Misdirection Page 2

  And there is something else.

  Noticing my unspoken distress, Dr Wijeysingha activates the selfie cam on her mobile phone and hands it to me. She regards me with a kindly gaze. “You’re still a very attractive young lady. I honestly wouldn’t really worry about the scarring too much.”

  Staring into the mirror of the 21st century, I see my father’s pensive blue eyes on my mother’s delicate Asian face looking warily back at me. My face has changed. I am the same, but also different. A thin scar slashes diagonally through my left eyebrow, bisecting it. Curious, I trace a fingertip along the line, observing how eyebrow hair has ceased growing in the distinct welt of its angry path.

  “It’s not the end of the world, Max,” Luce says. “You’ve got a seriously cool Charlie Puth eyebrow thing going there for you.” I busy myself in a feeble attempt to hide the white scar with my dark fringe. “I think it adds character. You look pretty badass, actually.”

  I sigh, wanting badly to believe Luce, as I return the doctor's phone.

  “W-what happened to me?” I finally ask, still slowly getting used to how excruciatingly difficult and tediously lengthy it is to humanly articulate words from formed thought. “Accident?”

  The physician shakes her head regretfully. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not allowed to say. The police don’t want anything clouding your memory or influencing your judgement, nothing that will jeopardise or affect your case. It’s still an ongoing investigation.”

  Police? Case? Investigation?

  I bite my lip. A thousand questions surge through my brain.

  “Are you able to recall what happened, Maxine? Anything at all? What is your very last memory?” Dr Wijeysingha eyes me keenly. “Close your eyes and try. But please don’t feel the need to rush it.”

  Closing my eyes, I concentrate, searching for clues in the deep recesses of my mind. What do I remember? Everything is dark. But then, like a blossoming bush of Kurinji flowers that Dad said blooms only once in twelve years, a memory in the form of fragrance comes to me: warm amber wood, freshly sliced cucumber, lush watermelon, basil verbena. Then the constant sounds of pen-clicking intrude, and the scents dissipate in my mind.

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  I feel my shoulders rise towards my ears, and my neck muscles tense up. My eyelids fly open and I feel a furrow of annoyance deepen on my forehead. The doctor stops her annoying habit, looking almost startled at my unintentionally fierce glare.

  “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Didn’t see anything.”

  Standing by my side, Luce pats my stiff shoulder, reminding me to relax. “Maybe we just need to give it some time.”

  “It might be a good idea for you to keep a journal, Maxine. Making daily entries recording significant events, personal thoughts or insights, anything you remember even, will assist in your recovery process. It will be a journey,” the physician tells me as she snaps the folder on her lap shut. “Now, your blood pressure and heart rate are still a bit peaky, so try to get some rest. I need to inform CID that you’re awake. The police officers will want to come by to ask you some questions.”

  I glance up at Luce and my friend smiles reassuringly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The pager on Dr Wijeysingha’s hip emits a series of shrill beeps, and after silencing it, she gets up to leave. Walking over to the small sofa near the foot of my bed, she picks up the overstuffed and unapologetically colourful scrapbook from the faded beige cushion, and gently sets it on my lap.

  “Your family’s been informed and should be on the way to see you now. I’ll check in on you later when I’m done with my shift, but in the meantime just press the red button and buzz for the nurses if you need anything, okay?”

  Smiling my thanks, I watch the doctor leave my cosy single-ward room. The large scrapbook in my hands is emblazoned with bold words decorated liberally with bright silver and hot pink glitter:

  WAKE UP, SLEEPING BEAUTY!!!

  Inside are cute cartoon sketches, washed-out Instax Mini polaroid photographs and encouraging handwritten notes from family, friends and some of my favourite people from school. Luce sinks into the chair Dr Wijeysingha just vacated, and we settle into comfortable silence as I turn the wildly decorated pages.

