The Chauffeur: Penitence

My name is Mikhail. I am the chauffeur, and my employer happens to be his late wife Michelle.

I have spent all my life with cars. Assembling cars in the nearby factory -- fixing cars during the day, and racing during the night.

Perhaps that was how I got to know my current employer.

…

It had started out as a typical night with the boys. Plenty of drink, women, fast cars. But tonight, just two hours earlier, I had hit a car on the highway while going at 150kmph. I was arrested drunk and reportedly racing.

I never thought I would actually hit somebody. Eight years of this life, making the automobiles both my servant and master, and I believed I was good enough for anything on the road.

How wrong I was.

One of the passengers in the car was pregnant. It was said that her husband, shaken as he was, was rushing her to the hospital. Right now? Both of them were unconscious; the wife, critical.

The door swung open. A lady walked in. My breath caught in my chest.

Wasn’t she the lady I just hit?

I could still vividly remember the blood all over her face, how she gasped for every breath, how she gripped my shirt firmly as I pulled her out of the car. Yet, beneath that bloody face, I saw a small smile, a little sparkle in her eyes. For that split second, just looking at her gave me an overwhelming sense of calm, despite the furor and chaos around me.

And that, as I believe till today, gave rise to my remorse. If you were to ask me what remorse was like, I wouldn’t have known it till then. That’s what you get for growing up in a back alley with triads as parents and drug dealers as relatives.

For once, I actually felt sorry.

A spectacled man dressed in a nice suit stepped in behind her. She shook hands with the policemen and introduced the man as her lawyer.

I took my place beside the policemen, still handcuffed, and they sat opposite me at that table you see in the movies, the one that was specifically designed to make all criminals feel as bad as possible. Or at least that was how I felt.

“Mr. Mikhail Adamweich,” the lawyer cleared his throat. “You are to be made aware that for your actions, were you to be charged, you would be sentenced to lifetime imprisonment. Do you understand what I am saying here, Mikhail?”

Yes sir, I do. All that was in my mind then? The end. Lashes of the cane, darkness with a faint of light escaping from the tiny window of my cell. This is it Mikhail, I told myself. You asked for it this time.

“However, due to the forgiving nature of the client, as conveyed by her sister Ms Serena, my client is prepared to drop all charges conditionally.”

…

That morning I drove my employer and his butler to the church. I turned off the engine, and drew down his window to grant him a clear view of his son. He didn’t even know that his own son was getting baptized. My hands instinctively reached for my pocket, only to remember that I no longer carried cigarettes. Neither was I allowed to drink ever again. It was part of the deal. Instead, my hands headed for the glove compartment, where the sachets of nicotine gum were.

Popping one into my mouth, I looked up, only to see Serena staring down the aisle at me. Was she looking at me, or at my boss, the broken man in the back seat? My heart raced into beats of a galloping horse, and cold sweat trickled down my temple.

Why was she looking at me that way?

And then, I could not help but ask myself, why am I feeling this way?

…

The policemen unlocked my cuffs. After signing a few documents, I walked out of the police station. At the entrance of the door was a black sedan, and the lawyer I had just met stood beside the passenger door as he motioned for me to get into the car. Serena was already in the car, sobbing. I dared not even bring my head up.

“She’s dead.” It had happened while the proceedings in the police station were going on.

For the first time in my life, I cried like a baby.

…

“Let’s go.” Alice patted my shoulder, startling me. I got the car started and drove out of the church compound.

Driving along the highway to my employer’s next destination, on the very same highway where that fateful incident occurred, flashes of the conversation in the car resurfaced. I remember asking Serena, why would her sister drop the charges against me? Why would she let me go?

After all, I killed her, didn’t I?

Her reply, muffled and choked with tears, completely shattered me.

“Because you were forgiven.”

I cried even harder, almost yelling. That was unacceptable. How could I be forgiven for such an act? I had just killed her twin sister; I had ruined the child’s life; the husband, if he were to ever wake up, would be without his loved ones. How could I be forgiven for that? It made no sense whatsoever.

