Feeling Eleven
By Remé-Antonia Grefalda

One of the cued responses my brother Hector and I both learned was never to time our visit during meals.  Our sister Fe cued us with her I-really-mean-it look and we responded.

We lived on the top floor at 6 Hillwood Road in Kowloon, Hongkong.  The earliest musical sound I've preserved of my early childhood is the morning call from our window to the garbage collector below.  "LAHHP SAHP CHAI!"  It had a lilt to it and the sound punctuated my mornings.  The man who responded to the call was six feet tall in my eyes, but he still answered to that strange moniker which literally meant Garbage Boy (as in "little" boy).

One particular morning, Lap Sap Chai ran up to our floor to help clear the flat where the new tenants were moving into.  Missus Suzy, the landlady, had decided to rent out the larger room in her wing and keep the two small rooms for herself.  New tenants meant the end to my casual visits to her place.  Her daughter Jeanie was our playmate.  Because we were their tenants in another flat on the same floor, Jeanie had to knock and say "May I ?" whenever she came to visit.  Not me—I went in and out of their place.  One of the cued responses my brother Hector and I both learned was never to time our visit during meals.  Our sister Fe cued us with her I-really-mean-it look and we responded.

I asked Lap Sap Chai what the new tenants looked like.  He grunted "Out of my way!" while trying to push a huge mattress through the door opening.  As he turned his head, his sweat fell in a sprinkle over me, and the scent of the street and his body flew into my nostrils.  It was pungent but not offensive.  Smell was an early educating instrument back then.  His scent implied to me matter-of-factly that he was part of my universe, and yet we were worlds apart.  He lived on the street level flat and I lived on the top floor.

It was easy to read grown-ups.  You asked a question, ignored their answer and focused on their evasions.  If no answer was forthcoming, you hit pay dirt.  Something out of the ordinary was in the air.  My conclusion didn't spring from hard information gathered, but from surreptitious adding and deducting.  The unusual deployment of Lap Sap Chai for circumstances normally given to strangers who collected a fee also gave me reason to be curious.

I concluded the new tenants "could not afford—" What they couldn't afford, I didn't know.  I just sensed that they lacked what grown-ups considered necessary.  They were probably related to Missus Suzy and Jeanie.  When I confronted Jeanie with this she was faintly amazed but wouldn't let on.  She confirmed my assessment with her denial.

I could never pinpoint what the sadness or the "Too Bad!" was all about from the catches of conversation I heard.  But I concluded a sense of someone to be pitied.  All this from conversations that switched from English to Cantonese to Tagalog.  I picked up on two, but not on all three.  When Tita Lolita, the melancholic one, was around, her punctuation of "Que Lastima!" in between a flurry of sentences broke any form of concentration I could muster.

Two weeks after the new tenants had settled in, Jeanie broke her arm and the situation opened the new tenants' area which was previously off-limits to me. 

Jeanie came back from the hospital with her arm jutting out in a cast.  The whole neighborhood was perched on windowsills as they watched her being carried up the stairs.  And before she disappeared into the hallway entrance, everyone laughed approvingly.  Jeanie lapped it all up.  Nothing she wanted was denied her.  One of those whims had to do with the board games we played.  I was to bring over the games and stay with Jeanie for the afternoon.  And I was not to pick any fights.  I was given the I-really-mean-it look.

Now, to go to Jeanie's wing, I had to enter through the new tenants' doorway, and cross over their living room area.  What used to be a curtained and darkened room was now lit up by the sunlight streaming from the balcony's french windows.  The curtains disappeared; so did the carpet covering the entire floor area.  The room was bare and the shiny waxed floor seemed to underscore the bareness of the room. 

All pent-up fears and invented horrors filled my mind and took over my body. I felt a tremor.  The sudden quivering tightness below my stomach nudged me from my paralysis.

In the center stood two white hospital screens.  Hidden safely behind the screen I could hear the rhythmic sound of hissing.  I listened to a scanning of the radio and then the click of a knob suddenly turning the sound off.  An old woman's face appeared.  She approached me with her finger to her lips and a smile.  In a tiny whisper, she stated a question, "You are visiting Jeanie?"  I nodded without a word as she led me to another door, never once changing her smile.  I tried to look back before the door closed behind me, but all I saw was her skirt receding.

I had left Jeanie sooner than she had wanted me to go.  I made up some pretext about needing to be home on time because we were expecting guests for dinner.  Not wanting to upset her, I left all the games I had carried in with me.

I was watching the light from the window.  I had to leave while daylight was still on.  I didn't want to cross their area in the dark.  I knocked politely, then turned the knob. The screened-off center of the room was lit up and the hissing rhythm seemed even louder than when I first heard it. 

