The 22nd of August wasn’t meant to mean anything, but to the lady it meant that she was (exasperatedly) another year older. And when you’re 45 and feeling the creeping tendrils of age catching on, another year older also meant another year’s worth of worries; worries, about the way the veins start showing more vividly on the hands, or the increasing number of wrinkles at places where wrinkles shouldn’t be, or the age old dilemma of feeling the waistline expanding further than preferred. Yes, the lady was another year older, and she was both happy and aggrieved by it.
On the 22nd of August the lady woke up and saw that it was raining. She dressed in the usual manner of her working days, set about to arrange the laundries and suffered her youngest son, who was awake after he wet his bed, and that was before he decided to topple his bowl of cereals just to see the milk splatter. She reset her husband’s alarm clock, bade her eldest son goodbye as he prepared for the office, and drove off into the rain feeling cold and a year older.
The 22nd of August was the day her new branch manager arrived, and it was a prioritised dilemma of the hour to try and make a good impression, which she was failing quite miserably in. It was a Wednesday, and the clients came in throngs, so she was busy and at the end of lunch she was tired. During work she would muse and ponderingly poke at the fact that it was the 22nd of August, and at least something should go right, if not less aggravating, and wondering what dinner she was set in stored for. Her friends supposedly had prepared for her a karaoke dinner complete with premium wine, but she knew her obligation was to return home and dine with her family, however inclined she was to forsake dining with her temperamental husband and her youngest son, which was a difficulty she always imagined worse and experienced worst everyday. Her eldest son would’ve been sweet, but it was the 22nd of August. Shouldn’t she have a say in things?
Driving home she took the time to muse on her compulsory 22nd-of-August wishes. She could wish for a new handbag, or that pair of shoes Eileen was strutting on a few days ago, or for her youngest son, who was 20, to think and act like he was 20, and not the drooling, silent and incorrigible patient he was now. She could wish for a new life, perhaps, like a house in
It was still raining, and she was cold. She was tired, and she was worried. She was another year older.
And then she saw the inevitable crash into the ditch, because her car was careening and screeching, and her brakes wouldn’t work, and her vision was a flurry of blurs intermingled with water droplets and the lights that scattered through it. There was a plummet, a crash, a sudden explosion of pain, and on the 22nd of August the lady was dead, in her car in a ditch, under an unrelenting rain.
She wasn’t awake nor was she asleep, but she was floating in darkness listening to things that sounded like a million whispers in a million speakers. After a while the whispers grew louder, and at one point she caught a few words.
“… I need the chainsaw; she’s wedged under the steering wheel.”
“Back off people, back off! There’s nothing to see here move along! Sir! You! Yes, move along…”
“My God, what happened?”
“… a car lost control...”
“I swear it’s not my fault… my tyres skidded…”
“Collided into another car…”
“CRASH!”
“Horrible… so horrible…”
“I need a medical! Someone go get the stretcher…”
And then she started to see things, but it was bright and flashing in red and blue, and then the voices were drowned in a wailing, repeating noise that sounded like her youngest son going Weeee Wooo Weeee Wooo with his toy police car.
She knew that she was dead, but she wasn’t feeling sad about it. She wasn’t really feeling anything at all, just empty, with silent tingles of warmth, bitter, cold and comfort occasionally reached the tip of her lips, or rubbed past her heart (which, she noticed, doesn’t seem to be doing anything conducive). She was watching people in thick, red coats jostling down to her car, which was in quite the state, and the police were frantically trying to get the traffic moving and keeping the crowd at bay.
And then she remembered her family, and decided that she should go home.
She drifted with the wind, and she felt like the wind was blowing her to the right direction. She watched everything pass by like the little oil streamlets she used to point out to her youngest son, who delighted in it. It was purple and blue and red and green and everything at the same time, swirling into a sensible mess. And she drifted, and kept on drifting for a while, until she was forgetting and remembering a lot of things, like her parents, or her siblings, or where she placed her car keys, or that it was the 22nd of August and that she was a year older and that she should have a say in things.
And then she was home.
She drifted passed the wall and into the living room.
Her family was sitting at the living room, which was cleaner than usual. Her husband, perpetually delving in the realm of cigarettes, was gingerly smoking on the sofa looking annoyed. Her youngest son sat at the single couch, a grin on his face, and she saw that he was smartly dressed with in a proper shirt and a bow tie, and in his chubby hands was a small and colourfully wrapped parcel, surely tucked into his palms by her husband. Her eldest son was looking into his watch, his other hand twirling an Elton John Limited Collection DVD, and he was looking worried.
“Mom’s late. She’s normally home by now.”
“Your mother, she’s never home on time, even during important days like this,” said her husband. “Always out, always late. Always.”
“I don’t know… she’s never late for her own celebration. Maybe she got caught up in traffic,” her eldest son quipped. “It’s still raining.”
Her youngest son chuckled cheekily, looking at the parcel in his hands. He was 20, but never was.
“She must be out with her friends and forgotten that we have a dinner tonight,” her husband said, in his usual voice that never normally ceased to sound enraged or commanding.