She shook her head gently, tears still welling up then flowing down from the corner of those brown eyes. “Mikhail, you don’t get it, do you?

“Because it is difficult, because it is unacceptable, it becomes all the more precious. Because people need a second chance; because you were never given that chance before and that made you what you are right now; because you are so messed up inside that you need someone, something to simply shake you up and turn you around.

“Because, second chances are paid at a price by someone, and given freely to someone else who does not deserve it.”

That is called, simply, grace.

“Just promise me you will never, ever tell anyone what happened,” she added before I stepped out of the car. “We have to protect your master.”

…

Every moment I’m with my boss, I don a pair of shades, because till this very day I still dare not look him in the eyes.

Even though he never recognized me.

He never knew what really happened. Fragments of the incident, vague lapsing memories of the accident. But never the full picture.

It was Serena’s idea. She had to double cross him by taking on the role of his deceased wife and faked a medical report, deceiving the butler to believe that Michelle died from a cancer. Right now, I am all that is left from him getting to the truth. Yet, that very truth was sealed together with Michelle’s death and with the contract.

Call it penitence, call it barter trade, whatever. The fact remains: I am paying the debt of my deeds. It has to work both ways: I have received a second chance I never deserved, and in return I am enslaved to protecting him with my life and this secret, even though name wise I may just be a chauffeur.

But more than that, the truth is, this price that I am paying pales in comparison to the mere thought of the grace that I have received. For had it not been for this second chance, I would be rotting in a cold, dark and damp cell somewhere out there, in the company of people akin to the ones I had grown up with; yet here I am, with a job, with a responsibility, with some sense of dignity, with a newfound freedom, serving a real master.

A dark past of hurt and anger, one fatal tragedy, an act of undeserved kindness, one lifetime indebted, two souls changed forever. Focus! Move on Mikhail, I shoved the wandering thoughts away together with the tears that blurred my vision, maneuvering the black tinted car down the expressway to my master’s next destination, him soundly asleep, his butler beside, watching him sleep with such longing in her eyes.

The End

My Home

As published in M208 Convocation Magazine

The hallway lights sneaked into her room and fell nicely on her silky head. She stirred as I watched, and those big brown eyes sparkled into life.

“You left this morning without saying bye-bye,” she grumbled groggily while rubbing her eyes.

I’m sorry Sweetheart, but you were still sleeping then… I replied softly, taking small steps to her bed. She shifted herself into a corner, making just ample space for me to squeeze onto that tiny pink bed. What time did you wake up this morning? I asked, as I bent down to pick up her matching blanket that had gotten kicked off earlier in the night.

9 o’ clock…

Eh... didn’t you have school this morning? “No… the teachers were helping the church with a big party..”

I got into her bed and tucked the blanket over her. Wrapping my arms around her tiny body, she snuggled up and nestled her head in the folds of my arms. “Where were you this morning, Daddy?” This morning Daddy went to the hospital really early, at 5am, when you were still fast, fast asleep. I patted her head. “How come?”

There was an old uncle who had a very bad heart attack. Daddy had to go and save him, if not he would have died. “Did you have to open him up?” Yup! We opened up his chest, fixed his heart, and then closed his chest. Remember the time we opened up Honey, your little bear-bear, to fix her tummy because she had stopped making funny noises?

A slight giggle, a gentle nod over my chest. A sign that she was slowly lulling back into her own world.

Something like that Sweetheart.

“So… did you save the uncle?”

Yup! Daddy managed to save him. The uncle’s wife was so sad before that. She was crying a lot, you know.

“How is aunty?” She’s fine, dear. And she’s very thankful that uncle’s alive.

I tucked my nose into the soft mess of brown hair and took in a deep breath. That smell has remained the same ever since the very day she was born. Like baby soap, wildflowers and honey all rolled into one. If innocence had a fragrance, this would be it.

“Daddy?” Those brown eyes gazed up into my face.

Yes, Sweetheart. I pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Why must you save the world?”

