The Photograph
THe haunt PROJECT IS PRESENTED IN PARTNERSHIP WITH WRITERS SA, AND IS SUPPORTED BY ARTS SOUTH AUSTRALIA.
fiction by Stefanie Hooi
The day of my seventh birthday was the last time I visited my sister, Maybelline. I trudged behind my parents, my lower lip protruding. I had always loathed these visits.
My father turned around. ‘Bin kor dui joo yuk?’ he teased, not unkindly and ruffled my hair. (This translated literally to: ‘Who is hanging out their bottom lip like a piece of pork meat?’—a gentle rebuke at my sulking.)
My mother regarded me and sighed. ‘Think of your sister and how much she looks forward to seeing us.’
I thought about the piano with its lace cover gathering dust in our living room, and the Barbie doll with the sparkly heels I had found in the storeroom which my normally mild-mannered father had snatched from me, snapping, ‘That’s not yours.’
I thought about my grandmother, Maa Maa, who always looked like she had bitten into a shuin mui every time she saw me, and the faraway gazes of my parents as they sang happy birthday to me each year.
Everything is about Maybelline. How could I not think about her?
The stairs went on and on, and up and up. My cotton dress clung to me like second skin. At the fourth floor landing, my legs wobbled like tau fu fa. The sun beat down. I wrapped my arms around myself, as though pulling its warmth closer to the skin. A darkened doorway faced us.
We crossed the threshold and the cool breath of the walls and floors ran their fingers over my body, prying away my jacket of warmth. I felt myself growing small, smaller, and smaller still, as the eyes of children, men, and women pressed into me.
There was a murmur ahead. As my eyes adjusted, I greeted my aunty (Ku Ma), my uncle (Ku Jeong), my cousin Ella, and Maa Maa.
‘Happy birthday,’ said Ku Ma, squeezing my arm. ‘Can’t wait for your party.’
I allowed myself a small smile. After much pleading, I had convinced my parents to hold a party with the extended family. The celebrations would be far smaller than Ella’s fifth birthday party two months before, when relatives and friends had spilled out from every corner of Ku Ma and Ku Jeong’s bungalow, and they had ordered a buttercream cake almost as long as Ella herself, in the shape of Smurfette, but I was happy nonetheless. For the first time, my birthday would feel less like an apology and more like a celebration.
Maa Maa scowled. ‘What party?’
My mother smiled nervously and looked at my father.
He cleared his throat. ‘Ma, I told you on the phone, remember? Dim sum for Marjorie’s birthday.’
Maa Maa continued to fix her gaze on my father.
He shuffled his feet and avoided her eyes. ‘We have to eat anyway,’ he said.
Maa Maa pressed her lips together in a thin line.
Ku Ma put a hand on Maa Maa’s shoulder, as if to loosen the muscle of stubbornness within her. ‘Never mind Ma, if you’re tired, we’ll drop you off at home first,’ she said.
Maa Maa shook Ku Ma off. ‘Ngo mou ngaan tai.’ (‘I can’t bear the sight of this.’)
Ku Ma, Ku Jeong, and my father hung their heads like chastised children, while Ella, wide-eyed, clung to her mother. My mother stared ahead. Only the flare of her nostrils showed her dissent. My father sighed. ‘Mm hui, mei mm hui loh.’ (If you don’t want us to go, we won’t.)
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands.
My mother drew me into her arms, smelling of lotion, her skin, soft and cool. ‘More cake for us then.’
I nodded, a whimper caught in my throat.
Ku Jeong drew out the noodles of joss sticks with more ceremony than was necessary. The plastic crackled into the void. ‘Enough chit-chat, Maybelline’s waiting,’ he said, his light tone dancing around the tension. He thrust the joss sticks into the flame of a thick red candle on the shelf. The wicks ignited, lashing the dark around it. He puffed on them, until each stick wore a tiny orange hat, and handed them out in threes.
