Uncle George
Celia Chung
"Hi Mrs. Wright!" I exclaimed as I passed my neighbour trimming her borganvillea.
I rang the bell of my house to summon someone to open the door. I had left my house
key at home, as was my weekly habit. I noticed that Dad's car was in the driveway.
Experimentally trying the door handle, I found it unlocked. Opening the door, I walked
in.
Dad came downstairs as he heard the bell.
"How come you're so late?" he asked.
"Oh, I stayed after school to watch a movie. The Young Scientists Club was having
a fundraiser, and they were showing 'Ghostbusters'" I said, and hummed a few bars
from the theme song.
We walked upstairs together, and then with his hands gripping my shoulders tight,
he said "Uncle George is dead."
"What!"
"No... No..." Dead... Uncle George.. Uncle George.. dead.. impossible. Unreality
struck me. There was a thick air of it around us, in the shady afternoon of the
living room. I paced around.
"Grand-dad cried a lot last night," said Dad gently.
Yes, I thought. The old man, still living, with one son gone. The old man's life
spanning beyond that of one of his sons. Cold way of putting it. Then another thought
struck me.
"Grandma doesn't know, does she?"
"No, of course not."
I still tried to grasp the fact. It was like a slippery, wriggly fish out of water.
Out of context. That stage after life, before death. Did he see his whole life
flash before his eyes as he ...
I thought, Uncle George, he was such a jolly man, but now I could only remember him
as a serious person. Death, very awesome, humbling, serious, grave. Dead!... oh
no!
The first death in our family. At least since my great-grand-dad some twenty years
ago. I wasn't even born then. I wondered if Grand-dad was shocked enough so that
he had harmed his health, then chided myself silently.
"Oh, so that's why Auntie Poy called so late last night."
"Yeah."
"So what happened? I mean, did he have a heart attack suddenly and die?" Everyone
knew that Uncle George had been having problems with his fat and cholesterol levels.
Dad remained silent. After a while, he said "We all went to the hospital, but they
couldn't help. Grand-dad was crying a lot. We were all crying."
And then it really hit me hard. I felt real guilty about watching "Ghostbusters."
I felt sick about enjoying myself when ...
I then picked up the Examiner
, and tried to read. What else could I do ..?
Dad said Auntie Christian, Frank, and Kai (George's wife and two sons) were coming
tomorrow. They were going to take his body back to Switzerland for the burial.
I thought about Richard Burton. He was Welsh, but he was buried in Switzerland.
My uncle was Chinese; he was going to be buried in Switzerland.
I wondered how we'd cope with Grandma. She was really weak right now, and he was
her favourite son, because he was the most caring. He was the only one who could
make her laugh. He visited her after work everyday. On weekends he'd take her out
around, or go eat in some retaurant. "Ah Ma
, there's this interesting new restaurant I want you to try," he'd declare and whisk
her off in her wheelchair...
I couldn't belive this. I didn't know. I felt odd. Felt sad. I wonder if I was
all that distraught. He was only my uncle, but in more than just the figurehead
sense. He was a great favourite with me and my cousins because he was such a funny
guy. He was always teasing Monique, saying that she was his daughter because he bought her
from Uncle Paddy when she was born (He was basically family-less, since Auntie Christian,
Frank and Kai had gone back to live in Switzerland for a few years).
Monique hated that. "I'm not your daughter!" she'd say defiantly. Even though I'd
laugh along on the outside, I'd felt jealous. I'd wish that I was his "daughter",
and got the attention.
I wondered how she was feeling about this. She should have known about it by now.
I wondered about Auntie Christian, I wondered about the future, I wondered about
everything. I just sat and wondered.
Then, there was the other side of him. I remember how during my birthday if he was
around, he'd hand me $20 or $50 out of his wallet, and told me I was a good girl,
a good student, and to go buy some books with it. Sometimes it wasn't even my birthday.
He'd drop by wanting to talk about business with Dad, who'd happen to be out with
Mom somewhere. So there'd be no one there. I figure he'd do that just because he
felt awkward. I guess he couldn't joke around if it was just one kid, it had to
be a screaming, giggly bunch. Yeah, I'd miss him. He was the most generous relative I had.
But that wasn't it. I remembered his old apartment. It had a big swimming pool,
and my dad, who was fond of doing laps, would drive us over there on the weekends.
His manservant would bring cokes down to us. Sometimes, he'd come down and join us and
put those funny pink ear plugs in his ears. Pills of pepto-bismol colour. He'd
throw us in the water. That was so much fun. After swimming, we'd go up to his
apartment to wash up. He had a big circular bathtub - the only one we knew in existence. Now
he was plugged in some box made of a dead tree.
Then there was the time we happened to be in some small beach town where they were
having a beauty contest. We just went in, and every time the contestants paraded
out on the stage, he'd say that he liked Number 12, even though she was butt ugly.
He said he liked her because she had a big ass and large, shapely legs. Mom and I cracked
up.
I remember the last time I saw him alive. Last Sunday, it was sunny. We were all
at some family get-together lunch in a Chinese restaurant, and he had a bandage around
his head. He'd had some operation. It looked hecka funny.
Facing reality. No, it was not one of my strong points. This hit me in the stomach,
but then, this didn't really reach my innermost brain, didn't touch the soul, didn't
scratch the surface of the mind. It was like my total brain, soul and mind magiqued into one magnet and this crazy, ridiculous fact another. One big repulsion. Boing
bouncing off.
Uncle George is dead.
He died of a heart attack.
Cold. Freezing. One million zillion degrees celsius below zero.
And I thought, 198- is full of rotten changes and surprises.
* * * * * * * *
That was a few years ago. Look what's happened in retrospect.
Your family, your wife and your kids. Auntie Christian's turned into an alcoholic
back in Switzerland. Half a bottle of Martell a night, at least.
Your mother - my grandmother. You were the apple of her eye. When you died, we had
to tell her that you had to go to Switzerland to visit your family and do some important
business, so she
wouldn't die of a heart attack. That was hard, I'm telling you. You visited her
everyday, and to take off without telling her ? Some business trip, two years.
Now she's with you. Sometimes I think she realised what had happened towards the
end, and that's why she died. She lost her will to live.
The rest of us, your big family. Your dad, your twelve siblings and 29 nephews and
nieces. We're kinda messed up. Your demise left a power void in the family company
board. Aunt Diana and my dad are barely talking to each other after a bunch of fights.
Your siblings - my aunts and uncles - they aged ten years in the week after you took
off. Never seen so much white hair cummulatively. They are working so much harder
to make up for your absence. Really, you were one of the most important, hard-working people in the family, and they only began to realise it now after you were gone.
They're all a lot skinnier too. They've sworn off shrimp, squid, eggs, and practically
anything that is edible, because they are all afraid of too much cholesterol, of
dying of a heart attack like you. A couple of the aunts had relapses. Some of us cousins
are not amused. Why did you do this to us? How could you have left your responsibilities
and just taken off?
Actually, I still can't think of you as dead. I didn't see you die, so I keep thinking
of you as on a business trip somewhere on earth. But I know you are dead. Hey,
but I believe in heaven. You're there, soul intact, having fun, laughing.
Copyright 1987 by Celia Chung. Unauthorized duplication,
posting, or publication is strictly prohibited.
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