Will You Remember Me?

By Cheryl Toll

In a matter of moments, Selenas world is shattered with horrifying news. After the successful fashion designer awakens from a three-month coma, she learns that her husband, twin daughters, and parents have all died in a car accident in Paris. Now as Selena recovers in her familys compound in Malaysia, she embraces bitterness while contemplating the injustice of her loss.

It is not long before Selena becomes involved in the violent, seedy world of the triads and endangers all who are close to her. After her brothers friend, Monk Kazim, comes to her rescue, he spirits her away to an unlikely refuge in an old Shaolin monastery tucked within the folds of a remote mountain. As family connections and secrets are revealed, a bond is formed, love blossoms, and a deal is made with the triads. After the spirits of their dead mothers reveal themselves by uncovering legacies that teach life lessons, Selena and Kazim marry. Unfortunately their happiness is short-lived when they are inexplicably pulled into a murky world where nothing is certain.

Will You Remember Me? shares the poignant tale of a young Malaysian womans journey after a tragedy leads her to unveil her past life and eventually to what she hopes is a new beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Jul 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504301947

Cheryl Toll

Cheryl Toll was born and raised in Canberra, Australia, where she was encouraged by her parents to never limit herself. She has written stories for tabloids and also enjoys penning short stories. She and her husband of forty-plus years have four children and several grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2016 Cheryl Toll.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0193-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-0194-7 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 07/08/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Thank you to my darling husband for your support and patience.

Also my four beautiful children you have been great mentors and motivators.

CHAPTER 1

I t was like walking through a murky, swirling fog that would clear slightly and then completely blank out any thoughts or images. I could hear a child’s voice, very soft and gentle, as if it were telling me a story. I did not struggle to emerge from this state of inertia; however, something deep inside told me it was time. The moment I opened my eyes, I entered a whole new world, or was it my old world?

A very familiar and comforting voice interrupted my thoughts and startled me. Now I realized it was the voice of my big brother, Aman. Selena, my beautiful little sister, you have finally woken up. I knew if I waited long enough, you would come back to me.

I felt the muscles around my mouth move and stretch into a smile. Aman bent and softly kissed my forehead. Thank you for coming back to us all, he said. The family has missed you. We have kept vigil waiting patiently. Every day, your brothers and sisters have sat with you and reminisced and told you all the things you were missing out on while you slept. Your nieces and nephews called you Sleeping Beauty, and they all came to ask you questions, to tell you what was happening in their lives, and to remind you to wake up and come back to them. My darling sister, we had great faith that you would return to us. Our optimism has been rewarded.

Sounding something like a croaking frog, I asked Aman what had happened to me. A look of consternation filled his face as he picked up my hand and held it tenderly.

My little sister, he replied, there was an accident, and you have been in a coma ever since.

He had no sooner finished speaking when Sureka, my older sister, burst into the room. Her eyes grew wide as she looked into my open, hazy ones. She cried in disbelief as the reality of the situation became apparent. You’re awake!

Her laughter, her chatter, and her happiness filled the room with love.

It was not long before more of my siblings and cousins began to arrive—news travels fast in families. As I looked around the room, I asked, Where are Mama and Papa?

It was as if the world had ended. There was a sudden silence, and everyone looked towards Aman. The colour drained from his face. Still holding his hand, I felt the pressure increase as his face grew sad.

It truly hurts me that I have to tell you that both our parents were killed in the accident.

I held my breath and squeezed Aman’s hand as hard as I could to try to take away the pain. I could not see through the pools of tears that filled my eyes and ran in cascades down my cheeks. Sureka murmured words of love in a soothing voice. She whispered her heartbreak and how it had taken all these last three months of my coma for her to become strong enough to help me now.

When the tears finally began to subside, only Sureka and Aman remained in the room. Everyone else had quietly exited.

Aman spoke in a low voice of the family’s loss and their prayers for a miracle to make me well again. We have all struggled to learn how to live without our parents.

Worn out from all the emotion of my return to the real world, I drifted off to sleep, leaving my brother and sister to watch over me.

