Baby

Someday, Billy will be as macho as Pa. Billy will guzzle Tiger Beer and puff on Butterfly tobacco and queue for lottery tickets outside Singapore Pools. When rough hair eventually sprouts a ring around his nipples, his belly button, he’ll keep rough hair around his nipples and belly button. Also, should he break his finger by some freak toilet accident, he’ll not whine for the hospital but ride the jam-packed bus home instead. He’d eat a Big Mac with one hand, watch Doppelgängers on Channel 8 from 9 to 10 p.m. — just like Pa did when he crocked his finger at the fishball factory — before driving himself to that old Chinese sinseh to have his finger straightened. He’ll insist old sinseh prescribe Panadol painkillers so that later, he can file a lawsuit against old sinseh for supplying Western medicine, insisting on a compensation, which he’ll spend on a holiday in Bali.
Bali again, because Bali was the only holiday Billy could call to mind. Billy remembered crying on his hotel pillow the morning they were leaving. He remembered the sour pineapple juice for breakfast, the small tip Pa gave the waitress, and the frantic search for Billy’s passport and immigration card in their hotel room. He’d gone go-karting alongside Pa; he remembered having on Pa’s aviators and feeling big. But then, Pa never went anywhere without his aviators. So was it Pa’s Adidas sun visor hat that he wore? 
Wait — wait. Did Pa own a hat like that? Billy must’ve caught plenty of sunshine in his eyes. How was it possible, then, that he’d won the go-kart race? Something miraculous happened? Or did Pa let him win on purpose? Did Pa actually lose? And did Billy really get a temporary tattoo of Winnie the Pooh on his arm while suntanning on the beach? When that paragliding Caucasian slipped from his harness and fell into the sea and broke his neck and back, and died instantly, did all that happen while he and Pa and real Ma were there, or was it Pa who’d read him the story from Straits Times after they were back? Not sure.
Everything was a little fuzzy.
It worried Billy that Bali might not have happened at all. It worried him that he had no memory of doing things with real Ma in Bali, now that she lived with her own family in Jurong and hadn’t visited since leaving. He’d heard that she’d recently given birth to a boy in an expensive hospital known as Mount Elizabeth Hospital, instead of KK hospital where Billy was born. Look at that nose, Pa had said. Billy saw how pained Pa had been when photos of the newborn popped up on real Ma’s Facebook profile. Following some quick math on his fingers, Pa deleted and blocked real Ma. Then he got crazy drunk in broad daylight, rode bus 71 with Billy to that two-story bungalow with red-lanterns hung outside the porch, which pageanted the many hideous ladies inside, and Pa clearly high, was so enthused by them that he went all the way, while Billy sat on a broken bench facing the dark alley, watching the foot traffic.  

Thankfully, Billy no longer had to sit-tight-on-porch because new Ma arrived to take Pa’s pain away. New Ma was about the same age as real Ma but had a heavier face, shinier hair, longer eyelashes, and redder, plumper lips. Truth was, new Ma wasn’t that great. She was from a part of China where the cold could kill, where the smog exhausted you. She was indestructible, in other words. She’d come packed with all sorts of bad habits, spoke no English and wasn’t keen to learn. Also, she refused to shampoo her hair any more than once per week. Which was insane, considering how stuffy Singapore was. New Ma also idled a lot in the house, didn’t scrub, didn’t cook, couldn’t care less if the laundry got caught in the rain, or if Billy got a stomach ache from ingesting chucked-away nonsense uncovered in the living room. 
Shittiest thing was that new Ma had itchy hands. She was always trying to change Pa, make him pick up new habits, her habits; bad spending habits. Day and night, she made demands. How many times already had Billy spied on poor Pa moving his head like she has a spell on him?
Few nights ago, Billy found his body hauled off the bed. The lights came up, and Pa was belching. Pa cocked his head sideways and stared and stared at Billy blinking back at him. Something needed urgent fixing, it seemed. Pa was zoned out. His breath smelled like the taste of a copper coin in mouth. Somebody died? Zombies on the loose? Or was it more money problems? Because recent necessities shopping at the supermarket had hardly been a roaring success, with new Ma and Pa arguing in a bizarre fashion — whispering but gesticulating wildly — and Pa upping his high blood pressure pills to two after that.
