By Seah Hui Wen

It was 6am and Mei Lan's eighth day of work in this house.

She cranked open a casement window at the kitchen's end. The monsoon downpour had slowed to a drizzle, but the skies remained thick with rain clouds. Mei Lan inhaled deeply, expecting the cool, grassy air of the rain to fill her lungs. She stopped abruptly, frowning as a sharp scent of cigarette smoke cut rudely through the crisp morning air.

Mei Lan shut the window and moved towards the kitchen sink to work on the stash of used milk bottles that had accumulated through the night. She soaped the bottles, teats, bottle rings and dust caps, and ran her fingers repeatedly through each item under the running tap till it squeaked clean. Her moves were smooth and mechanical, part of a well-oiled process perfected through sheer repetition of over twenty years. Her thoughts streamed like water from the chrome-polished tap.

She thought about Ping An, her only son, whom she had not seen in close to three years since the Covid-19 pandemic started. As the supply for confinement nannies in Singapore dried up with the border closures, demand skyrocketed, so much that she could charge nearly twice her usual fees. Mei Lan stayed in Singapore as the world locked down, taking on one job after another, back to back, with barely two or three days of rest in between each stint. She consoled herself that the end was near, for the borders had finally opened and this was her final job before returning to Malaysia to see Ping An.

Lately, Mei Lan had a recurring vision of herself giving Ping An a plump ang pow during the upcoming Lunar New Year, that would more than cover the costs of his yearlong student exchange programme to America. She would write his Chinese name with smooth, broad calligraphic strokes on the back of the angpow – Ping An – which stood for wellness and safety. She would do something about his addiction to soft drinks. The last time she saw him, his T-shirt could hardly fit over his stomach. The chair he had squished into creaked continuously under his weight as he hunched over two computer screens. He had to keep his prediabetes in check.

A rhythmic, high-pitched wail pierced through the air like a siren. Mei Lan snapped into action instinctively. She turned off the tap and removed a clean milk bottle from the sterilizer to make milk from the formula tin. The father would not be pleased, but she had no choice. Mei Lan rolled the upright bottle between her palms as she hurried towards the nursery. She prided herself on not having used a spoon to stir the contents of a bottle in years, because formula milk powder would always dissolve fully in water at the perfect temperature.

An hour later, Mei Lan had fed, burped and patted the baby to sleep. She entered the kitchen again, setting the used milk bottle down and busying herself with preparing breakfast for the mother. She had scooped rice vermicelli and steaming chicken soup into a large ceramic bowl, and was topping off the dish with fried ginger strips when she heard the father's booming voice.

"My baby drank formula milk again?"

Mei Lan turned to face the scowling father, whose wide set eyes had narrowed into a straight line, matching his tightly pursed lips.

The father's grimace reminded Mei Lan of the time she arrived at the house and rang the doorbell. The man had answered the door wearing blue disposable rubber gloves and held out a COVID-19 test kit for her use. He instructed her to open her luggage in the common corridor and squatted in front of it, turning over her T-shirts, bottoms, underwear and toiletries loosely with one hand while holding up a laser pointer with the other. "Need to make sure you don't bring COVID or bedbugs into the house," was all he said as he carried out his checks. Mei Lan's stomach clenched into a ball, but she held her tongue. After all, she was only short of that bit of money for Ping An's angpow, and this was her last gig before the Lunar New Year.

This time, Mei Lan met his hard stare. She did not even try to contain herself. "If not I feed with what? The baby must not go hungry, right?"

The father raised his brows and spoke slowly, pronouncing each word deliberately. "I've said it before. Breast is best. Breast is best."

"Your wife no milk how to 'breast is best?'"

"Isn't that your job, to help her produce breast milk?"

Since Mei Lan's first day at the house, she had tried many ways to help the mother lactate, from getting the baby to latch onto the mother's breasts whenever he was hungry, cooking milk-boosting food like green papaya and threadfin soup for the mother's consumption, and advising her to purchase a hospital grade breast pump known for optimising breast milk output. However, not a single drop of breast milk flowed from the mother, not yet at least.

"Some new mothers not so lucky, their breast milk come later. Your wife didn't sleep much last night, she use the breast pump and looking online for help –"

"But established research says she has to latch the baby on demand to start her breastfeeding. You're making things worse by giving the baby formula milk," the father's voice was getting louder.

"No, past few days and nights your wife latch the baby every time he is hungry. The baby know she got no milk. He scream when she latch him. I told your wife, never mind, she had long labour, go sleep more if not her body not enough energy to make the milk. Your wife said okay, feed formula milk for now," Mei Lan retorted.

A mechanical and rhythmic buzz cut through their conversation.

The mother stood at the arched kitchen doorway, unsmiling, strapped to a vibrating white-and-blue breast pump that she cradled in her arms. Its dense and spherical form reminded Mei Lan of the rice cooker she had placed in Ping An's hostel room.

