Chapter 3 - The Memory Lane

For the past twenty-five years, there has been a movie reel in my mind. Many nights, in my dreams, that reel will replay the scenes of the fateful day my parents disappeared. The dreams carried a nightmarish tone in the initial years, but as I grew up, stronger in management of sorrow, it mellowed into a plain trailer.  I had learned to tame the monsters in me, though at times, I struggled with the powers that came with my lone existence.

My growing-up began when my parents embarked on a journey to Japan on a mission to search for the roots of my mother’s family. My mother had always wanted to explore her Japanese ancestral roots. As a child, she had listened to her grandmother’s talk about her father’s family, who were based in the mountainous region of Nagano.

They, the Kaneko, had served for generations in the imperial court under the samurai clan. War brought my mother’s Japanese family tree to Singapore. They left in 1945 after the defeat but returned a few years later. This time they stayed for good and grew their roots in Singapore.

My mother was born a Singaporean, but her Japanese DNA resided deep in her bones. She loved Japanese art and spoke the language with ease. My father was a lover of cultures and their first meeting during university was an alignment of interest, and love.

My mother’s curiosity never left her. After she married my father and had me, she felt it was opportune to visit her ancestral hometown. Her persistence, which was always a virtue, turned out to be a liability when she planned the trip. She ignored telltale signs not to proceed with.

The weather forecast had indicated heavy snowfall during our visit.

My father had asked if they could postpone the trip because I was only five and may have struggled

in the harsh winter weather. A blizzard would complicate things. In the ensuing debate, my ever-optimistic mother prevailed, and so we traveled.

I had deep impressions of the trip. I remembered vividly the little things about it– the flight, the food we ate, and the trains we took. Even in my adulthood, I still have flashes of these memories, which was a bad because they aggravated the sense of melancholy whenever I missed my parents.

Our destination was Nagano, a city north of Tokyo. It was the highest level city, nestled in the beautiful mountains that were regarded as the Japanese ‘Alps.’ On that morning when we took a train up north out of Tokyo to the city of Nagano, there were hints of snow and the temperature had dropped to a bone-chilling five degrees.

My attentive mother wrapped me in the thickest of clothing. I had a distinctively unique memory of her, the warmth of her hands as she helped me with my gloves. I remember her perfume, her smile and the characteristic tilt of her head whenever she called me. She was a slender lady with a cherubic face. I enjoyed rubbing my head against those cheeks.

Everything about my mother stayed with me until today. Unique and irreplaceable.

On that morning on the trip, I had asked, “Where are we going?”

“A city called Nagano..Nag..a..no.”

“Why, mummy? Why can’t we go to Disneyland?”

“We will go there after Nagano. My grandmother told me our ancestors have a castle in a village nearby.”

“Castle?” I exclaimed. Having been told stories of knights in castles as bedtime stories, I was thrilled.

“Yes. I want to discover the roots of my family, Anthony. It’s about you too. Our ancestors.”

“Ancestors?”

“My grandfather. His father and his father and so on.”

I barely understood, but the next line thrilled me.

“Once we are done with the trip, I promise we will immediately head to Disneyland.”

The mention of a castle and the promise - lit up my imagination. It mitigated the hassle of the trip.

It was all dark when we reached Nagano, and after food and some walking around, we rested. I cannot remember the place we stayed in, but it was a simple lodging with a huge garden.

The next morning, I woke to a biting chill. Overnight it had snowed, and the sight of pearly white landscape electrified me.

However, I was alone in my delight because my parents were then gripped with anxiety, caught in a tussle. I remembered an argument that had loud voices. I barely remember the details, but my father raised his voice at my mother first.

He was gentle by nature, and outbursts were rare like the blue moon. If he had to raise his voice, it would was a serious matter.

It seemed he wanted to stay put, while my mother had insisted on going ahead with the road trip. They had planned to drive up into the countryside. She mentioned something about dates and timing.  Again, my mother had her way, but the result was that both wore difficult expressions and did not exchange a word.

My father chose the latter between public transport and private cars, and this time, my mother relented despite her strong preference for me to experience the local bus. My initial fascination with the snow soon fell to boredom. I hated the monotony of a uniform landscape. We were in the back seat.

I drifted into sleep in the warmth of my mother’s embrace, half an embrace to be precise, as her other hand was holding up a map. As my father drove, she gave directions. 

A queer sense of discomfort crawled over me, and I was oscillating between drowsiness and half-sleep. When I was awoken by an abrupt knock, the skies had turned dark.

