Name
by Fadzlishah Johanabas
First published in Love in Penang; Fixi Novo, 2013
I pluck the guitar strings together with my eyes closed. Picking up the discrepancy in sound, I turn the peghead and try again. I smile a fraction when the two strings sing as one.
“What are you so smug about, Khir?”
“Eh?” I crane my neck to the right and look at Hui Ling looking at me. In her face I register honest curiosity. “Not smug. Why?”
“You were smiling to yourself just now.”
“I wasn’t even looking at you. How could you tell?”
“Your dimple showed.”
“I thought you’re reading?”
With a sigh, followed by a shrug, she lifts her book off the grass and continues reading. Brother Odd by Dean Koontz. Not my genre, but then again, we disagree on so many things that I still can’t believe she is sitting here beside me under the shade of this old tree, partially leaning against my back.
The chancellery hill is quiet today. Then again, it’s Saturday. The old white building whose long shadow shades us against the glare of the evening sun is deserted. The pak guard who patrols this area is a friend of mine—we share cigarettes at the bottom of the emergency stairwell at least three times a week—so I don’t worry about him causing me and Hui Ling grief for hanging out here alone, just the two of us. I love this place not just because it’s far removed from other loud and obnoxious students, but the view is spectacular. From this slope, we can see the Straits of Malacca glittering, and the Penang Bridge connecting the island with the mainland. We can even see the dark shadow of the mainland from here. Of course, the vista is marred by the ugly condominium jutting out at the base of the hill, but still. The view takes my breath away every time I come here.
I continue looking at Hui Ling in silence, but I could’ve been a stump for all the attention she is giving me. Her eyes, half closed, dart about as she reads. Her lips are partially opened, and once in a while they form soundless words.
Careful not to move too much, I give a shrug of my own. I love the feel of her weight on my back. Not too much pressure to make me exert a counterweight, but enough to assure me that she’s really here. I turn my attention back to my guitar. Its once polished surface is now faded, and the original lighter color of wood grain shows where my callused fingers have been strumming all these years. I’ve changed the strings countless times, but the guitar still plays beautiful songs for me. I pluck the strings again, two at a time. This time the tuning is just about right.
I start plucking the opening chords of my favorite song. After playing the same chords twice, I start singing the opening lines of Name by The Goo Goo Dolls, just under my breath.
I must have drifted into my own world again, ‘cause I don’t feel Hui Ling’s weight lifting off me. When I look up, she is already kneeling in front of me, her right hand resting on mine, effectively stopping me from plucking the strings. Her head is slightly cocked to the right, her expression a curious mixture that I can’t quite figure out. That’s one of the things I adore about her: I can never figure her out. Her book is on the grass beside her, closed.
“Wha?” I raise my eyebrows in a show of calm inquiry. Inside my heart is thumping madly against my chest. I give a quick prayer that she can’t feel the slight trembling of my hands.
“Stop.”
This is the first time I sing in front of her, for her. And she hates it. Goddamit! I knew this was a bad idea. I feel like shoving my guitar into its canvas bag before I do anything rash and stupid with it.
“I told you I can’t sing that well. Hell, this is one of the only songs I can play.”
“Liar.”
“Which part?” I give her the most innocent look I can muster. “I can’t sing well or I only know a few songs?”
“I know you can sing a lot of songs, Khir.”
“Ouch.”
“Well, you’re not Johnny Rzeznik, obviously.” It’s a wonder Hui Ling’s expression remains unreadable. My own must be changing like a tropical storm.
I look for the condemnation in her eyes. I find none. I watch her in nervous silence, my fingers frozen awkwardly on the fretboard. Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches into her jeans pocket and takes out her handphone. She then looks at her phone and fiddles with it.
“Start again. I’m recording this.”
My fingers refuse to budge. “Why?”
“Simply. Sing. Now.”
“Why?”
She blows her wispy fringe off her long lashes with a loud huff. Sunlight dances in her dark brown eyes. A slow smile plays on her lips. “Because it’s you, singing this song. Because I love your voice more than I’ll ever love Johnny Rzeznik’s. Because I want to hear this every day.”
A sudden wave warms my cheeks. “You’ll get bored.”
“So sing me a new song when that happens. Sheesh. Now shut up and sing.”
I face down toward my guitar to hide my smile. I’m still smiling when I start singing Name.
#
One thing I don’t get is why Ibu always gets me to stop by Chowrasta Market to buy her pickled fruits whenever I plan to come back home to KL. Jeruk salak and betik for her, buah pala for Opah, and three bags of assorted jeruk, one for each of her siblings. Sometimes she orders more, but never less. It’s an annoyingly long enough ride on my motorbike from Penang to KL. A backpack full of these packages crammed together with toiletries and clean underwear can break my back, almost.