"I'm working on it."

The father's expression softened. He strode past Mei Lan and placed his hand on the mother's shoulder. Then, he picked up his laptop bag and left the house.

To Mei Lan's horror, the mother refused to consume the rice vermicelli and ginger chicken soup.

"Ah girl, you must eat. This soup is very good for your body recovery from birth!"

"It's okay, Auntie. I'm having lactation cookies and granola with milk. They are loaded with ingredients that will boost my breast milk supply," the mother made her way to the refrigerator and swung the doors open. 

"Aiyoh! Don't go near the fridge! You push and push during labour, all the pores on your skin open. The fridge cold will go into your body through all your pores! And don't eat junk food! Don't forget you're in confinement!" Mei Lan's arms flailed wildly as the mother stood in front of the open fridge.

"It's not junk food, Auntie. It will help me get breast milk. I have to breastfeed my son to give him the best start in life." The mother shut the fridge and placed a carton of milk and a brown paper packet carrying the printed black words "Fanny's Lactation Treats" on the dining table.

"Actually, as long as the baby got good milk to drink and he is full can already what. Last time auntie also never feed my baby breast milk. Auntie came to Singapore to work one month after he was born. My mother-in-law fed him condensed milk, and he became very fat," Mei Lan bristled as she continued. "But my boy still good-looking and clever. He's studying in university in Johor now, going to study in America soon. Auntie don't understand why you are so stubborn –"

"Auntie, many of my friends were able to breastfeed right after delivery. And they could even build a supply of frozen breast milk to be warmed up for their babies to drink any time."

The mother had her eyes on her mobile phone the whole time Mei Lan was talking. She turned her phone screen towards Mei Lan.

"My friend sent me this. See, her frozen breast milk filled up her whole freezer!"

Mei Lan squinted at the photo. The freezer compartment was packed tight with palm-sized packets of frozen white liquid.

"You sure that's breast milk? Maybe she put something else inside, like condensed milk? Ah girl, don't believe everything that people say, do what is best for you."

It's okay, Auntie, let me do it my way. I'll heat up the noodles in the microwave for lunch later," the mother said as she emptied the bag of Fanny's Lactation Treats into a bowl and added milk. Mei Lan stared wordlessly at the puddle of water that had formed where the chilled milk carton stood on the dining table.

Sensing the lost cause, Mei Lan left the kitchen to check on the sleeping baby. She passed the living room on her way to the nursery. A framed photograph hung in the centre of the wall. The mother and father were dressed in their university graduation gowns and mortar boards, interlocking fingers and beaming at their limitless futures. Wasn't a university education supposed to make you more open-minded and receptive to different possibilities? Mei Lan could not understand their fixation with exclusively feeding their baby breast milk. What was wrong with formula milk? Was not the healing of the mother just as important, if not more so? The young parents were in this for the long haul, and it was unwise to sprint strenuously when they were only at the start. Mei Lan shook her head with a sigh. 

Mei Lan was leaving for Singapore; it would be her first time abroad in years. A confinement nanny agency was recruiting, and she had signed up with them hoping to earn the stronger Sing dollar. Ming had been cremated, and Ping An had just turned one month old. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, bunching her frizzy hair up in a low ponytail. She touched the age spots on her left cheek and stared at her pupils reflecting the dim light of dawn. With Ming's death, her best years were over, and now a new kind of life was beginning.

"Don't worry, we will take good care of him." Ming's mother said, cradling Ping An.

Ping An started to bawl once Mei Lan put on her shoes and walked through the door. She could not bear to turn back.

Mei Lan woke, breathing heavily. The house was dark and thick with sleep. She slowly shut her eyes again.

The gate of Mei Lan's home was ajar. Several white cans stacked themselves untidily near the rubbish bin, where a mass of black ants had gathered. These were Milkmaid cans which shouted the words "FULL CREAM SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK." To the left of the blue Milkmaid brand was a picture of a woman balancing a bucket on her head and smiling lopsidedly.

Mei Lan stepped inside her home tentatively. Her mother-in-law was reclining on the sofa, watching TV and feeding one-year-old Ping An yellowish-white condensed milk, diluted using water from a kettle placed at her feet on the ground. Mei Lan moved forward, her mouth opening in a growl as she caught her mother-in-law's expression changing from shock to fear.

Mei Lan woke again, drenched in sweat this time. Her mind had been a broken record lately, repeatedly playing back memories from two decades ago as she slept. Was this guilt that gnawed at her? That she had traded Ping An's birthright to maternal care for work, spending her life's energy one month at a time on babies and parents she could not even recall the names and faces of? Surely it was her fault that Ping An had become obese and saddled with prediabetes. Mei Lan rubbed her forehead wearily.

The clock read 05:45 – it was 10 minutes to the baby's next feed. Mei Lan got up to make milk.