“Dad…”
“Don’t come back and eat. Better, not coming back and eat. I’m not going to eat her dinner.”
And then a phone rang.
It was her husband’s phone.
“Hello?”
There was a haunting silence. A sudden plunge of cold placidity, rhythmically punctured by her husband’s voice, and it was like a stopping and unstopping music track, which the lady accustomed to and felt funny.
“Yes, this is her husband speaking.”
Silence.
“Who? Say that again?”
Silence. And then, in a louder voice:
“What do you mean an accident? Where?”
And then silence. And then
“Wha… h- how is she? Which hospital?”
Back to silence, with a ringing in the air, and then
“Your mother’s in the hospital. She had an accident.”
“What? How?”
“She crashed into a ditch,” her husband shaken, but there was no crack, no fissure, in his calm voice. “Some idiot served into her and she was thrown out of control.She’s in a coma now, the doctor says she’s stable but she’s not doing too good.”
Her eldest son was stunned, a hand brushing his hair as he muttered “No… no…”
Her youngest son was sitting upright, his eyes widened like never before, and for once he looked like a normal man, taking in everything and understanding everything, though she know that he couldn’t.
“We need to get to the hospital. Serdang Medical. Call your grandparents, tell them what happened. Then go and start the car.” Her husband was inside the room now, grabbing his wallet and dialling a number at the same time. “Paul? It’s me. Listen…”
She hovered at the ceiling, watching and listening to frantic phone calls where frantic answers rasped through the phone’s earpiece like gentle rustles of leaves. After a moment her husband burst out of the room, pulling on a coat.
“We’re going now,” he said. “Grab you brother and put him in the car. We’ll send him to Aunt Suzy’s and they’ll take care of him while we’re gone. After that we-”
“I… wanna go.”
Her husband and eldest son stared at the youngest child, perplexed.
“I wanna go… see mommy,” said her youngest son, in his usual, stunted voice, and there were tears in his eyes.
And everyone was in the car, driving out into the rain. And the lady followed, drifted by the winds that were meant to carry her to her dying self.
*****
She was feeling like the small fiery glow at the end of a candle after the flames were extinguish, where at points she felt a warmth welling inside of her, yet as the world passed her by in its flurry the warmth died down, waning, and the shadows were soon to come and take her to someplace else.
She was in the hospital, where she followed her family rushing towards the registration. As she went she saw a host of other people she would have never seen before, in normal circumstances; people that were hovering silently, or gliding alongside passing patients with their mouths open and groaning unheard groans. She noticed that they were like smoke, sometimes solid, sometimes like wisps, almost vanishing.
She tailed her family into a room, where she saw herself.
She saw the bandages wrapped over her forehead, neat but bloodied. She saw the machine she never knew the name of, beeping and ticking as cyan lights flickered across the screen into zigzags that looked like stock market charts, and right now the lines were pulsing in a feeble, unimpressive rise and fall that seemed inconsistent. She saw the doctor tending over her, spectacled and dark skinned, who immediately addressed her husband. Her eldest son was standing by the bed, watching. Her youngest had stood by the wall, the coloured parcel still in his hands, clutched to his chest like a girl would to a doll. He was sad.
She moved towards to see herself closer. And suddenly she felt scared.
She was supposed to be in a restaurant somewhere, eating cheap grilled salmon, and her eldest son would be cracking jokes and telling her another one of his romantic escapades. Her husband would be silent and listening and complaining about his food, and she would’ve been very happy to see her youngest giving her the coloured parcel, and she would feed him his favourite chicken chop and he would’ve laughed, surely. Then they would be at home with a slice of cake, and she would’ve made one of the many wishes she mused over in her drive, and she would blow the candle and they would’ve taken a family photo, which would’ve gone on top of the TV next to the New Year pictures. It was
“Things are always this way. It could always be another thing, but it wouldn’t.”
She was in a cage, or something that looked like a cage, and outside she saw that it was rising up slowly towards the heavens. The bars were painted yellow, but they were rusting. She was in a Ferris wheel, in a yellow car. The sky outside was dark.
Sitting in front of her was her youngest son.
“Where… am I?” she said, and she felt like she hasn’t spoken for a very long time.
“Here? I don’t know. I never know. It changes, this place. Sometimes it was a swimming pool. Sometimes an office, sometimes a restaurant with a large round table. But usually, it’s this Ferris wheel.”
Her youngest son had spoken, but not in his usual slur; not in his usual numbed and toneless croon. He was speaking in a boyish, but charmingly lively voice, and as he spoke he was smiling a smile that was meant for him; not a crazed, overdone grin. He looked sad, but he looked… he looked like her son if he was 20 in the body, and also 20 in the mind.
“So… I’m dead, aren’t I?” the lady said, and she felt a little scared, but very much calmed by this strange place. The wheel has reached its topmost rotation and now they were slowly turning down.
“You are, somehow. But not entirely.”
