Seven

Don’t get involved!

Cora sent this message to Angel and Donita in their group chat last night, but they continued sharing snippets of information about the Flordeliza Martinez case. Angel posted screenshots of comments she found about the original news article, while Donita contemplated calling in an anonymous tip to the police. Cora wanted to march over to both their homes and knock some sense into them. The last thing any maid could afford to do in a time like this was get into trouble—despite what she said to Angel, Cora vividly remembers how it felt to have all the employers looking sideways at the help after Marisol Concepcion’s arrest, as though one false move would make the maids pounce. To stem her anxious memories, Cora has been working overtime, polishing every bit of silverware in the back cupboards and refiling the loose sheets jutting out from Ma’am Elizabeth’s neglected recipe folder.

The sun is a boiling yolk over the island, and even the outstretched tree branches are unable to keep the concrete driveway from baking. Ma’am Elizabeth is flipping through the recipe folder now, with her feet curled up under her on the veranda, a small bowl of cubed honeydew melon at her side. Occasionally, she shifts on her lounge chair. In the carport, Cora keeps her in the corner of her vision. Cora, there’s no need to be outside in this heat, Ma’am Elizabeth would say if she spotted her washing the car, then she would implore Cora to come inside and have an iced drink. Yesterday, she asked Cora if she wanted to have a television in her room. “Is that something you might like, to keep yourself entertained? You’re welcome to watch TV in the living room, of course.” Cora shook her head so vigorously that her neck felt sore afterward. What next? Ma’am Elizabeth giving her the keys to her BMW and encouraging her to take a joyride? There are lines that cannot be crossed, and if Ma’am Elizabeth tells her to sit and have tea with her or tries to lend her a silk scarf to match her Sunday clothes one more time, Cora might have to say something.

One offering that Cora does accept, though, is the Samsung speaker that Ma’am Elizabeth bought her after noticing that she liked listening to music while washing the dishes. Cora objected at first, but when Ma’am Elizabeth demonstrated how much clearer and deeper the sound was with the speaker rather than her phone, Cora accepted it graciously. It is sitting on the front porch now, thrumming through a playlist of songs that remind her of home. She can’t help singing along with Lolita Carbon’s husky tones. The sound of Freddy Aguilar’s voice stirs memories of seeing hundreds of thousands of protesters singing “Bayan Ko” in Manila during the People Power Revolution in 1986.

She dunks the washrag into a bucket of soapy water and wipes off the flecks of dirt that splattered the car’s windows during last night’s storm. Heat shimmers off the hood of the car, and Cora fights to keep her sluggishness at bay. Last night, the rapid-fire raindrops hammering the roof made Cora sit up in her bed and clutch the sheets to her chest in terror. She turned on her music to soothe herself back to sleep but she was too alert, and the force of the storm unnerved her. That was when she scrolled through the news articles and studied Flordeliza Martinez’s picture—a heart-shaped face with arched eyebrows and lips painted red. She looked like Donita.

Cora indulged in reading a few comments under the news articles. Most people had no doubt that Flordeliza had killed her boss. Filipinos can’t be trusted. Thieves and liars, now murderers, said one commenter. Another one wrote: Send her back to get executed in her own country. No need to waste taxpayer dollars here, we are always supporting these foreigners with our hard-earned money, and they turn around and stab us in the back!

There were lots of replies to that one, people expressing their general dissatisfaction with the government and getting off the topic of Flordeliza Martinez altogether. There were comments about the Philippines too.

 

Their own government is so corrupt, what to expect? Good thing Duterte has come into power. I see he is setting things straight in the Philippines. You have to pull out these bad weeds or they’ll infect the whole society.

 

Setting things straight. She couldn’t blame people here for thinking it was so straightforward. She too had been impressed with Rodrigo Duterte when he ran for president in 2016. With his promises to bring down crime rates in the whole country, he could be forgiven for speaking crudely sometimes. She paid little attention to the reports of his death squads or to the tsismis around her neighbourhood about vigilantes gunning down suspected drug dealers.

She continued scrolling past the derogatory comments until she found an interesting one.

 

Unilass007: Obviously the husband did it and this is just a cover-up. Peter Hong is known among students as Peter the Cheater!

 

Cora clicked on the user’s profile, but little information came up. She searched for Carolyn Hong’s husband, and immediately the page was filled with photographs of Dr. Peter Hong, the dean of a local university. The pictures of him sitting at his stately desk reminded Cora of Mr. Lee, but this man stared directly at the camera. His lips were set in the same stern expression in every picture, and he didn’t look like the kind of boss that Cora would want. What kind of husband was he? she wondered.

