly stamping on their gifts and making shrill noises of protest. Rosiah would not be coming again, and Maria sighed at the thought of the next week’s visit.

  It was money that filled her mind again, although this time, the thoughts took a different colouring: even if Por Por were in the Silver Valley Home well-known for its beautiful surroundings and up-to-date medical facilities, she would still be staring at her with those eyes of deep despair. A loved one beyond loving and being loved. But no, Por Por had earned her love which would always rise above the petty disappointments and distress of each visit.

  Maria would always be grateful for the last conscious act of a hopelessly demented woman. It was as if Por Por, aware of her approaching end, managed to wrest one moment of lucidity from the rapidly descending darkness and asked for her. She had actually mentioned her granddaughter’s name. Maria would keep in fond memory the small details of the message that the home superintendent told her; the old woman, to make sure that they would send for the right person, had indicated Maria’s ponytail by tugging at the bun at the back of her head, and her pretty face by circular hand motions around her own face, followed by a perky thumbs up.

  Maria had visited only the day before and noticed there was no change of mood or condition in her grandmother. But the next morning, to her surprise, the home superintendent called and said the old woman wanted to see her, and could she come quickly. Por Por had refused to get up from bed and seemed very agitated. Maria arrived in time to say goodbye. She was at her grandmother’s side, holding her hand, whispering into her ears, until she heard a tiny gasp and saw that her Por Por was gone. The only memento she wanted of her grandmother was the dragon ornament, still in its cloth-lined box, but for years, just looking at it brought tears. It was part of her closure that she had put in the box a note from Rosiah that she had received two weeks after Por Por’s death.

  Rosiah had got someone to write it in English for her: ‘I am very sad for death of Por Por. She is good kind person. She bite and scold only because old and sick. I pray Allah Por Por now well and happy.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Brother Philip’s letter fom Ireland was half solicitous and half reproachful. How was she? Why had she not replied to his cards? Why had she not told him about the deaths of Mark and Yen Ping, of her grandmother? Of the principal? Why had she not told him she had resigned from St Peter’s? How was she coping, etc., etc. The letter bristled with a hundred question marks of caring; Maria could imagine the creases of anxiety on Brother’s calm forehead as he wrote. There was no direct mention of Dr Phang; instead, a skein of veiled hints, some rather clumsy, indicated how curious he was to know about that part of her private life.

  Distance had, at the beginning, sharpened need; then as the months went by, had actually blunted it, so that she no longer felt the urge to write that long anguished letter in which she would pour out her heart and soul to him. The urge to pick up the phone and put in a long distance call to Ireland had long subsided. If her heart had been broken at his departure, the tumultous events that followed had simply shaken it back into full operation to continue to bear yet more of life’s disappointments. To Maria Seetoh, they seemed to be saying, borrowing the words of Brother Philip: get out of your skin! You are in the real world, and there’s no escaping from it. They also said, Maria Seetoh, your story’s not over; it’s still unfolding.

  So she wrote only a brief, quick reply to all the anxious notes. ‘My dear Brother Phil,’ it said, ‘At this stage, I can only give you a factual account of each of the events you referred to, and a factual account is the least useful thing at the moment. In any case, I am just too tired to do it. I don’t care for the facts any more, only the meaning, and if you were here with me, my ever dear, kind, wise Brother Phil, you would help me extract a little of that. In any case, my story’s still unfolding, and I’m not sure what’s going to happen in the future. I can only write these dark, dreary, depressed little notes to you, which you’re better off without. Love, Maria.’

  It was the second phone call from Yen Ling, more than three months after her sister’s tragic death. ‘We found the silver locket you told us about,’ she said excitedly. ‘It was stuck in a hole in a drain, and we could get it out only by knocking off some of the cement.It was all dirty and rusty.’

  She went on to say that the locket, containing the pledge of love, would be used in the coming marriage ceremony which of course Maria, the favourite teacher, must attend.

  The ceremony was conducted, as the wake had been, in the same ground level area of the housing estate, but needing only a small part of the space, as only a few people would be present. There was a monk from a nearby temple in attendance, dressed in a long brown robe, wearing a long strand of brown beads round his neck, chanting prayers to unite the deceased couple in a marriage that had been denied them on earth. They were just two large paper effigies, crude cut-outs only, both wearing red paper mandarin robes with the frog buttons drawn in. They were placed side by side on a table covered with a richly embroidered red tablecloth that must have been borrowed for the occasion. No likeness was necessary, only distinct marks of their respective genders, so
that one could tell which one was groom, and which bride. Thus Mark’s effigy had short hair and wore a skull-cap, and Yen Ping’s had long pigtails and circular red dots on her cheeks. Both had the large staring eyes of dolls, with unnaturally long lashes. Maria looked to see where Yen Ping’s silver locket with the pledge of love was placed, and noticed that it lay in a little space where the effigy hands overlapped.