I gave her a gentle peck on her forehead. I had always told her that a doctor’s job is to ‘save the world’ - it was so much easier to get her to imagine a doctor as a superhero stopping the good guys from dying than to try and explain how a doctor manages sick and difficult patients.

Because if Daddy doesn’t save the world, then there will be many small boys and girls like you who will have no Daddy or Mummy at all, poor thing, right?

“But you are always not home,” she sulked.

I sat up in her bed and propped her into my lap. You know, many years before Daddy met Mummy, I began. I was young and very active. Daddy would always be working in the hospital, from morning till night, and sometimes Daddy wouldn’t even go home. Po-po (Grandmother in Chinese) would call and call and sometimes scold Daddy but Daddy still wouldn’t listen! The sweetheart giggled softly. “Daddy naughty!”

I laughed. Ya… Daddy was quite naughty. But after a while Daddy got sooooo tired and felt like giving up. Daddy complained to God that it’s not fair, that Daddy is so tired and doesn’t want to be a doctor anymore. Then I told God that I wanted a home, so that when I’m tired I can go back and get rest…

Eh, you slept already ah?

“No… Look!” She looked up at me with eyes pried open on purpose, and we both chuckled.

“Then what did God do?”

Well.. God gave me a home! I answered cheerfully. God gave me first your Mummy, after that God gave Daddy and Mummy the most beeeeeautiful princess in the world.

“But that is not a home…”

She looked into my eyes. Not even blinking or flinching, her big brown eyes full of anticipation, waiting for me to say more.

That’s the best part. God showed me that home is where the heart is. And God put you – I gently tapped my finger on her nose – inside my heart. I held her tiny hand and rested it on my heart. And you will always remain there. Forever.

She smiled, that lovely smile that makes me feel greater than any superhero-doctor I could possibly be, and sank down lazily into my arms again. Rocking her to sleep, the sweet voice asked again,

“Daddy, will you come home tomorrow?”

Princess, I reassured, you are the number one reason I come home every night.

And like many other nights, I put her to sleep with my arms around her and my heart melted all over her -- knowing that the next morning, my wife would probably find both me and my Sweetheart in her room, on that little bed under the tiny pink blanket.

Part 6: Beautiful

As published in the MP109 Convocation Magazine

My name is Miriam. My son, Mike, is six years old. He’s the light of my life. Intelligent, inquisitive, playful, cheeky. He loves jumping around, has a somewhat disturbing affinity for mud and grass, and if he ever had the chance to sit on a piano chair, I assure you he’d be laughing away at the music he makes – that is, if it is even music to begin with.

Every afternoon when my son comes home from kindergarten, he’ll give an exceptionally detailed report about his adventures in the past four hours. Sometimes it’ll be about how he ran across the kindergarten field without hitting anything or anyone, and there was once when he boasted about how he sang Jason Mraz’s ‘I’m Yours’ in class and his girlfriend gave him a flower for it.

“Where’s the flower?” He proudly held up his bag. I laughed as I discovered the crushed and mangled ‘flower’, a paper aeroplane wedged between his water bottle and a half-eaten sandwich. Boys will be boys.

One fine afternoon, I was working on my husband’s tax returns as Mike sat at the table going through the details of his day, as always. He related a difficult word the teacher taught in class today. “Um, it’s A-d-j…” he tried to spell the word.

“Adjective, you mean?” I offered.

“Ya ya ya!” He said excitedly. “Teacher said we can use it to talk about things, like big, small… His hands waved frantically as he showed me ‘big’ and ‘small’. “Then she taught us many other words… um, sweet, beautiful, sour…”

“Mikey, what is sour?” I quizzed him teasingly.

“Ummm… Sour is… like when you eat lemon!!!” he squealed, with eyes tightly shut and eyebrows curled into a frown. I chuckled and ruffled his soft hair, as I picked up my pen to continue.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, love.”

“What is ‘beautiful’?”

