The Moral Support of Presence

“My condolences. We can take care of the funeral arrangements.”

The monk spoke perfect English in the American accent that some local Ivy League scholars adopt in TV interviews. The fluorescent lighting overhead glanced off his smooth, bald pate. I took the business card that he held out with both hands so that I could read the words right side up:

venerable liu rong

bright mount of thanksgiving monastery

The only other person standing beside the empty hospital bed was a dog-collared man in long sleeves and dark trousers who didn’t appear to have a business card. “But Selene was my congregation member.” He sounded crestfallen, almost plaintive.

I wanted to laugh. “Selene” is not on Ma’s birth certificate. It’s the name she used for restaurant reservations. At the sound of it, front-of-house staff would bow, part ranks to admit us. And it was the name she’d used in a church, apparently. I wondered what had possessed her, and when. Had she been sacrificing her early Sunday mornings while I slept in, oblivious? I imagined her parting a sea of worshippers, being ushered down a carpeted aisle to her reserved spot, a pew with a view.

The monk cleared his throat. “We don’t usually …,” he gestured around the ward, “but at the special request of—” A jangling interrupted his speech. He searched about his folds and produced a mobile phone, then excused himself to a corner of the ward to answer it in hushed, urgent tones.

I looked at the other man and shrugged. He seemed emboldened by this, braced himself, stepped forward, and stuck out his hand. “Reverend Ernest Ong.” The brochure under his arm expanded like an accordion, and by the time Venerable Liu Rong returned, Reverend Ernest Ong had talked me into leaving my mother to God for a Standard Package with Assurance Casket (free upgrade to Premium Flower selection).

Don’t judge me—you have no idea. Ma died the same way she did everything else: suddenly and without apparent good reason. A fever, a cold, a headache, a day in the hospital, and then … curtains. It didn’t make sense, but I was used to that with her. What I didn’t anticipate was the permanence of this particular change. She’d caught me off guard, and one unbalancing led to another. Later there would be other words used: bereavement, trauma, recovery. But all that came only later. Here beside the empty bed, I just wanted to be absolved of all responsibilities, but the path to that peace was beset with thorny decisions. For a start, she and I had never discussed the matter of her funeral arrangements. She had been superstitious, and for me to have brought it up at all would have elicited “Choy!”¹ and a long, tearful lecture on filial piety.

A nurse barrelled up to the bed, directing orderlies. They got busy with fresh sheets, a pillowcase, and a folded blue blanket. One of them scooped up the bunch of white carnations from the vase on the bedside table and shoved them at me. “Might as well you take them home, ah girl. Still good, what. Visitor brought them yesterday only.”

“Miss? CCOD for Madam Wong Pui Fang?” The nurse jerked her head at me. “This way, please.” I fished for Ma’s identity card in my purse. The Certificate of Cause of Death was Step One under “What to do when a death occurs, Scenario A: If the death occurs in a hospital,” on the National Environment Agency website.

The old woman in the next bed turned her back to us to face the grey wall. “I hope I’m next,” she said in Hokkien.

As if to stop me from leaving, Venerable Liu Rong stepped up just as Reverend Ernest Ong moved towards the old woman, and the two men collided. Delivered by the ensuing tangle of vestments and apologies, I followed the nurse out of the ward before the monk could object.

Seven forty-eight in the evening. My mobile phone had been buzzing almost non-stop. First...