Tham Cheng-E - Surrogate Protocol

Thaddeus took off his glasses and surveyed John’s face dolefully. He was observing every twitch of his facial muscles, studying his emotions and prying his thoughts. Until at last, with a series of spasmodic blinks, he said, “I only wanted for us to speak openly.”

John was looking past Thaddeus; his stare pensive, distant.

With a tilt of head Thaddeus added, “You’ll risk dragging Ginn and Fanny into this.”

“It’s already better than what we’re going through.”

The seat creaked when Thaddeus reclined into it. “It’s my last opportunity to talk you out of this. I hope you would give it some thought.”

“You shouldn’t even have tried, Thaddeus.”

It felt like a vacation with the trolley luggage in the back. The last vacation they had was nine years ago and Ginn longed for another. She had been telling John about it, not in a badgering sort of way, but as someone dreaming aloud, recounting a lofty wish. As if the doctors would let Fanny on a plane.

John cruised along the highway with Ginn beside him. Fanny was reclining on the backseat with a hot fudge sundae. She was six, and anyone who’d met her would have thought she was three. Everything about her was small except her protuberant eyes and bulging forehead. The luggage that lay across the seat belonged to her, though it also contained five days’ worth of clothing and toiletries for mommy. They were headed to the hospital for an intensive three-day dosage of a new drug that the doctors hoped would metabolise the phenylalanine that was accumulating in her bloodstream.

“She’ll freeze her brain,” said Ginn.

John glanced at the rear-view mirror and found Fanny grinning at him through sundae-smeared lips. “Brain-freeze isn’t real, Ginn.” Ginn rode on silently for a while, then said, “We could stay with her, you know, until she checks in, then with the doctor’s blessing we could take Fanny to dinner at Prunes and Poppies downstairs.”

John drove on without answering.

“Then let’s do a round of Scrabble after dinner, winner gets the bed.” Ginn turned to him and smiled.

John did not look at her. “You take the bed.”

“That’s generous of you,” said Ginn. “You know how your back stiffens when you sleep upright on the chair.”

“I can’t stay, Ginn.”

Ginn worked to sustain her smile. “You’re leaving after dinner?”

“I’ve to go after dropping you and Fanny off.”

Ginn turned away and surrendered herself to her seat, unspeaking.

“Got duties till noon tomorrow,” John added, “when my partner takes over.”

“You don’t tell me anything,” Ginn muttered almost inaudibly.

“I’m telling you now.”

“You didn’t even tell me when you signed up for Fanny’s new course of treatment. You didn’t tell me where you got the money.”

“A new department and a raise. Just for a year or two. It helps with the bills.”

“Fanny misses you,” Ginn croaked. “She hardly sees you these days. You just can’t keep buying her affection with chocolate sundaes.” She shook her head as she contemplated whether or not to speak her heart, and her nose burned. “We never see you these days. You don’t live here. There are times when I wish I could just walk away…”

John did not reply. Ginn had expected reassuring words, or at least a grunt of understanding, of empathy, of fear of losing her, of losing his family. If only John would look at her with so much as sympathy.

But John did nothing.

Ginn wept silently by the window while Fanny, strapped in at the rear seat, looked quizzically at her parents with her bulbous, half-closed eyes. She ran her tongue around her lips, smearing sundae all over. A plastic spoon hung loosely between her thin, frail fingers.

August 19th, 1971 Wednesday

My name is Arthur. I’ve known Rachel before she knew me. I heard so much about her in my eight months at Robinsons. She does sales at the lingerie department and has been there for three years. She was notoriously difficult, I think, because of her wits and her good looks. It was rumoured that she was a vivacious little rebel from a good family. Suitors came and went, and she remained gloriously single.

Well-intentioned colleagues advised against courting her, lest she broke my heart, as she has done to others. I didn’t court her. We sort of just clicked when she developed a penchant for my coffee.

Today is a special day because Rachel agreed to be my girlfriend. And from her smile when she said “yes”, I could tell she wasn’t reluctant about it.

I’ve just returned from our first date: Pat Boone’s concert at Tropicana. Had dinner at Rasa Sayang and lazed at Le Bistro till way past midnight. Dropped her off at her home in Queenstown. Turned out she’s the only daughter of a typist and a shopkeeper. I am in afterglow. I didn’t have to plan much. It all went very smoothly. I figured she wasn’t looking for loaded men, but someone with whom she can connect in a natural way.

Perhaps this is chemistry.

My heart glows to the thought of seeing her again tomorrow.

How I long for dawn.

RACHEL WAS WAITING at the counter when Arthur arrived. She wore her dark hair short, and blue plastic loops dangled from her earlobes. She looked across her shoulder at him. “You said you would have coffee and toast waiting by the time I arrived.”

Arthur went behind the counter, grinning. “You’re not being fair. No one gets here this early. Did you wait long?” He began warming up the percolator.

“Ten minutes, plus minus.”

He rinsed his hands and dried them on a white dishcloth. “The usual?”

“Blueberry muffin.” Rachel pointed her chin at the chiller case lined with pastries. “Hope they’re not expired.”

Arthur gave her a dirty look and popped a muffin into the oven behind him. He poured a handful of coffee beans into a hopper and ground them in a burr-grinder, occasionally dipping his pinky into the lot to gauge its grind. The percolator shone like silverware, its surface capturing the surroundings in a medley of stretched, sinuous reflections. Steam whistled through the seams of its cover, where it was soon forced back into the percolator’s lower chamber and into the ground coffee.

The infusion flowed from a spout at the bottom. Arthur tilted the cup and let the liquid run rich and silky on the white ceramic. The perfume of roasted coffee went very well with the aroma of hot pastries. Rachel held the cup to her lips, took a slow, lingering sip, and closed her eyes.

“I wonder if we’ll do this every day after we’re married,” she said.

Arthur gave a short, indulgent laugh. “That’s a brave thought.”

“I’m sizing you up, to see if you fit the bill.”

“And then you’d propose?”

Rachel threw him a sneer. “Honestly, I think the hippy thing suits me. I’m not a sucker for marriages; I could wait forever.”

Arthur’s gaze fell to the ironic statement. “No, you can’t.”

“Then don’t make me.”

He laughed again because he could find nothing else to say. Then he lapsed into an uncomfortable silence which Rachel seemed to relish. When he looked up he met her haughty gaze and it forced another uneasy chuckle out of him.

“I won’t,” he said.

Rachel emptied her cup, placed a bill on the countertop and triumphantly pulled herself from the bar stool.

“Your muffin’s still in the oven,” said Arthur.

“It’s yours now.”

“Where are you going?”

“To sell underwear,” said Rachel, strutting out of the café like royalty. “See you at lunch.”