Spilt Milk by Ya Lan Chang
Xueling takes her son Eliot home to Singapore, leaving Daddy back in Britain, and her feelings about motherhood come to a head when she runs into an ex.
While strolling along the Singapore river towards Botero's Bird, Xueling is startled by a familiar figure. She stops, staring, as he saunters down the steps of UOB Plaza 1. It's been five years, and he's looking at his phone, but it's him: the swimmer's shoulders, the high forehead, the confident gait. He's striding towards her. He will see her if he looks up. Her feet harden into cement, her voice cowers in her throat.
Of all the people to run into on her first trip home in five years. After so much has faded. After all this time.
Before she can react, he glances up, right at her. He halts. Squints. And breaks into a smile. Quickening his pace, he says 'is it really you?' as he reaches her.
She brushes away her fringe, but it remains stuck to her forehead. 'Hi. Yes, it's me.'
'I can't believe this,' he says, laughing. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm visiting with - I'm visiting. I haven't been back since I left, and now the pandemic's over...'
'Yeah, makes sense.' His eyes fix on her, and she resists the urge to squirm. 'Still can't believe it's you.'
'I know. You look - good.'
'So do you.' He checks his watch. 'Sorry, I'm late for a meeting. But let's catch up. What's your number?'
She hesitates, then taps her digits into his phone.
'Awesome. I'll text you, okay?'
He repeats how good it is to see her, rubbing her arm as though they've seen each other only yesterday. As Nick disappears into Boat Quay, she wonders why she hadn't mentioned her 15-month-old son.
Back at her parents' apartment, she finds Eli perched on her mother's lap, banging on the piano, cackling.
'Mama,' he shouts, beaming, as she kisses his sticky cheek.
'Come, let's call Daddy.'
Richard's face appears; Eli says 'Dada', paws at the screen. Clamping her son's slippery body between her knees, Xueling restrains him with one arm and holds the phone with the other hand. Sweat rolls down the back of her neck despite the fan blasting at them.
'So how did Eli take being left at home?' Richard asks.
'Um. He cried.'
'That bad?'
Eli's wails, loud enough to penetrate the shut front door, replay in her mind. 'Kind of. But my parents managed.'
Richard removes his glasses and rubs an eye. 'You could've taken him.'
She flinches. 'I needed me time. That's the whole point of the trip.'
'Yes, but he was distressed.'
'Why are you making me feel guilty?'
'Sorry, I'm just sad he was upset. He's still a baby.'
'But he's fine now.' She lowers the phone to Eli's gummy grin. 'See?'
Richard coos at Eli, and says, 'Did you really need to go to Singapore for five weeks?'
She bites her lip, and tastes copper. 'Yes.'
'Yeah but... well, you haven't written anything.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'That's what you said. Point is, you shouldn't neglect him.'
'Neglect?' She resists the urge to fling her phone against the wall, raises her voice above Eli's squawking. 'That's rich coming from you. You weren't the one staying home, taking care of him, every single day, alone, throughout lockdown.'
'All right, I'm sorry.' He runs a hand over his face. 'Let's talk about something else. How's Eli otherwise?'
She unclenches her fists, takes a deep breath. 'He's fine. Sweaty all the time.'
Richard chuckles. 'Poor little British boy. I'm sure he'll adapt. It's only been a week.'
'Yeah, hopefully.'
'How was your walk, then?'
'Oh, fine. Hot. It was good to see my favourite bits, like the Fullerton Hotel, Cavenagh Bridge, the sculptures along the river.'
Eli slapping at the phone gives Xueling an excuse to look away as she moves it out of his reach. Richard's screen might obscure her blush, but she doesn't want to risk it. She asks Richard about his plan for the workday.
'The usual,' he says. 'Meetings. Lab work. Nothing special. Hey, can you please just... spend more time with him? I know you need to rediscover yourself and everything, but he needs his mama.'
'Gotta go,' she says, for Eli has wriggled out from her grasp and is reaching for a marble. Richard tells her he misses and loves them, but she hangs up, whether to prevent a choking crisis or to punish him, she's not sure.
After a fraught dinner during which Eli dumped his grandmother's miso-glazed tofu all over the floor, Xueling puts him down for the night. She shuffles into her childhood room and sinks into her bed.
Her parents have kept it unchanged: her ink-stained desk under the window, her bookcase crammed with mildewed novels and dusty photo albums, her closet overflowing with too-tight clothes. If the ghost of her former self haunts this room, she wonders whether it'd recognise the person she's become: the dark circles, the grease in her hair, the prickles under her arms.
