I See Dead People

As anyone will tell you – and by anyone, I mean, of course, my mother – the world is full of unexplained phenomena.

            “Like Donald Trump,” she said the other day on FaceTime. “Isn’t it just amazing how he keeps emerging from one scandal after the other completely unscathed? How is that possible?”

            “I’ve given up reading the news,” I said. “It’s all bad news and invariably, I’m so stressed and demoralized, I can’t sleep!”

            “Funny you should mention that, because lately, I have had the worst insomnia and Master Lee thinks it might be caused by Third Aunt’s box.”

            I paused. On the screen, Mother could see I was hesitating. She sighed. “Third Aunt Sook Chen? My mother’s third sister? The one with the really really bad breath?”

            “Oh, her! What about her? And what box?”
            “Well, she died last month!”
            “Oh dear…”

            Mother shrugged, the very image of ‘whatever’. “She was ninety-nine! She always hated me because I married your daddy and she’d wanted her daughter, my cousin Chin Lee to marry him. But I got to him first! Anyway, they’re literally all dead now!”

“Who are?”

“Third Aunt’s children! Including Chin Lee. They’re all dead! They gave up waiting for her to die so that they could inherit!”

“Wait, cousin Chin Lee is dead?”

“Seven years ago! Don’t you remember?” Mother sighed. “It was so tragic. She was playing mah-jong for 24 hours straight one Chinese New Year. At 7am, one of the tiles fell to the floor, so she bent over to pick it up, and all the blood rushed to her head and she had a major aneurism. She was dead before anyone could say ‘pong’!”

I was astonished. “Oh my God! How did I not know that?”

“Because you never call!”

I ignored the blatant Trumpism. “So who inherited?”

            “Her five grand-children in London and San Francisco! Can you believe none of them went to her funeral?”

            “What’s this about her box?” I am nothing if not a pit-bull when it comes to details.

            “Oh, so she left me a little cedarwood box. It’s the prettiest thing. I think it’s quite valuable, but ever since I picked it up from the lawyers, I’ve not slept properly at all! Master Lee is pretty sure the box is causing it. He keeps telling me to get rid of it, but how can I just get rid of a family heirloom like that?”

            Of course, when I later repeated the story, the first thing Saffy asked was, “Who’s Master Lee? This story is so confusing!”

            “He’s our family feng shui master!”

            “You have a family feng shui master?” Saffy asked. “How do I not know this?”

            “Mother says he says the box might be carrying spirits or ghosts that have now set up home in the house!”

            Amanda shuddered delicately. “That is probably the scariest thing I’ve heard all year!”

            “You sure it’s not the position of her bed?” Saffy asked. “Didn’t your mother just redecorate her bedroom?”

            I stared at her in surprise. “How did you…”

            “She posted the pix on Facebook. We’re Facebook friends.”

            Leave it to Sharyn to put her own spin on the matter. “Aiyah, how come your mother so superstitious and believe in feng shui, one? I don’t believe in feng shui. But confirm she cannot sleep because of your mudder Third Aunt ghost!”

            Saffy blinked. “Wait, how do you believe in ghosts but not feng shui?”

            Sharyn charged on. “She angry with Jason mudder, mah, for stealing her son-in-law. So she come back, lor!”

            “Uhm, I don’t think so, Shazz,” I said. “She was ninety-seven and had dementia. The nurses said she died peacefully in her sleep.”

            “How they know?” Sharyn demanded.

            “How they do they know what?” I asked.

            “How the nurse know she die peacefully in her sleep? If she got dementia, she can’t say anything, right? And if she die in her sleep, maybe a ghost come and take her?”

            “A ghost?” Saffy asked. “There’s another ghost?”
            Sharyn waved her hand. “Haiz! You know, hah, the world got a lot of ghost one! Got one time during Ghost month, one ghost come at night and sit on my chest! Wah, jialat, boy! I so scared, I scream and scream, but got no sound come out.”

            “You sure it wasn’t your husband sitting on you, Shazz?” Amanda asked.

            “Choy! You think, what? ‘Fi-tee Shade of Gray’, issit? So old, still got husband sit on me, meh? Is ghost, lah!”

