story

by Damon Chua

The Memory Annex

Nurya approaches the squat, red-brick building with a mixture of excitement and dread—excitement borne of Yingfen’s raved-about visit a month ago, and dread from the uncertainty of what exactly awaits. She has booked herself into one of the smaller suites for three nights, with the option to extend. Traveling by bullet train, Nurya is arriving early at this remote town known for its sugar maples and bamboo groves. But with fall shading into winter, the maples are bare and the bamboo coated with frost. The landscape looks bleached by the cold, even though no snow lies on the ground.  

As she pushes open the heavy door to the lobby, the scent of incense hits her immediately—lotus and sandalwood, with a hint of hinoki. The receptionist, a cheerful older woman with streaks of silver in her hair, greets Nurya warmly and hands her a pamphlet explaining the hotel’s unique policy: guests are encouraged to stay as long as they like, but after ten days all residents will be removed to the annex, a pitched-roof structure resembling a minimalist chateau. Designed by a Finnish architect, it was built using local materials including the town’s distinctive purplish-gray slate.

“You will be very comfortable whether you are in the main building or the annex,” the woman explains. “In fact, the annex is closer to the hot spring, which means you won’t have to go as far to enjoy a soak. Our water is free, of course, but it must not be shared with anyone who is not a guest. Violation of that policy can result in a fine, or, worse, an expulsion.”  

“Not that it will happen to you,” the woman continues with a smile. She hands Nurya her keys and directs her to the elevator bank. “Dinner is served nightly between six and eight, and if you prefer eating in your room, you can request for room service twenty-four hours in advance. Enjoy your stay!”

Nurya presses the “up” button, her pale suitcase next to her.  A young man, sweaty, in an athleisure one-piece, appears next to her. “Is this your first time?” he asks, taking in her impractical shoes and couture dress. She nods, surprised by the query. “Make sure you hydrate adequately. It’s what makes this place special.” They ride together to the third floor, parting ways at the landing. Nurya makes her way down the long corridor.

Yingfen had told her about the room—how the hard mattress was good for her bad back, the creamy lighting conveying a midcentury vibe, and the TV that played an assortment of instructional videos. All guests are required to watch an infomercial each time the television is turned on, that is the deal, and as Nurya picks up the remote and activates the screen, a short instructional film flickers to life. In it, an older couple demonstrate how they create art by cutting old photographs into strips and rearranging them into a grid. The video ends abruptly, replaced by the news.

Nurya finds a printed card on the bedside table. “Dear Nurya,” it reads, “Should you require any assistance during your stay, please consult our in-house expert Mariko, who is available twenty-four-seven, by dialing eight on the hotel phone. You can also call the front desk should you have a question. Enjoy your stay!”

By the time Nurya makes her way to the dining room, a cavernous hall on the ground floor, dinner service is already in full swing. The room hums with low conversation, metal cutlery clinking under oddly-spaced chandeliers. Most of the tables are occupied, and as she looks around, a familiar panic kicks in—it feels like high school all over again, and the need to belong makes Nurya slightly dizzy. How many times had she sat at the fringes of her school cafeteria looking at the cool kids congregating in the middle?

Just as she is about to bolt—she had brought a small tub of honeydew yogurt that now sits in the tiny room fridge—a table suddenly opens up. She takes a seat and is soon joined by a thin, forty-something man wearing a toupee. He introduces himself as Alexander, and as the conversation turns to the reason for their visit, they quickly realize both are here alone, away from their respective spouses, trying to reclaim their pasts. The revelation calms Nurya down.

“Aren’t we the luckiest people,” Alexander says, “to be able to indulge ourselves this way?” He explains how he has taken a week’s leave from his job as an IT consultant to dig into his childhood. “I had five brothers growing up, and we were more than a handful for our mom.” His father, a traveling salesman, was often absent from home. Despite that, or maybe because of it, the brothers grew very close. Those were happy times, he states. Then Alexander grows quiet. Nurya, cutting her tuna steak into small pieces, feels the urge to make conversation, but no words come. Instead, she forces a smile and begins to chew on the fish—soft, grainy, like something that had been preserved in sand. The first bite brings no taste at all, only the faint sense that she has eaten it before.

Later, back in her room, Nurya watches another infomercial. This features a retired accountant who misses her days as a number-cruncher. So she helps out with her town council enumerating and categorizing the local flora, focusing on endangered species such as the ghost orchid. Onscreen, the woman kneels beside a group of elderly volunteers, their gloved hands weeding a large field. “When I was younger,” she says, “I never understood how easily things disappear.” The words strike Nurya like a half-remembered refrain. She quickly rewinds the clip to hear it again, but the words are gone, replaced by static that segues into another news segment.

