Now You See Us, page 11
After Raymond died, she tried calling her younger brother—Raymond’s father—to notify him, but the number had been disconnected. The last time she’d tried to involve him in Raymond’s life, when Raymond was graduating from high school and going to UP on a full scholarship, it had taken her weeks to track her brother down. She let him know that his son was making a success of himself, and her brother had muttered, “Congratulations,” and hung up before Cora could tell him that it would mean the world to Raymond if he came to the ceremony. Now that Raymond was dead, not only was there no time to find her brother, but there seemed very little point.
“Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth calls, tugging Cora out of her thoughts. “I wouldn’t bother cleaning the car. It’s supposed to rain again today.”
Ma’am Elizabeth is far enough away that Cora can pretend not to hear her. The same swollen clouds from yesterday hang over them, but if they relied on the weather to decide the car-cleaning schedule, Cora would never get her work done. She’s half finished now anyway. The music continues to pulse. A food-delivery motorcycle pulls up to the house across the road. The driver dismounts, unzips his cooler bag, and produces a stack of plastic containers from the local North Indian restaurant.
“Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth calls again a moment later. She appears in the doorway with a glass of ice water. “If you must do this now, take some breaks, please. It’s scorching today.”
“Ma’am, the weather is like this every day,” Cora says. She can’t hide the note of exasperation in her voice. Just let me do my job, she wants to say. Next thing she knows, Ma’am Elizabeth will be rolling up the cuffs of her tailored linen trousers and scrubbing the floors to keep her company.
“It’s unrelenting,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. She flaps her hands at her collarbone. “Just make sure you stay hydrated. Oh, hello, Reilly!” The yellow Labrador from next door pokes his leathery black nose through a gap where some bricks in the adjoining walls were knocked out by a stubborn tree root. Ma’am Elizabeth walks over to him to give him a pat. Tucked under her arm is the folder of recipes. When Ma’am Elizabeth spotted it on the counter this morning, an expression crossed her face that gave Cora a flash of panic. Was she not supposed to touch them? Were they private? Ma’am Elizabeth had shown her the messy folder last week and said, “You’re welcome to look through this for some inspiration,” but perhaps she should have waited? Ma’am Elizabeth has that same look on her face now. “Thank you so much for this,” she remarks.
“No problem, ma’am. I just straightened them up.”
“You did more than that,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, and yes, it’s true. Cora arranged the recipes from the scraps of yellowed paper filled with scribbles to the magazine cutouts and printed e-mails. Initially, she thought there was a categorization process she could follow, because many of the initial pages had Cantonese or Hakka or Teochew written in the top corner and were highlighted in pink, green, and yellow, respectively. But the labels stopped about a third of the way through, so she just went alphabetically and focused on keeping the folder tidy.
“I’m thinking of compiling these recipes into a book. It would be a nice wedding present for Jacqueline. What do you think?”
“Good idea, ma’am.”
“I could type them up. Some are really old. I scribbled a few from memory and conversations with my mother and aunties when I first got married. I’m not sure this recipe for jellied pig trotter is salvageable, for example,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, holding up a brittle yellowed foolscap sheet. “But it wouldn’t be practical for a busy woman like Jacqueline to spend hours by the stove brewing the stock anyway. I could prepare the more popular dishes and get a photographer to take high-quality pictures.”
“I can cook them,” Cora offers quickly, because she doesn’t want Ma’am Elizabeth getting in the way in the kitchen.
Ma’am Elizabeth clasps her hands together. “That would be wonderful. We could even include some of your recipes. What are some things from your culture that Jacqueline might be interested in eating?”
“I think there are enough recipes from your family,” Cora says gently. Draw the line. Imagine Jacqueline opening the book to find Cora’s grandmother’s specialty: blood stew. Thankfully, Ma’am Elizabeth doesn’t force the issue. She leans against the garden wall, flipping through the folder.