  Together, we laugh at the ridiculous photographs stuck on the pages of the scrapbook. There are a few favourites. Luce painting my toenails in my favourite shade of Disney-villain purple and Halloween-pumpkin orange as I lay sleeping; my darling Aunt Theresa arranging fresh sunflowers in the vase by my bedside and tickling my face with a leaf; my jock cousin Jon pretending to holler into my ear as he holds a seriously epic unicorn birthday cake with my name on it and 16 lit candles; a laughing Dr Wijeysingha wearing a small Santa hat, slipping a hairband with lit reindeer antlers on me as I slept on; and a skilfully taken wefie by my scrawny best friend CK, who is grinning gleefully in the photo, so much so that his braces actually seem to gleam with an exuberant shine while yours truly lies comatose with his dark sunglasses over my eyes and Beats by Dre headphones over my scarred, clean-shaven head.

  A hard lump of emotion gathers, sticking uncomfortably in my throat. I try to swallow it down but that horrible sensation doesn’t quite go away. I can’t wait for my family to come see me. Hearing Danny’s silly boisterous laughter, Dad’s booming deep voice and Mom’s perpetual nagging because she cares—all that normalcy will make me feel better instantly.

  There is a knock on the door and it swings open.

  “Hello?”

  A Chinese lady, probably in her mid to late thirties, who looks like the older version of Mom’s younger sister, tentatively pokes her head into the room.

  She chokes a gasp as she walks in, her beaded Peranakan slippers barely making a sound on the smooth tiles. Her gaze never leaves my face. I notice that her traditional sarong kebaya is wet and her long hair is damp with rain, but the large smile on her crying face is bright enough to warm the entire room. Luce stands so my aunt can sit in the chair and take my hands in hers. I feel her chilled fingers trembling with emotion.

  “Aunt Theresa?” I croak the crying woman’s name, like some kind of an instinctual muscle memory. She is a lot thinner than I remember her to be. I squeeze her fingers gently. “Please don’t cry.”

  My aunt immediately smothers me with kisses, and I can smell the kitchen on her colourful Nonya clothing as she hugs me close. Aunt Theresa has obviously come directly from My Sayang, the Peranakan restaurant along Niven Road that my great-grandmother started right after the Japanese occupation during WWII.

  “Chilli Padi.” Aunt Theresa bursts into a flood of tears as she whispers my childhood nickname. On the first day of the Lunar New Year when I was six and my cousin Jon was seven, the grown-ups were deeply engaged in a long game of mahjong and weren’t looking at us kids. Jon and I snuck into the restaurant’s kitchen and dared each other to eat from a fresh bag of red-hot chilli padi we found stashed away, just to wager which one of us was able to handle the spicy chillies better. I won our silly little competition but the ensuing result from our unfortunate childish rivalry was not pretty. It was also when my nickname stuck.

  “Are Mom and Dad on their way?” I murmur into my aunt’s bosom as she squeezes me just a little too tight. “Danny too?”

  Aunt Theresa pulls away and strokes my hair. The bags under her eyes look severe, like she is suffering from insomnia because of a massive burden on her small shoulders. Even though she is just two years younger than Mom, my aunt looks much older than I remember. Drawing out a ragged breath as she forces a smile on her wan face, Aunt Theresa leans back, tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and takes a short moment to compose herself as she eyes the scar slashed across my left eyebrow.

  “They’re not coming,” she finally says.

  My eyes search hers as I wait for an explanation. But it does not come.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, hearing the childish whine and unmasked hurt in my new husky voice. “Why won’t the
y see me? Did I do something wrong?”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she whispers, her voice strained with emotion.

  I turn to look at Luce, quietly leaning against the wall behind my aunt, but my childhood friend looks away.

  “Jamie and Francis were killed that night,” Aunt Theresa says. “Danny didn’t make it either. The police weren’t able to find out who did it or why. But now, maybe all that will change.”

  “No,” I mutter in disbelief, shaking my head obstinately. “No. No. No.”

  My broken heart refuses to accept what my aunt is trying to say; I want nothing more than to push those words away, tear them all up, declare them as lies. But my logical, analytical mind understands exactly why my family isn’t coming for me. The clues are all there, right in front of me.

  I reach down and quickly leaf through the unfinished scrapbook started by my loved ones three years ago, charting my stay in the hospital. There are pages and pages showing photographs of familiar faces, but none of my family.

  No Mom. No Dad. No Danny. They are also clearly missing from the pictures taken on all three birthdays I spent in hospital, where everyone else who cared about me was there to celebrate as I lay in my coma.