The formula milk tin was getting lighter. Mei Lan knocked all corners of the tin gently with her fingers to gather the remaining milk powder in a corner of the tin before scooping, making sure not to waste any of it. Still, there wasn't enough milk powder to make up the feed. Mei Lan had asked the father about the dwindling formula milk supply the previous night, and all he did was to rap on the glass cabinet in the kitchen, saying "There is one more tin here, for emergency only." He had pronounced the words slowly, taking care to emphasise the last three. The new milk tin gleamed as Mei Lan lifted the cabinet door. Before she could reach for the tin, a hand from behind slammed the door shut. The loud bang reverberated through the still morning.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?"

"Excuse me?" Mei Lan's mouth curled into the same growl that she wore years ago. "Formula milk is not evil, you know. Some babies don't even get to drink formula milk –"

"But Auntie, you should –"

BAM.

Both Mei Lan and the father jumped. It sounded like a wrecking ball had hit a concrete floor. Did that come from within the house or outside of it?

Mei Lan hurried to the nursery to find its door open and the lights turned on. The mother was kneeling on the floor, surrounded by small shards of glass from the broken display panel of the breast pump. The baby had awakened and began to bawl.

"Auntie, help me! I can't pump the milk out!"

As the mother lifted up her top, Mei Lan saw angry red splotches fully covering both of her swollen breasts, like a raging fire engulfing whatever laid beneath the skin. Mei Lan gasped in horror. She feared for the mother, and for herself. The mother began to shake like a leaf and fell to the floor, keeled over.

"Call the ambulance!" Mei Lan yelled at the father who was standing motionless by the door, taking in all that was happening with his mouth agape.

Two weeks passed before Mei Lan heard from the father.

After the ambulance staff came for the unconscious mother, the father would return sporadically to the house, often late at night, and head out early in the morning. Mei Lan hardly saw him, and his only means of communication was leaving tins of formula milk on the dining table for the baby's feeds.

One morning during Mei Lan's final week in the house, she was washing up milk bottles when she heard footsteps behind her. The father placed a brown carton on the kitchen floor and rubbed his neck sheepishly.

"Auntie, thanks for looking after our baby. I guess I have to let you know at some point. Ruby developed severe breast inflammation and had emergency surgery to fix it."

"Aiyoh! So serious. How did that happen?" Mei Lan turned the tap off and looked at the father.

The father bit his lower lip and looked past Mei Lan's shoulder. "The doctors said that the inflammation set in suddenly. No one saw it coming." He continued in a small voice.

"Anyway, Ruby is better now and will be discharged tomorrow. We will be heading for the airport after that."

"Huh? Airport? Where are you going?"

"I'll be bringing Ruby to a wellness resort in Perth for two weeks. After all that she's been through, I want her to focus fully on recovery."

"But I leave on Friday. Already booked my bus ticket to Johor. Who will take care of your baby?" Mei Lan frowned, placing one hand on her hip.

"Not to worry, Auntie. Your agency said that they would assign another nanny to take over when your stint ends. The new nanny will be here till we return," the father continued.

"Oh, could you help keep these? They should last till we get back," the father tore off the tape on the carton box and lifted its lids to reveal six pristine white tins of formula milk powder. "I'll be keeping tabs on the milk supply and will order more when we need it."

"Your baby is not one month old yet and you go for vacation? You must be kidding. Your wife is okay being away from her baby?" Mei Lan quipped.

"Ruby was very resistant to going overseas at first. But I told her, what is two weeks in the span of a lifetime? It is better for her to rest fully before she gets back," the father said. Mei Lan stared at him, but he would not look at her.

"Don't worry, I'm installing CCTVs in the entire house, one in each room. We will be monitoring our baby closely and giving the new nanny instructions through the CCTVs. It will be like having an extended Zoom call. Ruby and I are all very used to virtual meetings and video calls now… after the COVID-19 pandemic," the father laughed nervously.

"Look, I'm just trying to do what's best for my family, okay?" the father said finally.

Mei Lan opened her mouth, and shut it. Who was she to judge, given that she had also left her own child in the care of another?

"Okay, okay, up to you," Mei Lan waved the father away and turned on the tap again to continue rinsing the milk bottles.

Mei Lan held the baby in her arms, rocking him gently from side to side.

The digital clock in the nursery read 23:47. The digits would soon reset themselves to 00:00. Mei Lan liked being at the cusp of a new day. Each new day brought with it fresh hope and possibilities. Tomorrow, Mei Lan would ride the bus back to Johor with a thick Lunar New Year ang pow in hand for Ping An. She would clean up his place and cook nutritious meals that they could share together.

She saw Ping An's dimpled smile, from all those years ago, looking back at her against the warm and glowing yellow silhouette of the night lamp. "If Mama can do it again, Mama will take care of you myself. You will drink good milk. You will not have health problems," she whispered.

She held him close, feeling his warm breath against her cheek. Her eyes had become moist, and she shut them.

_____