I remember being in a stuffy classroom with plastic blue tables too high and wooden chairs too low for a 10 year old kid like me. I rested my chin on the table, letting the warm gentle breeze coax me into a yawn. In the background, the teacher was going on about the invasion of the Japanese army on bicycles in Malaysia. I looked at my pink watch; the time read 11:00am. I couldn’t wait until school was done so I could be with my grandpa again. I loved how he let me lie down beside him on his hospital bed, sneaking me a dollar so I could get myself the rainbow colored ice-cream I loved, then telling me the wonders of his childhood. As a city kid, I have never had the luxury of experiencing the village lifestyle – all that running around, playing in the mud and chasing after chickens. Everything he told me was a new experience.
He used to kid with me, “One day I will be up there chatting alongside with God”.
I would ask, “How would I know you are up there with God?”
“I will send you a signal and you will know.” He replied with a huge smile on his face and a playful twinkle in his eye.
“Lynnette!” I could hear the teacher calling my name from the front of the room; she could pass for the wicked witch of the west if she wanted to. The slight wisp in her voice, her hair pulled up tightly into a bun and the wooden ruler she carries around to wake unsuspecting victims. When I looked up, she was now looking at me with a gentle look on her face. I saw my mum standing right beside her. I was instructed to pack up my bags and leave with her. With a smile of relief on my face, I started packing my bags. My mum must have a surprise installed for me. The last time she pulled me out of class early, we went to the movies and watched Ice Age. I skipped along behind her, avoiding the red streak of “lava” tiles on the floor. There were a few clouds in the sky with the sun rays peering through trying to get to the surface of the earth.
During the car ride, my mum was quiet but I was shooting words like a sub machine gun.
“Where are we going?” I asked, hardly able to contain my excitement.
“Your grandpa is not doing too well.” She answered with a slight quiver in her voice.
I finally noticed how upset my mum was. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair unkempt and her hands gripping ever so tightly on the steering wheel that her knuckles had turned white. For the rest of the car ride, we sat in silence; only the constant humming sound of the car engine could be heard. As we pulled up into the road leading to the hospital, I could see the sky darkening. The sun was now hidden behind thick clouds. Trees were bowing down to the majestic force of the wind and a discarded plastic food wrapper getting tossed around the parking lot like a rag doll by a playful puppy. A storm was brewing.
As I got into the building, I grabbed my mum’s hand. I felt really tiny with the off-white walls surrounding me, threatening to enclose me anytime. My white canvas school shoes squeaked against the pepper colored linoleum floor. The smell of antiseptic embraced me like an old friend, tugging me further and further into the building. Clopping sounds echo down the empty hallway as nurses in their tight blue dresses scurry up and down with equipment in their hands. I heard sounds of moaning, chatter, laughter and bitterness. It was cold in the building. I always thought that the reason why they made it so cold was so that they could prolong the life of the patients in the building, just like how the refrigerator prolongs the expiration of food.
With a timid knock, I poked my head into my grandpa’s room. He was laying on bed with his eyes closed, machines emitting gentle buzzing sounds on both sides of him. There were tubes just about everywhere on his fragile body. I could hear the steady beeping of the heart monitor telling us that he was still alive. I slowly walked towards his bedside and cautiously held his hand. My grandma was sitting on the other side. Every track on her face told a different story at a certain point in her life: the day her first born son broke his leg, the day the family van got stolen, the day my mum decided to move to the city, the day I was born. Today, they were tear-stained. Her brows furrowed, lips quivering, looking so ever lovingly at her other half lying on the bed.
The pitter patter of the rain against the window pane broke my train of thought. I looked at the man lying on the bed. I remembered a time when he was full of laughter. He always smelled like the wet market where he worked and he would come home smelling like raw chicken, holding a pack of fruit flavored Mentos in his hand. I would run up to him and holding my breath, I would give him a huge hug and hurry him towards the shower. After his showers, he would get on his rusty old bike and I would get on my little pink one with training wheels and cycle to the convenient store nearby. I would pedal as fast as my little legs could take me and he would slow down just so I could be ahead of him. At that time, winning meant getting an extra scoop of rainbow colored ice cream. We would sit outside the convenient store where he would have beer with his friends and I would eat my ice cream while playing with little kittens.
I heard a long beep and suddenly there was a rush in the room. Everyone was throwing themselves onto my grandpa as I stood there wide eyed, frozen in spot. The weight of his hand in mine told me he was gone. I thought I saw a glimpse of smile on his lips. He was no longer in pain and fighting; he was at peace now. I looked outside the window, the rain had stopped. A double rainbow had appeared in the sky.
