My Mother's Menagerie
By Euginia Tan


My mother kept her handbags in a wardrobe made of glass. It was a precarious piece, both in form and content, because if you swung the doors too hard you could potentially break the entire thing. The bags inside could all pour out and, once exposed to air, they would slowly become damaged. They were all made of different skins. I never fathomed which bag was what skin.

She kept many other things in her closet that were strange and heinous to me. It resembled a half-living menagerie. I always felt the curios’ were breathing, leering at me in the form of lady articles.  The bags seemed to claw back when I snuck a touch. Their rough, dry exteriors reminded me of peeled skin after sunburn, large chunks of burnt epidermis revealing themselves as tracing paper to my fingers. Even so, the bags were not flaky or crumbly if kept safe inside their glass cage. They would be tough and hardy, elephantine in their posterior. When the weather outside was hot, I would peek at them: there they were, lazy vipers lumped about, basking in the summer months. Sinister yet simmering, too embroiled in temperate heat to scheme.
 
Just across the glass wardrobe was her dressing table. Strewn cosmetics lay covert like slimy lizards on a wall. I hated watching them in action, when my mother put her make-up on. I saw a lizard pounce on a beetle once. Though it was small, it lumbered closer and closer. The beetle seemed to sense its impending end. Before it could inch away discreetly, the lizard sprang. It was very unsavoury to look at. My mother’s eyes were like that beetle: black, cold and artless. The wand of her lizard mascara flicked its tongue out to finish her eyes. Flick, flick, flick. The finished product frightened me even more, because, on top of the hardness, her eyes became smoky and noxious. When she bent down to hug me with a face full of make-up, I coughed and struggled away from the fumes of her powders and lipsticks. It was like stepping into a swamp and being attacked with mosquitoes and leeches of the deep.
 
My mother’s closet menagerie became the destination I feared yet trekked endlessly in. I would prepare for such treks by taking big gulps of air, ridding my small doughy hands palms of sweat before examining new finds thoroughly. The bags snarled and hissed at me, the reptilian cosmetics watched me with their beady eyes. I had developed a thick hide to deal with them. Shrugging off their beastly sounds and hound-like stares, I began my hunt. Some old receipts here, a bit of forgotten candy there; these were tame like frog and mice. They wriggled into my hands harmlessly, happy to be held. I let them go after a few seconds, allowing them to roam free as dust. There seemed to be nothing of interest today. Perhaps I could try again tomorrow.
 
One day, there it was.
 
It was concealed behind my mother’s clothes, the ones to be dry-cleaned over the weekend. Parting the bush of clothes, I scrutinised the new specimen. It was mounted on a makeshift head. A brown and furry wig. Out of everything in the menagerie, it was the most furtive and shy. I stroked it gently, afraid to rouse it from its cat-like nap. It stirred, but continued its feline siesta, as I caressed it tenderly.

What are you doing here?, I asked.

I realised its human-looking hair was synthetic. Woven intricately together and secured underneath with some netting.
 
What are you doing here?!

Now the question was addressed to me. A shriek. I spun around in panic. My mother had just come out of the shower, white and steamed like a bun, a towel around her waist. There was a scar on one of her breasts. I don’t know what struck me first, that scar, or the fact that my mother’s head was patchy, and missing hair in some areas. It dawned on me that the wig should be on her head. I grabbed it and offered it to her, as an apology for snooping. She snatched it from me in mute shock, gasping for air. In her hands, the wig was in a frenzy. It wanted desperately to get back to sleep - on a real head, or not. My instinct to escape in one piece kicked in. I whizzed out of the room like a bee.
 
That night, I lay awake in bed. I thought about the cat wig, how it had curled so meekly to my touch. I thought about the new scar on her breasts, the way it was fierce and angry against her pale skin, as though something was torn out of her forcefully. I thought about her patchy head. I pulled my blanket close to me, interrogating the ceiling lamp for answers. The ceiling lamp disappeared, and my father’s head took its place. He stroked my head, as I did the wig. He said: “Mummy has cancer.”

The word tasted unfamiliar, like new toothpaste. After my father said goodnight, I heard my parents fighting outside. Cancer changed nothing at home.

I wondered if the wig would settle in well with the rest of the menagerie. Would they shred it to pieces? Would they try to take it apart in their ferocious quest to conquer all closet space for themselves? Drifting off to sleep, I hoped the dry-cleaned clothes would camouflage the wig from potential predators.

The next few days, I was unable to explore. I heard my mother crying in her room, loud and shrill like a cockerel. Each time I tried to enter, she spit words in my face that stung like venom.
 
Finally, one morning, after an uneventful breakfast, a crash shook the house. The menagerie! I rushed into my mother’s room.

The bags were out of the enclosure. The make-up was on the floor, together with my sobbing naked mother. The clothes were strewn all over the place. They were attacking my mother! I fought to get them off my mother’s pallid body, but she seemed to enjoy their ambush. She laughed as she watched me fending the creatures off, laughing at how futile my efforts were.

These are mine, these are mine… she trilled, to no one in particular, as the last strands of her hair fell and mingled with the entire amphitheatre.

Look for the wig, the wig, I told myself.

I churned the mess for it. I knew how vulnerable and exposed it must feel. A purr emitted from the corner, near the hair-dryer. I went to its rescue, cradling it in my arms. A little squashed and battered, but the wig was otherwise unharmed.

I went to my mother. I placed the wig on her bald head, watching it curl back to sleep peacefully. The last of my mother’s tears and screams ran amok with the rest of the menagerie.
Euginia Tan is a Singaporean writer who writes poetry, creative non-fiction and plays. She enjoys cross-pollinating art into multidisciplinary platforms and reviving stories. She is currently being mentored in play writing by Chong Tze Chien, artistic director of the Singaporean theatre group The Finger Players. Contact her at .
On WAAW Short Story Contest winner "My Mother's Menagerie", guest judge and Ethos Books editor Kum Suning says:

"Stunning imagery. Creepy and tender all at the same time. Love this."