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  • from Under the Sun
  • O Thiam Chin (bio)

Missing

I have told them countless times not to touch my things, to leave them alone so I will not forget where I have left them. But they never listen. They keep misplacing my things, or putting them in the wrong places, and I have to search high and low for them all day long.

Like that time I was looking for the sandalwood comb my husband gave me after we were married. I couldn’t find it in the jewellery box where I usually kept it. A young boy—my grandson, apparently—ran into my bedroom, and I must have looked at him vacantly, trying to recall his name, before he finally told me. It’s so tough these days, with all the strange foreign names they have, such a mouthful, so hard to remember.

“Ah Poh, what are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for a comb, but I can’t find it.”

“What kind of comb? I’ll help you find it.”

“Just a simple comb. I can’t find it anywhere.”

Within minutes, he found the comb—it was in the pocket of the silk blouse hanging behind the bedroom door—and presented it to me with a boyish pride in his accomplishment.

Then there was another time. I was looking for my jade pendant. I knew for sure I kept it in a mother-of-pearl box in my dresser, but it was missing. I was so upset with the loss that I sat in my old cane chair and cried. It was then that my husband appeared, putting his hand on my shoulder, consoling me with kind, encouraging words. He offered his help and began to search through the drawers. I tried to describe the pendant to him; he smiled—when was the last time I saw him smile?—and reminded me that it was he who had gotten me the pendant in the first place, didn’t I remember? I dug into my memories, but pulled out a blank.

As we sat and chatted, my son came in and interrupted our conversation.

“Ma, were you looking for me?”

“No, why? Did I call for you?”

“No, I thought I heard something, so I’m just checking.”

“I’m talking to your Pa. He’s helping me to find my jade pendant.”

“Pa? What are you talking about? Pa … “

My son went quiet suddenly, a look of alarm darkening his face. It was [End Page 133] the same look my husband wore when he heard something unpleasant. Like father, like son.

“Ma, maybe you want to lie down for a while and rest. I will find the pendant for you.” He moved to take my hands, gripping them tight as if afraid I would fall. I shook him off roughly.

“No, I’m okay, and I don’t need to rest,” I said, turning back to my husband. But he was gone, and for a fleeting moment, I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what he looked like, a fish slipping into the murky depths.

Fat

Growing up, Sherry had been called many names, some out of pure malice, some with innocent affection, all of them cutting so deep that she couldn’t see herself beyond these cruel labels. Pig, fatso, hippo, big fat girl, piece of lard, porky, fat-ass. Even now, a grown woman of twenty-eight, she still couldn’t shake off these feelings of insecurity and low self-esteem. Every time she turned her back, she could feel her colleagues laughing at her, pointing out the fleshy parts of her body, calling her names.

So when they asked her to join them for a buffet lunch, she turned down the invitation, refusing to play up to their subtle mocking, suppressing her anger behind a cool, calculated smile. How dare they make fun of her when they knew she was on a strict no-carb diet. She burned in an indignant, smouldering rage, munching her lunch of carrot and celery sticks, swallowing her food and bitter bile like hard, flinty stones.

Sherry knew she had to do more, to shed more...

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