The next day brought the presence of Dr. Lim Hoc, my old family physician. He looked at me kindly as he began his examination, Sureka and Aman still in the room with me. Welcome back, Selena. You have kept us waiting to greet you. This is a most auspicious occasion. It is time for you to meet your nurse who has spent every day with you for the last three months.

Shyly, a young woman appeared. It is lovely to hear your voice. I often wondered what it sounded like, and it is just how I thought it would be. You have been an excellent patient. She laughed. We have not had one disagreement.

Dr. Lim Hoc asked, Do you remember the accident?

I frowned. Anxiously, Sureka glanced at Aman. I closed my eyes and hesitated. My voice cracked as I whispered, I only remember home and Mama and Papa and my sisters and brothers. Please tell me more.

In a firm voice that did not allow for objection, Dr. Lim Hoc replied, No, Selena, it is time for you to rest. I will be back tomorrow.

With those words hanging in the air, he nodded to Aman as he left the room.

Sleep, Selena, whispered my nurse, and tomorrow we will take away all the tubes that have been feeding you, and I will start to prepare you physically to be able to walk again. Before long, you will be your old self again.

But who is the old me? I don’t remember anything, I cried.

Be gentle on yourself. It will all come back when your body is ready. Time will heal you.

My recovery was painstakingly slow, and my memory of past events non-existent. For now, it was enough just to be home with my family, who were overjoyed to have me awaken from a coma that had consumed their lives for the past three months.

Days turned into weeks, and I asked no more questions about my past and my loss of memory. Deep down, I knew that my past held secrets that I was not yet ready to face.

It all changed one balmy afternoon as I strolled around the tropical gardens surrounding our home. I walked a lot farther than I had in the past. A heady perfume attracted me to a grove of frangipani trees, their bows laden with heavily scented flowers. The aroma filled my senses with something vaguely disturbing but at the same time comforting.

A path wound its way around the trees to an ornate structure that looked like a shrine. As I stepped closer, three small photographs caught my attention. The first photo was of an older Malaysian man and a petite blonde woman standing hand in hand. A handsome young man filled the second frame. The third held two beautiful toddler girls, their hair so fair it made me catch my breath. From deep inside, loud, racking sobs shook my whole body.

It seemed as if a lifetime had passed before I felt arms wrap around me and heard murmured words of comfort. I knew without opening my eyes that it was Aman. He guided me across the clearing to a small bench tucked away under a canopy of trees. No words were spoken as he continued to hold me close until my body finally stilled.

Aman quietly said, So, my little sister, the time has come for you to begin remembering.

I looked at the sadness in his eyes and intuitively knew that I could not run away from the past anymore. Aman, please tell me about my past. I need to know.

With a deep sigh, Aman released me from his arms and took both my hands in his as he stared deep into my soul. I will start from the very beginning, before you were born, Selena, my beautiful little sister.

He took a deep breath and then continued, "Our family is three generations native to this part of Malaysia. We have always lived in this region of Penang and will continue to do so for many more lifetimes. Your many nieces and nephews will see to that. We have a compound—or, as the English put it, an estate—of many acres on the outskirts of the city. Our father married my mother, who was from a local family, hence all the relatives you see around you. They had six children, of whom I am the eldest and now head of the family. My mother sadly died after giving birth to our sister Raha, and, like my father, I thought I would never get over her death. She was a wonderful mother; I was just thirteen years old when she died.

"As the eldest child, the expectations and responsibilities placed upon me helped to overtake my grief, and I learned that you never lose the ones you love. They always live inside you through treasured memories.

"Our father was a well-respected merchant. He opened a fabric business designing, producing, and selling some of the most beautiful materials the eye could behold, from fine cottons to the exquisiteness of shimmering silks. He conducted business in many overseas markets, particularly France; the French designers were in awe of his magnificent fabrics. This meant Papa had to travel quite frequently, and I was expected to be his substitute on such occasions and keep the family and home together.

He never really treated me as a child after Mama died. I became his friend and confidant in both his personal and business affairs.

I relaxed as Aman’s gentle voice soothed me; the telling of my family background gave me a sense of belonging and the need to know more.

He continued, "On one particular overseas trip to Paris, a young French designer begged our father for permission to come to the factory so she could gain knowledge on how we manufacture such beautiful fabrics. Father finally acquiesced to her repeated requests and invited her to stay at our family home for the duration of the visit.