The joss sticks were sandpapery against my palm. The familiar scent of incense curled around me, the smell of my sister’s home. I watched the rest as they began the customary ritual of closing their eyes and bowing before my sister. When they had finished, they placed the joss sticks like newly potted plants into the container next to my sister’s urn. Ku Ma lifted Ella up to do the same.
I looked up. As always, Maybelline wore a smocked dress, and surveyed me, unsmiling from her black and white prison. As always, my eyes were drawn to one of the dates on the plaque: 17/09/83—the day I had begun my life and stolen hers.
My parents couldn’t bear to leave Maybelline behind, and so, every year, they cleaved the day in two: a celebration of the dead daughter in the morning, and a celebration of the living one in the afternoon.
This arrangement shouldn’t have felt like an encumbrance. In all, the morning visitation took no more than two hours. As my father always booked leave if the date fell on a weekday, and as I hadn’t started school, the afternoons were spent eating lunch at McDonald’s, and picking up a triangle of my favourite chocolate cake from Angel Bakery at SS2 on the way home. However, as I grew older, I began to wonder why we only ever sang happy birthday to an audience of three, and noticed how this exertion of joy would exhaust my parents, for my mother would retreat to her room for a nap, and my father and I would watch TV, the day whimpering into an ordinary end.
The day of my seventh birthday was meant to be different. I had imagined my family clapping, laughing, and singing around me as I blew out the candles on my own buttercream cake at the dim sum restaurant, my cheeks aching from too much smiling.
My face grew hot. I glared at my sister. I hate you for ruining every birthday. I’m glad we’re moving to Australia, away from you.
A piece of ash on the quivering head of a joss stick dislodged, landing on my forearm. I knew in that moment it was the physical manifestation of my sister’s anger. It seared into my skin. I cried out, the joss sticks clattering to the ground. My tears spilled out in a furious gush.
My mother peered at my arm, working the pads of her fingers over the red mark like a balm. ‘Be careful.’
My father grunted and bent down to retrieve the joss sticks. ‘Aiyah, it’s only ash, Girl.’ He held them out to me.
I shook my head and buried my face in my mother.
‘She’s scared,’ my mother said to my father, as she smoothed my hair.
‘Never mind Girl, Baa Baa will do it,’ he said. He lifted his arm towards the pot.
Maa Maa stepped forward. ‘Stop.’
My father turned to look at Maa Maa. His arm hovered in mid-air.
‘We must all play our part.’ Maa Maa’s voice was firm, and her grip even firmer, as she pried me from my mother. In one hand, she took the joss sticks from my father, and with the other, brought my fingers up to encircle them. I was shaking and Maybelline, by then, was a blurred mess of grey. Like a puppeteer, Maa Maa made me bow, again, and again, and again.
That night, Maybelline came to me, floating soundlessly above my dressing table, her smocked dress the colour of teh tarik, dripping mud on the parquet floors. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was as though she was underwater. I ran screaming to my parents’ bedroom but didn’t tell them why.
✷
A month after that visit to the columbarium, we packed up our cane furniture lounge set, the rosewood dining table and chairs, bed frames, and mattresses into a shipping container to be sent to Australia. Maybelline’s books, toys, and clothes were given away to an orphanage, and the piano was gifted to Ella. My parents worried that our new country, with its parched soil and open blue skies would be too foreign to Maybelline, and that it would cause her spirit unrest, and so her ashes remained in Malaysia.
Away from the worn patterns of our old life, Maybelline’s hold on us loosened. On my birthday, my parents started a new tradition of pot-luck dinner with a group of fellow immigrants. Each family would bring a favourite dish, and many were those that were missed from ‘back home’ like nasi lemak, trays of wu tao kou, and tong sui made of gingko and fu juk. There were also fusion recipes borrowing from the old and new, like lasagne with juicy morsels of Spam and lashings of sambal. My parents even allowed me to invite my school friends over. After dinner, we would all gather around a birthday cake to sing.