  A surge of rage courses through me and with a sudden burst of energy, I slam the book shut and fling it off my lap. The heavy scrapbook crashes to the floor near Luce’s feet, denting the corners of the book, but she doesn’t flinch.

  I press my hands into my face, desperately wanting to wake up from this nightmare. I hear a rustling of clothing as my aunt moves from her chair, reaching over to wrap me in a protective embrace. I feel her hands stroking my ugly chopped tresses, in an attempt to comfort me. But her kind actions only serve to remind me of how my mother fussed over my long braids. Aunt Theresa rocks me gently, like I am a baby.

  I should cry. Yell. Scream. Break something.

  My heart hurts so badly, yet the tears don’t come.

  Instead, I struggle to breathe as crashing emotions overwhelm me.

  Luce looks at me, quiet sadness reflected in her sorry eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, sayang.” Aunt Theresa tries to console me. “So, so sorry.”

  But nothing my aunt says helps. Rage burns in the space where my heart should be. Anger. Hate. Sadness. Pain. Loneliness. Regret. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

  If only I had one more moment with them. One more chance to tell my family how much I love them. Even when I acted like an absolute troll sometimes, but only because I thought they were being unnecessarily difficult or mean to me.

  If only I had the power to change the past, I’d jump back in time and rewrite history so none of this ever happened. But I’m not a child any more, and I know this is not a fairy tale. There is no such thing as magic. This is my reality now, and I am hopelessly stuck in a living nightmare. All I can do now is wonder if justice will ever be served.

  But I am filled with so many questions that have no answers.

  Who killed my family and put me into a coma? Why were they so damn hell-bent on destroying us? How did these cold-blooded criminals manage to elude the police for three years? And is there any possible way for me to make the murderers pay for what they did to Mom, Dad and Danny?

  THREE

  I FEEL LIKE I’M dying.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest and my fatigued muscles are screaming in pain.

  “Pain is weakness leaving the body,” Jon says as he energetically claps his hands, channelling his inner MMA coach. “C’mon, you can do it!”

  I grunt and push myself to completion, before finally collapsing into a satisfied heap of sweaty achievement, having finished thirty burpees with no breaks in between. It feels good not having to breathe through a nasal cannula any more, and I am almost back to my normal self again. Almost.

  “Crushed it,” says Arne, the physiotherapist assigned to me by the hospital, and he slaps me a jubilant high-five before scribbling notes down on his clipboard. “You’ve been making excellent progress, Max. Honestly, Dr Wijeysingha and I can’t believe it’s been only a month since you woke up from your coma, and you’re already back on your feet.”

  I manage a nod of thanks and Arne leaves for his lunch break, but not before reminding my cousin to accompany me back to my hospital room. Turns out that my totally nerdy, uncool scientist parents managed their life savings and investments extremely well, leaving behind a sizeable inheritance for me that their lawyer legalised yesterday. Everything my folks had is now mine. It’s crazy. But if there were a way I could return everything to have my family back, I would give it all away in a heartbeat. If only.

  We step into the hospital lift, where an instrumental bossa nova version of “The Girl from Ipanema” is playing softly. The original classic by Astrud Gilberto and Stan Getz was one of Mom’s favourites and while cooking brunch for us in on lazy weekends, she often played the song on that hipster vinyl turntable Dad got her as an anniversary gift because she loves music so much.

  Jon lobs at me a can of my favourite 100plus isotonic drink from his gym bag, and I catch it easily. I crack open the top and take a gulp, then instantly make a face thanks to the lukewarm beverage. “Ugh. When did they start making this non-carbonated?”

  Jon laughs, showing off his deep dimples. “While you were sleeping?”

  Narrowing my eyes at Jon, now making a grand show of enjoying his beverage just for my benefit, I slowly swirl the contents of the full can in my hands, steeling myself to finish it. Jon lifts his drink at me in a mock toast. “You’ll be back in action soon with your free-running, Chilli Padi.”

  “It’s parkour, you himbo,” I grouse, fixing my fringe in the mirror so that it hides my hateful scar. “There’s a difference between the two.”

