After they brought back his mother’s ashes, Cody went into his room and did not come out for a week. At first, he thought that he was just exhausted from the frictional effect that people had on him, from an extended period of contact and proximity. He slept for eighteen hours, dead to the world, and even after he woke up, he could not bring himself to leave the bed or come out of the bedroom. His father and sisters left him alone for a while, thinking that it was a phase, but after two days they became alarmed. His sisters came to sit beside him, patting his head and shoulders, reassuring him with their soft, cajoling words. He closed his eyes and turned to the wall, tensing his body at their touch. They brought food, leaving it on the side table beside the bed, dishes of rice and vegetables and meat that turned cold after being left untouched.
He slept for most of each day; when he could not, he would stare out the window at the narrow fragment of the sky, listening to the muffled sounds of the world outside the flat. He was not able to hold onto any thought that flitted through his mind. Occasionally, a memory would dislodge itself and force its way into his consciousness: a face, a word, a repeated montage of images. He could not shut these memories down, so he let them pass through him. When he slept, these thoughts would slip into his dreams, and in them he could see himself trying to make sense of what he could not hold on to. His mother featured in most of these dreams—standing at the stove and stirring a pot of pork ribs and lotus root soup, or listening to a radio programme on the Rediffusion. Cody would hover at the edge of these visions, observing her, unable to touch her even if he wanted to, his mother existing in a realm beyond his reach. These dreams would haunt him while he was awake, leaving him helpless in discerning the real from imaginary.
Sometimes his father would come into the room. He would lay his hand on Cody’s head and whisper his name, as if trying to call him back from wherever he had gone. Cody could hear his name clearly, but he did not respond, restrained by his own silence. His father would sit quietly beside Cody and stay there for a long time. Some nights, he would bring a face towel and wipe down Cody’s face, arms and legs, and change his clothes. Cody did not put up any resistance as his father carried out these tasks.
One night, after waking from a recurring nightmare, his body racked with painful spasms, Cody looked over and saw his father sitting on a chair beside the bed, sleeping. In the light of the bedside lamp, he saw a sea of white hair against his scalp; how his father had aged just over a short period of time, how frail he seemed now. Looking at him asleep, Cody could feel the years that had passed between his parents, years that stretched all the way back before he and his sisters were born, to a time that existed only between them and no one else. How this immense weight of time and history was now left to his father, who had to bear the burden all on his own.
As Cody laid his hand on his father’s head, he stirred lightly in his sleep, letting out a small cry. For a long moment, Cody imagined the thoughts running through his father’s mind, thoughts that followed their own logic, their own outcomes, into places only he would know—dark, oceanic places, teeming with life. He would never know what went on in there, in this secret place inside his father, but he would keep vigil over him, just as his father had done—watching over him, waiting for him to surface once again.
PART THREE
21
AI LING
In late October 2004, Ai Ling had told Wei Xiang about a four-day trip she was hoping to take by herself to Cha Am, a beach resort town along the western coast of Thailand, to “get herself sorted out”. When Wei Xiang asked to accompany her, Ai Ling declined, offering the answer she had prepared in advance: she needed some time on her own, to take a breather from work, to think. Ai Ling then smiled and patted his arm, brushing away his worry.
The morning she landed in Bangkok, she took a two-hour coach ride to Cha Am, and arrived at the beachfront resort tired but elated. She felt as if she had finally pulled off an impossible feat and was being rewarded with the prize she had wanted: silence and solitude. They gave her a room on the third floor, from where she could see the silver surf on the beach and hear the white noise of street sounds—snippets of Thai songs, children playing, cars driving by. Her room was simple enough, a queen-size bed with a low bedside table, a large mirror beside the door, and a small beige two-seater sofa that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. From her luggage, she took out her toiletries bag and went for a quick shower. When she was done, she lay on the bed, hair damp, and allowed her body to sink into its silky comfort, the bedsheet cool against her skin. She fell asleep and woke up half an hour later, feeling the drag of lethargy in her body. She sat up on the edge of the bed and watched as the water swept along the coastline, the sea stretching into the far horizon.
In her half-drowsy state, Ai Ling remembered Wei Xiang’s face at the airport that morning, how his eyes were alert with attention, searching hers for some sort of an answer to the questions he dared not ask. Again, Ai Ling had given him the details of her itinerary and the contact information of the hotel where she would be staying. When they parted at the departure gates, Ai Ling could not help but feel a deep sense of relief, as if she were finally freed from her obligations, her tiresome old self. The recollection of her relief brought a stab of guilt, and Ai Ling quickly let the feeling pass. She was not here to feel the same things or have the same thoughts. For the next few days, she did not want to be her usual self; she wanted to do things differently, and for her own sake. She only needed to answer to herself.
Ai Ling got up from the bed and opened every window in the room, letting the breeze in, sending ripples across the rumpled bedsheet. The greasy smell of frying oil wafted into the room, reminding her that she had not eaten since breakfast with Wei Xiang at the airport, and she could feel her stomach growling. Dusk was approaching fast, scattering stolen light across the sea; Ai Ling caught her reflection in the large mirror, suspended in this quality of light, and for a moment she felt strangely out of body. “Light and shadow is all,” she said in a self-deprecating tone to her own reflection. Then she laughed and dressed for dinner.
As Ai Ling passed through the foyer, she glanced over at the alfresco hotel bar, where a few occupants were having drinks; a television was blaring a football match with loud commentary. A face turned to her and she was surprised to recognise who the person was: a man who had taken the same coach from Bangkok to the hotel, whom she had barely acknowledged during the bus journey. He was in his late twenties, lean and bespectacled, with neatly parted hair. Ai Ling had wondered whether he was a fellow Singaporean and was apprehensive about making further contact, even with a glance.
But the man was smiling at her now, and Ai Ling felt compelled to return it. He watched as she passed through the foyer, and she was suddenly conscious of her movements and her loose, knee-length sundress. She quickly erased the thought from her mind; still she could sense the curiosity emanating from the man’s stare, like a source of heat. She quickened her steps.
At thirty-five, Ai Ling knew she was already past her prime, that words like “pretty” or “attractive” no longer applied to her. She had not cared much about such things—these vacuous aesthetic labels that differ from person to person—though she was aware of the gradual fading of her looks, something beyond her control. She knew she had crossed some line, one that had separated her younger self from the current one, and often wondered how this transition had taken place, and at which point in her life. She felt centuries old in her body, in her mind.