When her phone vibrates, she thinks it's maybe Nick. But it's Richard: Sorry about just now. I didn't mean to suggest you're neglectful. It's just he's not used to your parents so may be good to be with you more, at least for now? You can try to write again when they're more comfy with each other?
The audacity. He knows why she needed to come home, why she needed space from their son. Has he forgotten the breastmilk incident, when Eli was three months old? Richard had taken Eli to the park. Sitting at the kitchen table, she held the breast pump flange to her left breast with one hand, trying to write her novel with the other. She stared at the blinking cursor, the blinding white space. The words that once flowed languished in her brain fog. She'd already missed two deadlines. Her new one was in three days. She'd written no more than two paragraphs.
When the bottle was full, she unscrewed it from the flange, eyes on her screen - and her hand slipped. There was a hollow thud. Her milk spread all over the floor. She slammed her laptop shut, buried her face in her hands. She hadn't realised Richard and Eli had returned until she felt Richard's arms around her. 'I'm a failure,' she sobbed. 'A useless fucking failure.'
How dare he make her feel guilty for wanting time to herself? She has enough mum guilt to last a lifetime: how relieved she is when Eli naps, how she dreads the moment he wakes up, how she resents him, sometimes, for the newfound circularity of her days, her time now marked by the repeated minutiae of his life - diaper changes, nap time, feeding. A good mother doesn't think like this. A good mother doesn't complain, doesn't want. A good mother loves wholeheartedly, unconditionally. Xueling's not a good mother. Her love for Eli will run dry one day; all the cuddles and kisses and silly songs could never compensate for her imperfections.
She'd imagined a different life. Richard would work on a cure for lung cancer while she writes her novel in the British Library. They'd furnish their Camden flat with Scandi furniture and abstract paintings, not Thomas the Tank Engine playmats and flat-pack IKEAs. They'd bicker about Xueling forgetting to water the plants, or Richard leaving crumbs on the table - not about her monotonous days, his returning late from work. The last time their conversation didn't involve Eli was probably the day before she found out she was pregnant. She's grateful Richard's so involved, so determined not to be his father, who left when he was five. But he doesn't see her anymore.
And the bedroom. Impossible, now that motherhood has subverted how she views her breasts: no longer sexual objects, but teats. Cows' teats. Her baby's food source. Picturing Richard's mouth on them after Eli has fed revolted her. Richard insists he's willing to wait, but she wouldn't blame him if he's lying: to himself, to her. A cow is unattractive.
What were the odds their condom would fail? She'd panicked, thought about abortion - but a primal, protective instinct towards the foetus, small as a shrimp, took over. It'd cut against her fierce belief she'd never be a mother - but making her choice a no-brainer.
Would she have chosen the same way if she'd known the consequences?
She looks at Richard's message, trying to sift through the angry responses to unearth the measured one, until her phone buzzes again. This time, it's Nick.
Hey! Great running into you earlier. When are you free to meet?
Warmth spreads through her body. Her thumbs hover over the keypad as a memory resurfaces: Siloso Beach, two towels under a coconut tree, his lips on hers, salty after a dip in the sea.
Yes, I want to, she thinks, and answers she's free tomorrow.
Perfect! Let's get a drink?
Coffee is more appropriate. But she can't remember the last time she'd had a drink, or set foot in a bar... or smiled like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Sounds good. Let me know when and where.
She half-expects him to pick somewhere they'd been before: Acid Bar in Emerald Hill, 1-Altitude in Raffles Place. But it's new, a wine bistro, downtown.
She sends a thumbs-up; he goes offline. In his profile picture, he's standing in front of the Shwedagon Pagoda, his hair falling over his eyes, little whirlpools in his cheeks. What would her life be like now if they'd met earlier, not a month before she left Singapore?
It doesn't matter. Her life is with Eli and Richard now. Her family. But as she turns off the light, she can't help but wonder.
She's propping the door open with her body, and Eli's clutching her skirt. She pries his fingers off, trying not to look at him, at his tomato-red face, cheeks slick with tears, mouth contorted into a misshapen rectangle, baring two-and-a-half teeth on his lower gum.
Of course, she doesn't have to go. But she wants to. She needs to.
Her mother crouches next to him, waving a Paw Patrol fire engine. 'Want to play with this?' she asks. 'Look, there's a doggie.'
