Ann

She cried again last night. As usual I had nothing to say but pat her to sleep. Almost two and a half years of continued weeping at night. Shouldering the burden of soothing a 7-year-old, what wisdom does a 10-year-old have to bring it to a stop. Lying next to me, sharing a single bed “Akka, where is mommy?”, the same question asked repeatedly, drowned only by the whir of the fan keeping us cool on  sweltering summer nights.

 

Looking at her this morning, you would never know the existence of her nightly griefs. Grandma held her hand whilst we both waited for our 6 a.m. school bus. Her short curly hair, dark blue primary pinafore, white shoes, slouching under the weight of her school bag pregnant with heavy textbooks, she looks so ordinary. Or maybe not, we both were unusually skinny and scrawny. Something we have constantly been made fun of at school; a few more years later down the line when we both approached puberty the bullying is only made worse for being flat chested. God forbid without adequate budding breasts you dare to even be remotely feminine. You are looked on as a pariah, bottom of the barrel. Hence, we both embraced being tom boys. Pretending we never cared about our femininity, accepting we will never be womanly enough.

#

She gleefully ran to her group of friends at school and went on about their childish conversations. Her ill-fitted school uniform was jarring next to her other well-groomed friends, but I do not think that bothered her much. I went ahead and lined up behind my fellow classmates and whipped out a book as I waited for the morning assembly to begin.

 

           We both were schooling at a convent then. The Headmistress, Sister Elizabeth was a nun in her 50’s. She would be the last of the nuns to run the convent. The management was later completely taken over by the education ministry and all the nuns moved away to a different premise. Sister Beth, as we are used to calling her was the kindest person my sister and I knew. My grandma sought her out, to sponsor our uniforms, shoes, books and fees.

 

       After the usual drill of singing the national anthem, oath and a few housekeeping announcements, Sister Elizabeth took over the microphone.

“As all of you are aware, we’ve just finished the final term exams. I am happy that all of you have put in a lot of effort and there has been a significant improvement in grades since the Mid-terms across all Standards. The Parent Teacher Meet will be held next Tuesday. Make sure all of your parents attend the meeting to collect your report cards.”

       My heart sank.

Parent Teacher Meet Day was the worst. All my classmates’ parents would show up. You would see them smiling and hugging their children. Sometimes reprimanding them if their report were bad but that was obviously because they cared. All my friends had parents who loved them.

 It doesn’t matter that we did well in school, no parent is going to collect both Ann’s and my report card. Grandpa would, maybe. He sometimes does.

 

 

 

#

Grandpa ran a hawker stall by a main road, and I helped in the evenings after school. Of course, it would be me working at the stall, taking food orders washing the dishes and cleaning up. Ann stayed back at home, she was too little to help and besides, I was an efficient kitchen hand. In hindsight, prepping vegetables and other ingredients with Grandma after school as well as with our daily meals contributed to my present-day culinary skills. None of the kids my age at my school went to work but I did. My Grandma and I did part time dish washing at a nearby market café too. I learnt early on that nothing is free, everyone had to pull their weight. Especially if you are without parents, and you don’t want to burden the people who were willing to look after you.

 

       Though I would be buried elbows deep in work, my mind would wander off towards Ann. In the evenings during her showers, I knew she scratched her face and body because she felt so much emotional pain and rejection.

9.30 p.m. was bedtime every day, without fail. Getting into bed, Ann’s arms were all red again. I felt sad. I wanted to cry but no, I cannot cry now. Not now. I knew her silent sniffles will commence soon when everyone goes to bed and the house goes quiet.

“Akka, where is Mommy? Why did she leave us?”

“I don’t know Ann. I don’t know” hating myself for not knowing. Hushing, gently patting her quietly. Helpless. Slowly lulling her to sleep.

 

       When she’s finally exhausted from crying and is taken over by sleep. I would be left alone with my thoughts. Constantly going over the final week my mother spent with us almost three years ago. Were there obvious signs? What did I miss? Were we so enamored and in love with our mother that we never saw her plans to leave us? Did we anger her? Her last day, she left in the wee hours of the morning; she didn’t say goodbye. When we woke up, Papa said she was gone and that was it.

“Mommy is gone. She’s left us”. He said solemnly.

Yes. There must be something wrong with us. It must have been our fault.

She just does not want us anymore.

GrymmRipper :]

(p/s : Just a story I started but couldn't find myself to finish it. Wanted to post it anyways so it doesn't go to waste staying unread saved in a computer)