The pen dropped out of my hands and nearly rolled off the table. My heart sank. As I turned to look at Mike, it hit me hard, again, that no matter how he behaves, no matter how much we try to treat him as normally as any other kid, no matter what people have to say about his beautiful brown eyes, the truth still remains.

My son is blind.

So how do you teach a blind child to see?

“Well Mike…” I fumbled for the right words as I sat him down on the chair next to mine. “Something beautiful is something that makes you very very happy…” I gently touched his cheek, only to see a smile curve over his chubby face. “Something that you like so so so much that you want to keep it forever and never it give away!!”

He looked thoughtful. “Like ice-cream?”

“Yes honey, something like that. But even better than ice-cream.

Something that you love very much. Something that will always make you smile, something that will always make you happy…”

Oh, okay… came his reply.

I rearranged the papers in front of me aimlessly, noticing a slight tremor in my hands. My son still remained rooted on that chair, and my heart was in a mess. I felt awful, not being able to teach my son about what it means to be beautiful. And in moments like this, I wished I was a better mother, perhaps better equipped or trained to deal with my son’s disabilities. To have better answers, maybe?

“Mummy?” he called out, arms outstretched.

That’s his cue when he wants me close, or when he wants me to pick him up, or give him a hug. I leaned over to reach him. His small hands gently squeezed my cheeks.

“Mummy," the words seemed to take an eternity before he blurted it out sweetly. "You are beautiful.”

Any words I had just caught in my throat, and tears flowed from my eyes as I picked him up and hugged him tightly, never wanting to let him go.

That day, I discovered something I’ll never forget. That the eye grants you the ability to look, but believing in those things that never meet the eye? That is sight. And for all that it is worth, my blind six-year-old son, my precious Mike, has probably taught me more about seeing than anyone else ever will.

The Butler: Deception

My name is Alice. I am his butler, and my employer happens to be his late wife Michelle.

I could clearly remember the day her body was lowered into the ground. Her sister, Serena cradling her half month old boy, stood beside me, expressionless, dark glasses perched on her nose.

“There is one more thing that she would like you to know,” she said solemnly while walking away from the cemetery.

Already I had 2 special tasks. Firstly, he must not know that Michelle had died from a late stage cancer, apparently triggered by the trauma from the accident. The doctors never gave a proper explanation on that. But they are doctors anyway. Hence, the cover up was that she left him while he was still in a coma.

Secondly, I was to kiss him every night, at exactly midnight, only on the left cheek.

That would be because, apparently, he sleeps on his right side.

And of course, every other duty of a butler. I’ll have to clean and press his shirts, take out the garbage, manage his schedule and see to it that he doesn’t sleep too much. A few days back, while looking through his medical reports, the doctors noted that he sustained a ‘certain damage’ from the concussion which would ‘cause him to have an increased tendency of sleeping’.

Don’t fall in love with that man..

I stopped in my footsteps. Serena turned around and smiled.

“There is a reason why she couldn’t tell him that she has died.”

…

My first day of work started as soon as he woke up from his coma. I politely introduced myself as his butler and manager; that he is to take over a chain of companies as the Chief Financial Adviser and will resume duties as soon as he is discharged.

He groaned and mumbled. Like a man drugged and gagged, he struggled to get up. I don’t need a manager, he said. The first question that came out from his lips,

Where is Michelle?

Keeping to my part of the bargain, I lied. I told him that Michelle has already left him for another man, and had a child. He cannot meet her due to a restraining order.

And at that very moment, I knew why he had to live in a deception.

He immediately stopped struggling, slouched into his bed again, and as the reality sank in slowly, his gaze fell to the ground. His mind must have had a thousand questions racing through within those seconds upon the realization that she will not be there for him anymore.

“Sir,” I broke the silence after a couple of minutes. “You will need to bounce back up as soon as possible. There is work awaiting you.”

Just give me a few days, I will get over this. True to his words, he did.

…

“I’m not too sure whether Michelle told you this, but you will discover that he is a pretty decent man. Responsible, nice, gentle, polite. Virtually everything a lady would look for in a man.”

