Ginnie sits on her wheelchair by the window in the living room. She seems to be staring at something outside as her eyes continue to stare only at one thing. I think she can see the neighbor watering her plants. This usually happens at this time of the day, in the morning, before the sun hits the high tip of buildings. I, on the other hand, prepare for the day ahead, here, in the kitchen. I have already gone to the wet market, and of course, when I got back, I had to disinfect everything. Sir and ma’am, the parents of Ginnie, made it very clear that everything needed to be cleaned at least twice to make sure the virus doesn’t get into the flat.
I have to take a shower before I attend to Ginnie. I get it, they are probably scared for her, especially since there’s no way she can take care of herself. She’s paralysed from her neck down – she can’t move a lot except for her head, and so of course, she’s dependent on people – me, her helper. Her parents, even if they are not in Hong Kong, are in constant contact with us via videocalls. It’s all been provided for since they left me with her. Everything is paid on time, even to me, by the end of the month. They never missed a date. I have my own room; I even get extra allowance. The catch? I don’t exactly have days off. I have to be with Ginnie. That’s why I only get to leave for errands before she’s awake and make sure I’m back in forty minutes. The only time I have for personal errands is when her parents appoint another family member of theirs to briefly look after Ginnie. I don’t even know if that’s a family member really, because one time, I overheard that person speaking on the phone, talking about how much he needs to get paid. Ginnie’s just there again in the corner. Her eyes are closed, but she looks like she’s at peace. I always make sure that I can see her face for my own peace of mind.
I’ve been living with Ginnie since she was eight. I never really got to ask her what happened because I feel like I’m in no place to ask. It’s been 10 years, and I’ve never thought of getting another employer. At the same time, I can’t help but think that it’s meant to be. I mean, I was a nurse back in the Philippines. I was trained to do this. I get paid more than enough and I was able to send my son and daughter to good universities there. I haven’t seen them in a while, a long while, but I think it’s okay. They understand. I pray they understand that I can’t just leave Ginnie. She herself is like my own child, and I will do anything I can for her.
I continue with my work, washing the dishes and beginning to cook for lunch. Today, it’s garlic rice, with some fried chicken wings, and to make it a little bit healthy, steamed choi sum on the side. It’s cheat day of the week today for Ginnie; I promised that once a week we’d have some junk food as a break from all the healthy meals she has to consume. Fried chicken wings are her favorite. She said that eating them makes her feel normal because on TV, she would also see people eating fried chicken and eat it like it’s the best thing in the world. I continue to cook, but as I do, the same thing that always bothers me comes back. How can sir and ma’am leave Ginnie just like this? How can a parent leave their child to suffer like this? What if I’m a bad person, someone who just doesn’t care for her at all? I wonder if there’s more to it than all of this that I am seeing.
Every time Ginnie and I talk, and the topic of parents comes up, she would abruptly drop the subject or change it to distract me. Of course, I try my best to never force it whenever the same topic comes up again. My thoughts are put to an abrupt stop as I realise that some boiling hot oil lands on a part of my lower arm, making me screech.
“Ah! Ouch! Aray!” I shouted.
“You okay there, Cheche?” said Ginnie, her voice, coarse.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, don’t worry.” I replied.
“What are you making anyway?’” Ginnie asked.
“Your favorite. It’s cheat day.”
Ginnie grinned her crooked smile. ‘Thanks! I’m so glad that you made that today,” she said, trying to be enthusiastic.
Her tone seems different. I think she wants to tell me something more. I ignore it and focus on not getting hurt by frying chicken for the meantime. After I finish cooking, I prepare the table. I do so as quietly as possible since it looks like Ginnie has fallen asleep. I don’t want her to wake up until everything is ready. When the food is, I gently tap her shoulder. Her eyes open and register that it’s time to eat. I carefully push her towards the table. I sit beside her at the corner of the table and begin to feed her. I peel the skin off each pair of wings and place them on the spoon with some of the rice. We finish the rest of the vegetables as the last part of our meal. It’s our inside joke – she said that we eat the healthiest part of the meal at the end to fool ourselves into thinking we still had a very healthy meal. But just as I am about to put the dishes in the sink, the doorbell rings. I look at Ginnie and she looks at me, calmly but her eyes wide.
“It’s okay, go get it,” she said.
I go open the door and see that there is a letter on the floor. I close the door behind me and put the letter on the table. It’s addressed to Ginnie. I push the letter towards her and then head back to the kitchen.
“Cheche,” Ginnie uttered.
I turn back to her. “Yeah? Don’t you think it’s strange for the letter to come here directly, not at the mailbox?” I replied.
"Cheche, the letter is for you. But before you open it, I want to tell you what it’s about,” she said. “Can you help me sit up first, please?”
With that, I put my hands under her arms and lift her slightly so that she could sit up. As I do this, my mind is on overdrive. What does this mean? Am I to lose my job? Is it time for me to go home?
“Cheche, I’ve been watching the news for months and the reason is that I want to know if there is a vaccine for this virus. Last month, when mom called us, remember she asked you to leave us for a moment?” she asked.
I remember. It was the first time I was asked to leave. I mean they always spoke in Cantonese, it’s not like I could understand anything.
“Yes, I remember. What about it?” I asked.
“Well, I fought with my mom. She said that I would be prioritized in taking the vaccine. If I take it, I can finally go outside again like before, before all of this happened. Even if I’m like this. But…but…” she stuttered.
“But what? Go ahead. You can tell me.” I said.
“I told her no. I told her to give it to you instead, to give you the priority, so you can finally go home. I know that your children are finished with school and that’s because you chose to be here for me when my parents can’t. I think it’s time you go home to your children, grandchildren – it’s time you take care of them. It’s time someone takes care of you. You, Cheche. Not me anymore. You need it more than I do. I mean I can’t even move. I’m letting you go, Cheche. I’m letting go.”
I remain at loss for words. She continues.
“Mom and dad are coming home to pick me up next month. I was able to convince them to give it to you instead of me, and then they suggested that it’s time for them to finally take care of me too. I know I’m much older now, but I do think they want to take care of me now. Anyway, by this time next month, you can fly back home too. I know the vaccine isn’t available in the Philippines yet, so it’s perfect.” As she said this, tears fell down on her cheeks. Mine, too.
“Go on, open the letter. It’s okay,” Ginnie said.
I open it. There, it says my name.
Author Bio: When not teaching English, Celine is any other typical 20-something that reads and binge watches TV series. The current show that she wishes to have all the time to finish is Grey's Anatomy. When the world gets too much at times, words find their way out of her through angry typing on a designated very click-y keyboard.