Billy was rubbing his eyes when he saw that Pa’s patience was done. The first blow would have landed if not for new Ma showing up, her hair wet, her face bright and merciful, and for a moment, there was glowing silence in the room. She smiled. 
Chili, she boomed. 
Pa zipped to the kitchen and back. New Ma seized Billy’s hair, shook his head down, and shoved raw chilli at his face. Praying suddenly seemed like a superb idea; Billy, shocked by how soft new Ma’s hands were, her warm skin spreading dull heat across his cheeks and chin, wanted to repeat many times the same prayer, but what to say? Billy was scared. He responded by striking, clawing. His nostrils were flaring. Then, he accidentally kicked at new Ma’s smooth pregnant belly.
Billy dropped on his back.
New Ma backpedalled. Her moist, red tongue curled in her mouth as she drew in air. Consolation was that she seemed fine, because later, she sat with good posture and enjoyed a small glass of red wine. But Pa was wide-eyed. He pushed out his chest and announced that he’d take over. He yelled at Billy, vowed to havoc him to ruins. Billy, eyes closed, swallowed hard and braced for impact. He felt his neck grabbed, his bones ache under the weight of thick, senseless fingers, and his face colliding with the bed frame. On the floor, he pawed clumsily at his face to check if his left eye was still there. He blinked.
And blinked.
Billy wormed over to a corner and took untamed kicks in the groin until Pa ran out of stamina and had to step outside for a quick puff.

Tapping his feet riotously now, Billy lifted his pen and strangled its tip, and without giving it much thought, churned out dozens of skulls on his jotter book, which ruined his homework — elementary vocab, a frightening fourteen pages — guaranteeing, come Monday, that Mr. Dennis would take devilish delight in calling him birdbrained in front of the class, which, for some reason, turned Billy into a purple-pink flower and piled pressure on his bladder, which naturally raised sympathy in the room. If unlucky, there’d be a surprise synonym/antonym test. Rushing to the top floor corner toilet for his post-test dump, sitting on the bowl and reflecting the veracity of his word choices, but no matter how surreptitiously Billy wiped or flushed, the bullies always sniffed him out like dogs, rained on him icy cold tissue cakes over the divider. Which Billy might or might not end up eating. 
Billy now sat very still. He had half a sugar-donut for breakfast and a cup of lukewarm water for lunch, and wow, was he hungry now. His fingers were twitching. He hadn’t quite outwitted the numbered-buttons on the microwave oven or the knobs on the stove — something that new Ma thought should remain as such because Billy’s fat, she said. So, for not the first time hunger bogged him down. Not the first time, either, Billy desperately gathered papers around the house to dip in long-expired Japanese mayonnaise and teriyaki sauce to munch on.
Over in the sky was a fat moon. Inside the house was warm because the windows were locked. Billy worked hard to not pay attention to the silence. He folded new Ma’s I-weekly into crêpes; he rolled up Pa’s lottery tickets into salad shrimps. He wondered how they were doing now. He gobbled up the papers, was licking his fingers, when Pa pushed new Ma in on a wheelchair. So startled was Billy by the gigantic shadows thrown on the wall that he punched himself in the face. It was supposed to hurt. He was required to; he’d learned recently that the punching humoured them. But too late to try again. Maybe there’s still time, he thought, to tumble from his chair while kicking himself in the shin? Billy could say he was rushing over to Pa with the lighter. 
But Pa, upon entering, had lit up the fat hand-rolled attached to his lips. Pa had disappeared and reappeared in the kitchen; he was sniffing at the kitchen air and poking around the fridge for drinks.
Pa’s puffed and shiny, Billy noticed.
What’s he whispering to new Ma for, Billy wondered, who, herself, looked rapt but also looked like she could use a boost from a lazy bath?
The baby.
New Ma’s carrying it around now like it’s some Feng Shui ornament. Girl or boy?
The blanket’s piglet-pink.
