“I wish I could stay…” he said.
“I know,” she whispered, her fingers absently tracing the scar on his forehead. So much of life remains beyond our grasp, she thought to herself.
“When will we meet again?”
“When the stars are aligned,” she said, half-jokingly. She didn’t know, and she wasn’t in the habit of making promises she couldn’t keep. Besides, Sonya wasn’t sure if he wanted to make such promises. He had his whole life ahead of him, glittering with possibility.
Pablo turned towards her and kissed her on the lips.
Day became night. Night became day.
By Sunday, he was gone.
Sonya missed her period a month later.
After much deliberation, she decided to contact Pablo. She called. She sent text messages, emails, letters—all of which remained unanswered. Sonya didn’t know if something serious had happened to him, or if his non-response was a response in itself.
The familiar sense of helplessness stung.
Alone in the room, Sonya stepped into a thin blue surgical gown. Goosebumps emerged on the sides of her arms. For a brief moment, she felt light in the head. As she placed a hand on the cool white wall to steady herself, she tried to reassure herself that it was normal. It must have been the lack of sleep, and having to fast in the hours prior.
The trepidation now charging through her veins was not unlike what she had felt nearly a decade ago, when she was rolled into an operating theatre for the first time at the age of ten. Her fingers reached behind to trace the contours of the thick, protruding scar down her back. Sonya closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Just as she had not allowed her life to bow to that one missing wedge of bone all those years ago, she would now, too, not allow it to buckle under the weight of one reckless boy.
Opening her eyes, Sonya straightened her back and walked towards the door.
ALL WE ARE AT THE END IS ASH
JONATHAN WAS STRIDING on the travelator at Changi Airport, pulling his black metallic suitcase behind him, when the question appeared in his mind: what if it were possible to determine the exact dates of our deaths? Would he opt to remain in oblivion, living as human beings have done since time immemorial, or would he choose to find out, thereafter keeping the numerals etched in his head, celebrating its pre-anniversary each year as if it were his birthday, each one marking the accumulation of life, a temporary escape from death?
Beyond the full-length windows, the sky was dusking. Jonathan stepped off the travelator and, without glancing at the signage, hastened to the immigration hall on the ground floor. His phone was buried in his pocket, still on airplane mode, but he knew his father would already be waiting for him outside. As he scanned his passport and watched the words on a too bright screen welcome him home, he wondered what his grandmother would have chosen. His grandmother used to make frequent trips to Waterloo Street. There she sought advice from a fortune teller famed for his alleged accuracy in making predictions. From him, through her, the rest of the family came to know which were supposed to be their good years, and which not so good. Depending on the date and timing of their births, each family member would be advised on what he or she should watch out for, what to avoid and specific colours or talismans to wear or carry with them to boost their luck.
For as long as Jonathan could remember, these nuggets of information found their way to them on Sunday afternoons, shortly after stepping through the metal gates of his grandparents’ two-room flat in Pasir Ris. His mother and aunt would take their usual seats by his grandmother’s side on the three-seater bench sofa, noting down her words so they could all dress in the said colours of auspiciousness on subsequent visits. Next to them, his grandfather, in his rocking chair, would add sporadically to the chatter around him. At the edge of the living room, his father and uncle would sit on four-legged stools and make sparing conversation while staring at the television. As an only child, Jonathan looked forward to those Sundays. With his two younger cousins, he would build up the ever-expanding train sets his grandmother spoilt them with, forming an intricate network of railways and miniature towns that sprawled all over the speckled grey tiles of his grandparents’ flat, extending from the living room to the kitchen and sometimes, even encroaching on their bedroom.
A tentative tap on his shoulder interrupted Jonathan’s thoughts. He turned to see a petite woman with silvering hair, gesturing towards the baggage carousel to his right, asking for help to retrieve her luggage. Jonathan glanced to his left. Beyond the glass partition, he spotted his father in the arrival hall. Even from a distance, the toll the last days had taken on his father was evident. Pressing his lips together, Jonathan nodded. As he heaved a large, canvas suitcase off the belt, he wondered how the old lady had managed it on her own. She gave him a smile and his arm a squeeze. The bones in her fingers reminded him of his grandmother. He tried to recall the last Sunday dinner he had had at his grandparents’ place, whether his grandmother had deemed this year good or bad. But his memories had grown murky with time, and before he could sieve out the details, he had walked out into the arrival hall.
As Jonathan made his way towards his father, he pondered if all those trips his grandmother had made to Waterloo Street had simply been an attempt to grasp those numerals, from which to protect her family. He tightened his grip on the handle of his suitcase as yet another question popped up in his head: why, then, did the fortune teller fail to protect his grandmother from her own death?
Jonathan had been away in Frankfurt when his grandmother died. It was the fourth of August, one of the hottest days that summer. But if the stifling heat had made it difficult to breathe in his windowless office with no air conditioning, the news that reached him rendered it at once impossible.
In a daze, Jonathan put down the phone. He had called the night before. He had heard the gentleness with which his grandfather held the receiver to his grandmother’s ear, his grandmother who was too weak to speak.
“Ah Ma,” Jonathan said, straining to keep his voice from quivering. He wanted to say something, anything—to distract his grandmother, to lift her spirits, to make things more bearable in some small way.
But he said nothing.
For five minutes and fourteen seconds, they stayed on the line, listening to the sounds of their own breathing—he, staring at the ticking hand of the monochrome clock on the wall; his grandfather, stooped by Ah Ma’s side; Ah Ma, barely conscious by then.
On the laptop screen before him, two emails marked as urgent appeared in his inbox. Instead of reading them, Jonathan opened a new tab and booked himself the first flight out to Singapore.
