Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction (24 page)

“We will do a test run of the MRI,” Doctor Bashkar continued, “and then we’ll scrub in and start the surgery. Don’t worry when you hear the hum getting louder; it’s the MRI working. Just relax. You’re in safe hands.”

Alia nodded by reflex, but her head wouldn’t budge. “Okay, doc.” She closed her eyes and whispered “Bismillah” under her breath.
In the name of Allah.

The hum grew steadily louder, and the blue glow sped faster along the black band. Within minutes, coloured cross-sectional cuts of her head replaced the screensaver on the wall she was facing, with a revolving 3D image of her brain dominating the top right corner. The images were so detailed, she felt nauseous. Alia had not expected to witness the insides of her body, up to the pulsating vessels that riddled the multitude of folds of her brain. She could even see the titanium personal communicator cranial implant resting above her right ear, which was certified to be MRI-safe. It had to be switched off as to prevent interference, and for the first time in years, Alia’s visual field was devoid of anything virtual.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Doctor Bashkar.

“Tell me if you feel like vomiting,” offered Doctor Shafik. “I can give you some anti-emetics.”

Behind her, Alia could hear sounds of packages being opened. She assumed the nurses were laying down all the surgical tools on their trolleys. From the corner of her eyes she could see Doctor Bashkar exiting the operating theatre, followed by the sounds of a pipe churning out water that lasted several minutes. Doctor Bashkar returned with both hands lifted in front of him, the dark hairs on his forearm plastered on his skin.

“Doctor,” Alia whispered. “I think I’m going to need that anti-vomiting medication.”

Friday

February 29, 2036

16:00 hours

Alia swiped her card on the screen at the corner of her parking lot to pay the parking fee and the cost of charging her car, and unplugged the charger from the insulated socket. Her late father used to complain about the ever-increasing price of petrol. Now Tariq only read about petroleum in history books. She wondered if her son realised how difficult life was in the early 2000s, and if he appreciated his privileged life. Alia sighed and studied Tariq, who was loading the groceries into the car. He’d only call her a freakasaur for reminiscing on the past.

“What?” Tariq asked.

“What what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

Alia grinned and ruffled his hair, which was awkward now that he was much taller than he used to be. “You’re fourteen today, kiddo. I don’t know when puberty is going to hit you—”

“Ma!” Tariq snapped. His ears were red.

“Fine, maybe you have reached puberty. Your Papa never said—”

“Ma!”

Alia laughed. “I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I? Don’t tell me your friends are online, listening.”

“I would have clamped your mouth long ago if they were.” He clearly did not share her amusement.

Alia kept her hand on Tariq’s head, playing with his hair. He had his father’s curls. He would need a haircut soon, though, judging on how deep her fingers were buried in his hair. He had not pulled away, which was always a good sign. They stayed awhile like that, mother and son, and she wished that moment would last forever. Her little boy was growing much too fast for her liking.

“Happy Birthday, kiddo.”

Tariq huffed. “Come on, let’s get this over with. Promise me this is the last leap-year birthday party you’ll throw, okay?”

“You’ll change your mind in four years, trust me.”

Wednesday

July 15, 2037

10:15 hours

Alia found the stench of burnt flesh disconcerting. What was worse, the smell reminded her of barbecued meat, and her stomach growled. She hoped no one would notice it, what with the humming of the MRI and the loud whirr of drilling. The frame surrounding her head was covered with three layers of white cloths, leaving a window for her to look at the screen. By now, she actually found the image of her brain fascinating.

A clock blinked at the bottom corner of the screen, but Alia lost track of time. Instead, she concentrated on the songs playing in the background. She recognised the tracks. Maroon 5. Doctor Bashkar wasn’t lying when he told her that he was of her age. She couldn’t understand how Tariq loved listening to mind-trance using synthesised voices. The singers weren’t even real people!