“These dumplings were the highlight of Fifth Month Festival when I was a child,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, holding up a picture of pyramids of sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves. “I have a nephew whose team won the dragon-boat races last year and he credited the family bak zhang recipe in the press for giving him the strength. It was probably Red Bull and all those years of rigorous rowing training, but he scored well with the family for mentioning our traditions. Our version is stuffed with minced pork, wild mushrooms, and water chestnuts, but I prefer the Peranakan-style ones. I had a neighbour growing up who blended her own five-spice mix and added it to braised pork and candied watermelon. The flavours were incredible. And if you use jasmine rice, the subtle sweetness adds even more depth. I’ll have to track down her recipe to add to the book.”
Cora nods to show that she is listening as she unspools the garden hose to connect it to the tap. She can hear Reilly panting in excitement as Ma’am Elizabeth rubs his ears. “You’re a happy little guy,” she coos. “You’re so happy. Cora, have we got anything to give him?”
“Yes, ma’am, some leftover roast chicken in—”
A gunshot rips through the air then, knocking the words out of her mouth.
The garden hose flies out of Cora’s hands, and she is dropping to the ground. Her knees hit first and then a sharp pain rips through her scalp. She is vaguely aware of warm liquid pooling near her ribs. The last thing she hears before she blacks out is Reilly’s frantic barking.
Cora’s eyes flutter open to darkness. Pain flashes brightly through her skull and she has a sense of hurtling through a dark passageway. She croaks a question but it cannot be heard. There are voices, and a hazy figure in front of her sits stoically with arms outstretched, saying nothing. Then, without warning, the blinding white light of day floods her consciousness. The awareness settles slowly. The voices are coming from the news on the radio. That figure is Ma’am Elizabeth, gripping the steering wheel and speeding through the tunnel. They have emerged now onto the expressway. Mammoth rain trees clip past the window, and rain has begun to speckle the windshield.
Cora brings a hand to her head and winces when she grazes the tender bump. She remembers the ground rushing towards her before she blacked out. There is a wet patch on her clothes. The garden hose. Ma’am Elizabeth must have dragged her into the car and buckled her in the back seat.
“Ma’am,” Cora croaks.
“Oh, Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth gasps. “Oh, thank goodness. The delivery boy’s motorcycle backfired across the road and you just dropped to the ground. You knocked your head on one of the garden stones. You’re going to be all right, okay? Just stay still, and we’ll be there in no time.”
Where is there? Cora has trouble formulating the question, but it doesn’t matter because soon the car is slowing down and turning off onto a private road leading to a white building set on a hill overlooking pristine gardens. The only sign that this is a hospital and not a resort is the ambulance quietly waiting at the entrance.
“This isn’t necessary, ma’am,” Cora says immediately as a valet comes bounding to the window. “We might need a wheelchair,” Ma’am Elizabeth says after handing him the keys.
“No,” Cora says, and to demonstrate that she is just fine, she flings open the door and takes a step. The ground wobbles beneath her. Two attendants appear at her side and she is lowered onto a seat and ushered through the sliding glass doors. The warm lighting and faint tinkling of classical music make the waiting room feel like a place where high tea will soon be served.
“Ma’am,” Cora tries one more time after Ma’am Elizabeth hands her the registration forms. “I don’t have a concussion; I am not dizzy or having any vomiting. We can go home.” How much will this cost? She knows Ma’am Elizabeth won’t take it out of her pay cheque but that’s even worse somehow.
“Cora, this could be serious. I saw the way you fell, and you blacked out—that’s not something we can just ignore,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. Her tone is firm and Cora knows she has lost the battle. She looks at the clipboard Ma’am Elizabeth handed her and finds comfort in the fact that it is a cheap plastic thing with a hospital ballpoint pen chained to the metal clasp.
“Elizabeth Lee, is that you?”
“Oh, hello, Audrey,” Ma’am Elizabeth says to the woman who has approached them. Her navy blazer is tapered at her waist, and her hair is pulled back into a round bun. A gleaming leather briefcase is tucked under one arm.
“Everything all right?” Audrey asks.
“Everything’s fine, thanks. This is my helper, Cora. We’re just here for a checkup.”