My father found work at the local car factory and my mother remained a housewife. Over time, the thick Malaysian accent which glazed every English word I spoke like char-siu sauce was replaced by a broad Australian one. Cantonese, the first language I had learned, became a long-forgotten song as I immersed myself in the new sounds and experiences of my new home.
Twice a year, on her birthday and at Chinese New Year, my father would make a long-distance call to Maa Maa, comically raising his voice, as though he was literally yelling across the oceans. He would pass the phone to me for the obligatory wishes of happy birthday or happy new year, depending on the occasion, delivered in my stilted Cantonese. ‘Hnn,’ she’d respond, and then I’d lob the phone back to my father. One Chinese New Year’s Eve, she was uncharacteristically chatty and asked me what we had eaten for our reunion dinner. My mind fumbled like the claw of a skill tester, combing through dormant words and phrases, failing to grasp any. I could only mumble ‘Uh,’ my mother tongue limp and useless in my mouth.
My parents could only afford one plane ticket at a time on a single wage, so they took it in turns to go back to Malaysia every few years. For the most part, I was uninterested in their visits and glad to avoid Maybelline and Maa Maa.
When I was 12, Maa Maa sold her house next to the river and moved in with Ku Ma, Ku Jeong, and Ella. Maa Maa’s rheumatoid arthritis had worsened and the house had become too hard to manage on her own. It was obvious from the way she gushed about Ella’s school and piano achievements that the two of them had grown close. She never asked my parents about me, but it wasn’t something I thought about too much; I had always been invisible to my grandmother.
✷
Maa Maa passed away in her sleep on the eve of my Year 12 exams. It was decided that my parents would return to Malaysia the next day, in time for the wake and funeral. I would join them after sitting my last paper in a fortnight.
My parents were subdued and orderly, as they called the travel agent to book flights, and packed their suitcases. There was already a freezer full of pre-prepared meals so they knew I wouldn’t starve, and Aunty Annie, our next-door neighbour, could be relied on if I needed anything. I didn’t have my license yet, but my best friend Brianna would be driving me to all my exams, and to the airport for my flight.
Focused on my studies, the fortnight passed without event, and the day after my last exam, an English paper, I flew out from Adelaide Airport to Kuala Lumpur International Airport, a soup of dread and excitement in my stomach.
At the arrivals hall, I was met by the wide smiles and enthusiastic waves of Ku Jeong and Ella. Ku Jeong looked much the same, though he now carried a paunch around his middle and his hair was speckled with grey. Ella had grown tall and gangly, with a creamy complexion I could only hope to replicate with a thick layer of foundation. She had inherited the family eyes—large, almond-shaped, and fiercely perceptive, like Maa Maa, Ku Ma and my sister. (Mine, like my father’s, were hooded, and I worried gave the appearance of sleepiness or inattentiveness.) She was two years younger than me but her startling beauty and ease made her seem more mature than her years. I returned my cousin and uncle’s hugs with stiff pats on their backs, but their gregarious nature was contagious, and I soon warmed up.
As we stepped outside, a wall of humidity hit me, and mixed in with the smell of exhaust fumes from the cars driving through to pick up passengers, I felt like a little girl again, holding my parents’ hands, waiting to cross a busy road. Except I was 17 and there were no hands to hold. I suddenly missed them.
In the car on the way back to Ku Ma and Ku Jeong’s bungalow, I stared at the sprawling overpasses and high-rise buildings, some of them like unfinished Lego models. I noticed the towering billboards advertising Coca Cola, a Nokia mobile phone, and a new housing estate. It was at once familiar and foreign, and Ku Jeong, noticing how I was intently studying my surroundings, chimed in that many things had changed over the years.
When the car turned into the carport, I caught sight of Ku Ma, my mother, and my father in the front garden. They waved but appeared to be peering at something on the ground.