Further down the thread, there was another comment from Unilass007.

 

Peter Hong presided over a case that involved a tutor named Merissa Fang and my friend Priyanka. The tutor plagiarized Priyanka’s essay for an article on her wellness blog but denied it completely. Peter Hong didn’t bother investigating and threatened Priyanka with suspension for going public with the matter on social media. Why was he protecting some part-time tutor?

 

There were a few replies to this one.

 

If a university official can cover up something that is so blatant, imagine what else he was hiding.

 

That’s Peter the Cheater! We also call him Petty Peter.

 

Does anyone know where Merissa Fang was that day? How do we know she didn’t kill Carolyn Hong? Must have slept with the dean for the job in the first place; next “promotion” is wife status.

 

She was on holiday in Bintan. Look at her Instagram. She was doing “daily blinks for positivity.” She’s dumb but she has an alibi.

 

Angel and Donita also discovered the story about Peter Hong. Within minutes of sending links about Peter Hong over the group chat, they were convinced he was the murderer and that some huge cover-up was at play. Their excitement was apparent in their rapid, overlapping messages; they all but forgot Cora’s existence in the group chat. Cora returned to the profile of Peter Hong and read about him. Graduate degrees from top universities in England, government scholarships all the way. A Young Achiever award that kick-started his academic career. A long time ago, these achievements were rungs on a ladder to success that she had used to plan her nephew’s future. Now she saw them as a fence that protects powerful people from facing consequences. Her hand travelled to the soft flesh of her earlobe—a lingering habit, even though she never got to wear those gold earrings that Raymond bought her.

After Raymond died, she tried calling her younger brother—Raymond’s father—to notify him, but the number had been disconnected. The last time she’d tried to involve him in Raymond’s life, when Raymond was graduating from high school and going to UP on a full scholarship, it had taken her weeks to track her brother down. She let him know that his son was making a success of himself, and her brother had muttered, “Congratulations,” and hung up before Cora could tell him that it would mean the world to Raymond if he came to the ceremony. Now that Raymond was dead, not only was there no time to find her brother, but there seemed very little point.

“Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth calls, tugging Cora out of her thoughts. “I wouldn’t bother cleaning the car. It’s supposed to rain again today.”

Ma’am Elizabeth is far enough away that Cora can pretend not to hear her. The same swollen clouds from yesterday hang over them, but if they relied on the weather to decide the car-cleaning schedule, Cora would never get her work done. She’s half finished now anyway. The music continues to pulse. A food-delivery motorcycle pulls up to the house across the road. The driver dismounts, unzips his cooler bag, and produces a stack of plastic containers from the local North Indian restaurant.

“Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth calls again a moment later. She appears in the doorway with a glass of ice water. “If you must do this now, take some breaks, please. It’s scorching today.”

“Ma’am, the weather is like this every day,” Cora says. She can’t hide the note of exasperation in her voice. Just let me do my job, she wants to say. Next thing she knows, Ma’am Elizabeth will be rolling up the cuffs of her tailored linen trousers and scrubbing the floors to keep her company.

“It’s unrelenting,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. She flaps her hands at her collarbone. “Just make sure you stay hydrated. Oh, hello, Reilly!” The yellow Labrador from next door pokes his leathery black nose through a gap where some bricks in the adjoining walls were knocked out by a stubborn tree root. Ma’am Elizabeth walks over to him to give him a pat. Tucked under her arm is the folder of recipes. When Ma’am Elizabeth spotted it on the counter this morning, an expression crossed her face that gave Cora a flash of panic. Was she not supposed to touch them? Were they private? Ma’am Elizabeth had shown her the messy folder last week and said, “You’re welcome to look through this for some inspiration,” but perhaps she should have waited? Ma’am Elizabeth has that same look on her face now. “Thank you so much for this,” she remarks.

“No problem, ma’am. I just straightened them up.”

“You did more than that,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, and yes, it’s true. Cora arranged the recipes from the scraps of yellowed paper filled with scribbles to the magazine cutouts and printed e-mails. Initially, she thought there was a categorization process she could follow, because many of the initial pages had Cantonese or Hakka or Teochew written in the top corner and were highlighted in pink, green, and yellow, respectively. But the labels stopped about a third of the way through, so she just went alphabetically and focused on keeping the folder tidy.

“I’m thinking of compiling these recipes into a book. It would be a nice wedding present for Jacqueline. What do you think?”

“Good idea, ma’am.”

“I could type them up. Some are really old. I scribbled a few from memory and conversations with my mother and aunties when I first got married. I’m not sure this recipe for jellied pig trotter is salvageable, for example,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, holding up a brittle yellowed foolscap sheet. “But it wouldn’t be practical for a busy woman like Jacqueline to spend hours by the stove brewing the stock anyway. I could prepare the more popular dishes and get a photographer to take high-quality pictures.”