“Ah, those six-month checks?” Audrey asks. She doesn’t bother acknowledging Cora. “They’ve got their own clinics for that, you know? We send our maids to the one down the road and they’re in and out in half an hour. The ministry only needs to know that they’re not pregnant.”
Ma’am Elizabeth’s smile is thin. “Thank you, I didn’t know. Maybe next time we’ll go there.”
“I’m here because somebody couldn’t resist going for a swim before his cast was taken off,” Audrey says, rolling her eyes towards a young boy of about eleven or twelve who is transfixed by his iPad. “Gregory was furious at the condo staff for letting a boy just jump into the pool on his own without any supervision, but we don’t have lifeguards on duty at ours. I’m writing to the management about it. The cast seemed fine for a few days, and we thought maybe he managed to keep it dry. He got that injury from playing football, by the way. Anyway, now he’s telling me it itches.”
“Poor little thing,” Ma’am Elizabeth says to the boy, who flashes her a grin. Stronger than the throbbing in her head is the ache in Cora’s chest. She is embarrassed to feel her eyes burning with tears. Raymond, Raymond, Raymond, in the face of every boy. “Maybe a day off school is all you really wanted, hmm?” Ma’am Elizabeth teases.
“We can’t afford to miss any more school with exams coming up soon,” Audrey says. “He missed one day for getting the cast on, and that day they covered an entire new unit on photosynthesis in science. He’s still catching up.”
“I’m sure he’ll get into a good secondary school,” Ma’am Elizabeth replies. “Are you still hoping for Anglo-Chinese School?”
“Fingers crossed. St. Joseph’s International is our backup. I’ve doubled up on his weekend tutoring, but then look at what happens when he has five minutes to spare. It’s like he’s destined to derail his academic future somehow.” Audrey shakes her head in exasperation.
Cora can’t help thinking about how many times she’s heard parents in Singapore talk in these same breathless, panicked tones about their children’s educations. She remembers how Ma’am Roberta would tutor the twins after school with towers of assessment workbooks and stock her kitchen fridge with herbal broths and fish oil capsules. She often sent Cora out to the neighbourhood’s traditional medicine hall to pick up the tonics customized for each daughter’s needs. Years later, when Raymond began studying for the scholarship exams in the Philippines, Cora took regular trips to a small Chinese supermarket near her barangay for wolfberry and snow fungus to add to chicken soups to support his growing brain.
The receptionist calls Cora’s name, and Ma’am Elizabeth and Audrey say their goodbyes. Dr. Gopalan is looking at Cora’s file when she takes a cautious step past the door to his office. “Come in, have a seat,” he drones, but when he looks up, he says, “Mrs. Lee, hello!” in a different tone. Shoulders straighten and a smile appears. “I didn’t know I was examining you.”
“I’m not the patient. This is my helper, Corazon Bautista. I’ll be outside,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Unless you need me to be here, Cora?”
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Cora says. She can’t help remembering her visit to the hospital after Ma’am Roberta’s husband threw the ashtray at her. Cora’s nose had been swollen for three days before her ma’am had said, “We’d better go to the doctor.” The doctor took one look at Cora and said, “How did this happen?” He did not ask Cora; he asked Ma’am Roberta, who shifted in her seat and mumbled an excuse about slippery floors. The doctor had Ma’am Roberta leave the room and then asked Cora to tell him everything. She begged him not to report it. “They will fire me,” she said. “I need my job. I support my family.”
Dr. Gopalan asks Cora questions about her fall too, but there is no suspicion in his tone. He sounds bored. Maybe it’s because Cora’s injury does really look accidental, or maybe the cause of the injury makes no difference to him.
Cora is relieved at the lack of concern. Just ignore me, she kept praying as she entered this private hospital. Don’t ask any questions. Dr. Gopalan declares that he has no major concerns, but if she has any worrisome symptoms, she should go to the emergency room. He pronounces the words dizziness and vomiting slowly and loudly. Then he remarks, “I suppose you’ll want a few days off, then?” Cora’s face burns. She did not try to give herself a concussion to get out of work, if that is what he is implying, but the way he sighs, it’s as if she has admitted to the ploy. She sits there for a few moments, her cheeks flushed with indignation, then gets up and walks out.
