A giant mirror sat in front of the massage table. On the floor were bath towels that smelled of mold and alcohol. I watched the chiropractor place his thick, hairy hands on Ma’s ribs—watched him, watched him—pushing against her breasts as he hugged and pulled and lifted her from behind. The chiropractor urged Ma to relax and imagine herself floating on the sea. “You’re on holiday now,” he said, and Ma closed her eyes and leaned into him. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh yes, that’s it.”

The sky was black when we left the clinic. I tugged at Ma’s hand and asked if we could take a taxi instead of the public bus. In the car, the taxi driver said he couldn’t believe we were mother and son. “He’s nine,” Ma said, and the taxi driver replied, “Good genes, good genes.” After that, Ma became unusually chatty, kept saying stuff that didn’t make much sense. Like how being touched was comforting. When we got home, she locked herself in the bathroom, and I heard strange noises. It sounded like someone angrily squeezing my toy rubber ducky. I pounded on the door. Ma shouted back that she was trying to relax. Would I be good and wait quietly in my room?

The chiropractor took cash only. Often, we saw him at noon, when he was eating his lunch. He liked to slurp greasy noodles that weren’t good for his heart and wash them down with tall cans of Coca-Cola. He was old, and his fingernails were long and yellow. Once, he said if we ever found his clinic closed for business, it meant he was dead. Would we promise never to patronize that guy upstairs? A former disciple. A bloody backstabber. “Oh, and please phone the police!”

Ma covered my ears.

“Austin!” She laughed. “You’re scaring my boy!”

The chiropractor’s clinic was tucked away in the basement of a run-down shopping complex, so ancient that most taxi drivers couldn’t find it without Ma’s detailed directions. I’d walk in stiffly beside Ma, listening as she worried aloud about her job, how she wished she’d stayed in school, how she had no skills and was getting old. “My whole life,” she said once, “I believed I was born to be pampered.” I didn’t like seeing her dressed in white, figure-hugging tops. Below that, her bra was always a red-hot pink. She wore yoga pants. I got nervous whenever she sat too close to the chiropractor and adjusted her bra straps. She said they dug into her skin. Sometimes, my eyelids grew heavy from stress, and I’d fall asleep. When I woke up, I’d feel so guilty that I’d start sobbing. Ma and the chiropractor always chuckled and asked if I wanted candy.

At first, the adjustments made her body ache—her spine, her ribs, her pelvic region. She was easily tired and had a hard time getting out of bed. I begged her to stop seeing the chiropractor, but she explained that the aches were her body’s resistance to change. For her birthday, I took Mr. Piggy to her and asked what she wanted. “A new top,” she answered. Without hesitating, I emptied Mr. Piggy to make her happy. I bought what she wanted. But she got angry at me. “You think I’m fat?” she cried. “I’m a size S!”

The chiropractor had been recommended to us by Ma’s sister’s friend’s husband’s mother. He was voted best on the east side, and Ma believed it. She didn’t mind if the lotion the chiropractor applied to her skin smelled funny, if the air-conditioner leaked, or that the CCTV Blu-tacked to the ceiling was probably fake. I couldn’t stop them from becoming friendly. Ma was concerned about what the chiropractor ate and persuaded him to abandon Coca-Cola for avocado milkshakes. In return, the chiropractor taught Ma simple martial arts so she could defend herself. He told her things he admitted he wouldn’t have told anyone else. For example, to avoid paying his taxes, he accepted only cash, didn’t issue receipts, and kept no records of his patients. Ma grinned and called him cunning. They both laughed. As I watched them, I wondered what was so funny.

I knew my job was more than just moral support. I’d seen the chiropractor yank at Ma’s hair, twist her head sideways, and shout, “I didn’t go to school! I’m a self-taught man!” Ma laughed, and there was a loud crack. “Ow!” she shrieked and laughed again. The chiropractor was dangerous, I decided—I had to watch him. Not directly, but through the mirror across from us while I pretended to play I-Spy. I wondered if he knew. He seemed very wise. One time he caught me staring at him, and I saw him almost grin. It was the first time our eyes met in the mirror. Ma was lying on her back; he was sinking his elbow into her stomach as though she were a slab of bread dough, crinkling her skin. “Everyone has pain!” he shouted. I looked away and into my own eyes, then down at my hands. Soft and heavily sanitized. Weak, small, and hesitant. I saw failure and shame in these hands.

After we left, I asked Ma, “Are you hurt?” And Ma shook her head in a way that told me she was about to crack a joke, to downplay things. This always unsettled me. Ma then tousled my hair and thanked me for being a good son. She spoke of the sacrifices I’d endured since Pa walked out on us. She lauded me, explained how I was far superior to my father. Such a selfless, exemplary, affectionate man I’d been for her—she didn’t deserve me. I listened and tried to appear calm, but deep down, I was angry. I told her that I no longer wanted to see the chiropractor with her. “But I need you to make sure Austin doesn’t try anything funny!” she said.