After an invigorating shower—Yingfen had been right about the water pressure—Nurya settles into the narrow bed with a paperback purchased at the train station. She has always enjoyed a good mystery, and the cover, depicting a faceless woman beneath an umbrella as wind tears through a rain-soaked street, promises intrigue and danger in equal measure. The author’s name means nothing to her, but the embossed gold sticker on the front—winner of a coveted literary prize—makes the choice inevitable.

The doorbell sounds suddenly. Is it morning already? Nurya looks at the bedside clock and sees that it is close to midnight. She must have drifted off as she read. But who could it be at this late hour? She goes to the door and looks through the peephole. It is one of the bellhops, bearing a bottle of water on a platter. She opens the door, and all at once the corridor appears to be dimmer.

“For you,” the bellhop chimes. Nurya doesn’t say anything. “You must drink water before bedtime. Some people, a lot actually, manage to consume the whole thing.” The bellhop enters the room, deposits the bottle on the bedside table and turns around. “Have a good night,” he says, and quickly disappears, leaving behind a faint scent of insect repellant.

Yingfen had dreamed about her wedding day on that first night. She got to relive the moment Graham put a ring on her finger, and the sensation of rice beads raining down as they made their way to the waiting limousine. She had said to Nurya, “That made it worthwhile. I’d have done anything to relive that day.”

That was what convinced Nurya to come. And while her own wedding day was anxious and imperfect, she wouldn’t have minded revisiting the wedding reception, where she got quite tipsy and laughed too much, or better yet, her week-long honeymoon. That guided tour of eastern Australia—full of kangaroos and other fantastical creatures—made her realize how easy it was to mistake other lives for her own; after all, she was a newly minted bride, ready to transform into a willing and zealous wife. If she can summon the glow of their early years, perhaps she can still salvage what remains. Nurya drinks the water and lies down, eager for the dreams to begin.

•

Next morning, Nurya wakes up lightheaded, a faint tune playing in her head. She knows the night passed with many colorful dreams, and yet, she cannot recall a single one. She tries to summon an image, a sound, something textural. Nothing comes. It is as if her joy belongs only to the subconscious, an afterimage dissolving when examined too closely. The room seems unchanged, but she senses something essential has slipped quietly out of reach.

She makes herself a cup of tea instead of going down to breakfast. Outside, a drizzle has begun to blanket her view. She tells herself she might leave tomorrow. When she was in college and living in a dorm, she recalls how, when it rained, she would make up excuses for not going to lectures—her raincoat had a hole, the umbrella was too ugly, the road must have flooded. Malik, her classmate from the next building, would come around then, and both would miss class, playing cards to their hearts’ content on her Turkish rug.

Whatever happened to Malik, Nurya wonders. It has been years since she thought of him; yet, that memory felt warmer, truer, than those she shares with, well, almost everyone else. Absent-mindedly, Nurya reaches for the bottle of water, only to find it empty. She must have drunk it all the night before.

When the rain stops, Nurya decides to go for a walk. After consulting with the front desk, she opts for a circuitous route that will take her from the yuzu orchard to the edge of the pine forest via a crystalline stream and then back to the hotel. That way, she knows, she can take in an elevated view of the hot spring and see for herself what the fuss is about. Just as she is about set off, an older woman by the name of Zumi comes up to Nurya and asks if she wouldn’t mind a companion. Not wanting to say no, Nurya nods, only to discover what a slow walker Zumi is. Not only that, Zumi talks endlessly about her five-month-old great-grandson, already smiling, already reaching for things.

Nurya doesn’t like babies and is thankful she has no children of her own. Maybe if she were more maternal, more like her own mother, she would have birthed at least a few of her own. If she had, maybe Russ, her husband, would have been more forgiving of the situation, or at least less angry, less complaining. But Russ, she believes, always confuses wanting with deserving. The truth is, he never deserved to be a father; he doesn’t warrant a happiness that comes at her expense.

Zumi stops and looks at a lonely black pine, the breeze rustling its needles. Without looking at Nurya, she asks: “Did you enjoy the water coddling?” Nurya doesn’t say anything for a while. She has never heard of water coddling. Searching her memory, she comes up short—did Yingfen even mention it?

When the silence stretches, Zumi turns to look at Nurya: “You haven’t done the water coddling?” The younger woman’s face tells her everything. “You mean you don’t know?” Zumi almost gasps. “It’s always the highlight of my trip!”