I nodded gently, respectfully. So what would be wrong in falling in love with him then?

Her smile turned into one of pain and sadness, one that I would see again on that morning when we were in the car outside the church.

Because he is made to love only one woman.

…

I end my day at midnight. I arrange his clean folded shirts in his cupboard as he lies motionless on the bed, blanket kicked off the floor, just as what Michelle had warned me months before. He doesn’t stir easily to the squeak when the cupboard door closes, or when I switch on the dim lights to put the clothes in order.

Sometimes, I will sit on the huge armrest facing his bed and every night, I see a man. A man worn out and drained dry from the coma; a man who had to continue his journey without his only love; a man who had to bear the consequences the accident he caused.

He was truly lost in deception. He never exactly got to the part of how Michelle left him, how he got into that accident. Worse still, he never knew that it was all a deception.

Yet there was one thing that never changed, one thing that he was sure of: he still loved her dearly. Judging from the times when he would stare and gaze at the portrait of Michelle hung in the middle of the hall. And how the name Michelle would make him sit up straight. Or like how that notice of Serena’s son’s baptism and baby-blessing ceremony in the papers got him all fired up.

So I tuck his blanket neatly and tightly under his arms, and gently peck his left cheek.

“Hi Michelle.” He mumbles in his sleep.

“Hi dear.” I whisper into his ears.

I walk out of his room, close the door and sigh to myself. Have I fallen in love with him? I shut that question from my mind. Perhaps I’m too afraid to admit that I have indeed loved a man who could never love me. Perhaps in my attempt to protect him from the guilt of him killing his wife in that accident, he showed me how to move on with life, how to continue to stay strong for his world that depended on him, heading the companies and making tough decisions. Perhaps that amazed me, charmed me, captivated me.

Perhaps, I too am living in the very deception I created, for I am not and will never be that only woman in his life.

The Employer: Slumber

“Good morning sir, rise and shine.”

I hate waking up. The voice that wakes me up is now cold and stern; the blinding lights painfully flood the room immediately from the curtains drawn forcefully and loudly. Subsequently Alice places my neatly pressed shirts on the edge of the bed while I slowly get up, rub my eyes, and listen to her chant the agenda for my day.

“You have breakfast at Grands with Opes, a lunch appointment with the CFO from Dell, and a concert by YTL to catch at night.”

I hate waking up. Since the accident, I’ve been waking up feeling that she has been in the room with me the night before, lying on her side of the bed, probably watching me sleep, gently stroking my cheeks just like good times before. Yet when my eyes open wide, the other side of the bed is empty. I thought I heard her whisper into my ears last night, her voice so sweet that it would’ve melted my heart a thousand times, yet when I stirred, all that I saw was the darkness of the night. No figure. No Michelle.

I loved the way she would wake me up back then. Her warm fingers stroking my cheeks, and when my eyes open, right beside me on the other pillow, nested cozily would be the most beautiful face in the world, with that pink lips stretched into a bow from ear to ear, dimples on the side. “Morning dear,” and my reply was on her forehead with a ‘Morning Michelle’.

Michelle’s not on the other side of the bed this morning. “Wait,” I interrupted Alice. “You’ve forgotten something else.” Alice sighed. “You’ve got a church appointment right after breakfast.”

Yup, I reminded her. We’ve got a baby dedication ceremony to catch. She left the room with a sigh and made a phone call. I know that sigh. She sighs when I’m stubborn and insist upon something which she totally disagrees upon.

She disagrees me remembering my past.

…

That morning I woke up thinking that I was either in heaven or in church. The walls and the bed linens were all whitewashed. It certainly took me a while before registering the beeping sound from the ECG monitor and the oxygen mask over my face.

“Good morning sir,” the girl whom I know call Alice was standing near the entrance of the door. “I am your butler and secretary, I will be your manager from this day onwards.”

No, I protested. I don’t need a manager, I need Michelle. Where is she?

Sir, she replied, she has already left you. She couldn’t wait for you to recover, so she remarried and she moved on with life.