“I see…”
They were silent for a while as the lady looked out to the view, and sometimes she thought that she could see blurred glimpses of a carnival, a swim club, a Chinese cuisine restaurant and her work office, but they never stayed in place.
“Can I touch you?” her youngest son said, suddenly. “Just your hand.”
She nodded, and he let his fingers close on her hands. He felt strangely warm, as though she had not expected him to be.
“I’ve always wanted to know how it felt. I’ve been watching. And I can only watch. Now you’re here…”
He trailed off, and as he did the longing in his voice dispersed together with his words. He let go, and smiled gently. “Thank you.”
“You’re… you’re welcomed,” she said. They were silent again. The wheel had made a complete turn and now going up in another rotation.
She said, “What… why am I here? Is this something like, heaven?”
Her son, or the person that looked like her son, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a while, he said, “This place – everything in this place, including me, is created, somehow, sometime in the past 20 years. It is moulded, formed, by miracles that the realm of creation harbours yet remain unknown, for the most part, by everyone.
“This place here is formed by memories, and something else that was given by will and in abundance. This place is formed by you.”
She realised that she was frowning, but didn’t say anything.
“This place has flourished under you, under the things that you have done. Things that you did sometimes unwillingly, but as part of a complete obligation you have chosen to undertake,” her youngest son went on. “In the course of 20 years it has changed, blossomed, and now it is almost an entire world in itself.”
He gestured out of the car. She could see the carnival, glittering with its many lights, and the restaurant table in the middle of it, where 16 people were sitting at, chattering happily. Lower down was the swimming pool, and someone was teaching someone else to swim. Her office was right beside it, and she could see someone under the table, giggling.
“This world is slowly expanding,” he said. “One day it may stretch beyond the limit that binds it now, and when that day comes, things will be very different.”
“But why am I here? I’m supposed to be dead. I’m dying…”
“You’re here because you created this place. You created me. This place, us, we have become far stronger that what was originally here. Now we want to return the favour.”
And he gave her a comforting smile. The car has once more arrived at the bottom of the wheel, but it didn’t go up again. It stopped, and the door swung open. She couldn’t see anything beyond the door; there wasn’t light. There wasn’t darkness. There was nothing there.
“The door… where does it go?” she asked.
“You go back.”
She had opened her mouth to speak, but then it had dawned upon her, and she understood the meaning of everything. The meaning of this place. She turned around and looked at the figure of her youngest son; chubby, short, but whole. Complete. She smiled, and suddenly remembered.
“I know this place. I took you, to this Ferris wheel. It was our first carnival together.”
He smiled, and gave her a nod.
“And the office. You were little, and dad was too busy to take care of you, so I took you there. You stayed under the table the whole day, laughing.
“The swimming pool. I took you there, and taught you how to swim, but you didn’t like the water, so I carried you on my back and you started laughing again.
“And the restaurant was you had your 18th birthday. We ate with grandma and grandpa and all your aunty and uncles. We sat at the biggest table there, and you had such fun…”
She felt like she hadn’t been home for a very long time. She felt like she had been missing everything and everyone. She felt like she missed herself. What she had done. What she does.
And then she started crying.
Her youngest son gave her a white handkerchief; the one she had often used to wipe his mouth when he dribbled food. She dried her tears.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She had turned and had placed her foot out of the door when she heard him calling, “Wait!”
“Yes?”
“Can I… can I hug you? Before you go. Just to know.”
She enveloped her arms around him. He felt just like he did, always. And warmer.
“Who are you?” she asked, gently, after they had parted.
“I am your youngest son.”
She was out of the door, walking out towards nothing, and she turned around and asked;
“What are you, then?”
“I am Sacrifice.”
And then he was gone. So was everything.
******
She heard voices, once more, in a million whispers through a million speakers. And then she opened her eyes.
“…she’s fine now. The operation worked well, and we had the blood clog removed.”
“Thank you doctor, thank you so much,” said her mother, and she saw her hugging her father.
“She’s coming to! She’s waking up!” her eldest son said.
She looked to her side and saw everyone standing at her bedside. Her parents. Her husband. Her sons. Her sisters.
“Happy Birthday, mom,” her eldest son said. There were tears in his eyes.
She smiled, and realised how hard it was to do so, and how tired she was.
“Mommy,” her youngest son said, slowly and thickly. “Here. Here. Hayppy Buddayth.”
The small, coloured parcel was placed on the bedside table, amongst the flowers.
“Thank you,” said the lady, and she clutched the white handkerchief tighter under her hands.
It was 11.50 at night, and the end of the 22nd of August, the lady was reborn.
*End*
There are worlds that we create without knowing,
And sometimes these worlds, they make a change.
They make a very big change.
- Wallace Reading -
For Mom, a story that would've made sense if you're fat, short, 20 and not acting 20 yourself, with severe delusions of adequacy.
Happy Birthday!
1 comments:
*blubber* Its so swweeeeeet. A tad morbid, yet uplifting. Hints of 'the five ppl u meet in heaven'; a bit draggy towards the end but it ended well. :)
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