Nurya wants to say it is all Yingfen’s fault, something she had failed to mention. But it is also possible Yingfen knows nothing about it. “What is water coddling?” Nurya ventures.

“I won’t spoil it for you. Go to the front desk and book yourself a treatment immediately.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“You want clarity, right? It will change everything.”

Instead of completing the circuit, Nurya decides to return to the hotel straightaway. It doesn’t bother her she missed the vista of the hot spring. That can come later.

The woman at the front desk, the one with the silver-streaked hair, is at once apologetic and unyielding. She explains water coddling is reserved for older guests. “They are the ones,” she notes, “who can withstand the revelations. What surfaces can be painful, unbearable even.” But Nurya refuses to back down. Her persistence surprises even herself. It isn’t just to outdo Yingfen; it is the need for a story—something to bring back, proof that she too has crossed whatever invisible threshold this place demands.

After much back and forth, with Nurya’s voice getting louder and shriller, the receptionist offers a concession—if she is willing to meet with Mariko, who is able to make a proper assessment, it might just be possible. The woman makes it clear there are no guarantees; should Mariko deem a candidate to be insufficiently grounded, no treatment will be forthcoming.

The meeting is set for the afternoon. Nurya, wearing her best attire, is surprised to see a young woman waiting for her in the far corner of the conference room. She is much too youthful to be a psychologist or whatever she claims to be, Nurya decides. And yet, once they shake hands, something comes over Nurya—a wave of warmth, or recognition, or both. Mariko’s presence is comforting, but beneath that calm lies something older, something arcane.

“I’m not going to ask you specific questions,” Mariko starts. Instead, she points to a small spherical object on the conference table. “Can you please pick it up?” The object, resembling a large black marble, feels cold to the touch. It is also heavier than expected. “Cup your hand over it, making sure to seal it tight. As tight as you can. Now count to twenty.” Nurya begins to count out loud, but a pained look from Mariko makes it clear she must do so silently.

Later, after uncapping her hand, after she discovers the marble has turned a dull shade of purple, and after Mariko has dismissed her by saying “we will let you know,” Nurya returns to her room, feeling a little defeated, like she has failed a test she didn’t study for. As she turns on the TV, a different infomercial begins to play.

The screen steadies on a room awash in dim light. A woman stands beside a heated pool as two attendants wind a long bolt of cloth around her—slowly, evenly, layer after layer until her arms are pressed to her sides. The fabric darkens where it touches the water, tightening as if its purpose has been awakened. Nurya leans closer. The woman’s face, half-turned toward the camera, is unmistakable—Zumi, younger, unsmiling.

“For memory to return,” a calm voiceover intones, “the body must first forget.” The attendants ease Zumi backward into the pool. The soaked fabric clings, molding itself to her shape until she seems fused with the surface.

Suddenly the phone rings. Nurya hesitates before picking up. A woman’s recorded voice—calm, speaking a little too slowly.

“Good afternoon, Miss Nurya. This is a courtesy call from Guest Services. Your water coddling has been approved. Please report to the annex at seven tomorrow morning. Bring only the essentials. A light breakfast will be provided afterward.”

The line clicks off.  Nurya replaces the receiver, relieved to have been chosen. And yet, questions linger. If water coddling is so central to the experience here, Yingfen’s silence is puzzling. Nurya considers calling her friend—but what would she say? She knows she should be grateful for the go-ahead, but all she feels is a quiet, unshakable thirst.

Later, when Nurya makes it to the dining room, the energy seems subtly altered. An older man in a gray beret looks up, his gaze lingering a little too long. A young couple in matching outfits also turn toward her, their smiles brittle. As she scans the room for a familiar face, the chandeliers flicker for a brief moment. Then she spots Alexander, sitting at the same table as the night before. Relieved, she joins him.

But it is not Alexander. It is someone who looks a lot like him. A jolt of dread passes through Nurya. She wonders if she should leave, but wouldn’t that appear too unfriendly, too odd? Surreptitiously, she examines the stranger—somewhat older, giving off the scent of a soapy cologne. The man makes no eye contact. Dinner, clam soup followed by braised beef in tomato sauce, passes in uneasy silence.

Nurya wakes up early the next day. She empties her mind as she dresses, pushing aside any uncertainty over the morning’s itinerary.  The annex entrance to the spa is partly hidden; its discovery feels serendipitous, as though the place is veiled in its own anonymity. As she enters, the outside world dissolves into half-light. Her eyes adjust. 