“I can cook them,” Cora offers quickly, because she doesn’t want Ma’am Elizabeth getting in the way in the kitchen.

Ma’am Elizabeth clasps her hands together. “That would be wonderful. We could even include some of your recipes. What are some things from your culture that Jacqueline might be interested in eating?”

“I think there are enough recipes from your family,” Cora says gently. Draw the line. Imagine Jacqueline opening the book to find Cora’s grandmother’s specialty: blood stew. Thankfully, Ma’am Elizabeth doesn’t force the issue. She leans against the garden wall, flipping through the folder.

“These dumplings were the highlight of Fifth Month Festival when I was a child,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, holding up a picture of pyramids of sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves. “I have a nephew whose team won the dragon-boat races last year and he credited the family bak zhang recipe in the press for giving him the strength. It was probably Red Bull and all those years of rigorous rowing training, but he scored well with the family for mentioning our traditions. Our version is stuffed with minced pork, wild mushrooms, and water chestnuts, but I prefer the Peranakan-style ones. I had a neighbour growing up who blended her own five-spice mix and added it to braised pork and candied watermelon. The flavours were incredible. And if you use jasmine rice, the subtle sweetness adds even more depth. I’ll have to track down her recipe to add to the book.”

Cora nods to show that she is listening as she unspools the garden hose to connect it to the tap. She can hear Reilly panting in excitement as Ma’am Elizabeth rubs his ears. “You’re a happy little guy,” she coos. “You’re so happy. Cora, have we got anything to give him?”

“Yes, ma’am, some leftover roast chicken in—”

A gunshot rips through the air then, knocking the words out of her mouth.

The garden hose flies out of Cora’s hands, and she is dropping to the ground. Her knees hit first and then a sharp pain rips through her scalp. She is vaguely aware of warm liquid pooling near her ribs. The last thing she hears before she blacks out is Reilly’s frantic barking.

 

Cora’s eyes flutter open to darkness. Pain flashes brightly through her skull and she has a sense of hurtling through a dark passageway. She croaks a question but it cannot be heard. There are voices, and a hazy figure in front of her sits stoically with arms outstretched, saying nothing. Then, without warning, the blinding white light of day floods her consciousness. The awareness settles slowly. The voices are coming from the news on the radio. That figure is Ma’am Elizabeth, gripping the steering wheel and speeding through the tunnel. They have emerged now onto the expressway. Mammoth rain trees clip past the window, and rain has begun to speckle the windshield.

Cora brings a hand to her head and winces when she grazes the tender bump. She remembers the ground rushing towards her before she blacked out. There is a wet patch on her clothes. The garden hose. Ma’am Elizabeth must have dragged her into the car and buckled her in the back seat.

“Ma’am,” Cora croaks.

“Oh, Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth gasps. “Oh, thank goodness. The delivery boy’s motorcycle backfired across the road and you just dropped to the ground. You knocked your head on one of the garden stones. You’re going to be all right, okay? Just stay still, and we’ll be there in no time.”

Where is there? Cora has trouble formulating the question, but it doesn’t matter because soon the car is slowing down and turning off onto a private road leading to a white building set on a hill overlooking pristine gardens. The only sign that this is a hospital and not a resort is the ambulance quietly waiting at the entrance.

“This isn’t necessary, ma’am,” Cora says immediately as a valet comes bounding to the window. “We might need a wheelchair,” Ma’am Elizabeth says after handing him the keys.

“No,” Cora says, and to demonstrate that she is just fine, she flings open the door and takes a step. The ground wobbles beneath her. Two attendants appear at her side and she is lowered onto a seat and ushered through the sliding glass doors. The warm lighting and faint tinkling of classical music make the waiting room feel like a place where high tea will soon be served.

“Ma’am,” Cora tries one more time after Ma’am Elizabeth hands her the registration forms. “I don’t have a concussion; I am not dizzy or having any vomiting. We can go home.” How much will this cost? She knows Ma’am Elizabeth won’t take it out of her pay cheque but that’s even worse somehow.

“Cora, this could be serious. I saw the way you fell, and you blacked out—that’s not something we can just ignore,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. Her tone is firm and Cora knows she has lost the battle. She looks at the clipboard Ma’am Elizabeth handed her and finds comfort in the fact that it is a cheap plastic thing with a hospital ballpoint pen chained to the metal clasp.

“Elizabeth Lee, is that you?”