Stunned, a million questions raced through my mind. How long have I slept? When was the accident? What happened? No, I asserted. Michelle would never do that. She has waited for me all those long nights and those business trips before, why couldn’t she wait?

“You’ve been in a coma for 3 years since that accident.”

“Where is Michelle?” I demanded. “Sir, she already has a family, and I cannot allow you to find her. She has already obtained a court order to have you divorced and will surely seek a court restrain if you harass her.”

That was when the ghost of the night started to haunt me.

…

“Sir, wake up sir. We’ve reached the church already.”

I woke up, the car engine was turned off, the radio still playing my favourite baroque pieces. Eyes half open, I pushed the button at the side of the door, and the black tint came rolling down, again flooding the car with a similar blinding light.

The church is a beautiful heritage building, every brick unique and different from the other, block by block, stacked and cemented over each other. A beautiful arch gracefully forms the front door, with a red carpet flowing along the aisle, and at the very far end of it is a couple, facing the priest, with a baby in the woman’s hands.

The lady turned to look at her child, though only revealing half of her face, it was unmistakable. Her curled up hair still draped over the right shoulder in a messy twirl, her eyes still sparkles with a warm gentle light, her smile still curves with that beautiful red arch with a lovely dimple at each side.

I’ve seen the husband before. This well built man with a small but strong smile. He seems familiar, but I could never recall when I’ve met him. Maybe one day I’ll remember, I mumbled beneath my breath. I may have forgotten much since the accident, but I will remember it one day.

The priest sprinkled some water over the baby’s head, and from afar Michelle slowly rocked the baby in her arms, making sure the baby doesn’t stir or cry while the priest went on with the rituals. I was sure that I was neither crying nor tearing up. It’s already 6 months since Alice broke the news to me. I know I’ve handled the rejection pretty well now.

But my heart, that feeling inside me… An unexplainable burden made my heart sank deep into a pit of sorrow. After all the good times we gave each other, how could she leave me for someone else? What happened to all those promises of being there for each other down the years, of being our one and only true love?

If I recall correctly, we were supposed to have a church wedding. It’s always her dream to have a church wedding, and though I only thought marriage was on paper, I was prepared to oblige. Then again, she left me before I obliged.

So what did he do to her while I was asleep?

She turned back and looked long and far, her gaze travelling down the aisle to meet mine. My heart skipped a beat, face turned into stone. She saw me. That was all that was left in my mind. The smile on her face left as quickly as she saw this face inside the car, her head shook gently to a ‘no’, and she turned back to her baby, hair swirling over her shoulder to interrupt our gaze.

“Sir, we really have to go for lunch.” She sounded cross. Alice pat the driver on his shoulder. The engine roared to life, the black tint closed up the dam of light, and the car rolled out of the church compound. So many questions remain unanswered ever since that accident, so much has changed in that 3 years when I was asleep. For every reason I have to hate falling asleep, I probably have even more reasons to hate waking up.

Yet, my eyelids still grow heavy when Alice’s voice fades into the background, and when the baroque pieces lullaby me to sleep. I still fall asleep, knowing that there could very well be a surprise that I never wanted, or a dream I never want to remember, waiting for me together with the blinding light that floods the room whenever I wake up.

PART 1 of a new trilogy, dedicated to Amanda Albert: Amazing editor, best friend, wonderful companion, and a different-n-unique bro.

Part 5: The Gifts in the Box

With Mike, things between us were both consistent and constant. We would head to the same coffee shop, sit at the same table, order the same drinks, laugh at the same silly jokes.

So that afternoon, his little inconsistencies surprised me.

First, he sent a text asking me to come take him out. Usually I was the one who would do the calling and take him for a drink. Then, he was exceptionally restless and frustrated. Fine, boring, ok, no thanks… Short answers for virtually all the questions I asked him since he hopped into the car.

Finally he asked me the difficult question – The Question –

“Uncle James, why am I blind?”

