“A Forest Fire” by Li Sian Goh was selected by the editors at Joyland magazine as a finalist in the 2022 Open Border Fiction Prize.
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At the doctor’s office, the receptionist had taken one look at Ying and said, you’re still in school, right? Ying, who had changed out of her school uniform specifically for the visit, flinched and said quietly: yes.
Then you’ll need to go for pre-abortion counseling, the woman said. She spoke factually, unemotionally: everyone with more than primary school education, they need to go for it. Beside her, Ying could tell Kit had moved to speak, then decided against it. Before either of them could speak the woman added, somewhat bureaucratically: it’s the law.
A few months ago, Alex had booked out of army training for the weekend. He and Ying were at Hotel 81 when the condom broke. They realized this when he pulled out, and for the first time fear broke through what Ying liked to think of as his rich boy self-assurance, revealing them in stark afternoon light: teenagers cosplaying at sexual liberation in an hourly motel. The first thing he said was: It was fine when I put it on, I don’t know what happened, I swear. Ying could tell he really wanted her to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, to make him feel good all over again, but she was still trying to understand the situation. After they had both calmed down Alex began to say things like: well, it was this one time, what are the odds. The next day, after he had returned to camp, Ying had Googled: plan b singapore. Apparently to access it you needed a prescription from a GP first. The thought of queuing up at a polyclinic and telling a doctor in a white coat and a stethoscope, perhaps hands mottled with liver spots, about what she had done, was so frightening that she had simply closed a door on it in her mind. Anyway, it was Monday and she had had to go to school.
Now, months later, she was at the clinic with Kit. Ying and Kit had only known each other for a couple of months, but when Ying mentally ran through the depressingly short list of people she thought might be able to help, she found, to her surprise, that Kit was at the top. There was no question of going to her mother. Her mother would have responded with shock and accusation, then screaming and crying. Ying didn’t think either of them had the emotional stamina to withstand all the trouble that would inevitably unfold, and so (she justified to herself) by keeping it from her mother, she was really doing the both of them a favor. At school she no longer had any friends. Even if Ying had still been a part of her old friend group, she wouldn’t have gone to them for help. Last year, salacious rumors had circulated around about some girl at another school, who had fallen pregnant and left the school shortly thereafter – whether she had dropped out or been expelled was unclear. None of this seemed unfair or anything other than what it was: the way things were.
Kit and her weren’t close, and Ying was afraid that by asking her for help she would be seen as someone who tried to falsely engineer a sense of intimacy between the two of them. But as it turned out, Kit had done all of this before and knew what to do. She had helped a friend procure an abortion last year. She talked to Ying about the hoops through which she would be expected to jump, matter-of-factly, with only a sideways look that told Ying she perhaps expected shock or horror, expected her to decry the casual eugenics of a policy that only allowed people with more than primary school educations to obtain abortions after they had been counselled against it.
Instead of making any protests, Ying had shrugged and taken it in stride. Obviously, she didn’t want to go for counselling but she’d do it if that was what it took.
As they took their seats Kit said, yeah, it’s like I told you. They won’t let you have an abortion if you don’t go for counselling first. Unless you didn’t finish primary school. It’s super gross.
I’d rather not have to go for it, Ying said quietly.
Yeah. Yeah, no, I get that.
Ying hugged herself. Abstract thoughts, phrases from newspaper headlines flowed through her mind: Singapore’s birth rate hits a new low, PM announces new incentives for couples to have more than two. Since the test came back positive a few days ago, whenever she was conscious of time passing she would become aware of the cells in her uterus whirring away, dividing, multiplying. Anyway, she was planning on sitting through the counselling session like it was only an assembly or a lecture, something to suffer through where her participation wasn’t actively required. All the while: the cells clicking, whirring, dividing.
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Kit was her boyfriend’s ex. Neither of them had known this at first. Alex had brought her to a spoken word poetry event last December and after he was conscripted, she had continued going by herself, to listen to the performers. It was Ying’s last year of school, and the spoken word events gave her an inkling of what life could look like outside of that institution. There she had fallen in with a local poet and her circle, amongst whom Kit was numbered. Kit was an international school kid, she had a haircut that Ying had never actually seen on a person in real life before and a breezy way of talking that wasn’t quite a foreign accent but sounded different from the way any of her friends at school spoke. They were both eighteen, and so they had that in common. While Ying generally kept quiet when the others talked about things like getting invited to their old classmates’ wedding dinners, Kit would tease them for being old.
A few weeks later, when Alex had booked out for the weekend, they went back and Ying saw Kit from across the bar. She waved her over and didn’t see Alex’s expression change until Kit was halfway across the room, he hissed: that’s my ex, what are you doing? By then it was too late.
After the event was over Kit sent Ying a text that said: It’s only weird if we agree to make it weird. That model of social relations seemed more appealing than the one implied by Alex, so they continued talking and hanging out. Anyway Ying liked speaking with Kit, she found herself continually wanting to impress Kit, to do nice things for her and be thought of as nice by her. By that time she was finding Alex a bit of a pain. Being in the army all day long made him morose, but somehow proud of it. Ying found this intolerable, remembering with a new and rising sense of contempt the days when he had seemed so sophisticated and urbane. When Alex accused Ying of preferring Kit to him, she said only: Yes, we’re friends, what are you so worried about? He subsided and muttered: makes sense, of course she’s a lesbo now.