“Wake up, Anthony. Wake up!” I opened my eyes to see my father’s face with a dreadful grey.

Where is my mother? I panicked. “Mummy?” I asked again.

Dad simply rolled his eyes to the space in front of the car.

There I saw my mother, standing alone, in the middle of a snow-filled road. There was a howling wind that seemed to bring everything to a stop.  I was frightened and cried for my mother. However, she remained rooted on the road, transfixed on something in front of her.

I wanted to open the door, but a strong gust of wind bumped into the vehicle like a raging bull. It sent me scrambling into my father’s arms.

“Mummy, I want you. Mummy!”

There was no way she could hear me, but there was no way I could have understood. My howling intensified, and in the distance, my mother seemed to be glued to her spot and was transfixed on something in front of her. Something I could not see.

Slowly she turned to us, I will never forget her expression – one of deep melancholy. It was the first time in my life when I experienced the cold fear that comes with total loss.

The wind had picked up, and a gush of snow began to build around her. It looked like something, or someone had wrapped a while shawl over her.  The next moment, my father dropped me, and opened the car door. Before he shut it, he turned to me.

“Anthony, we love you. Daddy loves you.”

Then he slammed the door shut and dashed towards my mother. Fanatically, he swept the snow away and held my mother in a deep embrace. I remembered he had turned around and extended his hand, pointing at me. He was pointing to something, someone near me, but I couldn’t understand.

I was frozen in fear.  

My last impression was my parents in tight embrace before a blizzard of snow swallowed them. The impact from the snow whirl warped my mind. The next moments were a blank in my memory - darknand empty. 

It was a challenge to recollect. Until today, I tried to meditate into my subconsciousness to search for the memory, but it was always a cul-de-sac. Each attempt landed me in the darkness of depression, and I had stopped doing so. I was afraid the depressive sorrow would kill me.

After my parents were gone, my mind lapsed into a blank. I was found in the morning, or so it was reported, in the back seat with eyes wide open. The account was provided by one of the rescuers whom I met ten years later when I returned to Japan to seek the truth.

He told me when they arrived; the car was already surrounded by a wall of snow. It looked like someone had built a cocoon around the car.  Was it nature? Could it have been my parents? I am still in search of an answer. The rescue team took a good hour digging before they found the door.

They were surprised I was still alive. Nippon Daily termed me Kiseki Child - the miracle in expression over the fact that I was alive after the fiercest snowfall since 1945.  My parents were never found. They knew I came with a couple due to their records but searches over the next seven days did not yield anything. Their bodies were never found. Strangest of things, they did not find one piece of their belongings - not a scarf, glove, or bag.

I fell into a void, surrounded by strangers who cared for me but could not speak enough English to tell me about my parents’ whereabouts.

It was the first time in my life I experienced sorrow and was hapless. Luckily, my father had a tightly knitted family. I was brought back to Singapore by my paternal uncle, Fred.  He was four years younger than my father and looked after me ever since.

As I grew up, I discovered changes within me. I seemed to have a heightened sense of awareness of my environment. I had the uncanny ability to detect the presence of living beings around me. I could see spirits and communicate with them.

You may think I am schizophrenic. My uncle Fred thought the trauma of losing my parents had affected me. However, I was normal, just being myself.

I told him about a bobbing black life form that I spotted underneath the kitchen sink, the girl who stood at the junction of our neighborhood, and the monkey-like forms that hopped on the trees at night.  The last straw came when I was thirteen and told him there was always a girl seated on the ledge outside my classroom.

Without hesitation, he sent me to a psychiatrist. I underwent one test after another, answering questions after questions but the psychiatrist did not find anything wrong with me.

I was sane and very clear about what I saw. When I drew the people or beings in others’ eyes on paper clearly, they were dumbfounded.

They grew to accept my unique condition, and uncle Fred stopped sending me for treatments. He thought I might have inherited the gifts of my parents.

What happened to the girl on the ledge is a story to be told another time.

It took my adolescent years to accept that I am different from my peers. My abnormality is actually extraordinariness. My ability to communicate with ghosts and spirits from other worlds and dimensions allows me to understand and help them. I learned I could serve as a bridge between our world and theirs.

When I reached the age of twenty-one, I was acquainted with a few masters of the spiritual world. From them, I learnt the ways of the universe and the different dimensions of ghosts, spirits, humans, and the demi-gods. I accepted my powers and appreciated them as gifts. I have been taught to master my powers to serve the greater good.

I had so many untold encounters with the spirits and supernatural beings from the other worlds, and that day with the Colonel, I had a feeling I would add another chapter to those chronicles.