And that very moment, I knew that he had grown up. Little Mike was not so little anymore. No longer was his world of blindness merely about himself.

“Dear Mike,” I began to tell him a story. “When God made little boys and girls like you, He gave them each a box. And in this box, He placed many special gifts. Gifts like ears to listen to songs,” I hummed his favourite tune into his ear, and he swung with the rhythm. He was loosening up a little. “Other gifts like singing, dancing, running… and of course, seeing…”

“Then why didn’t I have that gift!” came the quick interruption I expected. His face drooped into a sulky curve. His eyes, blind as they were, swelled with sadness and a longing that only God could fill.

“Ah!” I sounded cheery. “When you were born, we looked into your box, high and low, searching for that gift called sight. First your daddy looked for it, cannot find! Then mummy looked for it, still can’t find! Then Uncle James had to come help your daddy and mummy look for it… but we still couldn’t find it!

“So we decided to ask God,” I cleared my throat, and squeaked like a kid. “Dear God, where oh where is little Mike’s gift of sight? Did it drop out when he was flying—whoooooosh—all the way down from heaven?” Mike giggled a little.

“For many months, we kept asking, God oh God, where is little Mike’s gift of sight? But no answer came… Until one day, a little bird from heaven flew down to your daddy’s window, and came into your daddy’s room. Now guess what the bird said!”

Mike was all ears. His eyes, though staring blankly into space and capturing no light, were alit with curiosity.

“The bird whispered into your daddy’s ear, saying, ‘God’s not so careless-la! He makes no mistakes! Look inside his box and you’ll find that there’s something more special there than the gift of sight.’

“So daddy and mummy and uncle ran and ran and ran,” I pretended to huff and puff, “took your box and looked inside it again, and guess what we saw!”

Mike shook his head again, his arms somehow now intertwined with mine. I myself got carried away telling the story; I didn’t realize when his hands had reached for mine.

“We saw, a big… beautiful… heart, with your name written on it. Mike’s heart. This heart is soooo big, and guess what’s written on it? Love. The heart is called love.”

Mike’s grip loosened and he slouched into his chair, as if lost in his own thoughts. “Mike, do you know that you have a beautiful heart made to love the people around you? Do you know that every time you sit on your dog and ride it like a cowboy, you make Daddy and Mummy smile…”

“Really?” he sounded confused, not knowing whether to believe me or not.

“Of course!” I had to convince him. “When they smile, the mouth open so big until mosquitoes fly inside and lay eggs!” Mike laughed, and I silently prayed for forgiveness for making fun of his parents.

“Ok Mike. Ask you a question: how many kids bully you in school?”

“Three!” He replied quickly. “Sam the Fatty, John, and Peter.”

“How do you know Sam is fat?”

“Because my friends told me he's soooo fat that he has to squeeze through the toilet door!” Now I laughed together with Mike. And I wondered where the humour genes came from.

“Now, another question: how many people love you?”

Mike’s head leaned to the left and right as he thought about it, his mouth mumbling some names here and there, his fingers held up one by one. “A lot, correct?” I offered. He gently nodded his head.

“In your box, Mike, is the gift of love. God made you special, not by making you blind, but by giving you that big beautiful heart, and because of that He made you soooooooo lovable… do you know how blessed you are to have so many people around you who love you so much?”

Mike thought long and deep. "Why did God choose me?" I placed my hand over his head and rubbed his soft hair.

"Because He knows you're stronger and braver than anyone else."

Later that evening, I sent him home. Before getting out of the car, he hugged me as usual. Opening the car door, and slowly lowering his feet to the ground, he turned around and yelled,

“Uncle James, next time please tell me what God put inside your box, okay?”

Before I could even say anything, he slammed the passenger door shut. His walking stick eventually hit the gate, and his mother opened the gate and took him by the hand. While Mike sat at the doorstep, bending down to untie his shoelace, Miriam stole a glance at me, and her lips mouthed the word, thank you.

I reversed the car, sped home, tears all welled up in my eyes.

It’s you, Mike. You’re the gift God placed inside my box.