‘Marjorie, you’re here!’ cried my mother, her voice a little too loud.
Ku Ma exclaimed that I had grown so much and how pretty I was.
I rolled my eyes to myself. I knew I wasn’t a real beauty like Ella.
‘Hi Girl,’ said my father. He was squatting over three durians. A cleaver flashed in the overhead lights on the patio. He aimed it squarely in the middle of one of the jagged fruit, splitting it in two to reveal a pungent aroma, and several golden mounds, nested inside like cosy babies. ‘This one looks good!’ He grinned at me and I was surprised to see that his face was full and lively. ‘Want some?’
‘I ate on the plane already,’ I said. I wrinkled my nose. He knows I hate the smell of those things.
The last time I had seen my parents, their faces had been tight and wan, and now, not two weeks after Maa Maa’s funeral, their nonchalance was confusing and abrasive.
‘I think I might have a shower and go to sleep,’ I mumbled.
‘Of course dear, you must be exhausted. Ella will show you to your room,’ said Ku Ma.
I wheeled my suitcase behind my cousin into the house.
✷
The sheets in Ella’s queen-sized bed were cool and comfortable from the air-conditioning, but for hours, I stared at the ceiling fan, conscious not to toss and turn as my cousin softly snored beside me. I could blame my insomnia on the foreign smells of the room, the forced intimacy of sharing a bed, or how parents’ behaviour had irked me; but if I were to be honest, the reason why I couldn’t sleep wasn’t to do with any of those things.
✷
The sounds of morning prayers at the nearby mosque drifted in and I groaned, as sunlight clawed me from a restless sleep. Ella’s side of the bed was empty, the blanket neatly folded. I rose with a heavy head.
The lawyer had called that morning, entangling the adults in administrative duties relating to Maa Maa’s will. It was decided Ella and I would visit Maa Maa alone.
When the taxi let us out, my jaw dropped. The memorial centre was a glittering, dark purple jewel towering over us in the midst of other high rises. Ella paid the driver and we spilled out onto the sidewalk.
‘Nice, isn’t it? It was only completed two years ago and it’s already 60% sold out. Mum’s already reserved a double niche for her and dad.’ Ella chuckled.
In the lobby, the air conditioning washed over us like a pleasant balm. Ella led us past the front counter and the overhead light feature to the elevators. We stepped into the open elevator. She jabbed the number nine and the doors closed.
‘What’s your favourite memory of Maa Maa?’ asked Ella. ‘Mine was watching her sing karaoke at home. Have you heard her?’
I turned away and stared at the buttons on the lift. ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t have many memories of Maa Maa.’
‘I guess you moved over to Australia when you were young,’ mused Ella.
‘We spoke on the phone sometimes but our conversations fizzled out pretty quickly. My Cantonese sucks,’ I said.
Ella laughed. ‘I’m sure it’s better than mine.’
I was surprised. ‘Didn’t Ku Ma and Ku Jeong teach you?’
‘They only ever speak English at home to me, and I never learned it at school,’ she said.
‘How did you speak to Maa Maa?’ I asked. I followed Ella to an elegant lounge with arms like bolsters and buttoned tufts in the lobby.
She patted the velvet seat beside her. ‘Last time they told us off for talking too loudly in there.’
I settled down next to my cousin, smoothing my skirt. An attendant walked past holding a long-handled dustpan. I lowered my voice. ‘Wasn’t it awkward?’
She continued. ‘I had my trusty Lonely Planet Cantonese-English phrasebook from Popular bookstore. Of course,I would always butcher the tones, and end up saying something completely different to what I meant, then I’d burst out laughing and she would, too. If I was desperate, mom and dad would always help.’
