JENNY FAITH KOH

cw – mental health, Covid-19, hints of abuse 

Triple-Guarded Windows

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I pulled my luggage up to the doorstep of my parents’ public housing flat and hesitated. If not for the COVID-19 economy, I might not have been back here. But things could have improved in the last several months, right? 

I entered and was greeted by a purple, tired-looking, bulbous vegetable sitting atop the shoe rack. 

“Mum, why is there an onion here?” 

“It’s to ward off COVID,” she replied from the kitchen. 

“Is there any scientific evidence to this? Where did you hear this from?” I said, my eyebrows knitted as I recalled the absurdity I had to live with. 

“My friends sent me videos saying cut onions can ward off viruses and bacteria.”

I glanced at Dad instinctively to check his mood. He didn’t look angry and even seemed relaxed. But I quickly reminded myself not to let my guard down lest the tide turn. I never could figure out what might trigger his temper. 

I wrinkled my nose. “There’s a bad smell.” 

“No smell mah,” Mum said. 

It was unbearable—how was I going to live here? I took a deliberate whiff to try and identify the real source of the smell. Damp clothes? Perspiration … body odour? And … mothballs or insecticides? 

I flung the door wide open. I blasted the ceiling fan. I pushed the sliding windows open and felt a piercing pain on the side of my palm. I turned my hand and realised I had scraped my skin against the primitive BBQ grill wire mesh, affixed to the bottom half of our window grille with nylon cable ties. 

Having moved away, I had forgotten I had to be cautious about handling the windows because of those damn wires. Mum’s resolute attempt to keep rats and cats from entering our house. I’d seen them—cats, not rats—at our doorstep, twice. At the time I felt happy—perhaps they came because they liked us?

“Because we stay low floor, common corridor,” she emphasised whenever I protested about these wires, “robbers can put their hands through our window grille or people can peep in.” 

We already had frosted privacy window panes, grey square-patterned window grilles, and the windows locked when we were asleep or when no one was home. Weren’t these measures sufficient? I’ve had rows with her about this for years and knew better than to start again. Ironically, staring at these windows made me feel unsettled rather than safe. It made me feel trapped in a prison cell, probably symbolic of what I had been facing most of my life. 

Only when I moved out did I realise a home could be a peaceful place and not a minefield. I often caught myself smiling even while doing chores like cooking and cleaning. My productivity at work increased many times over. My dentist who had not known much about me, remarked casually about my lifted spirits. But, how could I afford to rent a place with the current unpredictable economy and grim job market? 

Over the next few days, I discovered Mum had been using an insect repellent she had bought, from Facebook Live, around our house and on the furniture. 

“Can you stop spraying for a while so I can investigate where the stench is from?” 

“It’s pandan flavor, can’t be this. It prevents cockroaches, insects, and most importantly, mosquitoes, which can cause dengue fever,” She attempted to convince me.

Dad also began to use insecticides excessively even on harmless flies. 

The kitchen window grille was “decorated” with more than a dozen types of reusable and disposable face masks. Each mask was pinned up by a clothes peg on a square of the window grille. It was not only an eyesore but also obstructed potential breezes. I rehung them all on one side to let some proper wind in. My repeated requests for them to follow suit fell on deaf ears, and I found myself having to rehang them every other day. With everything else I was already enduring, I wanted to act on every possibility that could allow me to have, at least, odourless air. 

Late one night, I was in a Zoom call with my cell group, my church friends praying for me, knowing I had reluctantly moved back home. Their voices were drowned out by my parents’ quarrelling in their bedroom. If I couldn’t hear their prayers, would I still be able to receive them? I turned up the volume on my laptop, cupped my earphones over my ears and ensured my mic was on mute except when I responded with an “amen”. No hint on my face; no one would know what was happening within these triple-guarded windows. 

I stood up, found a pair of scissors and began snipping the cable ties.

An earlier version of this story was first presented at Singapore Writers Festival 2020.

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