Xueling mouths 'thanks' as he quietens and takes the toy. It occurs to her to kiss him goodbye, but she doesn't want to risk him latching onto her again. Once he turns his back, she slips out like a teenager with a secret boyfriend.
On the MRT, backed into a corner, she pushes Eli's crying face from her mind and thinks about Nick. A date comes back to her: 1-Altitude, a two-seater couch overlooking the nighttime skyline, bodies cosied close, cocktails in hand. Nick was a reader too, and Sally Rooney's Normal People was all the rage. He loved how it portrayed a modern relationship.
'Like ours?'
He kissed her hand. 'The only reason we haven't DTRed is because you're leaving to be a bigshot writer.'
'Please, it's just a Creative Writing MA.' She locked her fingers with his. 'Are you saying we'd go steady if I weren't leaving?'
She thought he'd crack a joke. But he turned to her, his face serious.
'If you weren't leaving, Lee Xueling, I would've defined the fuck out of this relationship already.'
He was the last person she'd loved before Richard, back then, when she'd known exactly who she was. Nick had known her too, and loved her. The day before her flight, he'd shown up at her door, armed with Läderach chocolates and Simon Armitage's The Book of Matches. Inside, he'd written, 'To not leaving unsaid things I should have spoken.' He grabbed her hands. 'Don't make a clean break. Please. We can work something out.'
But that'd mean she'd have to return to Singapore, its 734 square kilometres too modest for her ambition. She whispered 'sorry' and closed the door. That was when she'd last seen him. Until yesterday.
She alights at Telok Ayer. Sweat gathers under her arms as she walks to the bar, a converted shophouse with floor-to-ceiling racks of wine. It's quiet, but Nick's sitting at the bar counter, reading a book. How endearing. If they still went on dates, Richard would be doom-scrolling on his phone.
She wipes her hands on her dress - floral print, flowing skirt, sweetheart neckline - and approaches Nick. When he looks up, she's transported back to that day, at that birthday party. How she'd stared, drawn to the way he'd laughed with his whole body at Weilong's joke. How flattered and excited she'd been by the way his eyes lingered on hers after they were introduced.
'Xueling!' He wraps his arms around her. She catches a whiff of his cologne: something unfamiliar, not the CK One from before.
'Hey,' she says, smiling. 'What're you reading?'
He holds up the book: Viet Thanh Nguyen's The Sympathiser.
'I haven't read this one,' she says as they sit next to each other. 'Any good?'
'Yeah, I'm liking it so far. Really sharp, frenetic prose.' He laughs, ruffles his hair. 'I'm gonna stop right there. Don't wanna, you know, 班门弄斧.'
She forces a smile. If only he knew how long it's been since she last read a novel. He needn't worry about showing off in front of an expert, if she was ever one.
He catches her up on his life: same commercial law firm since graduation, long hours and difficult clients, his excitement at seeing his name in the law reports. He reveals he's making partner this year, and her eyes widen. How grown-up he is. How wonderful he's getting what he'd always wanted.
When the waiter greets them, Nick suggests sharing a bottle of wine, not knowing, of course, that, despite weaning Eli a month ago, she hasn't started drinking again.
'Um,' she says. 'Sure. Why not?'
He orders a Merlot; he remembers it's her favourite. He remembers other things, too. That time they found a cockroach leg in her char kway teow at Lau Pa Sat. When they played tourists and took an overpriced river cruise. How she'd hyperventilated when they spotted a snake while hiking Bukit Timah Hill, how he'd held her close the rest of the way. She listens, her chin in her palm, not interrupting save to laugh or gasp. She wants Nick to keep revealing pieces of her old self, buried, hopefully, somewhere beneath the loose skin, the widened hips. And to keep smiling at her, too, like the years have contracted.
The waiter arrives, pours two glasses of wine. They clink glasses.
'Anyway,' Nick says, 'I'm talking too much. How have you been?'
Her chance to mention Eli. 'Wow, where do I start?'
'The MA, obviously. How did it go?'
She grips the glass stem. 'Um... I received funding for a PhD.'
'That's amazing! Should I call you Dr Lee?'
She should bring up Eli. Tell Nick she was pregnant in her first year. But he'd think less of her, she's sure, if she confessed she'd dropped out when Eli was six months old. She'd tried to write while he napped, but often fell asleep with him. She couldn't do it all. So she chose her son.
Nick mustn't know she's now Eliot's Mum, as she's called by the GP, the playgroup coordinators, the swimming instructor - as if she'd stopped existing the moment she pushed a baby out of her body. She needs to remain Xueling to him: the determined, passionate woman who broke the Singaporean mould of a safe career to be a writer. Someone in the world needs to know who she is.