"Imagine my surprise when Father arrived with a strikingly beautiful, young French woman. I knew immediately that he was in love. Her name was Celia, and from the moment she took my hand and said my name in her French accent, I too knew that I never wanted her to leave us. And she never did. Celia became our father’s second wife and our mother. She revelled in her new role, and each of our brothers and sisters loved her as much as I did. Celia brought with her tenderness, compassion, and a sense of fun. We all adored her, and we were overjoyed when one evening our father called a family meeting and told us that a new baby would be born before Christmas.

The family has never forgotten the day of your birth—the anxious wait, then the joy shared, a baby born with beautiful blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, a little girl named Selena. You were very different from the typical Malaysian people with their jet-black hair and eyes to match. We now had a little blonde doll all our own. Our sisters were in raptures. Oh, how they loved to spoil you.

Aman stopped speaking, lost in a sea of memories. My panic had subsided as I’d listened to the story of my past. The story felt strangely familiar; the memories that were buried somewhere deep inside me began to stir. Aman said, Shall we call it a day? I will continue this history lesson tomorrow.

Please, Aman, do keep going, I whispered. I need to know more now.

He looked at me with concern etched across his face. My sister, you need to know that this is not a fairy tale. This story carries with it great sadness.

With a sigh from deep within, I tightened my grip on his hands and nodded. I am not sure that I will ever be ready for what you have to tell me, but I cannot live my life not knowing what happened.

Aman jumped up and began to pace. He halted at the shrine, staring intently at the photographs. After a few minutes he turned and replied, I will continue. He resumed his seat beside me and stared off into space.

You were the only child from our father and Celia’s marriage. You were a blessing and a joy to the whole family, including all our factory workers. Everybody loved the little blonde cherub who filled us with happiness. Our father had been wealthy before he’d married Celia, but now with the combination of her talent for design and his for fabric, their product became much sought after, particularly from French designers such as Chanel and Yves Saint Laurent. As our fortune skyrocketed, our workers benefited also. Mother and Father made sure that workers received fair pay for their work and that their families were cared for. This humanity fostered love and appreciation in our lives, and you grew up with a great sense of security and worth from all those around you. You had the best of both worlds, and so did the rest of us. We learned French culture as well as our own. We had relatives in France and spent many fun holidays in Paris and the surrounding countryside. I will never forget when we visited Monet’s home. Even though you were just a teenager, you cried at the beauty of his garden. The moment we drove away, with paper and pen in hand you began drawing, taking inspiration, and designing. I always knew that you were a natural-born designer. Your talent was evident at a very early age. Our father decided you, as the rest of us children had, should learn the art of self-defence. He wanted us to be able to protect ourselves because with the wealth of our family came safety concerns. It was brought home to us at an early age when the young son of one of Father’s highly successful business colleagues was kidnapped and never returned. The whole of our family and even the factory workers all became your protectors.

Something stirred inside me. Fragments of memories seemed to surface, but before I could grab hold of them, they floated away just as quickly. Aman watched with keen interest as he saw me grappling with these new emotions.

Are you okay, Selena? Should I stop now?

No, please continue.

He sighed. Well, my little butterfly, you left eventually, with the family’s blessing, to go and study design in Paris. We missed you so much. Mother and Father spent more time in Paris while I worked in the business. It was a good period in all our lives. Our brothers and sisters all married, and nieces and nephews were born. Family weddings and births made sure we all stayed close, and we had more homes built in the compound. It was an era of great joy, and you spent many happy times with us all. I remember you were constantly trying to beat your brothers in karate. You were very competitive. Our father made sure we had only the best instructors, so we were all very proficient in a whole range of martial arts. T’ai chi was one of my favourites. The gentle, flowing movements strengthened our bodies and improved our mental balance. Mama was a great believer in its benefits of good health and harmony. Our academic and language skills also took priority, and we all spoke English and French as fluently as our native Malay. Aman spoke rapidly to me in French, and I replied without hesitating. I stared at him in amazement, and he just smiled back.

Please go on, I urged, a sense of excitement growing within me.