On the drive home, they cross an intersection under a pedestrian bridge that is laced with spiralling branches of pink bougainvillea flowers, soft as kisses against the hard concrete. The hospital recedes as they return to Bukit Timah, where walls of tropical trees flank the highway, and the houses behind them are visible only in snatches of red brick and white concrete and the occasional icy flash of swimming pools. Cora wants to say something about the doctor to Ma’am Elizabeth, but what if it’s not appropriate? She has no gauge for how to behave with her boss, or maybe she has just lost her sense of how to interact with people altogether.
Years ago, after the clinic doctor had taken pity on Cora, she had been transferred to a public hospital for X-rays and treatment. Cora had found out later that the doctor had threatened to report Ma’am Roberta to the police. The compromise was Cora’s peaceful and uneventful transfer to the Gomez family, family friends of the doctor’s. Cora had started her newsletter after that. She composed many of her articles in her mind while doing housework, and each night, the words poured onto the pages of her notebook. Dispensing advice to other domestic workers had given her a sense of control over her fate, but her feckless brother’s disappearance threw everything up in the air once more, and she had returned to the Philippines to care for Raymond, who was in primary school.
The sudden blast of Ma’am Elizabeth’s ringtone through the car’s sound system makes Cora sit up straighter. “Mum?” Jacqueline’s anxious voice crackles.
Ma’am Elizabeth turns up the volume and leans closer to her speakers even though it makes no difference. “Hello, darling, I’m driving now. Is everything okay?”
“I should be asking you that. I heard you were at the hospital today?”
“Goodness, this island is too small.” Ma’am Elizabeth laughs. “How did Audrey Chow-Broadley get to you so quickly? I thought she’d use whatever free time she had to teach her son a fourth language.”
“I happened to call her about the property—she’s looking over some contracts for us—and she told me that she had just seen you. What happened?”
“Nothing, Jacqueline. I was just there because Cora had a fall.”
“Is she okay? I’ve always told you that our kitchen floors get too slippery. It’s a hazard when anything spills on those light tiles because you can’t even see the puddle.”
“She’s fine, and it wasn’t in the kitchen. Just a small scare, that’s all.” Ma’am Elizabeth gives Cora a sideways glance. “We don’t need to talk about it now. I’m touched by your concern, though.”
“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t another relapse. The doctors said—”
“Jacqueline, this traffic is making it hard to concentrate on two things at once.” Ma’am Elizabeth cuts off Jacqueline. “I will call you back when I get home.”
The rest of the drive is silent. At one intersection, Ma’am Elizabeth mentions brightly that it’s a nice day to be outside. Cora nods, and then immediately wishes she hadn’t, because it’s all the permission Ma’am Elizabeth needs to keep driving straight on, chattering away about an Italian restaurant that she hasn’t been to in ages. “Maybe you can drop me at home first?” Cora asks. “I haven’t cleaned the upstairs bathrooms.”
“The bathrooms can wait,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “You’ve had a difficult day. Let’s have some lunch. You can see them making the pasta from scratch through a little window. It’s mesmerizing.” She pulls into a car park outside a row of delis and florists.
Cora bites her lip. Her head stopped aching a while ago, but now a mild pain has returned and is pulsing behind her eyes. It is as if there is too much light on her, which is how she feels every time she and Ma’am Elizabeth go out together. It’s not being in public with her employer that Cora objects to—it’s the confusion in other people’s expressions. The waiter at the restaurant now, for example, is looking back and forth between Ma’am Elizabeth and Cora as he rattles off today’s specials. As if his eyes have lost their ability to focus, his gaze is darting around, and Cora is getting dizzy just watching him try to process their relationship. Is this your maid or your friend? Will she be eating with you? Who is she to be sitting across from you like this in a restaurant, being wined and dined during her work hours?