I envied my cousin’s resourcefulness and humour in navigating the language barrier with Maa Maa, but I knew that language was but one brick which made up the wall between Maa Maa and I. I scraped my fingernails over the fabric of the lounge, watching it change from dark to light. ‘Maa Maa always blamed me for Maybelline’s death.’ I spoke quietly, keeping my eyes down.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Maybelline and Maa Maa were close, like you and Maa Maa.’ My voice was frayed with bitterness but I continued. ‘The day I was born, was the day her granddaughter was taken away. She hated me.’
Ella’s face was heavy with compassion. ‘That’s not true. Maybelline’s death was a tragic accident. No one could have known that she would sneak out to the river to play.’
‘She wouldn’t have been at Maa Maa’s house in the first place if it wasn’t for me.’ I shot up, aware my face was burning. I didn’t want the younger girl’s counsel or pity. ‘We’ll be late.’
Ella nodded. She was slow in unfolding her frame from the lounge, as though weighed down by unspoken words.
We walked towards Maa Maa, our feet sinking into the carpet, a cushion against our burdens.
✷
Maa Maa’s final resting place was unlike anything I had ever seen. In the centre of a spacious hall, the ceiling punched out towards the heavens through a skylight, steeping every part of the room in a glow. There were three majestic statues of Bodhissatta, Amitabba, and Guan Yin. Along the walls were the glassed niches holding the ashes of the deceased. We were surrounded by the dead, but for the first time in a long while, I felt peaceful, as though nestled in the giant hand of one of the deities.
It was in this light-filled space that fragments of a memory came back to me from my seventh birthday. The telephone ringing. My father’s one-sided conversation of ‘Okay, I’ll come now,’ then, ‘Bye Ma.’ My father starting the car and driving away, and then returning a short time later, carrying a flask of yuk choi tong—my favourite soup.
Then, more snippets, one after another, like pieces of coloured silk coming out of a magician’s sleeve. A family picnic at Lake Gardens. The sensible smell of Maa Maa, of baby powder and tiger balm. The solid grip of her right arm encircling me. The bollards embracing each other with chained arms. We stood behind them, well away from the glittering water.
✷
From the car park I could see tombstones dotting the hillside haphazardly alongside unruly grass. I alighted the car and squinted against the sun. I walked gingerly across the sea of gravel.
The rest of the household were at school and work today, so it was just my mother, father and I. I trailed behind my parents up the four flights of stairs, the sweat pooling at the middle of my chest and running down my back. As we reached the landing, I could see the dark mouth of the doorway. It had been 10 years since I had been here, and although I was no longer a child, it felt like nothing had changed. I sucked in big pockets of air, as though readying myself to dive underwater. We crossed the threshold.
Like old times, I kept my gaze from the glowers of the children, men, and women. I walked numbly on, towards her.
There was Maybelline as I remembered, wearing a smocked dress, her hair in two braids. She smiled back at me. I frowned and turned to my parents. ‘Did you change her photo?’
‘Eh? Why would we do that?’ asked my father.
‘It’s different from what I remembered,’ I said.
‘You were still so little when you last visited,’ said my mother.
I realised, then, how fallible memories were. Some had been buried, overpowered by others, but even the ones that had endured could not be relied upon.
In that photo was a five-year-old adored by her grandmother and parents. A five-year-old who sang and danced, asked for ice cream on a hot day, and looked forward to meeting her newborn sister.
Had she lived, this five-year-old would have grown into a young girl who would braid her sister’s hair and bicker with her over who got the biggest slice of chocolate cake. Together, they would have grown into young women, poking fun at their parents’ quirks: their overzealous mother who wrapped the TV remote control in cling wrap to keep it clean; their father, who pounced on unused electrical appliances and light switches like a seagull after a hot chip.
I felt a deep sense of loss for the sister I never had. Surging alongside that grief was a hunger that I had never felt before. I turned to my parents, ‘What was she like?’
✷✷✷
Stefanie Hooi is a writer based in Adelaide. Born in Malaysia, she immigrated to Australia as a child. She enjoys exploring her Malaysian Chinese roots and experiences growing up as an immigrant in Australia in her writing.
