But the ring that Cody bought was a different thing altogether. It had meant something, at least to Cody, a commitment of sorts, a symbol of the years we had been together; but for me, it was nothing more than an inanimate object made to embody some significance that existed only in the mind of the giver, and divorced from this, it was nothing more than a piece of metal. So to counter my initial reluctance, and mostly for Cody’s sake, I wore it as if it really mattered, as if it were something that carried the weight of importance for both of us. I wore it when I went to bed, when we had breakfast, when we went out with friends, when we had sex. But when Cody was not around, or when I had to go for my runs, I would take it off and leave it in the drawer. By then the ring had already left its mark on me, the slight indent that went around the base of my finger, the skin a tone lighter as if drained of blood.
When Ai Ling saw the ring during one of our dinners, she looked puzzled.
“Thought you didn’t like to wear accessories?” she said, holding up my hand to examine the ring.
“No, but Cody bought this for me. I would never buy it myself.”
“Does it mean what I think it means?”
“No, it’s just an anniversary gift.”
“Can’t be that simple.”
“It is, don’t overthink it. You women are so drama, always imagining things.”
“I don’t think so. The ring has to mean something. You don’t buy a ring for someone without a reason.” Ai Ling looked at me, widening her eyes in feigned surprise. “Oh my god, he proposed to you, didn’t he?”
“No, don’t be crazy!” I protested, and laughed, and pushed our conversation in another direction.
I’m the eldest son in my family—my father was a car mechanic, and my mother a coffee-shop assistant—and I have three younger brothers. My parents were divorced when I was in primary school, but they kept this from us for a long time. My father continued to stay with us even after, and when he moved out, he took only what he needed, leaving behind many personal items. Because of this, we did not feel his dwindling absence in the house, and subsequent abandonment, for some time. Because my father stayed out late most nights, drinking with his friends, my brothers and I never thought anything was amiss. Only the look on my mother’s face told a different story, but we did not know how to read it. She held back, and carried on: a cycle of housework and chores, taking care of us, cooking our meals. We would not see our father for a day, and we would think nothing of it, perhaps he was busy and had spent the night at the car repair shop. Then it became two nights, but still we held up the illusion; we looked to our mother for a word or some sign, but she did not let on. My father’s absence stretched to a week, and then a month. My brothers and I did not hear from him after that, and whenever the house phone rang, it was usually my mother who picked it up and spoke into it with a moderated tone, turning her back to us. When she hung up, she would avoid our stares, her expression inscrutable.
When we were alone, my brothers and I would speculate about the disappearance of my father—it was the early eighties, and divorce was a rare thing, something nobody talked about, and we did not know anyone in school whose parents were divorced—and came up with many reasons: that he had killed someone and was on the run, or worse, in jail; that he was suffering from some hideous disease and had to stay away because he did not want to infect us. Not once, in all our speculations over the months and years, did we think that our father had deserted us. It was only years later that we found out that he had returned to Malaysia, to his hometown of Ipoh, with another woman, to start another family. By then, we had not heard from him for so long that he no longer mattered in our lives, a marginal figure that hovered in a corner of our memories. We did not even know he died from prostate cancer until my mother told us and asked one of us to accompany her to Ipoh to attend his funeral; none of us wanted to go until my youngest brother relented. For me, it was a matter of pride: he had abandoned us, and I did not want anything to do with him, even when he was dead. I had banished him to the farthest reach of my mind, but the act of forgetting was never an easy task.
For many years, I could not understand my mother’s actions, how she had behaved so civilly to someone who had cheated on her and deserted the family. She never felt the need to explain her actions or feelings to us. Perhaps she had thought it was better to maintain a link with my father for our sake, or because of their past and the ties that went beyond what we could see. How she had kept up the correspondence with my father over the years was something she did behind our backs, without our knowledge. She never remarried, and led a quiet life that hardly stepped out of the boundaries of my brothers’ lives and mine. In a stolid, unwavering way, she led her life for our sake, and growing up, we could not get away fast enough from the different ways she was smothering us, keeping us under her fierce watch. Our little acts of rebellion were forms of betrayal to her, manifested in the cold wars that raged between us and her, the long silences broken only when one of us finally gave in, or gave up. Even my coming out was a sign of aggravation towards her, another telltale mark of how she had, once again, failed as a mother. Whatever secret pains she nursed were invisible to us, a self-serving defence, an impenetrable fortress she put up against her own children.
So, whenever I held up the ring, my mind would dredge up these thoughts about my parents and their failed marriage, and I would have to resist the urge to associate the ring with something I had never truly believed in, an object meant to represent the fragile, breakable bonds between the ones you loved. What was the point of it, after all? I would have given it more credit if it were purely decorative; at least then it would have served a particular function. I wore it less and less, if I could help it, and Cody did not seem to notice.
One time, I lost the ring at the gym. I was not aware of the loss at the time, and it was only when I was on the train heading home that I felt its absence on my finger. I had picked up the habit of twirling the ring whenever I was deep in thought, an absent-minded gesture that had become second nature to me. So when I could not feel it on my finger, I panicked. Rushing back to the gym, I tore through the changing area, heading for the showers; the ring was where I had left it, on the ledge between the shower stalls. Days after this, when I thought about how I had felt then, I found myself embarrassed at the excessive display of feelings, which ran counter to how I had felt about wearing the ring in the first place. So what if I had lost the ring? Would it have mattered? Cody might chide me for my carelessness, but at least the whole issue would be off my mind, something I would not have to struggle with anymore. This, too, could be a form of immense relief. But I never did find the courage to do what felt like the right thing to do.
“Do you want me to get a ring for you, too?” I asked, around eight months after he had given me the ring.
“No,” Cody replied, looking at me to see where I was going with the question.
“Why not? You bought one for me.”
“Because if you wanted to, you would have done it a long time ago.”
“It didn’t cross my mind then. Maybe I can get one for you, if you want.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Seems kind of pointless if I’m the only one wearing it, right?”
“It suits you better.”
“Nonsense. You know exactly how I feel about accessories.”
“Anyway, you have got used to the ring now, haven’t you?”
“It’s just weird for me to wear it if you are not wearing one.”
“So it would make you feel better if I get one too?”