:: Tears of fear ::

'So the business model is okay the way it is?' I barely glanced at JC, my intern: I was running a losing rat race with time―tick tick tick―

'Yes, but then I need the revised presentation from Malaysia, as well as the sample template from Japan―' My flight to Jakarta was less then three hours away, and my projects were running riot on my to-do list. What did we say? Time is a tricky little fucker―tick tick tick―

'See, if we move this column here...'
'No, we'd still need the information to go here. That's what they want.'
'Can you open the excel sheet? Let's double check.'
'There we go...it's opening...where is that ridiculous email again? I just want to make sure that we get it right this time.'
'Over on my desk―hey, your phone is ringing.'

My phone. I had it tucked under sheets of loose paper somewhere―it was ringing ringing ringing―it must be DS, or maybe WB, rushing me for that final presentation―

(tick tick tick)

In my mind.

(robotic ring tune, loud and urgent)

In my ears.

I contemplated not answering. After all―it was ten to twelve―and phone calls that come at ten to twelve couldn't be that important, could it? I glanced at the phone with cryptic nonchalance. It was my aunt―which probably meant it was no big deal. (tick tick tick!) Maybe she was calling to remind me to call my other aunt and wish her bon voyage before her trip to China―that's today isn't it―or maybe she wanted some English translation for a quotation she was drawing up―or maybe―

I snatched the phone from under Malaysia's revised business plan and planted it to my ear. My fingers were flying over my keyboard―ah, see, the format of the presentation from Japan was wrong, all wrong; how would I have time to fix this before my flight?―'Hello?'

'Jie, your mother was in an accident.' In a strangled voice.

My mother? Accident?

(The colour scheme of my presentation needed to be realigned; our corporate colours were missing! What was the percentage deviation from target again―18 percent?)

My mother?

'What?'
'She had a bad fall―I don't know how bad but she's in the A&E now―'

Bad fall. My mother. Hurt.

(Have I printed out all the documents needed for my meeting? Have I told Dad―and the HP guys―that I'm only coming back on Saturday because I couldn't get the flight on Friday―)

My mother. My mother, my pillar. Hurt? How bad? What?

'She slipped?'

(And my fingers were still flying, like graceful, seasoned acrobats, across my keyboard―I am such a corporate pianist! 16 percent from target, I think! But JC should have the information―)

'She fell down a long flight of stairs―Uncle Kuan said she was bleeding so much she actually fainted...'

And then my head cleared. (Like that click of a webpage that has just completed its download)
―My mother―
―Was hurt―
―Badly!―
―And bleeding, profusely (she is anaemic, did they tell the doctor?)―
―My mother―

'Jie?'
'I'm going.'
'A&E, NUH, your uncle should be there, I can't leave now―'
'Okay.'
'What about your trip?'
'I'm going.'

I snapped my phone shut. I snapped.

***

'She must have missed a step,' my uncle said, sighing deeply.
I clutched at my mother's bag―caked with her dried blood―and felt all of five years old again. 'Was she―unconscious?'

(Someone is groaning: an old Indian lady slumped like splintered wood against a wheelchair. Look down look down―that crazy voice goes irrelevantly―sweet Jesus doesn't care!)

'Barely coherent. She was trying to call me―can you imagine! Even when she was bleeding and in shock, she dialed my number, laughed and tell me not to worry, and then say: Kuan, I think I might have broken something! And then she stopped talking.'

(Tears of fear. That familiar warmth surges into my eyes, filling up my sockets with their hot, salty presence. Mom. Mommy. You've got to be okay. Please please please please.)

'What did the doctor say?'

(What a line, what a line―a banal question from a mediocre daytime soap! To be followed by, I'm so sorry, mam, but we've tried our best―and then cue sentimental music, and then cue close up shot of the heroine's tragic face, smeared delicately with tears―)

'Let's just hope her X-ray gives her the all-clear: no clots and no concussion.' My uncle rapped me affectionately on the shoulder. 'Don't worry. If the doctor says she's okay, then go for your trip. You still have an hour left to decide...'

―tick tick tick, haha, heyho, life is a clownfaced clock!―

'I'm not going,' I said with sudden strength.

(A young boy comes limping in, his school uniform stained with blood. His face is pale, so pale you can see the veins pulsing green and ghastly beneath his skin. A construction worker, his chocolate brown skin gleaming with sweat, and his thumb sliced with―I don't know, can't tell―a metal spike?, makes way dispassionately for the boy, who is here with his―brother? PE teacher?)

My uncle smiled―it was waterly but firm with love. 'Good.'

***

Time became an inchworm's crawl. Worry, impatience, anxiety, fear―the pyromaniacs of emotions, torching my nerves raw. Tick tick tick. By now my mother's blood was copper streaks across my crisp business suit. By now I was numbed to everything except a useless, common prayer: please please please please please please please. Let her be okay. Please. Please.

And then my uncle lept up, because my mother was out of the surgery room.
And then I started to cry.

(She is covered with blood. Fresh blood is still seeping through the bandages. She is smiling weakly, still barely conscious; her wrist! It's swelling like an alien growth. Is it broken? Her knee? Blood on her toes, part of her nail is missing―)

'What are you doing here?' she whispered. And then her own eyes teared. And I held her, and she was like a ceramic doll, fragile, earthy, a ghost of flesh―I could lose her anytime. I almost did.

'I like vegetables. But I don't intend to turn into one,' she said, her voice still rapt with humour. I grinned through my tears (ah, useless, useless fool!) and I realised that I could never love my mother anymore than I did in this single instant.

***

I don't know who or what was watching over her as she tumbled down that flight of stairs that day like a broken doll, with nothing to break her fall except her wrist (now limp and bandaged)―chance, god, angels, probability, providence, or all of the above. But thank you.