Twelve months before it happened, Jonathan’s grandparents had decided to retire in a year—after a lifetime of labouring as hawkers, tirelessly waking up at three o’clock each morning to prepare the ingredients for the hundreds of helpings of wonton mee they would sell over the course of the day. This entailed the boiling of broth, the chopping of choy sum, the wrapping of minced meat into coin-sized dumplings, the roasting of pork shoulder with its sweet, sticky red glaze. Jonathan’s mother and aunt had helped out when they were younger, but after they got married and moved out, his grandparents had been managing everything on their own.
Growing up, Jonathan’s parents had brought him to his grandparents’ stall every weekend for breakfast. He loved sitting at the round table directly in front of their stall, for it offered the best spot from which to observe his grandparents at work. He marvelled at the accuracy with which his grandmother, with her crinkly eyes and silvering hair, would remember the usual orders of their customers—two portions, dry, extra char siew, extra pickled green chilli; one portion, soup, extra noodles, no chilli. He marvelled at the ease and speed with which his grandfather would then assemble the portions—blanching the noodles in scalding water, tossing them in his signature mixture of savoury sauces, before adding slices of slightly charred meat, wontons and leafy greens to the beds of noodles.
The Sunday his grandfather announced their retirement plans to the family, the sense of relief that permeated the air in the living room caused goosebumps to appear on Jonathan’s skin. Jonathan listened as his grandparents spoke of their plans to sell their stall to an old friend, of the places where they would like to travel. His mother and aunt chimed in with suggestions. His father and uncle nodded in agreement. As his cousins discussed the possibility of going on a family holiday together, Jonathan couldn’t help noticing the quiet anticipation that shone in his grandparents’ eyes—the sense of a long-awaited goal, finally within reach.
Amid the excitement, something weighed on him: the prospect of not being able to taste his favourite dry noodles with extra wontons, deep-fried to a glorious golden brown. As the plans for a family holiday began to take shape, Jonathan made a mental note to savour more of his grandparents’ wonton mee while he still could.
Ten months before it happened, Jonathan’s grandmother got diagnosed with stomach cancer. The diagnosis arrived suddenly, after a bout of acute abdominal pain his grandmother experienced one afternoon, which led his grandparents to close their stall early for a visit to the GP and subsequently, urgent admission to the hospital.
By evening, his grandmother lay in an oversized bed, with a painful assortment of tubes snaking in and out of bruised flesh. Jonathan and the rest of his family gathered outside the ward. Their faces were grave as they took in the bespectacled doctor’s words. It was stage four; it was too late. Jonathan’s mother wept in his father’s arms. His aunt went ashen—blood draining from her face, might draining from her legs. His cousins wiped sorrow from the corners of their eyes. In the eye of the turmoil, his grandfather remained stoic.
Initially, the family put on an act, wishing to keep the news from his grandmother. They surrounded her as she lay cocooned in bed. They relayed unrelated anecdotes about people she knew from the hawker centre, as if it were simply an upset stomach she was having that would soon go away. His grandmother said nothing, simply nodded at their words. Only much later did the family find out that the doctor had already told his grandmother what he thought to be the truth—that she only had one month left to live—not knowing she would prove him wrong.
Nine months before it happened, Jonathan had been due to leave for a one-year posting to his company’s office in Frankfurt. It was a highly coveted opportunity, one he attempted to defer but couldn’t. He thought about the long hours he had already put in, the Sunday family dinners he had missed, the relationships he had sacrificed. His manager urged him to go, reminding him that such a chance might not come round again. His parents seemed to be of the same mind, though with less conviction. Jonathan was torn. So much could happen in a year—the possibility of growth, the possibility of loss.
On Sunday afternoon, with the entire family gathered in his grandparents’ living room, his grandmother called for him to follow her. Alone with her in the bedroom, Jonathan realised for the first time how little space there was to move around inside. Most of it was taken up by an old mattress on the floor, flanked by photographs and knick-knacks. Among them, only one photograph was framed.
His grandmother breathed his pet name. Jonathan stepped towards her, saw up close the sharpness of the bones protruding from her skin. Time and cancer had seeped into the lines of her face. Gently, she pressed a red packet into his hands, a blessing for his upcoming journey.
“Take care of yourself when you’re there,” she said in Hokkien, before reassuring him that she would await his return and make him his favourite wonton noodles when he was back. “With extra deep-fried wontons,” she added, a smile surfacing in her weary eyes.
Unable to speak, Jonathan stared at the constellation of liver spots and old burn marks on the withered hand covering his. He thought about how the father of a friend of his had been diagnosed with advanced lung cancer over a decade ago. They had been given a year, back then, but the year had found ways to stretch itself. These days, Jonathan often saw photos of his friend’s father on social media, smiling and playing with his grandchildren. There were so many possibilities.
Summoning up the strength to meet his grandmother’s eyes, Jonathan returned her smile, weakly.
Twenty-four hours after it happened, Jonathan returned to see the void deck of his grandparents’ block completely transformed. Yellow tentage was everywhere. Floral arrangements and wreaths bearing words of condolence were lined up to one side. White chairs circled tables smothered in plastic. On each table lay paper plates with boiled sweets, peanuts and melon seeds. But there were no wontons; he was too late.
Amid the crowd, Jonathan glimpsed his grandmother’s face. Or rather, an image of her face, immortalised on photographic paper. He recognised its source; it had been cropped from the framed photo in his grandparents’ bedroom, taken at his graduation ceremony several years ago. In it, his grandmother was wearing a floral cheongsam, her cheeks plump with life, framed by buoyant curls, which she had permed for the occasion. The photo had clearly been edited, for the background bore a swath of swirling blue—someone’s idea of heaven, perhaps.