'No, still working on it. Hey, how's Weilong? I haven't talked to him in ages.'
Nick divulges gossip: Weilong's divorce, someone else's drunk-driving conviction, another person's sextape scandal. He gestures and laughs with his head thrown back, and she feels herself loosening up, reaching for her glass. Soon, she looks at him through glazed, googly eyes, and says, 'Do you remember that time we went to Books Actually?'
He stops drinking mid-sip. 'What do you think?'
She shrugs.
'Of course I remember.' He shakes his head, grins. 'We were arguing about The Blind Assassin.'
She sees them in her mind. Standing next to the A - C shelf. She's holding her favourite book, he's scoffing and criticising the sci-fi sections. She's protesting, her voice pitched higher than she'd intended, and faint dimples appear before he swoops down and kisses her mid-sentence. She drops the book. When they break apart, he says, 'Can't wait to see your novel on the shelves.'
Now, he shifts closer. 'I read it again, you know.'
'Really? When?'
'After you left.'
'Oh.' She stares at their hands, a hair-width apart. 'What did you think?'
'I thought -' He clears his throat. 'Can I be honest?'
'Sure.'
'I think you look amazing. Even better than before.'
She grabs her glass, gulps down the wine.
He continues, 'I've been thinking about you non-stop since yesterday. Funny thing is, I just got out of a relationship. If that isn't providence...'
From the corner of her eye, she spies his hand creeping towards hers. She wants him to take it. To touch more than her hand. Put an arm around her waist and pull her to him. Take her home, undress her like he'd done before: his fingers grazing her skin, the sides of her breasts, drawing out the moment of her nakedness. She wants him to penetrate her fully. Forcefully. Help her connect the dots, find a way back.
And maybe he wouldn't imply she neglects their son. Maybe he wouldn't question why she needs time to herself, time to write. He'd simply get it. Because he gets her. Only someone who understands would say, as he's saying now, how happy he is that she pursued her dreams, knowing full well what it'd cost. He knows me, she thinks, lifting her gaze to meet his. I'm still here.
She cups a hand around his neck, pulls him to her, presses her wine-stained lips against his, expecting... something. He kisses her back, almost falling off his stool to get closer, and it should feel familiar, kissing Nick. It should feel more momentous than this. It should feel like she's turning back the clock, stepping into her old skin, stitching it back up.
Instead, her body stiffens. She squeezes her eyes shut, shoves her tongue into his mouth. The more he kisses her back, the more unreal he is, and her mind begins to wander: to the fact that she hadn't thought about him at all since meeting Richard; how strange it feels to be kissed without stubble rubbing her face; and the time, oh the time, what time is it, she needs to get home to put Eli to bed.
She jerks away. 'Shit. I'm sorry. This is a mistake.' She gropes for her phone, sees the time. 'I need to go. It's bedtime.'
Nick grabs her wrist. 'Bedtime? It's not even eight.'
'It's Eliot,' she says. 'My son. I need to put him to bed. He can't fall asleep without me. How much is the wine?'
Gaping at her, Nick stammers, 'I don't know, it doesn't matter. Xueling, what - what do you mean you have a son?'
The expression on his face makes her look away. She'd seen it before. She shut her door to it five years ago.
'Nick, I - care, but -'
But what's the point? She's Eliot's Mum now.
'I'm sorry. I really am.' She presses a $50 note under his glass, tells him to take care, and goes home to her son.
Xueling prepares a bubble bath, helps Eli into it. His green rubber duckie bobs on the surface. He grabs it, quacking and pushing it along the water. They cover it with soap suds, and as they rinse it off, she says, 'Whoosh goes the water.' He giggles and tries to imitate. Woo! Woo! She wraps him in his soft hooded towel, dries him, puts on a fresh diaper before his baby-blue Thomas sleepsuit. They snuggle into bed. He rubs his eyes but points at his good-night book: Jimmy Liao's Where Will I Go Tomorrow? He squeals when his room turns into a car and he toots his imaginary horn; cackles when his room transforms into a submarine and he sees a mysterious underwater creature; and when his room becomes a rocket and shoots off into space, he spots her on Earth, looking up at the night sky for him, and waves. Afterwards, she turns off the light, lies next to him, breathes in his scent of baby shampoo and fresh laundry. She kisses his pillowy cheek once, twice, again, and again. She watches as his eyes droop shut, drifting into dreamland, away from her. He searches for her hand, grips her thumb. She places her hand on his chest. Feels his heartbeat. And lets it calm hers.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/Fwb0Gac
via IFTTT
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
Of all the people to run into on her first trip home in five years. After so much has faded. After all this time.
