Planted

Chapter 6 The power of holding hands

After three days, Tommy's large Peranakan family began to descend on him, first in a trickle then in a flood of anxious visitors. As he regained consciousness and not his memory or speech, he began to wave them away, flailing about in restless uncoordinated movement. Strangely, he would only calm down when I held his hand. Out of necessity, I went back to work but rushed to see him after work every day. All week, I was so busy, I hadn't touched a novel or gone on social media—a first for me.

Often after work, I would get there and one of his sisters would be waiting by the taxi stand and as I got out, she would say, "Sandy? Here, come quick. He's awake and waiting for you. Here your coffee—thick, iced with evaporated milk and one sugar. Now, go, go hurry, hurry he's waiting." With great haste, I grabbed the plastic cup and dashed into the room only to see him thrashing about in bed, groaning. Gingerly, I reached out and clasped his hand in mine and he gazed into my eyes with a huge beaming grin on his face. Only then, would I settle into my comfy chair beside him, sipping my drink with one hand and soothing his anxiety with the other. Sitting there in silence as he slept, I was happy; I hadn't been happy in a long while.

By the end of the second week, he began vomiting, convulsing and holding onto my hand in a tighter grip. He was becoming stronger but was still so disoriented that he barely recognized his warm, chatty, loving extended family that seem swell in numbers and subside so often that I had trouble making out who they were precisely. They would gather outside Tommy's room discussing his latest medical report and when I came out they would pause and a voice would pipe up saying,

"Here's Sandy. She'll know what's best",

or "Come tell us what you think of this procedure?"

or "Do you think Tommy would like this?"

I felt as if I had known them all my life in a vague and indefinable way. I would help restate options, re-phrase opinions, redraw lines of contention, negotiate compromises until Tommy bellowed, sounding like a mating call of a huge walrus, so I was told. His family would collectively insist I return to my key role beside his bed holding his hand.

Of all the members of Tommy's family, Jan was special. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and her make-up free face would light up with pleasure as she described her next conservation project or the funny antics of her grandchildren. Each grandchild had special time with grandma when she would patiently explain why the Syrian conflicts/cornflakes couldn't be eaten and the jams/gems found in the sea were not berry-flavoured. Unlike my own anxious, clingy, cold and efficient mother, Jan made me smile. My heart warmed whenever she shooed me home late at night and replaced my hands with hers.

Her almost evangelistic zeal about the use of bicarbonate of soda and vinegar to remove stains was so endearing. Often she would sniff unhappily at the disinfectant used in the hospital.

"They should really go organic," she muttered unhappily to herself as she watched the cleaners mop.

Over cups of herbal teas in Room 27, we went from discussing the quality of health care, Tommy's progress and other safe topics to discussing my problematic life. It was so good to get a female perspective that I found myself telling her things that even Logan didn't know.

Many times, Jan would cup her calloused hands over mine hand and say, "The good Lord, will show you the way in time, my dear."

Then one Monday morning, unexpectedly, Tommy stopped slurring, became more focused, sat up and roared my name. I was dozing off in my armchair, enjoying the stillness and peace, when my hand had slipped out of his.

"I'm right here, Tommy. Calm down. Ssh, here hold my hand. See I haven't moved," I said still drowsy from sleep, as we laced fingers.

"Sandy, don't go; I wanna hold your hand, forever," Tommy whispered. My eyes widened as I realized he had just spoken his first clearly comprehensible sentence.