The cool breeze brings with it a tinge of salty scent as it accompanies us along the seaside Tun Dr Lim Chong Eu Expressway. Hui Ling circles her arms around me firmly as we ride the motorbike using the scenic route into the city. She rests her head against my shoulder, but with her helmet clanging against mine, it’s a little awkward.
“Are you all right?” I shout over my shoulder.
“What?” Hui Ling shouts back.
“You OK back there?”
As an answer, Hui Ling tightens her grip around my chest just under my armpits. Her body presses against mine. It takes my entire willpower to concentrate on the road. I can feel her heart beating against me, and I have a sinking suspicion that she can also feel mine, thudding fast.
“Not too tight,” I shout, my voice catching between words. “Can’t breathe!”
She loosens her hold, but only slightly.
It’s a long ten-kilometer ride to Chowrasta. It also ends too soon. Much too soon.
The entire row of shop lots on the ground floor of the market facing the main road is occupied by pickled fruits stalls. Most of them extend their display onto the walkway, and the hawkers, mostly elderly Chinese uncles and aunties with Indonesian helpers, yell at passers-by to stop and sample their jeruk. You’d think yelling at potential customers will drive away sales, but this is Malaysia.
I have a particular stall I always go to, but only because Ibu bought jeruk there when my entire family came to Penang for my university registration two years ago. I do my best to ignore the uncles and aunties yelling at us, and head straight for the stall near the end of the row. The aunty who owns the stall is sitting under a small wall fan fixed onto the ceiling, fanning herself with an A4-sized cardboard. She grins when she sees us, displaying gaps between her yellowed teeth.
“Ean tau!” she hollers. She loves calling me ‘handsome’, even though I know that’s not true. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. Going back to KL hor?”
“Yup,” I say. “Aunty, like usual.”
She hobbles closer. She has her right hip replaced some five years ago after falling down the staircase at her flat. I found this out from Ibu, who apparently interviewed the aunty while haggling. “Who’s this chio bu? Your du peng yu?”
I look at Hui Ling and shrug. “My what?”
“She said I’m pretty,” Hui Ling says. Then her ears turn red. “And that I’m your girlfriend.”
I almost choke on my saliva. “Hmm. Yes. She’s my girlfriend.”
That’s it, then. It’s official. Hui Ling’s ears turn redder, if that’s even possible. She doesn’t deny it, however.
I control myself and remain nonchalant, but inside, I do a little jig.
The aunty packs my six packets of jeruk and pumps air out of the plastic bags before sealing them, airtight. At least this way, the packets won’t take up too much space in my backpack. I take out my money from my wallet, but Hui Ling stops me.
“Never send a man to do a woman’s work,” she says, her narrowed eyes twinkling with amusement. Or maybe irritation. I can’t tell. She then turns to face the aunty and starts haggling in Hokkien.
Their exchange is loud and somewhat heated. The aunty shakes her head, Hui Ling crosses her arms, and then the aunty crosses her arms and Hui Ling shakes her head. Both of them try to outloud each other.
I know better than to be in the middle of a haggling war, so I back away toward my motorbike and light a cigarette. The traffic is light, but it’s only half-past-three. It’s only after five that the traffic gets terrible. Times like this, I’m thankful for my motorbike. Driving in Penang during rush-hour traffic is worse than doing it in KL.
When Hui Ling comes back with a large plastic bag laden with packets of jeruk, she’s grinning. Her entire face lights up. “See? I saved you eight ringgit, and I even got a small pack of assorted jeruk.”
I take the bag from her. “So where’s the balance?”
“It’s my fee for haggling for you, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, grinning back at her.
Hui Ling straps on her helmet as I extinguish the cigarette butt against the trashcan before flicking it onto the overflowing bin. I secure my helmet and rev the engine. The bike bounces when she gets on behind me. This time, she can’t place her arms around my chest as she has to hold the plastic bag of jeruk between us. I should have thought to bring my backpack. Dammit.
“Ready to go, du peng yu?” I say.
Hui Ling slaps my back. “Your Hokkien is terrible!”
She’s giggling as we make our way around the bend. The traffic light ahead turns yellow, so I slow down.
The car behind us should have done the same.
#
Whenever people ask me, I tell them I don’t remember much about the accident.
In truth, I remember every single detail.