            Saffy says she can’t decide which image is more disturbing.

           

             

Half Baked

It always amuses me to think that, once upon a time, someone actually stood at the bottom of Mount Everest, looked up and said, “You know what, I think I should climb to the top of that.”

            My sister says it’s very unlikely that this person was ever one of our ancestors. “Can you imagine Mother climbing?” she asked me once when we were about 12 and stuck at home, utterly bored, during the school holidays.

            “She climbed up to the second floor at Tiffany’s yesterday,” I observed.

            “Well, that’s different,” Michelle said with a cynicism she’s never outgrown. “The diamonds are on the second floor. If there were diamonds on Mount Everest, that Edmund Hilary would never have stood a chance. Why would anyone bother otherwise?”

            This all came back to me a few days ago when Saffy announced at breakfast that she would make biscotti to bring to Carol's dinner party.

            Amanda paused applying her mascara and looked up from her compact mirror. “Saf, you don’t cook,” she said eventually.

            Saffy’s bosom immediately puffed up. “I do so! Just the other day, I made Maggi mee!”

            “You boiled the soup dry and almost set the kitchen on fire!”

            “Seriously, are you still going on about that? It was just a little bit of smoke! And besides, I was distracted by Dr Pimple Popper’s ‘Top 10 Lipomas’!”

            Amanda rolled her eyes and went back to painting her eyelashes, clearly done with the conversation.

            “I just think it would make such a nice present to bring to parties,” Saffy went on. “People are so lazy, they’re always bringing a bottle of wine to a party. I mean, what if you don’t drink?”

            Amanda looked up again. “Am I friends with anyone who doesn’t drink?”

            “Well, I don’t dri…” Saffy began. “Wait, what?”

            Amanda dropped her eyes.

            Later that afternoon, I stood in the kitchen leaning against the sink and watched Saffy struggle with the dough. “Can you believe she said that to my face?” she fumed, completely oblivious to the sprays of ground almond and white dustings of icing sugar all over the kitchen counter and floor.

            “Seriously, why are you doing this?” I asked in as supportive a tone as I could muster. “You could buy a whole box for less than ten bucks at Culina.”

            Saffy blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Store bought rubbish! I’m all about being artisanal this year.”
            “Which is what the Culina biscotti are,” I pointed out. “They’re made by real Italians in Italy.”

            “Yes, but imagine how impressed everyone will be when I show up tonight at Carol’s party with a nice little bag of home-made biscotti!” Saffy said, as she struggled to shape the wet dough on the baking tray. “I’m going to wrap it up with a pretty red ribbon like on Martha Stewart’s Instagram!”
            “You know Martha Stewart doesn’t actually make any of those things herself, right? That’s because she’s very rich. She probably doesn’t even know she has an Instagram account. What’s the matter?” I asked, sensing a level of distress on Saffy’s face.

            “Why is it so mushy?” she said, a definite whine underlining her words. “The recipe says it should be a wet dough that I roll into a log! This isn’t a log!” She leaned over her iPad again and read the recipe, her lips moving silently.

            “And add the crushed hazelnuts…Wait! What crushed hazelnuts? There are crushed hazelnuts? What? Where does it say…oh…my…God….”

            I straightened up. “You forgot the hazelnuts?”

            “I forgot the hazelnuts!” Saffy moaned, her entire body now trembling in simpatico with her vibrating bosom. “Oh God…the whole thing is ruined!”

            That evening at Carol’s, as Saffy grumpily set down her bottle of store-bought wine on the kitchen table, Carol said cheerily, “Oh, thanks for the wine, Saf! Here, try these biscotti that Sharyn made! They’re so good!”

            Sharyn turned pink. “Aiyah, pai-seh! It’s nothing, lah! I long time never make, but then, hor, I think nicer bring home made biscuit.”

            “It’s delicious! And I loved the red ribbon! I could seriously eat a whole plate of these! You must give me the recipe!”

            Sharyn flapped her hand, shaken by all the attention and growing steadily uneasy by the intensity of Saffy’s gaze. “Yah, yah, ok. I give you. Actually, hor, is uh…is Saffy recipe I…I use…Ay, Saffy, why you look like that, har? Ay…”

Party Favours

It always amuses me to think that, once upon a time, someone actually stood at the bottom of Mount Everest, looked up and said, “You know what, I think I should climb to the top of that.”