My little sister … Aman faltered and then regained his composure and said sadly, This is where the fairy tale ends and the rest becomes hard to talk about. Slowly Aman looked up. Holding my gaze, he said, You stayed in Paris and became a successful and highly sought-after fashion designer. You met the love of your life, Jacque. You married and had twin daughters, Mia and Francine.

I closed my eyes and felt myself slipping away, back to the comfort of swirling mist and nothingness. Aman grabbed me tightly. Selena! he cried. "Don’t leave me again. Please." His cries of anguish reverberated through my head, and with all my power I concentrated on staying clear of the fog, which had started to close down my senses.

I opened my eyes and whispered, Is there much more pain to hear? Mutely he nodded, and I bowed my head as soundless tears slid down my cheeks. It seemed like an eternity that my big brother held me, keeping me safe from the demons. Slowly I stood up and in a trance knelt in front of the frames of my family, my life now gone. It was non-existent, as if it had never been. The faces of my darling twin daughters, Mia and Francine, stared back at me, and a dreadful sense of helplessness coursed through my body as the memories came crowding back.

My darling husband, my beautiful children, and my parents were all gone forever. It had been a car accident; I remembered now. It had been my birthday. The twins, just three years old, had been excited little bundles of joy, chattering non-stop. Jacque and his precious cargo, the twins and my parents, had left to go shopping for a special gift for me. I had been relegated to stay at home to await their return with birthday surprises. It had been a car accident—a tragedy, everybody said. They had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Aman filled in the gaps for me as to what had happened after the accident. Apparently the police had knocked on my door and given me the news that they were all dead. At that point I’d collapsed into a coma and had been hospitalized until my siblings had brought me home.

Yes, Aman said with a nod, all of us siblings immediately got on a plane to Paris and took over all the formalities that followed. My brother was very sombre as he related these events. It was a sad time in our lives, but decisions had to be made. We wanted to bring you all home. A traditional Malaysian burial was of great importance to us. We needed to grieve for our parents and your husband and children. The paperwork to get you back here was astronomical, but finally it was done, and we chartered a plane to bring you all to the compound, our sanctuary. Finally, we had you with us, back in the circle of love. We then set about the task of waking you up, a job that everyone did willingly.

CHAPTER 2

T he family estate became my sanctuary. I thought of it as a compound because it was a safe, secure haven with walls and fences and large entry gates with security guards on call at all times. As a wealthy family, father had made sure of our safety. Cameras and alarm systems were a normal part of our surroundings, although they never impacted our everyday life. Mother had made sure our home was a mix of both Malaysian and French culture. Eclectic, yes, but it worked, and visitors always were in awe of our beautiful home and the sumptuous fabrics that draped the windows and adorned the soft furnishings. The house had been built to catch the breeze. It always felt cool inside. It had long, shuttered windows, and art abounded on walls. My most coveted possession, an original Monet painting, took pride of place in my bedroom.

Father had insisted on installing magnificent large French gates. They’d come from an old chateau in Villandry, France, and had a long history. A long, curved driveway wound its way to our home, and the beauty of the gardens that spread out over the fifteen acres of the estate left people breathless. The rich scarlets, hot pinks, and regal purples of the bougainvillea and exotic tropical foliage were a sight to behold, cascading down walls and over trellises, tumbling to the ground in wild abandon. The gardenias and frangipanis filled the air with sweet perfume, and orchids of all shapes, sizes, and colours sat serenely in ornate pots and urns. There were many hidden treasures in our gardens, and as children, we’d spent hours playing and exploring the grounds. A walled parterre garden had been built to remind mother of her homeland, France, and help with her homesickness. For me there was a small replica of Monet’s famous garden, complete with bridge and water lily pond. This haven had been my fourteenth-birthday present—yes, I had definitely been spoilt. It was a place that had helped to nurture my talent for design. The gardens did not stop there; our vegetable garden and orchard were bountiful with fresh produce. As children we’d never gone hungry and often had arrived in the house with clothes stained from the juices of the many different fruits that we had eaten. My brothers had not been forgotten in the design of this wonderful area. There were forts and tree houses where we’d all enjoyed many hours of fun and laughter. In a word, it was idyllic.

The days that followed