Before she can react, he glances up, right at her. He halts. Squints. And breaks into a smile. Quickening his pace, he says 'is it really you?' as he reaches her.
She brushes away her fringe, but it remains stuck to her forehead. 'Hi. Yes, it's me.'
'I can't believe this,' he says, laughing. 'What are you doing here?'
'I'm visiting with - I'm visiting. I haven't been back since I left, and now the pandemic's over...'
'Yeah, makes sense.' His eyes fix on her, and she resists the urge to squirm. 'Still can't believe it's you.'
'I know. You look - good.'
'So do you.' He checks his watch. 'Sorry, I'm late for a meeting. But let's catch up. What's your number?'
She hesitates, then taps her digits into his phone.
'Awesome. I'll text you, okay?'
He repeats how good it is to see her, rubbing her arm as though they've seen each other only yesterday. As Nick disappears into Boat Quay, she wonders why she hadn't mentioned her 15-month-old son.
Back at her parents' apartment, she finds Eli perched on her mother's lap, banging on the piano, cackling.
'Mama,' he shouts, beaming, as she kisses his sticky cheek.
'Come, let's call Daddy.'
Richard's face appears; Eli says 'Dada', paws at the screen. Clamping her son's slippery body between her knees, Xueling restrains him with one arm and holds the phone with the other hand. Sweat rolls down the back of her neck despite the fan blasting at them.
'So how did Eli take being left at home?' Richard asks.
'Um. He cried.'
'That bad?'
Eli's wails, loud enough to penetrate the shut front door, replay in her mind. 'Kind of. But my parents managed.'
Richard removes his glasses and rubs an eye. 'You could've taken him.'
She flinches. 'I needed me time. That's the whole point of the trip.'
'Yes, but he was distressed.'
'Why are you making me feel guilty?'
'Sorry, I'm just sad he was upset. He's still a baby.'
'But he's fine now.' She lowers the phone to Eli's gummy grin. 'See?'
Richard coos at Eli, and says, 'Did you really need to go to Singapore for five weeks?'
She bites her lip, and tastes copper. 'Yes.'
'Yeah but... well, you haven't written anything.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'That's what you said. Point is, you shouldn't neglect him.'
'Neglect?' She resists the urge to fling her phone against the wall, raises her voice above Eli's squawking. 'That's rich coming from you. You weren't the one staying home, taking care of him, every single day, alone, throughout lockdown.'
'All right, I'm sorry.' He runs a hand over his face. 'Let's talk about something else. How's Eli otherwise?'
She unclenches her fists, takes a deep breath. 'He's fine. Sweaty all the time.'
Richard chuckles. 'Poor little British boy. I'm sure he'll adapt. It's only been a week.'
'Yeah, hopefully.'
'How was your walk, then?'
'Oh, fine. Hot. It was good to see my favourite bits, like the Fullerton Hotel, Cavenagh Bridge, the sculptures along the river.'
Eli slapping at the phone gives Xueling an excuse to look away as she moves it out of his reach. Richard's screen might obscure her blush, but she doesn't want to risk it. She asks Richard about his plan for the workday.
'The usual,' he says. 'Meetings. Lab work. Nothing special. Hey, can you please just... spend more time with him? I know you need to rediscover yourself and everything, but he needs his mama.'
'Gotta go,' she says, for Eli has wriggled out from her grasp and is reaching for a marble. Richard tells her he misses and loves them, but she hangs up, whether to prevent a choking crisis or to punish him, she's not sure.
After a fraught dinner during which Eli dumped his grandmother's miso-glazed tofu all over the floor, Xueling puts him down for the night. She shuffles into her childhood room and sinks into her bed.
Her parents have kept it unchanged: her ink-stained desk under the window, her bookcase crammed with mildewed novels and dusty photo albums, her closet overflowing with too-tight clothes. If the ghost of her former self haunts this room, she wonders whether it'd recognise the person she's become: the dark circles, the grease in her hair, the prickles under her arms.
When her phone vibrates, she thinks it's maybe Nick. But it's Richard: Sorry about just now. I didn't mean to suggest you're neglectful. It's just he's not used to your parents so may be good to be with you more, at least for now? You can try to write again when they're more comfy with each other?