No reception area, just a corridor that smells faintly of floor cleaner and damp stone. Ahead, one of several frosted glass doors slides open silently. Beyond is a shallow pool shaped like a lotus blossom, its curved petals radiating in different directions. Steam curls languidly off the water’s surface. Someone has placed a single folded towel and a ceramic cup of water on a low bench nearby. The silence feels unnerving, amplifying the sound of a soft drip from somewhere unseen.

Two men suddenly appear, their faces hidden behind face masks. They are not dressed like the attendants in the infomercial, but, as Nurya knows, that video must be decades old. As they approach, she can see them carrying a folded piece of black tarp. Nurya almost wants to ask: Shouldn’t it be cloth? Isn’t that what you’re going to wrap me in? The shorter man indicates a wooden door to the left. “You can change in there,” he says, while the taller man adds: “You will find a hemp robe.”

As Nurya changes, an image suddenly pops into her mind—a flash of blue, the color of her childhood swimming lessons; then more: chipped pool tiles, the instructor’s whistle, ghostly murmurs of her name underwater.

The robe’s fabric is coarse, the weave uneven, and as she ties the sash, her hands tremble—not from fear exactly, but from the sense that she has done this before, in another room, far away. Through the door she can hear the two men whispering, their words indistinct. She presses her ear to the door and catches the word “sulfurous.” What could be sulfurous? The water? Does it mean it will eat away at her skin, her hair, and corrode her to the bone? That could explain the tarp.

She stays still, on the verge of panic. She doesn’t have to step out; she can make up some excuse. But what about her memories? The beautiful ones that are tucked away in the deep recesses of her mind. All she needs is a little push, some kind of illumination, to make them real once again.

The next moment she finds herself walking back toward the pool. Wordlessly, the two men wrap her up in the tarp, tightly, constricting her chest and pinning her legs together. This must be what a sushi roll feels like, if it were sentient. With a start, she realizes she has already surrendered herself to the moment: if she drowns, if she dissolves in the acid, it will be her choice and ultimate fate.

The instant her skin meets the water, she expects pain. But there is none. The surface yields like breath, warm and silken, enveloping her without resistance. The hiss she had feared never comes—only a faint fizzing sound, like sugar dissolving in tea. Her body loosens where the tarp presses tight, as if the water is untying her from within. The scent of sulfur sharpens, then shifts, into citrus, into rain, into something she once called love.

Beneath her closed lids, scenes begin to flicker: her mother’s hands rinsing rice, the clang of the train she took to school, a garden with yellow flowers she visited once. Each image appears, brightens, and slips away.

She opens her mouth to breathe and finds that she can. The water fills her entire being and yet she does not choke. She only feels herself thinning—first the edges of her body, then her thoughts, then the very need to remember. For several long seconds, she hovers between life and oblivion, existing and not existing, until the warm water reasserts itself, and her consciousness returns.

Her eyes open, vision slowly returning. Nurya takes a breath, her lungs filling with dank, mineral air. She can sense her heart quickening as a low vibration builds—not unlike the thrill that erupts when she embarks on something new, something unknown. But there is something else. A lightness, no, more than that, a burst of purified consciousness, flooding her entire being with an all-round positivity.

But those eyes are no longer Nurya’s, those sensations stripped of ownership. Someone else has returned to that water-coddled body, someone who remembers almost nothing at all. That someone doesn’t know she has no happy memories of her marriage, no warm feelings toward Russ, and clearly no desire to continue living the way she has. The water has washed away all that.

Later, back in her room, Nurya studies her reflection in the mirror and cannot tell if she has just arrived or is about to leave. Whatever happened at the pool seems to have rejuvenated her—she looks younger, her hair thicker and her skin luminous. A new tranquility, deep and profound, has taken root, as if her thoughts have been laundered and pressed clean.

But what would she tell Yingfen? No, she isn’t going to mention the pool. That is too valuable to share. Besides, she has one more night. The dreams will come, and they will be vivid and incontrovertible.

Nurya reaches for her bottle of water, which has been refilled while she was gone, and takes a sip. Then she sits down and switches on the TV. Another video begins to play.

---

Damon Chua is a Singapore-born writer and playwright based in New York. His short fiction has been recognized internationally: “Immunity” was a finalist for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize, and “Mango” appeared in Silverfish Books’ Twenty-Two New Asian Short Stories. His work “Saiful and the Pink Edward VII” was featured in the Singapore Noir anthology from Akashic Books. Damon’s writing has been published by Telegram Books, Peekash Press, Nordland Publishing, Tall Tale Press, and the Quarterly Literary Review Singapore.