As my steps carefully tread, my eyes catch glimpses of those familiar
yellow pebbles. The pebbles that cover the same narrow path that leads
to the same place from that distant memory.
Recollections
of those few vivid moments that have been haunting me from time to time
slowly build up and dwelled in my eyes. I can almost feel her coarse
hand tightly gripping mine, clinging on for security, begging for
reassurance. There was a pinch of fear and nervousness in her
uncomfortably warm and moist grip that was telling me to turn around and
insist on going home. But at that time, it wasn’t my decision to make.
At least not yet.
I looked up and saw my mother’s cold,
stoic face. Then I turned to the side and saw hers, the pasty skin and
thousands of uncharted lines. Besides the usual sallowness, the lines
around her eyes and mouth creased and bunched up in a way like I’ve
never saw before, not even during my mother’s constant scolding of her,
either for breaking another plate, or overcooking the cabbages or beef
stew.
That was when her eyes meekly rolled and met mine.
It was as if she saw right through the worries written on my face, and
forced a sorrowful smile that was meant to comfort me. That smile. It
was that smile that had haunted me for many years to come.
A smile that says
“Don’t worry, everything will be all right,”
A smile that says
“I understand that this not what you want, I don’t blame you.”
A smile that says
“I still love you no matter what,”
A smile that will eventually fade into time, seasoned and aged by the bland taste of abandonment.
A smile that drove me to finally return to this place and bring my now demented grandmother home.
I
sit there quietly as instructed by the caretaker. The space is filled
with the shrill high-pitched noises coming from a bulky old television. I
still can’t make out what sort of program was being showed even after
few of minutes of forced concentration, but I guess neither can the rest
of the people who are sitting in front of the idiot box. Their eyes
seem to be aptly focused on the television screen, but their minds seem
to be utterly absent from the room, hiding far far away at some better
places or in some better times.
I can almost see her now,
sitting amongst these aging faces, some older than the others, staring
blankly at a space that is occupied by nothing, not a single shred of
fond memories, nor any hope for the future.
I wonder how
many of them share her condition. How many of them are actually spared
the thought and sense of betrayal, as they are abandoned here to grow
old and fade away as if their existence never mattered to anyone. To
slowly burn out in isolation and desolation, merely because they are
considered an inconvenience to the people they’ve loved and cared for
with their precious youth and limitless patience.
My eyes shift from one face to another, trying to imagine and comprehend the kind of thoughts that might inhibit their minds.
Are
they fond recollections of beautiful memories surrounded by white
picket fences, green carpet grass and red checkered tablecloths?
Are they of the afternoon sun reflecting on freckled faces of innocent smiles and colourful rainbows reflected on soap bubbles?
Or, are they instead the cold frozen views of the blue crescent moon through these wooden window panes?
Are they the fading silhouettes of love and familiarity that now seem too far away to be real?
Would they be the very same thoughts that is harbouring in whatever space that is left in her vastly decaying mind?
My train of thoughts is hailed to a stop, “Here she is, Mr. J,”
I
turn around to see her, that same frail petite frame wrapped in a grey
shawl. Her eyes blankly staring at my left, even though her body is
being held leaning towards my right. The caretaker, Miss T’s left hand
was wrapped around her bony shoulders, gripping a little too tight as
the brittle fabric creases underneath her crooked nails.
For a
minute I stand there, deciphering the moment, uncertain of my next
movement. As I take a few steps closer, I catch a whiff of a garlicky
stench.
As Miss T’s hand loosen, I gently places mine on those withering shoulders.
“Grandma… It’s me,” despite my shivering voice, my eyes were determined to get the attention of hers.
Slowly, I turn and direct her towards me.
“Grandma,” my voice louder and my tone firmer this time, “it’s me, J,”
Her eyes idly shifted left and right, seemingly oblivion to everything that is right in front of her.
“I don’t think she understands what you’re saying, she doesn’t even know who… you…”
A sharp glare from me instantly instils hesitation into her words.
I
pull a nearby chair closer and gently sit her down. This time, I say
nothing. I just gaze at her wondering face, anticipating a shred of
recognition. Something, anything to show me that she is still in there,
that she still remembers me. That despite the time here, my grandmother
is still within my reach.
But her eyes remain as vacant as
the galaxy without a glisten of awareness. Regardless of how hard I try
to stir and rake something up, they remain as deserted as a playground
at dusk.
Upon realizing that it would take more than a few
minutes of effort to restore what had been sedentary for two decades, I
turn to the nurse and ask “What do I need to do in order to take her
home?”
My question, like a bolt from the blue, seems to
spark a glimmer of astonishment in Miss T. But she instantly regains her
composure and instructs me to follow her to the counter to fill-in and
sign a few necessary documents, while grandma continues to sit there,
floating about indefinitely.
As the car pulls into the
front porch of our somewhat decrepit house, I turn and take a good look
at her. My mind can’t help but wonder, if not for her dementia, would
she be excited to return to the same house where she married the man of
her family’s choice, then bore and raised his children.
I
swiftly kill the engine and walk over to lead her out of the passenger’s
seat. Now, under the afternoon sun, the clothes on her seem to come
alive with colour and texture. Still, no amount of sunlight seems to be
enough to bring life to those ghoulish eyes of hers.
With a
tiny bag stuffed with her personal belongings in one hand, I slowly
lead her into the house. Auntie Bell, the new maid I’ve hired to help
out in the household, hurries over to take her off my hand. I sternly
shake my head and hand her the bag instead.
Leading her
through the dim corridor seems to be the most natural thing to do. The
fading mosaic floor, the somber portraits hanging on both sides, the
opulent crystal chandelier that seems out of place at all time;
everything seem to piece together at that very moment, as the missing
piece of the puzzle had finally return to its rightful place.
Ever
since my parents’ passing, and my return to the ancestral home, there
has been this unsettling air of decay and chill, hovering and gnawing at
every piece of childhood recollection I have of the place. But all that
seems to instantly vanish at the sound of her trembling steps,
resonating across the high ceiling, filling in all the empty spaces that
she left behind twenty years ago.
And for a very brief moment, I can swear I saw a meek smile flashing across her wizened face.