            My sister says it’s very unlikely that this person was ever one of our ancestors. “Can you imagine Mother climbing?” she asked me once when we were about 12 and stuck at home, utterly bored, during the school holidays.

            “She climbed up to the second floor at Tiffany’s yesterday,” I observed.

            “Well, that’s different,” Michelle said with a cynicism she’s never outgrown. “The diamonds are on the second floor. If there were diamonds on Mount Everest, that Edmund Hilary would never have stood a chance. Why would anyone bother otherwise?”

            This all came back to me last year at Christmas when Saffy announced at breakfast that she would, in the spirit of Christmas, make biscotti.

            Amanda paused applying her mascara and looked up from her compact mirror. “Saf, you don’t cook,” she said eventually.

            Saffy’s bosom immediately puffed up. “I do so! Just the other day, I made Maggi mee!”

            “You boiled the soup dry and almost set the kitchen on fire!”

            “Seriously, are you still going on about that? It was just a little bit of smoke! And besides, I was distracted by Dr Pimple Popper’s ‘Top 10 Lipomas’!”

            Amanda rolled her eyes and went back to painting her eyelashes, clearly done with the conversation.

            “I just think it would make such a nice present to bring to parties,” Saffy went on. “People are so lazy, they’re always bringing a bottle of wine to a party. I mean, what if you don’t drink?”

            Amanda looked up again. “Am I friends with anyone who doesn’t drink?”

            “Well, I don’t dri…” Saffy began. “Wait, what?”

            Amanda dropped her eyes.

            Later that afternoon, I stood in the kitchen leaning against the sink and watched Saffy struggle with the dough. “Can you believe she said that to my face?” she fumed, completely oblivious to the sprays of ground almond and white dustings of icing sugar all over the kitchen counter and floor.

            “Seriously, why are you doing this?” I asked in as supportive a tone as I could muster. “You could buy a whole box for less than ten bucks at Culina.”

            Saffy blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Store bought rubbish! I’m all about being artisanal this Christmas.”
            “Which is what the Culina biscotti are,” I pointed out. “They’re made by real Italians in Italy.”

            “Yes, but imagine how impressed everyone will be when I show up tonight at Carol’s Christmas party with a nice little bag of home-made biscotti!” Saffy said, as she struggled to shape the wet dough on the baking tray. “I’m going to wrap it up with a pretty red ribbon like on Martha Stewart’s Instagram!”
            “You know Martha Stewart doesn’t actually make any of those things herself, right? That’s because she’s very rich. She probably doesn’t even know she has an Instagram account. What’s the matter?” I asked, sensing a level of distress on Saffy’s face.

            “Why is it so mushy?” she said, a definite whine underlining her words. “The recipe says it should be a wet dough that I roll into a log! This isn’t a log!” She leaned over her iPad again and read the recipe, her lips moving silently.

            “And add the crushed hazelnuts…Wait! What crushed hazelnuts? There are crushed hazelnuts? What? Where does it say…oh…my…God….”

            I straightened up. “You forgot the hazelnuts?”

            “I forgot the hazelnuts!” Saffy moaned, her entire body now trembling in simpatico with her vibrating bosom. “Oh God…the whole thing is ruined!”

            That evening at Carol’s, as Saffy grumpily set down her bottle of store-bought wine on the kitchen table, Carol said cheerily, “Oh, thanks for the wine, Saf! Here, try these biscotti that Sharyn made! They’re so good!”

            Sharyn turned pink. “Aiyah, pai-seh! It’s nothing, lah! I long time never make, but then, hor, I think nicer bring home made biscuit.”

            “It’s delicious! And I loved the red ribbon! I could seriously eat a whole plate of these! You must give me the recipe!”

            Sharyn flapped her hand, shaken by all the attention and growing steadily uneasy by the intensity of Saffy’s gaze. “Yah, yah, ok. I give you. Actually, hor, is uh…is Saffy recipe I…I use…Ay, Saffy, why you look like that, har? Ay…”

Forget Me Not

I once read an article on Alzheimer’s Disease that one of the diagnostic tests was remembering what you had for breakfast, lunch and dinner yesterday. Which, as you can imagine, sparked all kinds of panic in the little flat I share with Saffy and Amanda.