As I tiptoed past the first screen, I turned my head in the direction of the hissing, and gasped, startled by what loomed before my eyes.  Instead of running, I was glued to the floor.  All pent-up fears and invented horrors filled my mind and took over my body. I felt a tremor.  The sudden quivering tightness below my stomach nudged me from my paralysis. 

I heard the old lady before I saw her.  "All through?  So soon?"  She said in a sing-song manner.  She pulled aside the other screen and revealed more of what had frozen my mind.  It was a long grey cylinder like a coffin on wheels.  A submarine of sorts, somber in its greyness, hissing noisily.  One end was attached to hoses and wires that traveled to the wall.  As she moved the grey container, the other end showed a head sticking out, but supported by a pillow.  My eyes darted to the door.

"Don't go.  Say Hello to Rina.  You will be seeing her each time you visit Jeanie."  The old lady swung the cylinder slowly.  I saw only dark hair on the pillow, and was afraid to see more.  The old lady held my shoulders and said, "Step back so she can see you."  She pulled me back.  My eyes caught the light from a three-paneled mirror in front of the cylinder just above the head.  Then I saw her face, and I heard a voice from the direction of the cylinder.

"Hi— what's your name?" 

I had trouble connecting the voice to the image in the mirror.  My eyes traveled to the listless head on the pillow and back to the reflection.  I felt the old lady nudge me from behind.  So I mumbled.

"Rrr'meh-nnntonia-rrrflda."  I needed to go to the bathroom.

"Do they call you Tony?" 

Of course not.  But my indignation remained muted.  I shook my head silently, transfixed by the sound of her voice.  I stared at her moving lips and the earnest look in her eyes.  All these reflected in the mirror.

"Please—"  I blurted.  I looked up at the old lady and whispered hoarsely, "Please, I need to make wee-wee."

I was standing on a puddle.

I would enter quietly, slink along the wall and wait there.  Away from the mirror's view.  Minutes would pass.  Then I'd hear her say, "'That you, Tony?"  Only then would I come forward and enter her view.

When I went to sleep that night, I kept hearing her laugh.  The old lady had been running around the room holding up towels trying to stop the rivulets from following the incline of the floor.  (I never heard the end of this fiasco because Ah Chiang, our amah, kept reminding me that her reputation was in tatters; what I did was proof that I lacked a proper upbringing.)  But my shame at that moment was short-lived.  I matched Rina's laughter to the hilt. 

Years later, when I thought I had forgotten her, I could still be touched by the sound of laughter like hers.

* * *

I learned to gauge the right time or the wrong time to visit.  I would sense the mood in the room, when to stay, when to remain invisible, and when to disappear completely.  I would enter quietly, slink along the wall and wait there.  Away from the mirror's view.  Minutes would pass.  Then I'd hear her say, "'That you, Tony?"  Only then would I come forward and enter her view.

Later I devised a way to make my presence known, especially during the times when I would visit but she would be fast asleep.  Long after I had left the room, she would know I had been there.  I had a light blue toy elephant made of wood, and I told Fe what I had planned to do with it.  She had a better idea.  She painted on its broad side in red nail polish:

"I'M HERE"

in reverse so it would reflect correctly in the mirror.  It read:

I left it either on the floor or on a stool against the wall where I knew she'd see it.  Her reaction when she awoke was one of sheer delight. 

Sometimes she would pepper me with questions about the neighborhood, to which I gave perfunctory answers.  But when she asked about people, I would go into detail, pouring out my hoarded observations. 

Next to Fe and after Hector, I loved Ah Chiang best.  Ah Chiang sang the lousiest lullabies, but because I loved her, I would force myself to fall asleep.  Also it would stop her singing. 

Ah Chiang had tricks to fool anyone into doing what one was supposed to do.  And you would be oblivious to it all!  Because I tried to skip meals when Mom was not around, Ah Chiang took to feeding me while I was playing in the streets.  She would do it half an hour before meal time.  If the game was hopscotch, she would follow me, bowl and chopsticks in hand.  And every time I rested on a square, she'd say "Open!"  And reflexively I would open my mouth and she would shovel in the food with her chopsticks.  In twenty minutes, I would complete my lunch and sometimes win the game.  When it was time for lunch, she didn't care if I appeared at table or not.