After, I noticed Ma growing nicer to me. She helped me with my homework and the meals she cooked tasted better. I was allowed to watch cartoons at night while snacking on potato chips. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked, and I nodded. Sometimes, she came to sit with me and ask how I felt about Pa leaving. I realized my answers affected her mood. If I said I missed Pa, she’d smile, stroke my face, and retire to her room. One time, she surprised me with a brand-new cartoon. From the DVD rack, she took out Winnie The Pooh. Before she hit the play button, she told me this was a sad cartoon, which I would only appreciate when I was older. Her favorite character was a tiger that bounced on its tail—the noise this made sounded so ridiculous, I felt like clapping.

We returned to the chiropractor the following week but couldn’t open the door. There was no way to get in, except to smash through the glass. Ma squeezed my shoulders, told me to stay put, and went looking for a security guard or someone else who could help. I pressed my nose against the window. It was dark inside. I spotted an umbrella. I played I-Spy. All the while, I wished Ma wouldn’t return with help. I remembered once we were at the animal shelter to choose a puppy and how everything was going as planned until a strange man in a dirty jumpsuit came and told her how pretty she looked. “Go play with the bunnies,” she said and went away. She was gone for a long time. In the end, we left empty-handed. Another time, in a furniture store, I ran circles searching for Ma and split my forehead open on a table. Ma was angry when she came to retrieve me. She asked me why I refused to cry, blood covering my face. She said there was too much pride in me.

I spotted the chiropractor on the floor. I pounded the glass and shouted his name like he was family.

He was shirtless. His eyes were closed.

Ma returned, sweating, with a young man, just as I was about to cry. They were walking close together, touching hands. The young man wore a tie and square shoes that squeaked against the linoleum. The sound hurt my teeth. I looked away at the other shops: secondhand goods, a money-changer, toys for lovers. Then there was silence.

“You all right?” the man asked me.

I wanted to tell him I was scared, afraid of the stench and flies that were sure to greet us once we opened the door. That’s what it was like on TV. But pride kept me from saying this. I couldn’t imagine the chiropractor having a wife, but that was what the man told us. The chiropractor drinks, he added, but never this much. Ma nodded solemnly at this.

“Are you the backstabber?” I asked.

The man chuckled and said yes. He pointed to the glass, at the gold ingot sitting next to the cash register. He said there were candies inside.

And no, the chiropractor wasn’t dead.

We unlocked the door using a spare key that Management gave us. Ma rushed to the chiropractor before anyone could find the light switch. She knelt beside him, shook him, and called his name. Soon the lights came on, and I saw the chiropractor’s hands were hurting. There were painkillers and wet cigarettes on the floor. A squishy ice pack. I looked at the chiropractor’s face and kept swallowing a sharp pain in my throat. Ma turned to me. “Mr. Austin is like Eeyore sometimes,” she said. “He feels sad.” The backstabber laughed. He lifted the chiropractor’s wallet from the back pocket, opened it, and said, “Yup, it’s all gone.” Ma brought the chiropractor’s clothes into the backroom while the backstabber and I struggled to lift him onto the massage table.

“I’m calling his wife,” the backstabber said and stepped outside. Ma tried to clean the chiropractor’s wounds with cotton balls, but her hands shook. Blood dripped onto the floor. I put my finger under his nose to see if he was breathing. The cotton was soaked crimson now. I ran to fill a paper cup with water and brought it to his mouth. “Drink this! Drink!” The chiropractor opened his eyes. He winced when Ma dabbed his wounds again. He made funny noises. “Why are you smiling?” I said.

But he refused to speak, kept putting up that brave front.

I looked at Ma and remembered the furniture store. I’d smiled, too, even though my face had been drenched in blood. It got Ma so upset that she’d cried, “Stop! Please! What the hell is wrong with you!”

There was a knock on the glass.

A woman was standing at the door: “Hello, is Austin ready?” I looked at the chiropractor. It felt strange to know he treated patients who weren’t us. I put away the paper cup, went over, and bowed at the woman. “Mr. Austin is unwell at the moment. Could you please come back another day?” Ma and the backstabber smiled and went to the carpark to smoke cigarettes.

An hour passed, then two.

More and more people showed up at the clinic. I took deep breaths. I spoke politely to each of them, seeking their understanding. Each time someone left, I reached into the ingot and rewarded myself with candy.

________________________________________________________________________________________Marcus Ong Kah Ho / 王家豪 is a writer and teacher from Singapore. His stories have appeared or are forthcoming in the Adroit Journal, Chicago Quarterly Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Salt Hill Journal, Washington Square Review, and elsewhere. Read more at www.marcusongkh.com.