  “Yes, yes,” my cousin says, rolling his eyes. “It’s all in the mindset.”

  Looking at my reflection reminds me how grateful I am to Aunt Theresa for getting her hairstylist buddy to come over and cut my hair, so I didn’t have to lumber around the hospital looking like a sad country bumpkin. The stylist did a great job, giving me an edgy, asymmetrical layered bob that he proclaimed could channel Judy Nails, the alternative rocker chick from Guitar Hero. It makes my short hair a bit more bearable as I wait for it to grow longer.

  My jock cousin, graduating soon with his Diploma in Sports and Exercise Sciences, is plenty gleeful at having his own lab rat to boss around. Gulping down my non-fizzy drink, I silently gloat over the fact that, thanks to puberty and my Aussie father’s tall ang moh genes, I currently stand taller than Jon by half a head. Jon’s phone buzzes just as the lift doors open at our floor, and I watch his tanned face visibly light up like Little India during Deepavali as he reads his text message. I jab him in the ribs. “Hot date?”

  “Netflix and chill.” Jon grins as we walk down the long corridor leading back to my room. “With a babe I met on Tinder.”

  “Netflix?” I scratch my head. “Tinder?”

  “Keep up with the times, Captain America. Netflix is this amazing thing where you can watch almost any movie or show you want on your TV or phone. The future is now.” Jon taps a quick reply on the smudged glass of his mobile phone. “And Tinder is a popular dating app. I met this amazing girl on it who also happens to study at Republic Poly. She joined our Adventure Learning Club so we can spend more time together at school. She’s really sweet, I think you’ll like her.” He gives a wry grin as he opens the door to my room. “She’s beautiful, smart, caring, everything I ever dreamed of. I really don’t know what she sees in me.”

  Luce is there, lounging like a cat on the sofa. I look at my strapping cousin, suddenly deep in thought. I poke him in the ribs again, wincing as my finger bounces off his rock-solid abs this time. “We should do lunch at My Sayang tomorrow. You know, celebrate me finally getting out of here.”

  “Great idea, I’ll bring Gigi. See you there at one o’clock.” Jon smiles, slinging the strap of his gym bag across his thick chest before heading out the door for MMA
training. He almost collides into CK, and the two exchange fist bumps before Jon leaves.

  Before my three-year coma, CK was a skinny fifteen year old in orthodontic braces, with a penchant for geeky superhero T-shirts. Chang Chun Kiat, but nicknamed CK as long as I’ve known him. Being my sporty cousin’s gym buddy over the last few years has evidently helped CK fill out. Today, my best friend is a wiry doppelgänger for Choi Seung Hyun, aka TOP from South Korea’s most popular boy band, Big Bang.

  But that said, CK’s undying fondness for geeky superhero T-shirts has remained. On the front of the black shirt he wears today is an obnoxious Spider-Man-looking character flipping the bird just above the word “Deadpool”.

  “Dude,” CK greets me with a perfect smile, sans braces.

  Flicking his long fringe, which he keeps to hide the large plum-coloured birthmark covering a good half of his face, CK drops his backpack on my bed as Luce pads over. He promptly unzips it, pulling out my clothes that he got from my house.

  In my hands, my favourite purple plaid hoodie looks smaller than I remember. And the weird thing that totally trips me up is that it feels like I just wore it only last week.

  “Hope it fits,” Luce says with a rueful smile as I scowl.

  “Go on, get changed,” CK says. “I’ll book us an Uber.” He pulls out his phone and I step into the toilet, closing the door behind me and finally changing out of my bilious green hospital gown into regular, normal, everyday clothes.

  *

  Dr Jamie Lee. Dr Francis Schooling. Daniel Schooling.

  We are at Mandai Columbarium, and I am finally seeing my family.

  My little brother was born with Down’s syndrome, and is now forever frozen in silent laughter, his small blue eyes crinkling as he beams brightly, showing off his missing front tooth. Dad looks pensive and dapper in his favourite tartan bowtie and round Harry Potter spectacles. Mom wears her usual blasé expression, greatly accentuated by her small eyes, as though waiting for the rest of the world to catch up with her beautiful, brilliant mind.