“Oh, hello, Audrey,” Ma’am Elizabeth says to the woman who has approached them. Her navy blazer is tapered at her waist, and her hair is pulled back into a round bun. A gleaming leather briefcase is tucked under one arm.

“Everything all right?” Audrey asks.

“Everything’s fine, thanks. This is my helper, Cora. We’re just here for a checkup.”

“Ah, those six-month checks?” Audrey asks. She doesn’t bother acknowledging Cora. “They’ve got their own clinics for that, you know? We send our maids to the one down the road and they’re in and out in half an hour. The ministry only needs to know that they’re not pregnant.”

Ma’am Elizabeth’s smile is thin. “Thank you, I didn’t know. Maybe next time we’ll go there.”

“I’m here because somebody couldn’t resist going for a swim before his cast was taken off,” Audrey says, rolling her eyes towards a young boy of about eleven or twelve who is transfixed by his iPad. “Gregory was furious at the condo staff for letting a boy just jump into the pool on his own without any supervision, but we don’t have lifeguards on duty at ours. I’m writing to the management about it. The cast seemed fine for a few days, and we thought maybe he managed to keep it dry. He got that injury from playing football, by the way. Anyway, now he’s telling me it itches.”

“Poor little thing,” Ma’am Elizabeth says to the boy, who flashes her a grin. Stronger than the throbbing in her head is the ache in Cora’s chest. She is embarrassed to feel her eyes burning with tears. Raymond, Raymond, Raymond, in the face of every boy. “Maybe a day off school is all you really wanted, hmm?” Ma’am Elizabeth teases.

“We can’t afford to miss any more school with exams coming up soon,” Audrey says. “He missed one day for getting the cast on, and that day they covered an entire new unit on photosynthesis in science. He’s still catching up.”

“I’m sure he’ll get into a good secondary school,” Ma’am Elizabeth replies. “Are you still hoping for Anglo-Chinese School?”

“Fingers crossed. St. Joseph’s International is our backup. I’ve doubled up on his weekend tutoring, but then look at what happens when he has five minutes to spare. It’s like he’s destined to derail his academic future somehow.” Audrey shakes her head in exasperation.

Cora can’t help thinking about how many times she’s heard parents in Singapore talk in these same breathless, panicked tones about their children’s educations. She remembers how Ma’am Roberta would tutor the twins after school with towers of assessment workbooks and stock her kitchen fridge with herbal broths and fish oil capsules. She often sent Cora out to the neighbourhood’s traditional medicine hall to pick up the tonics customized for each daughter’s needs. Years later, when Raymond began studying for the scholarship exams in the Philippines, Cora took regular trips to a small Chinese supermarket near her barangay for wolfberry and snow fungus to add to chicken soups to support his growing brain.

The receptionist calls Cora’s name, and Ma’am Elizabeth and Audrey say their goodbyes. Dr. Gopalan is looking at Cora’s file when she takes a cautious step past the door to his office. “Come in, have a seat,” he drones, but when he looks up, he says, “Mrs. Lee, hello!” in a different tone. Shoulders straighten and a smile appears. “I didn’t know I was examining you.”

“I’m not the patient. This is my helper, Corazon Bautista. I’ll be outside,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Unless you need me to be here, Cora?”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Cora says. She can’t help remembering her visit to the hospital after Ma’am Roberta’s husband threw the ashtray at her. Cora’s nose had been swollen for three days before her ma’am had said, “We’d better go to the doctor.” The doctor took one look at Cora and said, “How did this happen?” He did not ask Cora; he asked Ma’am Roberta, who shifted in her seat and mumbled an excuse about slippery floors. The doctor had Ma’am Roberta leave the room and then asked Cora to tell him everything. She begged him not to report it. “They will fire me,” she said. “I need my job. I support my family.”

Dr. Gopalan asks Cora questions about her fall too, but there is no suspicion in his tone. He sounds bored. Maybe it’s because Cora’s injury does really look accidental, or maybe the cause of the injury makes no difference to him.

Cora is relieved at the lack of concern. Just ignore me, she kept praying as she entered this private hospital. Don’t ask any questions. Dr. Gopalan declares that he has no major concerns, but if she has any worrisome symptoms, she should go to the emergency room. He pronounces the words dizziness and vomiting slowly and loudly. Then he remarks, “I suppose you’ll want a few days off, then?” Cora’s face burns. She did not try to give herself a concussion to get out of work, if that is what he is implying, but the way he sighs, it’s as if she has admitted to the ploy. She sits there for a few moments, her cheeks flushed with indignation, then gets up and walks out.