“Okay, Puan Alia,” said Doctor Bashkar from somewhere behind her. “I’ve exposed both hemispheres of your brain. Don’t be alarmed if parts of your body suddenly move. We’ll try not to touch the motor strip. Now we’ll use the fMRI to record the desired parts for the robotic arm to target its laser ablation.”

Doctor Bashkar had explained all this to her during their second clinic appointment. She and Basri held hands as they listened to the surgeon’s explanations, and Basri had asked detailed questions. Would there be permanent damage? What were the complications? What if the robotic arm fired at the wrong places? What was the percentage of success? For that ‘unfortunate’ zero-point-eight percent, what were the damages? They spent over two hours in the clinic, and when they reached home, Basri tried to talk her out of it.

But Alia had made up her mind. There was no turning back.

In the operating theatre, the music stopped. All noises ceased, except for the low hum of the MRI. A series of random images started playing in rapid succession. A ball, clouds, a car, birds, a holographic mind-trance idol, phrases and so on.

“Puan Alia,” Doctor Bashkar said, his voice hushed. “I need you to concentrate on the images. Don’t think about anything else. Just the images. Look at them, register what they are, but don’t make any personal connections if possible.”

The hum of the MRI became louder, but Alia ignored the sound. She concentrated on the images. Some of them reminded her of—

No. She must concentrate on the images alone.

The images stopped, and the rotating 3D projection of her brain took over the main screen. Only, there were now patches of colours in shades between red and blue that dominated the back of her brain, and smaller patches by the side at the front, more on the left compared to the right.

“Do you see the colours, Puan Alia?”

“Yes.”

“The functional-MRI captures parts of your brain that’s most active during the image capture. You see the colours at the back? Those are your occipital lobes, where your vision is processed. The ones at the front are your frontal eye fields. You have a beautiful brain, Puan Alia.”

Trust a neurosurgeon to say that.

“Now,” Doctor Bashkar continued, “I want you to close your eyes. I know it’s going to be hard for you, but I want you to remember everything you can about your son. Can you do that?”

Alia had been preparing for this for over a week. She inhaled, deep. “Yes, doc.”

She had done her best to suppress memories of Tariq, but now she had to willingly conjure images of him in her mind. She felt warm tears flowing as she remembered a wrinkly baby barely longer than her forearm wriggling against her, searching for her breast on instinct. She remembered a baby crying whenever he was left alone, tears coming and going at will. She remembered that same baby taking his first tentative steps, and his giggles as he ambled toward her open arms. She remembered a toddler showering her with kisses, bringing home an ebook filled with artwork he did at kindergarten, usually for her, and only on occasion for his father. She remembered her first argument with a little boy who came home with muddy clothes. She remembered coaxing the little boy to eat his vegetables, and finally resorting to threats.

She remembered him screaming, “Ma!”

Friday

February 29, 2036

16:29 hours

“Ma!” Tariq screamed.

Alia never liked distractions when she drove, but Tariq’s voice was filled with urgency, and, above all, fear. She turned, but instead of seeing him, her eyes were fixed beyond him.

She should have looked at him. She should have looked at only him.

A deafening
bang
!

The trailer rammed against the car, sending it flying, turning, turning. Alia felt her neck whip about, and air rushed out of her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Strangely, after the initial noise, the whole world went quiet, even as air became land, land became air, and air became land again. The steering wheel burst and sent forth white foam that engulfed her, coalescing and pinning her against her seat. Before she knew what was happening, her vision was filled with white with flecks of black and red.

The car creaked and grated against the road, and she hung upside down. Adele was singing on the radio, but her voice was wrong, discordant. Alia’s chest hurt. Breathing hurt. Her abdomen felt crushed; every small movement brought searing pain throughout her body. But she wasn’t thinking about her pain.

“Tariq,” she croaked. She choked on her own bile and saliva, and she coughed, which brought more pain. “Tariq.”

Only Adele answered her. Alia remembered the lyrics; she used to sing along to the song. She would occasionally sing songs by Adele to lull Tariq to sleep.

“Tariq,
sayang
. Are you all right?”

Silence.