I pointed out to Rina that we had someone famous in the person of Madame Lolita Mercado.  She used to sing in the opera.  All the kids stayed away from her, including me.  She had this grab-and-hug habit with children, which was infuriating because her perfume was smothering.  It filled up your lungs, so when you inhaled and exhaled, you breathed Lolita through your nose.  Her melancholy and constant sighing made me believe opera must produce some really lonely people in the world.  Maybe it had to do with all the sad songs they were told to sing.

I also warned her not to be upset if she heard a lot of shouting and yelling.  It was Missus Suzy's natural way.  Sometimes Jeanie would be right behind her, and she would be yelling for Jeanie.  She was a very smart dresser but she wore her hair bright orange so the smartness would be totally eclipsed.  She would show off her high-heeled shoes which usually matched her outfit.  But by the time evening came, one could tell her shoes were giving her trouble going up the stairs.  The noise she made would alert us to her arrival, in time for us to make our getaway. 

One time she came home, took off her high-heeled shoes, walked the ten flight of stairs up and caught us all unaware in her living room.  We got into trouble but Jeanie got the brunt of it. 

I felt less of a child with Rina and more her equal.  Talking with her allowed for direct eye contact, something which was difficult for me to sustain with most grown-ups.  I developed an ease in conversations.  But, only with her.  She opened up dimensions in me I barely knew I was capable of.  I heard myself being witty, charming and equipped with an endless supply of things to say so I could make her laugh.  I wanted more than anything to always make her laugh.  She had a wonderful habit of recall for things that I had said.  And the way she remembered them affirmed in me my sense of self.

Her only companion most of the day was the radio.  One day, on my way home from school, I caught the beginning strains of her favorite tune from a second floor window.  I ran the blocks to reach our building and bolted up the stairs.  When I stepped into the room, I met her eyes in the mirror and held them just as the song was ending.

 . . . millions of people go by.
but they all disappear from view,
'Cause I only have eyes for you.

Then she smiled and looked away. 

Then I'd catch her eye and all throughout her verbal responses to others, she held a separate silent dialogue in the mirror with me.

The mirror became a room within a room, a capsuled universe for our connecting.  She had a habit of looking up suddenly and finding me somewhere in the mirror.  Everyone else talked "down" to her, as upright visitor to prone patient.  Everyone conducted a normal face-to-face conversation with her.  If only I was taller—if only.  But I made the most of a "short" situation by talking to her reflection.

When a visitor came, I would linger in the room, carefully keeping within the boundary of the mirror on one side.  The conversation would be animated.  I would study her facial expressions.  Then I'd catch her eye and all throughout her verbal responses to others, she held a separate silent dialogue in the mirror with me.

***

She had this thing about "eleven".  Said being eleven was special, like a crossover feeling to a new level, into a new space.  Like waking up to an understanding denied one at nine or at ten.  And though insights gained at eleven would be forgotten, often in later years, they would return and haunt.

"Are you eleven, Rina?"  I asked.

"No.  I haven't been eleven in a long time.  But there are days, when I feel eleven."  She replied dreamily.

"I'm nearly eleven."  Not wanting to be my true age.

She smiled.  "Tony, you have the heart of a sage."

"S-A-G-E?"  Not quite understanding.  "Is that okay?"

"Tops!"  She reassured me.

At times I was dumber than two.  Street smart, I never was—so I'd be at the mercy of other kids who had picked up the latest slang and street lingo.  All of which went past my head altogether.  I confronted her one afternoon. 

"Rina, what's C-R-N, no, U-S-H?"

"You know that one, Tony."  She answered.

"But it doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"Richard, Jeanie and the others are passing notes saying that I have a crush on a turtle."  I complained.

"Mmmmm . . .  and does it bother you?"

"Wouldn't it you?  I don't even have a turtle.  So they must be saying something naughty, and I don't—  Explain it to me, please."

"Okay.  Who's your all time favorite person in the whole world?"

Who was my favorite . . .

"Who do you want to be when you grow up?"  She continued.

Without hesitation, I said, "Lap Sap Chai!"

She was incredulous.  Her eyes grew large and she stifled a smile.  "Why?  Why him??"

"Because nothing bothers him.  He's tall and he's browner than leather.  He can go for days without a bath.  And it doesn't bother him."  I had never told a soul how I was secretly in awe of Lap Sap Chai.  Whenever dragons and monsters invaded my world, Lap Sap Chai always came to the rescue.  "They all yell at him.  But he only smiles and plays deaf.  Nothing bothers him!"  I repeated and refused to have my mind changed.

"Okay, okay.  How about . . ."

I cut her short.  "Rina, you're my favorite person!"

I had this sudden thought of knowing exactly why angels had wings:  they had them so they could zip-zip away and fly, to escape being tantalized by this sudden surge of happiness.