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After the doctor confirmed what two pregnancy tests had already indicated, Ying walked back to the reception area and said to Kit: She got me a counselling session for tomorrow, then I have the actual appointment for Friday. If I still don’t want the pregnancy, that is.
It was only when they were outside that Kit said: do you think you’ll change your mind?
Ying shook her head, and they glanced at each other. Kit was standing close, and her hair smelled very fragrant, like a gently warmed flower. For some reason, a slight smile crept onto Ying’s face, and this was mirrored on Kit’s face: brighter, more inviting.
Okay, well, I’ll pick you up after you’re done with your propaganda session, then we can get something to eat. Then on Friday I’ll drop you off at home after the procedure too.
Ying started to protest. Kit made a sound like: tch, and chucked her under her chin, saying, what are you even saying? It made her sound like the international student she was, part of a breezy accented set who took cabs to school when they were late and floated around in a miasma of pop star perfume. In truth, it would have been nice to see her after the counselling session, so Ying simply acquiesced.
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The counsellor was a woman in her forties wearing a flower-printed blouse with a ruffled collar. A small golden crucifix dangled on a chain from her neck. She asked if Ying was still in school and Ying nodded, resolving not to give the name of her school even if she was asked for it. It wasn’t like they didn’t have ways of finding out, anyway. She asked about Ying’s boyfriend and Ying said, he’s doing National Service.
Does he know?
Yes. Alex had given her the money for the abortion.
The recital of alternatives to adoption: single parenthood, sources of support, adoption. Ying stared at the edge of her seat, looking at where the grey plastic met the air, and said, I’m in school, I’m taking my A-levels this year.
Very good. The counsellor looked surprised. Well, one in five women regret their abortions. It’s alive.
So are the microbes in a jar of pickles. I still want one.
Perhaps it was the air of finality with which she’d said it, but the woman looked disappointed. Ying wondered if other girls confided more things, perhaps fell weeping into her flower print- covered bosom. This lack of emotional display had always felt important to her. Once, her father had told her off angrily: you’re a girl, you can’t be so closed off, this would be okay in a boy. Not a girl.
More than anything receiving confirmation of her dad’s sexism had felt like a relief. And: okay, good, he can’t tell what I’m thinking. Now, the counsellor ticked something off on her clipboard, a form Ying couldn’t see. Okay, you’re all cleared. God bless you.
Kit stood when Ying returned. What did she say?
That one in five regret their abortions and also that I could always raise it with my parents’ help or have my parents pretend it was their child and that I was its sister.
Jesus, Kit said loudly, and the receptionist looked up.
I didn’t tell her my parents were divorced, I think her head would explode.
What even is Singapore.
Could be worse… I’m still getting it.
As they made their way to the entrance of the office building where the counselling center was situated they paused and stood, blinking, at the strong sun beating down on them, warming their air conditioning-chilled skin. Instead of cake, they got ice cream sandwiches and stood as they ate, licking at the lazy rivulets trickling down their wrists, and chatted until it was time for Ying to get home, Kit saying: Anyway, I’ll see you on Friday.
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If she had done her research, Ying would have realized that she wouldn’t just be put under. Instead, there was a local anaesthetic, inserted “into the cervix”, the doctor informed her. Feeling the insertion, Ying thought: My vagina. You mean into my cervix, via my vagina. Earlier, she’d had to sign a declaration. Marital status: Single. Educational level: Junior college. Number of living children: 0. She was informed this would be entered into a register along with her name, date of birth, and NRIC number. Mentally, Ying shrugged. She was already compromised, there was nothing she could do. Even if they somehow found out later, at least she hadn’t had to tell her parents. She lay quietly as the doctor went between her legs with various tools. She thought she heard, rather than felt, a faint scraping noise. She consciously forced herself to relax, and think about a fact she had read some time ago, that indigenous people in different countries often set off controlled fires to protect and conserve forest ecosystems.
“You might experience some cramping,” the doctor told her after it was done. “Take it easy for the next couple days and come back if you’re experiencing severe pain, okay?”
Ying nodded stiffly, as if she had cotton gauze tucked between her bottom jaw and the inside of her cheek.
Let’s go home, she murmured drowsily to Kit, who was sitting patiently in the waiting area for the last time. In response, Kit held her phone up like an illuminated mea culpa and said: I called Vic and asked her to pick us up. I told her you had to have a procedure. I didn’t specify.
I don’t care if you tell her I had an abortion.
Good, cos she kinda guessed.
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There was a horrible squealing noise as the poet rolled into the parking lot, grease lightning in a beat-up Toyota, encumbered only by the vagaries of cross-island traffic and road pricing gantries. She rolled the window down.
Get in, kids.
The purr of the engine made Ying lie back and close her eyes. For the first time since she found out, she felt relaxed.
How was it? Vic asked, after they had pulled onto the expressway. When Ying didn’t reply immediately she must have looked in the rearview mirror because she said, Ah, she fell asleep. So Singaporean, to fall asleep in cars. Did I tell you, once my family and I went on a package tour to Japan. On the tour bus between destinations the tour guide would try to give us information about the places we were about to see but everyone would be snoring. It was totally embarrassing.
Should I be worried about that right now?
Only applies to passengers, smartass. You really are like the patron saint of straight girls who get abortions, by the way. How’s she feeling?
Ying’s face was tucked against Kit’s shoulder.
No one said she’s straight. She seems fine, I guess. It’s hard to tell.
Isn’t it obvious? Ying thought, consciousness dropping away from her like a stone, like a bird hurtling mid-flight toward water. The most obvious it’s ever been.