The audacity. He knows why she needed to come home, why she needed space from their son. Has he forgotten the breastmilk incident, when Eli was three months old? Richard had taken Eli to the park. Sitting at the kitchen table, she held the breast pump flange to her left breast with one hand, trying to write her novel with the other. She stared at the blinking cursor, the blinding white space. The words that once flowed languished in her brain fog. She'd already missed two deadlines. Her new one was in three days. She'd written no more than two paragraphs.
When the bottle was full, she unscrewed it from the flange, eyes on her screen - and her hand slipped. There was a hollow thud. Her milk spread all over the floor. She slammed her laptop shut, buried her face in her hands. She hadn't realised Richard and Eli had returned until she felt Richard's arms around her. 'I'm a failure,' she sobbed. 'A useless fucking failure.'
How dare he make her feel guilty for wanting time to herself? She has enough mum guilt to last a lifetime: how relieved she is when Eli naps, how she dreads the moment he wakes up, how she resents him, sometimes, for the newfound circularity of her days, her time now marked by the repeated minutiae of his life - diaper changes, nap time, feeding. A good mother doesn't think like this. A good mother doesn't complain, doesn't want. A good mother loves wholeheartedly, unconditionally. Xueling's not a good mother. Her love for Eli will run dry one day; all the cuddles and kisses and silly songs could never compensate for her imperfections.
She'd imagined a different life. Richard would work on a cure for lung cancer while she writes her novel in the British Library. They'd furnish their Camden flat with Scandi furniture and abstract paintings, not Thomas the Tank Engine playmats and flat-pack IKEAs. They'd bicker about Xueling forgetting to water the plants, or Richard leaving crumbs on the table - not about her monotonous days, his returning late from work. The last time their conversation didn't involve Eli was probably the day before she found out she was pregnant. She's grateful Richard's so involved, so determined not to be his father, who left when he was five. But he doesn't see her anymore.
And the bedroom. Impossible, now that motherhood has subverted how she views her breasts: no longer sexual objects, but teats. Cows' teats. Her baby's food source. Picturing Richard's mouth on them after Eli has fed revolted her. Richard insists he's willing to wait, but she wouldn't blame him if he's lying: to himself, to her. A cow is unattractive.
What were the odds their condom would fail? She'd panicked, thought about abortion - but a primal, protective instinct towards the foetus, small as a shrimp, took over. It'd cut against her fierce belief she'd never be a mother - but making her choice a no-brainer.
Would she have chosen the same way if she'd known the consequences?
She looks at Richard's message, trying to sift through the angry responses to unearth the measured one, until her phone buzzes again. This time, it's Nick.
Hey! Great running into you earlier. When are you free to meet?
Warmth spreads through her body. Her thumbs hover over the keypad as a memory resurfaces: Siloso Beach, two towels under a coconut tree, his lips on hers, salty after a dip in the sea.
Yes, I want to, she thinks, and answers she's free tomorrow.
Perfect! Let's get a drink?
Coffee is more appropriate. But she can't remember the last time she'd had a drink, or set foot in a bar... or smiled like a schoolgirl with a crush.
Sounds good. Let me know when and where.
She half-expects him to pick somewhere they'd been before: Acid Bar in Emerald Hill, 1-Altitude in Raffles Place. But it's new, a wine bistro, downtown.
She sends a thumbs-up; he goes offline. In his profile picture, he's standing in front of the Shwedagon Pagoda, his hair falling over his eyes, little whirlpools in his cheeks. What would her life be like now if they'd met earlier, not a month before she left Singapore?
It doesn't matter. Her life is with Eli and Richard now. Her family. But as she turns off the light, she can't help but wonder.
She's propping the door open with her body, and Eli's clutching her skirt. She pries his fingers off, trying not to look at him, at his tomato-red face, cheeks slick with tears, mouth contorted into a misshapen rectangle, baring two-and-a-half teeth on his lower gum.
Of course, she doesn't have to go. But she wants to. She needs to.
Her mother crouches next to him, waving a Paw Patrol fire engine. 'Want to play with this?' she asks. 'Look, there's a doggie.'
Xueling mouths 'thanks' as he quietens and takes the toy. It occurs to her to kiss him goodbye, but she doesn't want to risk him latching onto her again. Once he turns his back, she slips out like a teenager with a secret boyfriend.