Part 4: The Angel Recalls

May I have the pleasure of introducing Dr James? He’s a pediatric ophthalmologist, once – and will be – a close friend to Ken and Miriam, and eventually a great help to our little blind Mike.

That night many years ago, while tossing in bed unable to sleep, he received 2 calls. First, a text message from Miriam. “Ken’s going to call you, it’s about our son. Something’s wrong with him.”

He was ready and about to step into the car when he received the second call. The nurse from the delivery ward called, stating that Dr Kenneth requested his consultation regarding an infant that was not responding to light.

Being an angel and hence being able to read his mind, I’m thus able to confidently tell you that that very night he was a pot-pourri of emotions: worry, concern, confusion, and certainly, guilt. He was praying fervently, words all tied together in one huge mumbo jumbo as his car slowly rolled down Hospital Avenue. In essence, God, forgive me for my past and my sins.

His car halted right beside Ken’s parking slot, and the same thought flashed through his mind, just like every other morning when he got out of his car to work. If only things were like before.

“How were things before?” I’m sure you are wondering. Well, before Miriam came along, they were best of friends from secondary school all the way to med school. They were competitive and edged each other in different areas: Ken was the musician, James the athlete. They complimented each other accordingly, and in studies and work, they worked well together. They even specialized in ophthalmology. Together.

By now you’d have figured out that things changed when Miriam came into the picture. She always had a soft spot for people who could charm her with music. And of course, James had an ego that simply could not be defeated.

James reached the delivery ward. Ken got up from his leaning position, a posture indicating his thinking or worried state; a state which nurses and associates in Avenue feared. He leaned when he had no answer, no solution, or no hope. “Dr Ken, you paged me?”

The conversation was as cold as ice, and though the tears were welling up in Dr Ken’s eyes, while guilt and concern swarmed every corner of Dr James’ soul, they still refused to look each other in the eyes.

An infant boy is not responding to light. No pupil dilation, no reflex or reactions to movement and light.

Both men walked quickly and gently into the nursery, hurriedly but not wanting to wake any mothers or newborns. A few nurses nodded in acknowledgment as the men passed by. They found the newborn, and Ken passed him to James.

“Strong grip,” James commented lightly as he moved his index finger into the tiny palm of the boy. “What’s his name?”

Michael. “Hello Mister Mike,” James cooed. “Sorry for waking you up… How are you feeling hmm?”

The newborn gargled his saliva and curled up in his arms. From his pocket James drew out a tiny pen torch. Lifting up the baby’s eyelids, he quickly flashed the lights near his iris. “You’re right, no responses whatsoever.”

Is it normal? Ken asked softly, as if he was scared the baby might hear them speaking.

James frowned. I doubted it, usually even at such age they would already have developed motor and pupil responses to light stimulus. As of now, we couldn’t be sure whether it was a nerve or retinal defect.

Ken slouched onto a chair in front of the examination table. So what options do I have?

Wait, James said gently, still refusing to look at him, and perhaps pray.

James knew he had to leave, his emotions could not be properly contained for long, and such a time did not permit his emotions to leak. Not even the very slightest. James rested the baby back into his plastic tray, covered him with the ward blanket, and headed to the door. “Ken?” Ken’s head tilted up to see him holding the door ajar. “I’m with you in this.”

Ken smiled weakly. “You know, I am desperate and vulnerable at this point of time, but I believe that you will not hold a patient, my son, against me. That’s why I paged you.”

James didn’t reply to that, but instead walked out, on the way gently closing the door. A tear came to the edge of his eye as he pulled out his Blackberry. “Sorry Miriam, I tried my best.”

Then came Miriam’s reply. “James, why have you given me this son?”

I watched with sadness as I recall how forgetful man can be, but at the same time,was assured that eventually things did turn out, rather unexpectedly, better between the 3 grown-ups, all because of one blind child. Let’s just say, it’s my Master’s amazing way of using consequences of wrong motives in preparing a beautiful future for all of them.