On the drive home, they cross an intersection under a pedestrian bridge that is laced with spiralling branches of pink bougainvillea flowers, soft as kisses against the hard concrete. The hospital recedes as they return to Bukit Timah, where walls of tropical trees flank the highway, and the houses behind them are visible only in snatches of red brick and white concrete and the occasional icy flash of swimming pools. Cora wants to say something about the doctor to Ma’am Elizabeth, but what if it’s not appropriate? She has no gauge for how to behave with her boss, or maybe she has just lost her sense of how to interact with people altogether.

Years ago, after the clinic doctor had taken pity on Cora, she had been transferred to a public hospital for X-rays and treatment. Cora had found out later that the doctor had threatened to report Ma’am Roberta to the police. The compromise was Cora’s peaceful and uneventful transfer to the Gomez family, family friends of the doctor’s. Cora had started her newsletter after that. She composed many of her articles in her mind while doing housework, and each night, the words poured onto the pages of her notebook. Dispensing advice to other domestic workers had given her a sense of control over her fate, but her feckless brother’s disappearance threw everything up in the air once more, and she had returned to the Philippines to care for Raymond, who was in primary school.

The sudden blast of Ma’am Elizabeth’s ringtone through the car’s sound system makes Cora sit up straighter. “Mum?” Jacqueline’s anxious voice crackles.

Ma’am Elizabeth turns up the volume and leans closer to her speakers even though it makes no difference. “Hello, darling, I’m driving now. Is everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that. I heard you were at the hospital today?”

“Goodness, this island is too small.” Ma’am Elizabeth laughs. “How did Audrey Chow-Broadley get to you so quickly? I thought she’d use whatever free time she had to teach her son a fourth language.”

“I happened to call her about the property—she’s looking over some contracts for us—and she told me that she had just seen you. What happened?”

“Nothing, Jacqueline. I was just there because Cora had a fall.”

“Is she okay? I’ve always told you that our kitchen floors get too slippery. It’s a hazard when anything spills on those light tiles because you can’t even see the puddle.”

“She’s fine, and it wasn’t in the kitchen. Just a small scare, that’s all.” Ma’am Elizabeth gives Cora a sideways glance. “We don’t need to talk about it now. I’m touched by your concern, though.”

“I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t another relapse. The doctors said—”

“Jacqueline, this traffic is making it hard to concentrate on two things at once.” Ma’am Elizabeth cuts off Jacqueline. “I will call you back when I get home.”

The rest of the drive is silent. At one intersection, Ma’am Elizabeth mentions brightly that it’s a nice day to be outside. Cora nods, and then immediately wishes she hadn’t, because it’s all the permission Ma’am Elizabeth needs to keep driving straight on, chattering away about an Italian restaurant that she hasn’t been to in ages. “Maybe you can drop me at home first?” Cora asks. “I haven’t cleaned the upstairs bathrooms.”

“The bathrooms can wait,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “You’ve had a difficult day. Let’s have some lunch. You can see them making the pasta from scratch through a little window. It’s mesmerizing.” She pulls into a car park outside a row of delis and florists.

Cora bites her lip. Her head stopped aching a while ago, but now a mild pain has returned and is pulsing behind her eyes. It is as if there is too much light on her, which is how she feels every time she and Ma’am Elizabeth go out together. It’s not being in public with her employer that Cora objects to—it’s the confusion in other people’s expressions. The waiter at the restaurant now, for example, is looking back and forth between Ma’am Elizabeth and Cora as he rattles off today’s specials. As if his eyes have lost their ability to focus, his gaze is darting around, and Cora is getting dizzy just watching him try to process their relationship. Is this your maid or your friend? Will she be eating with you? Who is she to be sitting across from you like this in a restaurant, being wined and dined during her work hours?

When the menu comes, Cora cannot help looking at the prices. As always, she searches for the cheapest thing there is, and she insists on having tap water even when the waiter says they only serve bottled and asks her to choose between sparkling and still. “I will have the garden salad,” Cora says, pointing at an appetizer that costs thirty-four dollars.

“Just that? Cora, you must be starving. Have some pasta. You eat shellfish, right? Their shrimp fettuccine Alfredo is amazing. The cream sauce is better than anything I’ve had in Italy,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.

“No, thank you,” Cora says. “I will just have the garden salad.”

The waiter writes down their orders and retreats to the kitchen. It is a small, elegant restaurant with starched napkins that sit upright next to wineglasses. Through the kitchen’s viewing window, Cora sees long noodles powdered with flour splayed across a marble counter. The cook calls something over his shoulder but his voice is muted. Cora avoids Ma’am Elizabeth’s curious gaze.