On the MRT, backed into a corner, she pushes Eli's crying face from her mind and thinks about Nick. A date comes back to her: 1-Altitude, a two-seater couch overlooking the nighttime skyline, bodies cosied close, cocktails in hand. Nick was a reader too, and Sally Rooney's Normal People was all the rage. He loved how it portrayed a modern relationship.
'Like ours?'
He kissed her hand. 'The only reason we haven't DTRed is because you're leaving to be a bigshot writer.'
'Please, it's just a Creative Writing MA.' She locked her fingers with his. 'Are you saying we'd go steady if I weren't leaving?'
She thought he'd crack a joke. But he turned to her, his face serious.
'If you weren't leaving, Lee Xueling, I would've defined the fuck out of this relationship already.'
He was the last person she'd loved before Richard, back then, when she'd known exactly who she was. Nick had known her too, and loved her. The day before her flight, he'd shown up at her door, armed with Läderach chocolates and Simon Armitage's The Book of Matches. Inside, he'd written, 'To not leaving unsaid things I should have spoken.' He grabbed her hands. 'Don't make a clean break. Please. We can work something out.'
But that'd mean she'd have to return to Singapore, its 734 square kilometres too modest for her ambition. She whispered 'sorry' and closed the door. That was when she'd last seen him. Until yesterday.
She alights at Telok Ayer. Sweat gathers under her arms as she walks to the bar, a converted shophouse with floor-to-ceiling racks of wine. It's quiet, but Nick's sitting at the bar counter, reading a book. How endearing. If they still went on dates, Richard would be doom-scrolling on his phone.
She wipes her hands on her dress - floral print, flowing skirt, sweetheart neckline - and approaches Nick. When he looks up, she's transported back to that day, at that birthday party. How she'd stared, drawn to the way he'd laughed with his whole body at Weilong's joke. How flattered and excited she'd been by the way his eyes lingered on hers after they were introduced.
'Xueling!' He wraps his arms around her. She catches a whiff of his cologne: something unfamiliar, not the CK One from before.
'Hey,' she says, smiling. 'What're you reading?'
He holds up the book: Viet Thanh Nguyen's The Sympathiser.
'I haven't read this one,' she says as they sit next to each other. 'Any good?'
'Yeah, I'm liking it so far. Really sharp, frenetic prose.' He laughs, ruffles his hair. 'I'm gonna stop right there. Don't wanna, you know, 班门弄斧.'
She forces a smile. If only he knew how long it's been since she last read a novel. He needn't worry about showing off in front of an expert, if she was ever one.
He catches her up on his life: same commercial law firm since graduation, long hours and difficult clients, his excitement at seeing his name in the law reports. He reveals he's making partner this year, and her eyes widen. How grown-up he is. How wonderful he's getting what he'd always wanted.
When the waiter greets them, Nick suggests sharing a bottle of wine, not knowing, of course, that, despite weaning Eli a month ago, she hasn't started drinking again.
'Um,' she says. 'Sure. Why not?'
He orders a Merlot; he remembers it's her favourite. He remembers other things, too. That time they found a cockroach leg in her char kway teow at Lau Pa Sat. When they played tourists and took an overpriced river cruise. How she'd hyperventilated when they spotted a snake while hiking Bukit Timah Hill, how he'd held her close the rest of the way. She listens, her chin in her palm, not interrupting save to laugh or gasp. She wants Nick to keep revealing pieces of her old self, buried, hopefully, somewhere beneath the loose skin, the widened hips. And to keep smiling at her, too, like the years have contracted.
The waiter arrives, pours two glasses of wine. They clink glasses.
'Anyway,' Nick says, 'I'm talking too much. How have you been?'
Her chance to mention Eli. 'Wow, where do I start?'
'The MA, obviously. How did it go?'
She grips the glass stem. 'Um... I received funding for a PhD.'
'That's amazing! Should I call you Dr Lee?'
She should bring up Eli. Tell Nick she was pregnant in her first year. But he'd think less of her, she's sure, if she confessed she'd dropped out when Eli was six months old. She'd tried to write while he napped, but often fell asleep with him. She couldn't do it all. So she chose her son.
Nick mustn't know she's now Eliot's Mum, as she's called by the GP, the playgroup coordinators, the swimming instructor - as if she'd stopped existing the moment she pushed a baby out of her body. She needs to remain Xueling to him: the determined, passionate woman who broke the Singaporean mould of a safe career to be a writer. Someone in the world needs to know who she is.
'No, still working on it. Hey, how's Weilong? I haven't talked to him in ages.'
