Dahlia
By Chia De Zhong
“She was never mine to begin with.”
An old house stood by the banana tree, the
evening glow revealing new faces within, curiously peering through grilles of
iron and age, inspecting its livability. Were they going to live within cracked
walls, whitewash flaking, mildewed curtains hanging proudly on tinted windows
—all but a testimony to someone's legacy? Polka dotted dresses hung on a
skeletal frame, stationary, waiting to be claimed by a jealous love, as an old
lady peered reluctantly through a door slightly ajar. She was claimant to a
glorious past, reflected in the porcelain scattered on shelves throughout,
phoenixes and peonies aplenty in stone. But nothing could be seen within her
room but the semblance of a whirring fan. It sent silent whispers across
shadows, with hints of incense, mahogany and fresh secrets permeating through
the freshly painted corridor, a last attempt in luring new tenants and new
money. An old house — a kept woman, and empty drawers spoke of triumphs days
and days before the sun set on perfectly pruned gardens and smiling faces from
just a while ago, just before —
"I met her only in my dreams. She was
already all grown up, a handsome lad by her side, a baby in tow. She laughed a
hearty laugh, just like I did, and arms flew up as she moved in for an embrace
at last. I really missed her. I posted advertisements in the local paper, asked
around in orphanages about where my Dahlia might have gone. It was a mistake.
At that time, I had no choice. I was betrothed to be married to my distant
cousin in Penang, and I couldn’t be a mother. Not yet. I had my honor to
maintain, that unadulterated innocence that kept me on the shelf and
marriageable. 'I’ll come back and find you', I told those beady little eyes
staring into mine, stubby fingers grasping my little finger in a gentle caress.
She smelt of fresh talcum, months of care under a nanny I secretly hired to
care for. And then it was time for her to go. If I had only chosen to be brave.
If only… But I can only create measured fantasies within the confines of my
circumstance, for I am but broken.”
But something was growing within her, a pregnant
hope permeating from the irises of dull eyes. For nothing is forever, and that
includes misfortune, too.
“For years I posted the same advertisement on the
papers. Lost child, Dahlia. Left at the orphanage. Would be a young adult.
Chinese, a birthmark on her neck. Please call. Lost kin, Dahlia. Left at the orphanage. Would be middle aged.
Chinese, a birthmark on her neck. Please call. Lost kin, Dahlia. I miss you
terribly. Please call. Lost, Dahlia. Always in hope, Mom.”
The sun set, and tungsten lamps cast a warm glow
on the many faces walking on the street beside, the occasional vehicle causing
an eye to dart momentarily, as if in hope. But the house remained shrouded in
apparent darkness, lights remained off to conserve electricity. Instead, the
dull wisp of kerosene wafted around the long table in the hall, elegant
furniture enveloped in a dark cloud. Still the old lady remained in her room,
rocking gently in her chair, a radio crackling a familiar tune. Her mouth
echoed those words she heard so long ago, but the air was still. The deal was
signed, but the tenants would only move in in a week. They were moving in from town,
finding that the rent was too expensive there. It was a good place to live in,
they said, but they wanted a good price instead. But what could these crisp
bank notes offer? She was old, and she longed for a familiar hand to guide her
as she hobbled down those steps she had taken every day, alone. She longed for
the familiar hand to work her stiff muscles, to conjure delicious recipes she
had never managed to pass on. She had given it up seventy years ago, though,
when she became the familiar hand, mouth silently pursed in agreement, gentle
hands molding dough as her mother lectured down that very same hallway.
"I never wanted to give her away, but our
family owed my cousin’s family our survival; especially after the war which
ravaged our business and left us mere shells. I was young, and my youth oozed
out like an abscess from the gaudy, old-fashioned and scratchy clothes my
mother wanted me to wear. I had broken out of the dirt, beautiful and free, and
nothing was going to stop me. Not the circuses where I was paraded around for
old fogeys to see. Not the days where I see mother weeping in vain, for days
gone by and our forgotten legacy. But she too, is long gone and forgotten, and
I am here alone, my heart but charity.”
It was a few hours into the night, streets slowly
quietening as pedestrians opened rusty gates and entered their little abodes.
The murmur of voices begun as television screens lit up from within the
half-curtained windows. The old lady opened a window and a small insect flew
out into the open air. See, even insects can be free, she observed. From the
faces of the remaining pedestrians she recognized a familiar face. It was her
daughter, yet again, apparitions of her longing, reflected on the vessels which
sailed past her port. The old lady gazed, silent sighs but a habit from long
ago. Wringing her hands, she savored the breeze, lifting strands of curly grey
in apparent glee.
“I got married, and shortly after, my husband
died. I never shed a tear; he was on a holiday when a freak accident took him
and his parents away. It was but a short agony, the hospital explained, the car
plunging many meters down into a fiery hell. I was a rich woman now, with his
inheritance safely parked in my bank, no will written but mine. We never learnt
to love each other, anyway.”