  The monk chanted prayers to unite them in marriage for all eternity. He swung a censer of fragrant incense ash over the bridal couple, before placing them in a miniature funeral pyre and setting them on fire, imploring them to be on their own now and not to be bothered by the living anymore, a gentle, indirect way of saying: Please don’t return to earth anymore. For the living too needed their peace to go on making their living in a hard world. Yen Ping’s parents had already resumed working at their drinks stall in the market, their attention now concentrated on their other children.

  There was the story, reported years ago in the Chinese newspapers, of a young couple similarly frustrated by parental objection to their relationship, who decided to end it all one dark night, inside a locked car, setting themselves on fire. By the time they were discovered, their bodies were just a charred heap. Their respective parents decided to put aside their hostility in order to meet and conduct a ghost marriage for their children, who had appeared to them in their dreams, expressing such a wish. The effigy wedding was not the end of the matter, for about a year after the event, the girl’s parents found an abandoned baby at their doorstep who they instantly concluded was a ghost child despite its human appearance. They took it in as a much loved grandchild. For a while the papers were full of the rumours that the baby indeed was a ghost child, for it had no shadow and could give winning lottery numbers.

  Yen Ping’s mother had no need for any such dramatic, elaborate aftermath of dealings with the other world, even if it brought gain, being too down-to-earth and needing only the necessary closure provided by the wedding ceremony to pick life up again and earn money for her remaining children’s education. As soon as the effigies were reduced to a little heap of ashes, she invited the wedding guests comprising only Maria and two relatives to partake of the wedding feast set out on a small table, comprising some pink buns, biscuits, candied peanuts, pomelo and packet drinks. Then she bade them goodbye, thanking them warmly for their attendance.

  For Maria she had the kindest words, saying again and again, ‘My Yen Ping was always talking about you.’ As soon as she had given the monk a donation for his temple and cleared the place of every vestige of the ceremony, she assumed a look that said, ‘It’s all over. I have done my duty to my daughter.’

  The good woman would now devote herself to caring for her husband who had never recovered from the pain of his daughter’s death, and to her business of selling soft drinks at the market, which had suffered a considerable loss of takings since the tragedy.

  Up till the end, Maria was still hoping that of the several letters that the police had returned to the dead girl’s family, one would be for her. But Yen Ling who would have been put in charge of such matters never mentioned such a letter. Her last words to Maria were the same as her mother’s, ‘Thank you very much for being such a kind teacher to Yen Ping.’ Maria never heard from her again.

  Out in the bright sunshine, standing by the roadside to hail a taxi, she said to herself, ‘Oh no, am I never to be free from her?’

  For the driver of the red Volvo that had screeched to a halt in front of her was none other than Maggie, as if she had lain in wait all through the ghost wedding, watching somewhere from her parked car.

  She was smiling and said brightly, ‘Hi, Miss Seetoh, get in. I’ll give you a lift to wherever you want to go!’ Beside her was a young, very pretty-looking girl who was also smiling amiably.

  Maria’s immediate impulse was to say, ‘Thanks, Maggie, but it’s okay. I can get a taxi easily.’ Clearly it was part of Maggie’s plan, whatever it was, whether then taking shape or already fully formed in the girl’s permanently active, scheming mind, to get Miss Seetoh into her car for the useful duration of at least half an hour to put the plan into operation.

  ‘Miss Seetoh, get in, quick! There’s a car behind honking. Okay, you impatient idiot!’ She turned around to make a rude sign, ordered her young passenger to open the back door, and in a second, Maria, as if against her will, was swept into the back seat. ‘Miss Seetoh, this is Angel, my little sister. You recognise or not?’ said Maggie laughing shrilly. ‘She grow into big girl now. Very pretty, but very naughty girl. Angel, say good afternoon to Miss Seetoh!’

  The alarm bells in her head never rang more insistently. The red Volvo reeking of the smell of new leather, probably a gift from one of the hard-drinking companions in the bars and lounges, possibly the man with dark glasses she had seen waiting for Maggie at Yen Ping’s wake, the whiff of the bars and lounges clinging to Maggie’s extravagant hairdo, clothes, perfume, high heels, make-up, nail varnish and multitude of jangling jewellery, the new sly smile of the young Angel signifying an innocence already lost or about to be lost in the older sister’s plans for her – oh no, the world of Maggie spelt danger of the worst kind that should never be allowed to even remotely touch hers.