Nick divulges gossip: Weilong's divorce, someone else's drunk-driving conviction, another person's sextape scandal. He gestures and laughs with his head thrown back, and she feels herself loosening up, reaching for her glass. Soon, she looks at him through glazed, googly eyes, and says, 'Do you remember that time we went to Books Actually?'
He stops drinking mid-sip. 'What do you think?'
She shrugs.
'Of course I remember.' He shakes his head, grins. 'We were arguing about The Blind Assassin.'
She sees them in her mind. Standing next to the A - C shelf. She's holding her favourite book, he's scoffing and criticising the sci-fi sections. She's protesting, her voice pitched higher than she'd intended, and faint dimples appear before he swoops down and kisses her mid-sentence. She drops the book. When they break apart, he says, 'Can't wait to see your novel on the shelves.'
Now, he shifts closer. 'I read it again, you know.'
'Really? When?'
'After you left.'
'Oh.' She stares at their hands, a hair-width apart. 'What did you think?'
'I thought -' He clears his throat. 'Can I be honest?'
'Sure.'
'I think you look amazing. Even better than before.'
She grabs her glass, gulps down the wine.
He continues, 'I've been thinking about you non-stop since yesterday. Funny thing is, I just got out of a relationship. If that isn't providence...'
From the corner of her eye, she spies his hand creeping towards hers. She wants him to take it. To touch more than her hand. Put an arm around her waist and pull her to him. Take her home, undress her like he'd done before: his fingers grazing her skin, the sides of her breasts, drawing out the moment of her nakedness. She wants him to penetrate her fully. Forcefully. Help her connect the dots, find a way back.
And maybe he wouldn't imply she neglects their son. Maybe he wouldn't question why she needs time to herself, time to write. He'd simply get it. Because he gets her. Only someone who understands would say, as he's saying now, how happy he is that she pursued her dreams, knowing full well what it'd cost. He knows me, she thinks, lifting her gaze to meet his. I'm still here.
She cups a hand around his neck, pulls him to her, presses her wine-stained lips against his, expecting... something. He kisses her back, almost falling off his stool to get closer, and it should feel familiar, kissing Nick. It should feel more momentous than this. It should feel like she's turning back the clock, stepping into her old skin, stitching it back up.
Instead, her body stiffens. She squeezes her eyes shut, shoves her tongue into his mouth. The more he kisses her back, the more unreal he is, and her mind begins to wander: to the fact that she hadn't thought about him at all since meeting Richard; how strange it feels to be kissed without stubble rubbing her face; and the time, oh the time, what time is it, she needs to get home to put Eli to bed.
She jerks away. 'Shit. I'm sorry. This is a mistake.' She gropes for her phone, sees the time. 'I need to go. It's bedtime.'
Nick grabs her wrist. 'Bedtime? It's not even eight.'
'It's Eliot,' she says. 'My son. I need to put him to bed. He can't fall asleep without me. How much is the wine?'
Gaping at her, Nick stammers, 'I don't know, it doesn't matter. Xueling, what - what do you mean you have a son?'
The expression on his face makes her look away. She'd seen it before. She shut her door to it five years ago.
'Nick, I - care, but -'
But what's the point? She's Eliot's Mum now.
'I'm sorry. I really am.' She presses a $50 note under his glass, tells him to take care, and goes home to her son.
Xueling prepares a bubble bath, helps Eli into it. His green rubber duckie bobs on the surface. He grabs it, quacking and pushing it along the water. They cover it with soap suds, and as they rinse it off, she says, 'Whoosh goes the water.' He giggles and tries to imitate. Woo! Woo! She wraps him in his soft hooded towel, dries him, puts on a fresh diaper before his baby-blue Thomas sleepsuit. They snuggle into bed. He rubs his eyes but points at his good-night book: Jimmy Liao's Where Will I Go Tomorrow? He squeals when his room turns into a car and he toots his imaginary horn; cackles when his room transforms into a submarine and he sees a mysterious underwater creature; and when his room becomes a rocket and shoots off into space, he spots her on Earth, looking up at the night sky for him, and waves. Afterwards, she turns off the light, lies next to him, breathes in his scent of baby shampoo and fresh laundry. She kisses his pillowy cheek once, twice, again, and again. She watches as his eyes droop shut, drifting into dreamland, away from her. He searches for her hand, grips her thumb. She places her hand on his chest. Feels his heartbeat. And lets it calm hers.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/Fwb0Gac
via IFTTT
Comments
Post a Comment