A doorbell rang, and ears perked up in
anticipation. It must be the social worker with her dinner, the old lady
thought. Calling out in response, the old lady took small but sure steps down
the hall and unlocked the door. An unfamiliar face, dressed in suit and tie,
looked in with a curiously cordial disposition. The old lady blinked in
surprise, her voice buried in chords of suspicion. He asked if she lived in the
house. The old lady nodded, eyes crossed, wrist clenching the door pensively.
“That
opened the door to happiness. Free of lock and chain, I went to the orphanage,
then I found out she was gone. And for years on I know she was gone. That
thought entered my dreams many nights, and the pain rushed in like burns on
mucosal membrane, each revelation a new tear shed. So much to have, but so much
to lose. Orphanage after orphanage I visited, and the newspapers bore my name
and testimony to my loss for months to come. Months turned to years, and I
faded away, a lackluster jade broken from the inside. But how else can words
describe my poetic tragedy? It was my choice, but I had my name to bear.”
They might have found her daughter at last, he
told her. Someone bearing her daughter’s name, born on the same day, possible
child of hers. Or rather, her daughter might have found her, reaching out in
tentative recognition of familiar ties. It was a firework. With tears brimming
in grey eyes, sweaty palms and wet lips, they were happy at last. Light breaths
and a high voice rung above the heavy evening air as the old lady arranged that
faithful Day of Reconciliation.
“I have so much to give, but fate had its fill,
and I am left a mere shell of my younger days. Days of desperation turned to
months of hope, then years of melancholy. I stopped meeting up with friends, an
intense grey clouding my judgement. That there could be a better ending to
this, than me quietly weeping in my room night after night. Heartache is
something one can never get used to. It starts off as a little sting deep
within almost forgotten memories. But it grows onto you like a vine on a tree,
rooting itself deep within your veins and strangling all semblance of an
ordinary life. I too had grown roots within my home, not venturing out in fear
of further heartbreak. But nowadays I hear God whispering. It comes in the
words of passersby, the laughter of children nearby, the trickle of rain. It
will get better from now. I know it would.”
It was morning, as a gentle breeze brought the
sun out of the clouds, and onto a beautiful horizon. The old lady opened grubby
windows, letting new air into her abode. The tenants had moved in, bringing in
new furniture that dotted the ancient territory, and warm conversations which
bounced off plastered walls and onto a smiling face. The old lady, dressed in
her Sunday best, combed her hair, removing knots and loose threads of grey.
With rouge and blush, she never felt as alive in her life, a young woman
staring back coyly from within the old mirror. How would she look like? Would
she also have the same almond shaped eyes as her mother? The same button nose
and square jaw? The pursed lip of a difficult life? The old lady paused in her
step, supporting herself on a chair. What would she say to her? Would there
even be anything to say, after decades of separation? Would her daughter even
recognize those hands that used to hold her, fingers through wisps of hair,
fingers at her belly, gently tickling her into oblivion? Would her daughter
embrace her with a passionate finality, arms interlocked in a desperate joy? Her
palms were cold, lips dry, and mind overflowing with prosperous thoughts. The
inevitable had arrived.
“Is that her, my Dahlia? She looks so beautiful
in that light blue dress, plump, well fed and… happy. Yes. This is my daughter,
and we have so much to do. No more tears from now. There shall be singing and
the laughter of children in the house once again. We’ll prune weeds in the
garden. Boy I need some color on my skin once again. The sun will do me good.
And I’ll hire a little band to play on our porch, while we sing duets from
bygone years. If she doesn’t know how to sing, I’ll teach her. She’ll never
have to live a life of poverty again. She’ll live out the rest of her days a
happy child once again, free of worry, free of the pain from the outside world.
What if she’s married? No worries at all, I have more than 18 rooms in my
house. We’ll all live together. Now where’s my reading glasses? I may have to
read to dozens of running children. How do they look like? Would they look like
her? Or (chuckles) maybe even me? They always say I have strong features for a
lady. With that square jaw. Oh right why am I still behind that door? There is
no time to waste, no more pain to bear, not with that open door.”
An embrace ensued, and time stood still. The old
lady could almost capture a hint of the scene of talcum once again as her
daughter’s hair met hers. And then it was over. As the old lady stepped back,
the light revealed two other faces framing her daughter’s smile. Her
benefactors, she thought with a deep gratitude.
“Thank you for bringing her back to me.”
She did not understand, not the accent of her own
daughter, seemingly from another world, another time. Not the staccato of a
south-east Asian tongue, but a southern American drawl. Not the words of her
guardians, a similar twang burning into her ears.
“What are you trying to tell me? I’ve finally
found her after so many years, and you tell me she’s leaving? She’s not going
anywhere, not without me.”
But they were on their way. It was no reunion,
but a farewell.
“What are you trying to say? She’s not going
anywhere. I won’t allow it. Stay, Dahlia. Stay.”
But she could not fathom the cries of an
despondent old woman. She had a life to live, and a love to enjoy. There can be
no forever.
“Please, Dahlia.”
But they went on their way. The next day, the new
tenants found a lifeless body in a locked kitchen, charcoal burning on a stove,
and a letter written in a pensive cursive. It read,
“She was never mine to begin with.” //