A message alert pings on Ma’am Elizabeth’s phone. She looks at the screen and sighs. “Jacqueline worries about me,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, not looking up. “I haven’t told you this, Cora, but I was very sick last year.”

“Sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Cora says. She rolls the corner of the tablecloth between her fingers to keep them busy.

“I didn’t tell my daughters about it for a while because I didn’t want them to worry, and then when the doctors started bandying about words like metastasized and advanced, I thought my days were numbered. I finally told Jacqueline and Cecilia, and they were understandably upset when they found out I’d been getting chemotherapy. They had lost their father only the year before. They were furious with me for keeping it from them until it got serious. Jacqueline started dropping in all the time. It drove me crazy to be supervised like that, so I agreed to let them hire somebody, even though I’d been given the all-clear by my doctors.”

So this is how Cora came into Ma’am Elizabeth’s life. “Ma’am, it is very nice of them to be concerned. This is only natural for daughters to do. I supported my parents too.”

“Did your siblings help you?” Ma’am Elizabeth asks. “I think Jacqueline feels the pressures of doing it all on her own because Cecilia . . . well, she’s a free spirit, that one.”

“No,” Cora says. “I had four brothers. I did everything.” There was a time when she used to complain that her brothers relied on her too much, but the bitterness is gone. Too much has happened for her to feel hostile towards anybody in her family.

Ma’am Elizabeth’s smoked salmon and artichoke risotto arrives on a huge white plate trailing a cloud of steam. Next to it, Cora’s salad is a limp arrangement of leaves, and her stomach really is starting to growl after she catches a whiff of the risotto, but she still refuses when Ma’am Elizabeth offers to share. When Ma’am Elizabeth scoops a couple of spoonfuls onto a side plate and puts it in the middle of the table, Cora looks away. She stabs her fork into the salad and chews her way through it.

“Mr. Lee and I could never decide on a place to eat together,” Ma’am Elizabeth comments. “We always ended up at hawker centres, even on special occasions, because there were so many stalls to choose from. I remember spending our wedding anniversary in Lau Pa Sat after we’d wandered around the city for ages—he had satay and I had char kway teow, and we called it a night.”

It’s funny to imagine a couple so dignified and dressed to the nines eventually finding themselves in that whirlpool of hawker stalls in the heart of the business district. “Ma’am, I think you prefer more simple things,” Cora says. This is the impression that Ma’am Elizabeth always tries to give her, at least. So why are they here? If she wanted to take Cora out to lunch, why not take her to one of those hawker stalls in Newton Food Centre, where skinned ducks and chickens hang from hooks in the window, and a meal costs only four dollars?

“I do,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, nodding deeply. “Before I married Mr. Lee, though, I didn’t really know about life in Singapore. My family dined in restaurants at hotels like the Shangri-La and Raffles. I was wrapped in cotton wool, as they say. Then Mr. Lee came along and showed me a different life.” Her eyes are glossy with reminiscence.

“You must be missing Mr. Lee very much,” Cora says.

There is a distant look in Ma’am Elizabeth’s eyes, and then she takes another scoop of risotto. “Have you ever been married, Cora?”

“A long time ago,” Cora says. She instantly regrets it and wishes she had just said no to Ma’am Elizabeth, who is looking at her curiously. “We couldn’t have children, so I gave my husband my blessing to find somebody else.”

“I’m sorry,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.

“It was a long time ago,” Cora repeats. It was not altogether a terrible thing to have no children. Enough responsibilities were heaped on her after she went abroad to work; she didn’t need the worry of mothering in absentia.

“I can’t imagine how those women do it, the ones who have to leave their children behind,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, unconsciously following her train of thought. “Of course, it’s not easy for any of you.”

“It’s okay, ma’am,” Cora says. “Our lives are different from yours but—”

“Cora, I know why you dropped to the ground like that,” Ma’am Elizabeth says quietly. “We should talk about it.”

Cora’s fork is suspended between her plate and her lips when Ma’am Elizabeth says this. She pushes it into her mouth and chews carefully, looking down at her plate. Her heart begins to thump wildly.

How does Ma’am Elizabeth know about the shooting? Did she send somebody to investigate Cora’s background? She must know everything, then—that Cora had had to flee after she tried to get justice for Raymond and those men had trailed her to Dasmariñas, their guns gleaming in their belts. She must have contacted the Calverts and found out about Cora leaving in the middle of the night. She must know about the deal Cora made with the Calverts’ security guard so he would give her a head start. Cora feels her legs getting weak and she is thankful to be sitting down. “Ma’am, please understand . . .” she whispers.

Ma’am Elizabeth’s eyes widen and she reaches across the table. “Oh, Cora, of course I understand,” she says, squeezing her hand. “It was inexcusable.”