I remember the car—a black Satria Neo—ramming us from behind. I found out from the police when he was taking my statement that the driver was reading her Twitter timeline when the accident happened. I remember the motorbike flipping forward in an inverse wheelie because my fingers had tightly clamped the brake. Maybe, if my fingers weren’t on the brake, the entire motorbike would have just been nudged forward. Maybe, if my fingers weren’t on the brake, Hui Ling would have remained on the motorbike instead of being thrown forward onto the middle of the intersection.
The police told us we were lucky vehicles from other directions hadn’t started moving, or else the situation could have been far worse. But all I can remember is Hui Ling lying limp in the middle of the road like a dead fish on dry land. All I can remember, with the motorbike lying on my left leg, between screams of pain from my broken thigh bone due to the impact and seared calf due to contact with the exhaust pipe, are my howls for Hui Ling to wake up.
But she didn’t wake up.
We were sent to Penang General Hospital in separate ambulances. They took Hui Ling first. The pain got the better of me, and I drifted in and out of consciousness. I remember being wheeled into the operating theater, but not much of anything else.
Ibu hasn’t left my side since I was warded after the surgery. I don’t even know who contacted my family. The male orthopedic ward is like a warzone. Some patients have limbs—or stumps—suspended on frames. Some have traction devices. Almost everyone has a cast or a bandage on at least one limb. Mine? My entire left lower limb is wrapped in layers of bandages. My doctor told me during his round the day after my surgery that he inserted a large nail in my thigh bone to keep the fractured parts in place, and that I sustained a third-degree burn on my calf.
“It’s going to scar,” I remember him saying, “and the scar won’t be pretty. Good thing your face is still good-looking.”
I wondered about his age. He can’t be much older than my eldest brother. Ibu did one better. She asked him outright. He’s thirty-four, a newly-graduated specialist. He looks twenty-eight. He has a kind smile. I like his smile.
“How’s Hui Ling?” I ask Ibu.
She stops reading her thick Malay novel and adjusts her spectacles to look at me. “Same as the last time you asked thirty minutes ago.”
“I want to go see her.”
“You know the doctor told you not to get up yet. The skin graft is still healing.”
“It’s not healing. It’s itching like hell.”
“Language.”
“How is she?”
Ibu sighs and caresses my face. She hasn’t done it in a long time. “Her brain injury is quite extensive, but it was a good thing she got to the hospital early. The neurosurgeon has done his best. Now we pray for her recovery. We pray for her to wake up.”
I ball my fists and slam them against my bed.
Ibu doesn’t let go of my face. She’s crying.
She hasn’t done it in a long time, too.
#
Once I’m off the morphine-on-a-button, I’m more alert most of the time. The downside is that the itch is getting worse and I can’t sleep it off. And I think about the accident all the time. I think about Hui Ling all the time.
Two weeks in the hospital (they transferred me to the finally-vacant first class room after a week), Hui Ling’s parents visit me for the first time. I’ve never met them, but I can easily tell that Hui Ling has her mother’s eyes and her father’s snowy complexion. They hover at the door, as if undecided whether they should come in or not. Ibu adjusts her tudung and beckons them in.
“Mr Chia,” I say, pushing my body to sit up straighter. “Mrs Chia. I’m sorry about Hui Ling. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
Trust me. I’ve planned a speech for when I meet them the first time, and this wasn’t it.
Mr Chia clears his throat. “It’s not your fault. We’ve spoken with your mother and the police.”
Not exactly the warm welcome I hoped. Then again, it’s not easy for a Buddhist-Chinese parent to accept his only daughter’s Muslim-Malay boyfriend.
Mrs Chia, on the other hand, leaves her husband’s side and sits on the chair beside my bed that Ibu has just vacated. She takes my hand in hers. She’s trembling. “Oh, Khir.”
I stiffen and pull my hand away. “Hui Ling.” My voice chokes. “Is she—”
Mrs Chia shakes her head. She’s crying in earnest now. “She’s going to be all right. She’s awake.”
“Alhamdulillah,” Ibu and I mutter at the same time.
Mrs Chia caresses my cheek. Maybe all mothers do it. “But there’s something I need you to know.”
I push the wheelchair into the high-dependency ward. I’m getting better at moving about in the wheelchair. Hui Ling’s parents are standing beside the bed nearest to the sliding door, and Hui Ling’s leaning against the propped-up bed, with an oxygen tube running beneath her nostrils and looped around her ears. She is bald, with tufts of growing hair covering most of her scalp. A large question-mark-shaped wound runs across most of the right side of her scalp. Fine scabs line most of the wound. The scalp encompassed by the wound is slightly sunken, the edges where part of her skull had been removed can be clearly seen.
Hui Ling looks at me approaching her, and then turns to look at her parents. Her father remains stoic. Her mother is smiling, though her eyes are on the verge of tears.