Billy made a face; he didn’t like this one bit. Put it in a pot to boil! he nearly cried. Dettol the floors and walls! He was the only one deserving to be here in this house, not sharing it with this formula-dump, this mosquito-magnet, this future scream-machine! How about simply, quietly, wrapping a plastic bag around her head? Tonight? When everybody’s asleep? Then, toss the corpse on their bed and shout, Surprise! while snapping the fluorescent strips alive. Billy looked at the clock, clenched his fists. Picturing the cracking and splitting of durian shells. Picturing the twisting of wet face towels over the toilet sink. Billy yawned. Did the baby just move? Why was it that one felt suddenly weak in the knees when one stared at it? Also, did Pa just scrunch his nose? Was that his so-called cute face? Pa’s no marshmallow! Pa certainly isn’t sugary sweet. Pa had dishonoured his bitter break-up with all manner of lovey-dovey pronouncements because of the baby!
If Pa would just look over.
If Pa would just look away from the baby for just one moment.
Billy loved Pa so much. And Pa must love Billy, too. Otherwise, why would lucky lottery numbers be none other than Billy’s birthdate? Billy thought about his precious Legos stored in Pa’s old lunch box Tupperware, thought about Pa coming home in his packer’s uniform. The first thing Pa always did was remove his shirt, sometimes ripping out the buttons, and every once in a while, coming home with a nauseating gash on his hand. Billy thought about real Ma blushing at the sight of Pa’s wound and real Ma bandaging the wound while Pa made tough faces at Billy, promising to cook his signature soggy-egg fried rice once the wound healed up. However, at times, when real Ma was too tired to bother and sighed for change — no, improvement — Pa became sullen, thirsty for drinks, and would lock himself in the toilet until everybody was asleep.
Billy winced, nearly losing his mind.
And there was same old Pa — Pa, by force of habit, tried to find Teletext on the remote. Pa was laughing to himself. New Ma asked him what he was laughing about, and Pa cried that he missed the good old days when Teletext would flash on screen the winning numbers — why must a good thing become obsolete? New Ma, unimpressed, waved a hand and said that it was time to move on.
Pa slumped on the sofa, whipped out his mobile phone. “Billy!” Pa screamed. “Bring me my Toto tickets. Gimme the calculator!”
A blue vein now bulging on Pa’s forehead.
“How much?” new Ma said.
Billy hurried over with the calculator. But Pa was already talking to his supervisor on the phone. There was heartfelt cursing. Then Pa turned around and smiled at everybody. New Ma smiled back. The baby stirred in her arms.
Pa then typed, pell-mell, one long WhatsApp text broadcasting to a dozen friends invitation to a party. He read it aloud; he promised free-flowing roast ducks and premium roasted peanuts and the finest, foulest-smelling D24 durians money can buy. Party to be at the multi-purpose hall, that big one down the road where commonly Malay weddings were held. New Ma gave a thumbs-up. A baby shower. She said the TV looked too tiny. 
Pa stuck his chest out and said to leave it all to him. 
How about a fifty-inch curved-screen Samsung TV? new Ma said, what about a Phillips extra-large air-fryer? Five-day-four-night on Dream Cruise? A car? A brand new sofa?
Pa stared down at his hands. “I always wanted cufflinks,” he said.
“You haven’t got me diamond ring,” new Ma said.
Pa looked at her fingers, grinned.
New Ma carried the baby over to the window and pointed at things outside, saying to it, in Mandarin, See, the moon, that’s a cat — meow, meow. My princess. But the baby didn’t look. The baby was tired. 
Billy just stood there. He could hear Pa calling out to him: Billy! Anything you want? Anything you want?
Billy looked as though he’d cry; he was hungry again. But there was no way to stop the hunger. Would it be okay if he asked for a glass of warm milk now? Which shopping mall were they planning to visit tomorrow? Perhaps one that has a Kiddy Palace. Three of them, plus the baby, would walk in lightly, carefree, yes, Billy would scan and sweep up baby wipes and baby shoes and baby clothes, throw them all in a basket, carry it around, so that when Pa noticed how useful Billy can still be, Pa would decide to shower him with toys. How very exciting! He breathed in and out through his mouth several times, burped as he stared at the sauce smudges on the dining table, and froze up when new Ma turned her face at him and, for reasons only she knew, shot him a smirk.

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Marcus Ong Kah Ho is a writer and teacher. His fiction has appeared in WeAreAWebsite and the anthology, Momaya Press Annual Review. He lives in Singapore. Twitter @marcusongkh.