“This doesn’t affect my job, ma’am? I don’t want to go back to Manila right now.”

“Of course not! It was his fault, not yours.”

At this, Cora pulls her hand away and stares at Ma’am Elizabeth. “Raymond didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He absolutely did,” Ma’am Elizabeth says firmly.

Cora’s voice gets louder as she repeats herself. “My nephew did not deserve this.”

“Nephew?” Ma’am Elizabeth looks at her, confusion wrinkling her features. “Cora, we must be talking about different things. I thought you were having a reaction because of the abuse you suffered in your previous employer’s house.”

Cora doesn’t know whether she feels more relieved or angry. “You think I jumped to the ground because somebody threw an ashtray at me?” she asks, and she doesn’t realize she’s speaking in Tagalog. It’s the language for first reactions and for complete disbelief. Ma’am Elizabeth shakes her head slightly.

Cora tries to ask the question again in English, but what comes out is all her built-up frustrations. The red-and-white-chequered tablecloth, the waiter pulling out the chair for Ma’am Elizabeth and coolly ignoring Cora, the doctor’s assumption that Cora injured herself in order to get time off. “Ma’am, you don’t understand anything,” Cora says. “And you keep taking me to all these places as if I am your friend, and you think we are the same, but we are not the same. Ask the Starbucks barista, ask the neighbours, ask anybody who sees us together. They know I am your maid. Why you must pretend it is not like that? And why you must pretend you know one thing happened to me long time ago, this must be the reason for all of my problems?”

By the end of her rant, Cora is breathless. The colour has drained from Ma’am Elizabeth’s face and she looks mortified. “Cora,” she starts, and then she can’t continue. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just take me home,” Cora pleads. “I just want to do my job, not go out and share my life with you.”

Ma’am Elizabeth’s hand trembles slightly as she runs her spoon through her risotto. The other people in the restaurant have dissolved into the background, and it is just the two of them. Cora’s mouth feels dry, and the salad goes down her throat with difficulty. Ma’am Elizabeth gestures for the waiter to bring the bill. Moments later, they are hurrying out of the restaurant and into the car. Ma’am Elizabeth lets Cora open the door herself, and she turns on the radio to fill the silence between them.

As the car merges onto the main road that cuts through the abundantly green land, Cora sneaks looks at Ma’am Elizabeth. She appears to be concentrating very hard on her driving, leaning slightly forward and squinting like a person pantomiming driving. Cora is still annoyed with her but also feels a bit guilty for her harsh tone. Ma’am Elizabeth has never scolded her or spoken to her with anything but kindness.

“Ma’am, maybe Miss Jacqueline is right,” Cora says gently. “You should go out more with your friends. You stay at home all the time and I am the only person you talk to. It’s not appropriate, ma’am.”

Ma’am Elizabeth grips the steering wheel. “I really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I know you’ve had a hard time with employers in the past, and I just wanted to make sure that you were being treated well.”

“You treat me well,” Cora assures her. “But sitting in the restaurant, going to your private hospital—you think you are being generous, but the other people think I am taking advantage. I get funny looks from them, and they say things to me. There must be a line between us.”

“Okay,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Okay. I’m very sorry, Cora. I meant well.”

“I know it, ma’am,” Cora says.

“I won’t compel you to keep me company like that anymore. I had no idea how uncomfortable it was making you. But if you get injured again or become ill, I insist on getting you the best care. That’s my responsibility as your employer.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cora replies. “It is difficult, I know. When somebody close with you dies, there is a lot of loneliness and things you wish you could say.” She feels her throat becoming thick with tears. If Raymond were here, she’d tell him that she had always been proud of him, even in her angriest moments over his new wealthy friends. “You must be missing Mr. Lee very much,” Cora says.

“I do,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Every day.” She takes a deep breath. “I missed him even after I found out about . . . Cora, can I tell you this? One last thing, I promise. I need to tell somebody.”

The pain on her face is clear. “Okay, ma’am,” Cora says.

“There was a woman in the passenger seat next to my husband when he died.”

“Oh,” Cora says. She realizes that this is something Ma’am Elizabeth really wants to talk about, so she asks, “Who was she?”

“She was Loretta Kwok. In her late forties, a divorcée with three children. That was how I knew it wasn’t a silly, lust-driven fling; it wasn’t some Hong Kong debutante. He was committed to her. It hurt so much more, knowing that they were carrying on together like that, going out to nice dinners. And the papers didn’t report it. They didn’t want to tarnish Mr. Lee’s legacy with any speculation that he was having an affair.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cora says. “I did not know.”