The foam slowly dissipated, collapsing into itself, leaving Alia free to move again. She was pinned close to the roof, but she could still twist in her seat. The passenger door had been crushed inward, and Tariq hung in his seat, drenched in blood. The dashboard on his side had been crushed, and the foam had not been released.

His arms fell limp, bloody.

Alia screamed.

Wednesday

July 15, 2037

10:32 hours

“Puan Alia,” Doctor Bashkar said, “you can open your eyes now.”

Alia opened her eyes and had to blink away tears before she could concentrate on the screen. Half her brain bloomed with bright patches of colours. Now she saw what her surgeon meant by her brain being beautiful.

“These are your memories of your son.”

Half her brain. The entirety of her life.

Saturday

March 1, 2036

09:05 hours

Alia bathed whatever was left of her son for the last time. She held him gently, caressed him. She barely heard family and friends gathered in and out of her house reciting the
Yaasin
.

Tariq was no longer there.

Neither was she.

Wednesday

April 9, 2036

20:20 hours

Alia had left the food Basri bought for her untouched. Again. She sat on Tariq’s unmade bed and counted the discarded clothes and socks on the floor. Everything was in place; no one had touched anything. Tariq had always hated it when she cleaned his room.

Monday

May 12, 2036

When Basri came back from work near midnight, Alia was sitting at the edge of Tariq’s bed in darkness. She had not even bothered to turn on the light. She had not bothered to do anything, really. Bothersome. Tariq loved saying it.

June 30, 2036

The semiconductor company Alia worked for had to call Basri to inform him that they had to let her go. She had not come to work since the accident, but she had not replied to any of their mail.

Alia had turned off her cranial implant for months now.

July, 2036

Basri came home late again. This time, he found her lying on the carpeted floor at the foot of Tariq’s bed, with a pool of congealed blood around her slashed wrist. On the bed was an opened album, a scrapbook, filled with pictures of Tariq. Alia had torn off everyone else from the pictures, including herself.

The doctors said she was lucky she had been too weak from malnutrition, and that the cuts were not deep. The next day, Doctor Cynthia Khoo walked into the single-bedded hospital room. Alia was lying, unmoving, her wrists and ankles tied to the sides of the bed.

September, 2036

Doctor Cynthia Khoo assured Basri that they were making progress.

In truth, Alia had tuned her out.

November, 2036

January, 2037

February, 2037

Alia spoke for the first time in months, but her words made her husband cry.

“Tariq’s fifteen,” she said. “My son’s growing up so fast.”

May, 2037

“What are you suggesting?” Alia asked Doctor Cynthia Khoo. “Do you really think I’ll be better then?”

Her psychiatrist walked across the room, her steps heavy. She stopped in front of Alia and sat opposite her. “Nothing else is working. I think this is your best hope.”

Wednesday

July 15, 2037

10:45 hours

“I need you to do one last thing for me, Puan Alia.”

Images and videos of Tariq started playing in rapid succession. Everything she had recorded of him, she had given to Doctor Bashkar before she deleted the files from her cranial implant, as required as part of the treatment. Alia felt her breath catch.

“We will subtract the previous imaging, including our preliminary scans last week, and localise memories of Tariq. I need you to concentrate on these images and videos, and don’t hold back on experiencing the emotions they bring. The fMRI will be active while the robotic arm ablates the targeted areas.”

Alia did as she was told.

She had never done anything more difficult in her life. Giving birth to Tariq was nowhere near this painful. She had no choice. She had to erase all memories of Tariq if she were to live again.

Again, she concentrated on the images, and thought about the moments they captured. Tariq had patted his birthday cake right after she shot him blowing the candles. Tariq had fallen down the first time he rode an electrobike. She had shot the video, but in the chaos, she dropped the camera. Tariq argued with his father right after a Raya picture with Alia’s side of the family. Tariq hugged her and told her he loved her. He was twelve. He hadn’t told her that he loved her after that. He said he was too big for that, and it was bothersome.