            “O. M. G!” said Saffy with her usual restraint. “I can’t remember anything past my economy bee-hoon for breakfast! But then I always have that, so it’s not as if that’s too difficult, but lunch and dinner…” She wrinkled her brow and stared hard at the ceiling. “Nope. Not a thing! I’ve lost my mind!”

            Meanwhile, Amanda had cocked her head and frowned into the distance. Finally, she too gave up. “I know we had that steak last night…”

            “Oh, the steak!” Saffy moaned. “That’s it!”

            “But I can’t remember what I had for breakfast and lunch!”

            The other test, I said, was to count backwards from a hundred, but in sevens.

            Silence descended on the room as three very expensively educated brains thought hard.

            “A hundred…” Saffy began. “Umm….minus seven…minus five…so that’s ninety-five…minus two…” Her fingers worked. “Minus two…ninety-five, ninety-four, ninety-three! Ok. A hundred, ninety-three…Minus seven…So that’s ninety…uhmm….”

            “These are the stupidest tests ever! Who can count backwards from a hundred in sevens?” Amanda said, tossing her luxuriant hair.

            Turns out, Sharyn can. She rattled off the numbers, all while texting her son to remind him he had Chinese tuition at four that afternoon.

            “Aiyoh, liddat oh-so cannot, ah?” she said when she got to two, and asked if negative numbers were allowed in this test.

            “You’re a freak,” Saffy told her.

            “Ay, I accountant, OK? If cannot minus in my head, then how?”

            A few days later, we tried the test with our friend Christina. She rolled her eyes. “In what universe would anyone ever ask someone to count backwards in sevens? And why sevens? Why not threes?”

            “Well, I guess fives are too easy,” Amanda began.

            “I’m the last one you should be asking. I’m convinced I already have Alzheimers. So, I’ve been reading this book about how to overcome my shyness in public? So, the other day at a party, I walked up to a complete stranger, stuck my hand out and said, ‘Hi, it’s very nice to meet you! I’m Chris!’ And you know what she said? She said, ‘Chris, don’t be stupid, I’m your cousin!’”

            Saffy sucked in her breath. “And you didn’t recognize her?”
            Christina shrugged. “Alzheimers. Confirmed.”

            Then there was the time we all went to the wedding of our friend May. It was one of those fancy society weddings where you had several parties over a couple of days. At the rehearsal dinner, I sat next to this lovely girl, whose name I have, of course, completely forgotten, so let’s call her Jane. Jane and I chatted the whole evening, bonding, especially, over Star Wars. It was one of those casual encounters that leaves a warm fuzzy feeling inside you and makes you think that you might just have met someone special and wonderful.

            So, the next day, at the wedding ceremony, we were all dressed up in our best suits and frocks, and the guests were mingling in the garden admiring the flower petals strewn all over the grass.

            Still glowing from the lovely evening I had, I smiled at the girl next to me and said, “Hi, I’m Jason. Are you friends with the bride or groom?”

            She stared at me. “Yes, I know. I’m Jane. We sat next to each other at dinner last night!”

            I blinked and stared. My mind raced. “Oh, yes!” I laughed in what I hoped was a casual manner. “Of course. I didn’t recognize you in the daylight!”

            “Oh. My. God!” Saffy said, coming up next to me as we both watched Jane’s back disappearing into the crowd. “Did you seriously just say that? ‘I didn’t recognize you in the daylight’? Really? You made her sound like she was a hooker!”

            “I panicked!” I moaned. “I really didn’t recognize her!”

            “How could you not? You spent the whole evening with her!”
            Of course, that was all we could talk about for days. Then, my doctor friend Ben said I probably had prosopagnosia. “It’s when your brain misfires and you can’t recognize people that you should know. Like your own mother. There are tests.”

            “I wish I didn’t recognize my own mother,” my sister said when I told her. “But really, there’s such a thing?”

            “Apparently, there’s a test!”

            “You all very free, hor?” Sharyn told me.