  Maggie said, as she drove along and Maria tried to work out the motive for the new mood of expansive affability, ‘Angel and I going to the Hotel Premier for high tea. Their high tea really high class, I tell you! Come and join us, Miss Seetoh.’

  Maria declined firmly. ‘No, I hope you don’t mind, Maggie, but I really have to be home now.’

  The girl now turned on her a look of deep distress, apparently part of an ongoing scheme of enticement, ‘Miss Seetoh, something very important. About my sister Angel, I need your advice. You are only one I trust for advice, Miss Seetoh. I really trust you, Miss Seetoh.’ Maggie could use that word to serve any mood or purpose. There was no relenting in Maria.

  ‘Maggie, I’ve already told you. Our days as teacher and student are over. Too much has happened. It’s best that we don’t see each other again.’

  Maggie’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. They were not the tears of defiance and anger that Maria had seen that awful day when she rushed out of the creative writing class, but the artful tears of manipulation, causing the alarm bells to ring shrilly. The girl turned to say something to Angel who responded sharply. They were speaking in a dialect that was totally unintelligible to Maria except in the strident tones of accusation, for Maria was convinced Maggie was blaming her sister for what was happening. Soon the sisters were shouting at each other, and Angel started crying.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop all that,’ said Maria severely. ‘What on earth’s going on?’

  ‘We both in trouble, Miss Seetoh,’ said Maggie blowing her nose on a piece of tissue paper, ‘and only you can advise us. Please, Miss Seetoh, don’t say no.’

  Over high tea at the Hotel Premier, Maria thought, as she listened to the indefatigable Maggie, now all dry-eyed and cheerful, I must never let down my guard with this girl. It turned out that the big problem Maggie had intimated was none at all; it had to do with Angel who was not paying enough attention to her studies, and too much to her boyfriend, someone called Eddie who worked as a deejay.

  Maggie who had settled on certain awkward euphemisms (where on earth had she got them, Maria wondered) to describe her work – ‘I am in the social entertainment enhancement industry, Miss Seetoh,’ ‘I provide professional services to select clientele of certain social standing, Miss Seetoh’ – said disdainfully, ‘A deejay! I said to Angel, ‘Why you so stupid? What future you got with deejay? Your sister work hard for you to go to university and you want to go with deejay’?’

  Maria now understood what the noisy quarrel in the car had been about, for Angel screamed back, ‘You leave me alone! You don’t boss me around. I can go with whoever I like!’

  Maggie ignored her, as if she were a recalcitrant child, turned to Maria and said with a very serious face, �
�Miss Seetoh, I know you already leave St Peter’s. Now no job, no income. How about you give private tuition to Angel, prepare her for the English language G.C.E. O Level paper? I can pay you well, Miss Seetoh, because you excellent teacher. Also, Miss Seetoh, I can find you other students, go to your place for private tuition. You can make lots of money, more than teacher’s salary. You know or not, the old Chinese language teacher at St Peter’s, Mr Kam, he left and give private tuition, bought big apartment.’

  Everything came out in one rushed, breathless effort of persuasion that was too urgent to be interrupted. Maria, now clear about the purpose of Maggie’s ambush of her as she was waiting for her taxi, said firmly, ‘Right now, Maggie, I have no thought about giving private tuition. I can only think about writing a book, which I’ve always wanted to do.’

  The first statement was a lie, the second the perfect truth: she would have no choice but to work as a private tutor to support her passion of writing which might remain just that – a passion only, with no financial reward.

  Her new life was shaping more clearly by the day. With Por Por’s death, she could sit down and work out the practicalities that had to be in place before the dream could be invited in. It would be divested of its centerpiece, that lovely little studio apartment that grew lovelier with its unattainability, but it could still be the happy, peaceful world she had long yearned to be in. If it was to maintain its peace, Maggie and anyone connected with her had better not be part of it.

  Maggie pushed a little further, commandeering her entire panoply of persuasive skills, including melodrama and clowning. She said, tugging a lock of Angel’s hair and making the younger girl scream in protest, ‘Miss Seetoh, you know how much I love my little sister, will do anything for her. You know or not, I open bank account for her, to save money for her university education. Because she is very bright girl, with brains and can go to university, not like her stupid sister Maggie!’