"I am?  Well, there you are, Tony— that's all they were saying."

But my insight was jolted by the realization that she, not I, was the butt of the joke.  I was mortified.  The teasing was being aimed not at me but at her.

"You're not a turtle, Rina.  I promise you I'll beat up every one of them."  I swung at an imaginary foe and kicked and grunted. 

"Hey, come back here.  It's all right.  Sometimes it's okay to be misunderstood.  There are things you never have to explain.  Not to anyone.  If it feels right with you."  I was not convinced.  "I know what—let's be like Lap Sap Chai.  We won't let it bother us, will we?"  She touched the right nerve.  I became an instant pacifist.

I left her in high spirits.  In later years, having a crush would entail all the extra baggage my teen years would bring on.  At this particular time, my emotion was clear, unadulterated and all-giving.  As I was about to leave, I announced with aplomb,  "I have a crush on you, Rina!"

"And I, you, Tony."

Sundays.  I never spent Sundays with her.  The family routine was a whirlwind tour beginning with Mass in the morning, lunch gatherings and then afternoon outings.  I would bring Sunday to her the night before and more of it the day after.  I would cart in my favorite dresses, run in and out clutching colored ribbons and matching socks.  And she would decide whether my particular Sunday would be in pink, white eyelet, blue, yellow or whatever.  I would let her know where our outings might be and she would tell me what to look out for.  She said what she missed most were the rides on the Star Ferry. So, on Sundays, at my insistence, a ferry ride always capped the afternoon before we headed for home.

*  *  *  *

"Yes—but what do you look like?"

She laughed.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean really look like.  Not—not you there."  As I pointed to the mirror, I strained to get a better view.  I could only see her hair and her forehead.  I wanted to see her face, not the mirrored reflection of her.

"Tony, I am what you see in the mirror."

I was silent, slightly confused.  I knew that what I saw reflected was real.  But . . .  where did the laughter come from?  Not from the face in the mirror.  When she was humming, where did the melody come from?  Where was SHE?

I had this crazy impulse of wanting her to come out of the mirror and down from the cylinder.  I wanted to know if she had hands.  I needed to see her cheeks up close, smell her breath and have her look me in the eye and convince me.  Her next words pierced my confusion.

"Turn your back, go on—"  I did.  "Now close your eyes."  I did.  "Listen.  But do it through your closed eyes.  Can you do it?"  There was a long pause.  I struggled to see past the dark while feeling restrained by the walls of my eyelids.  Then she began. 

"I know it's hard to understand, but I'm real.  I am.  I wish . . ."  Another pause.  "A day may come when you won't remember.  And you'll wonder if I was ever here.  No, don't move.  Just listen.  Whenever I don't see you in the mirror, I still know you are here.  I feel you, even if I can't touch you.  We're like—like twins.  Even if we never see each other, we know how the other one feels.  No matter how things turn out, we carry each other inside.  The entire universe can't change that."

I didn't know what to say or how to respond.  Something was being asked of me.  I didn't know what.  I struggled against her gentleness, while standing very still.  I felt a flutter and a buoyancy.  An ache lingered in my chest and expanded in waves of sweetness.  I turned around to face her mirrored eyes.  They held mine in a smile.

"Too much for you, my sage?"

I had this sudden thought of knowing exactly why angels had wings:  they had them so they could zip-zip away and fly, to escape being tantalized by this sudden surge of happiness.

*  *  *  *

I came home from school one day and Fe met me at the landing.  She was holding Hector back from wanting to be the first to tell me something.  She had this look in her eyes.  And she was about to say something but I got ahead of her.

"I didn't do it.  Honest."  But she simply took my hand.

"Mom wants to talk with you."  She was too calm.  And then I knew.  I knew I had to muster a calmness to match hers.

"It's not Rina, is it, Fe?"

*  *  *  *

She stayed in the hospital for more than a month.  I was never allowed to see her.  I would go with them.  Each time I was left behind to wander the hospital grounds until visiting time was over.  They never addressed me.  But I knew they were talking, with me in mind.

Her aunt came one evening.  She held a package out to me.  Everyone in the room watched as I opened the package.  I knew it was her way of saying goodbye.  She had returned my toy elephant.  And I stared at the words.  Those were my words.  But now they were hers.  For me.

That was four years ago. 

A month after my eleventh birthday, I crossed the threshold—and left my childhood and my innocence behind.  She had forewarned me that this would happen.  I cried in panic as I felt the warm blood flow out of me. 

I just knew it was my whole body remembering.  And crying red tears for her.

© Remé-Antonia Grefalda

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