“Neither did I,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “I was the last to know, apparently. It turned out that all my friends had known about her. All of the women that I saw every week for coffee and in church.”

So that’s why Ma’am Elizabeth has so few friends. “You confront them, ma’am?” Cora asks. “Ask them why they don’t say anything?”

“I’m still working up the courage. I’ve withdrawn from most social events, though, because I feel like such a fool. My daughters didn’t know about it when he was alive either, but when they found out, they were . . .” She shrugs. “Not so bothered. They tried to convince me to move on by insisting that the past is the past. We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I felt like nobody understood me.”

What Cora knows about grief is that it comes in waves. It crashed down on her last week when she saw a schoolboy stepping off the bus, his backpack thumping against his skinny frame. It blacks out all of her senses and makes her say and do things she might later regret.

“Ma’am, whatever you are feeling, it’s the right way,” Cora says.

“Thank you, Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.

They pull up to the driveway, and as Ma’am Elizabeth presses the buzzer that opens the automatic gates, Cora remembers her daily trips to the Calverts’ house in Dasmariñas. Immense properties cloaked in the shadows of towering hedges, gardeners dragging hoses across rambling lawns, and swimming pools glaring boldly against the heat. It was only after Raymond died that she asked the Calverts if she could take them up on their offer to let her live in the maid’s quarters. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to travel to Quezon City and back every day,” said Mrs. Calvert sympathetically. “Two and a half hours, three jeepney changes, a bus, and a twenty-minute walk, you said? It just makes sense for you to stay with us.” But the commute, though inconvenient and draining, had never been a problem for Cora. Home was narrow streets filled with the lingering smell of grilled isaw from a street vendor’s stove. It was the hanging vines that wound around the iron bars of her windows, and the clean, cool tiles kissing her feet. She would have spent the rest of her life in her house if the men who killed Raymond hadn’t threatened her and driven her out.

When Cora and Ma’am Elizabeth get out of the car, Cora spots her phone still sitting on the garden path, and she picks it up to find that it has run out of power. As they enter the house, Ma’am Elizabeth turns to her and says, “Cora, please take the rest of the day off.” She holds up her hands when Cora starts to protest. “No, Cora. This isn’t special treatment. You’ve had a head injury, and it’s important that you take it easy. There’s nothing left to do in the house that can’t be done tomorrow.”

“Okay, ma’am,” Cora says. To tell the truth, she is exhausted. Thinking about Raymond can be so draining— This is what loss does as well, she wants to say to Ma’am Elizabeth, who sometimes takes long afternoon naps and wakes up looking slightly ruffled and self-conscious, then guiltily confides the indulgence to Cora.

In her room, Cora plugs her phone into the charger and shuts her eyes. She lets her mind wander away from this strange afternoon when the past came rushing at her from all directions. The phone jolts awake and begins to update her on all she has missed.

Angel and Donita are still busily discussing Flordeliza Martinez. What do you think, Cora? Angel prompts a few times. In 2001, Cora had advised the other maids on how to handle the fallout from the Marisol Concepcion murder. Now is the time to be careful, she had cautioned them, but don’t keep your head down too low or they will think we all have something to apologize for. At Sunday gathering spots, she discreetly collected cash donations in a large envelope to send to the woman’s family after the court ruled that she was guilty and would be executed.

That was all a long time ago—now Cora doesn’t even have the words to explain to Angel and Donita why she doesn’t want to be involved. All she has are flashes of regret: The single gold earring she pushed into the security guard’s hands. The smirk on his face; the cold dread spreading through her chest. The way he grasped her hand tightly, just long enough to make her understand that he wasn’t satisfied. “What will I do with one earring?” he sneered, and he waved away her suggestion that it was valuable enough to pawn. He wanted her to return to the house and come back with an even bigger prize. When he told her what it was and where exactly to find it, Cora knew this was a sin that no God could ever forgive, no matter how many times she prayed the rosary.

Murder Maid Has No Alibi

A foreign domestic worker from the Philippines who is accused of murdering her employer has not been able to account for her whereabouts on the day of the alleged killing, say police.

Flordeliza Martinez is the lead suspect in the murder of Carolyn Hong in Oldham Walk off East Coast Road last week. Police speculate that Mrs. Hong caught Miss Martinez in the middle of a theft, and Miss Martinez pushed her against a wall. Ms. Hong died from injuries to her skull.

Miss Martinez was the only person reported to be at home at the time. Mrs. Hong’s husband, Peter Hong, was in East Coast Park training for a marathon. Their daughter, Elise, seventeen, discovered her mother’s body.

If convicted, Miss Martinez could face life in jail or execution by hanging.

 

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