Hui Ling returns her attention to me and offers me a half-smile. “You were in an accident, too?”
She doesn’t remember the accident. That much is expected.
I take a deep breath. “We were in an accident, Hui Ling.”
She cocks her head slightly to the left, a habit of hers when she’s curious. “My friends call me Hui Ling. Others call me Chia.”
“But we are friends. You’re my…you’re my…what’s the word? Du peng yu.”
Her eyes widen, and then narrow into slits. “Your Hokkien is terrible.”
I snort a laugh. See? Her parents are wrong. The doctors are wrong.
“But I’m not your girlfriend,” she continues. “I don’t even know you.”
Just like that, my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. “I’m Khir, remember?”
“No. I don’t know you.”
I wheel my chair closer. “Please remember, Hui Ling.” I reach for her, but she pulls away.
Those shattered pieces of my heart? She tramples on them without even knowing it.
Without even knowing me.
Hui Ling turns and reaches out for her mother. “Ma, what’s he saying? It hurts. Take him away. Take him away.”
“Hui Ling,” I plead. “Hui Ling.”
Mr Chia marches toward me and grabs hold of the wheelchair’s handles. “That’s enough, Khir. She needs her rest.”
“How come she doesn’t remember me? She has to remember.”
“I’m sorry.”
Funny thing is, he sounds genuinely sorry. Maybe he’s not against the idea of his daughter having a Malay boyfriend.
Funnier thing is, his daughter doesn’t even remember she has a Malay boyfriend.
I can’t help it. I laugh. Right outside the high-dependency ward, as the sliding doors close, I laugh until my sides hurt.
Over the laughter, I cry.
#
I know I can’t hide away forever. Time heals everything, people say. Three months after the accident and after intensive physiotherapy, I’m already walking without a crutch. My orthopedic surgeon was right; the scars are ugly. He also said I may never regain the original strength of my left leg, but at least my limp is almost imperceptible. My leg still hurts, sometimes, especially when it’s cold outside. I don’t know if the pain will ever go away.
The other thing that still hurts is my heart. Everyone decided it would be best if I didn’t hang around Hui Ling. It’s for her own good. My opinion didn’t matter no matter how loud and hard I argued. In the end I had to concede. I had to let go of her.
Three months after the accident, and my heart still hurts, goddammit.
I attend classes as usual, but I no longer hang out with my friends, with other students. I can’t stand the pity in their eyes. I don’t need their pity. I don’t need their reassurances, their condolences. I don’t need any of them. Not a single one.
I sit at my favorite spot behind the chancellery building overlooking Penang Bridge and the Straits of Malacca. The day is overcast, and the sea looks dull without sunlight dancing on its surface. I’m not supposed to be here during office hours, but the pak guard only nods when he passes by.
I take my time to tune my guitar. I haven’t played it since the accident. Playing the guitar brings back memories of times I can never go back to. But I can’t run away forever. Once I finish tuning the guitar, I play the first song that always comes to mind.
I play Name.
I’m so lost in the song that I only notice her sitting on her knees across from me once I finish singing the last note. I blink. She blinks back at me.
“Hui Ling,” I stutter. “I mean, Chia—”
She cocks her head slightly to the left. “You’re Khir, right?”
I nod. That’s the only thing I can think of doing.
“How come I can remember everyone else, but not you?”
I shake my head. “What are you doing here?”
She points at the chancellery building. “My doctors say it’s good for me to go back to familiar surroundings, and I need to finish my degree. So here I am.”
So matter-of-factly. So Hui Ling.
“That song you played,” she says.
I sit straighter. “You remember the song?”
She shakes her head. Her hair, now at least three inches long, juts out everywhere. But she’s still beautiful.
I slump on my guitar, defeated.
Hui Ling takes out her phone. “I have a recording of the song. I didn’t know whose voice it is.” She hits play, and my voice comes out from the speakers. “Now I know,” she says.
Hui Ling plays one song after another, all the songs she recorded of me singing. I can only sit and watch the girl I love sitting across from me, the girl who doesn’t even know who I am.
After a few minutes playing the recordings of my voice, Hui Ling stops and lets the phone fall on her lap. She searches my eyes, capturing them, holding them in place with just her gaze. “You were an important person to me, weren’t you?”
You’re important to me, I want to say. Instead, I just nod.
“The song you sang, Name? Will you sing it again?”
“Why?”
“Simply. Sing. Now.”
Memories come rushing in. At least for me. “Why?”
“Because I love your voice. Because even though I can’t remember you, I’d like to get to know you. Now shut up and sing.”
This time, I don’t hide my smile when I start singing Name.
