Sweet and Fragile By May Navarro

Maybe I should have had that crepe yesterday.

Thoughts of this thin, delicate pastry drizzled in chocolate sauce flitted through my mind as I was driving the long highway to Molino. It was mid-afternoon and the sun shone warmly on the ornate gates and the expansive land that will witness the rise of new gated communities. The road leading here was quite unfamiliar to me, every intersection, every hump on the street, every stoplight stop.  I held on the steering wheel tightly while rampaging SUVs overtook my car, irritated perhaps by my tentative pace.

My husband had no idea I took this on this impulsive field trip, leaving my five year old son, Danny to our self-absorbed teen helper who sported an earpiece like a call center agent. Our human “cyborg”, my brother-in-law calls her was in charge of the house for the moment. I had no choice, Nessa, my high school friend had been insistent on her text messages that morning, “Please I have to see you, Grace, please” so I took on this trip.

After a couple of wrong turns on the expansive road, I finally found the fastfood chain Nessa was referring to and parked the car near an unsmiling guard and went inside. I pushed the door open and was surprised by a gust of cool air. I approached the counter and ordered orange juice then paused for a moment while the cashier donning the practiced smile of fastfood crew waited like an expectant puppy. “That’s all, miss” I finally said. She almost sighed.  I got my juice and sat near the clear glass pane overlooking the parking lot. Then just as I was finishing my orange drink, I noticed a tricycle stop near the entrance. Nessa came out assisted by a dusky middle-aged woman. She held on to her cane which strained at her weight while her each step was precarious.  She had a stroke last year after her 38^th birthday.  It left half of her body was paralyzed at the onset but now, she can walk with a cane, thanks to therapy. She had shorter hair now. Her sister had cut her thick locks, snipping through it haphazardly after the first week of almost dragging her half-limp body to the sink.  But Nessa looked almost the same, her large hoop earrings was still there, her black blouse fitting snugly at her thinner  frame and she was wearing  shorts even if her left leg bore traces of sagging skin like a wrinkled hide. Still the same Nessa.

We sat near the clear glass pane while her assistant got the food. No words were exchanged in the beginning as she only dabbed at her eyes and looked outside. Then she began talking about Ramon, her husband. He had been running “errands” for a family with a rather disreputable background.  She had asked him to stop but he told her that he had no choice, her therapy costs a lot of money and their son, Eric was in high school.

“He also doesn’t want do it with me anymore,  Grace, he claims he’s too tired” she said.”But I can still do it, I can and I’ve read about it, the study claims that this can even help stimulate parts of your body.” She enthused like a child rationalizing eating a lot of candy before dinner.

I tried not to look incredulous after hearing this and looked outside, observing the grumpy guard circling the other cars. We had never discussed our very private lives this way and I wondered if this was the reason I was here, she wasn’t getting some?

“Maybe he’s just tired, Nessa.. you know our husbands, they work really hard, long hours on the road, in the office...maybe, one day he’ll surprise you” I said, hoping that would comfort her.

“It’s not like him…he was always so into it…” she said then tears came again dropping by her cheeks. She dabbed them quickly.”If there’s someone else, Grace…if there is, I will  leave him..”she said.

Then what? I wanted to ask. How can you support yourself, your therapy and your son? When you can even barely walk. It was a scathing thought but it was the truth.

Then I looked at her, this woman who before her stroke had taken two or three jobs just to make ends meet because her husband languished in a part- time job in an automotive company had transformed drastically, she was not the same person I knew then. The woman prior to the illness was indomitable, one who didn't hesitate to take on jobs with night shifts to cover their household needs.  I heard she was lacking sleep for days before the stroke happened. Now, she has become this timid, needy woman I barely recognized.

But I still tried to understand her condition.  Maybe it’s the loss of control, the loss of the power of even putting one feet in front of the other unassisted, the loss of independence, the sense of being trapped that led her this way.

Nessa looked out and started dabbing at her eyes again.

“What really sucks about this, Grace...is not being able to care for your son…he was sick the other night and I couldn’t even go out and buy him medicine…”she said  ”I know he’s hanging on, but he said that if I decide to leave his father, he will come with me..besides, I still have the rental income from some apartments my parents gave me so maybe that would do” she continued.

“What about Ramon, he wouldn’t give you up that easily especially his son?” I said.

“But he has given up on me, Grace. Sometimes, he becomes furious, demanding me to walk without a cane, asking me why is it taking so long. Why am I not well yet?  Are the damn therapies working or not? But I’m trying, Grace. I wish I could walk sooner and move faster but I can’t.”

That asshole, I wanted to say. But part of me can’t blame him. Maybe patience is not one of his admirable traits. Maybe he’s tired of keeping the family afloat, tired of being the “man” in the household. Nessa was staring out on the clear glass pane again. She didn’t touch the burger I ordered for her and put it in her bag.

“Can you do me a favor, Grace?” she asked.

‘Sure” I said, hoping she was not borrowing money again since we’re still paying off our credit card debts.

“Can you bring me home” she finally said.

 I brought the car to the entrance of the fastfood and she insisted on seating in front, struggling to get in so if I adjusted the seat to give her more room.  On a fork on a road, she pointed me to the left when she was telling me to turn right like her sense of direction was off but I didn't tell her.

The small village her family stayed at lacked the grandeur of the others I passed by earlier. Small houses, some rickety and worn with whizzing tricycles passing by. Half-naked men inside their houses sat on a table with bottles of cerveza at this early afternoon. We arrive at her house alongside an undeveloped land, a large field with tall cogon grasses. Her dusky assistant opened her gate with peeling paint and grated a high shrill when it swung open. Inside, a large stereo was stationed near the door. It was an unfinished house, parts of the ceiling were bare exposing the wooden beams and the back portion had thin pieces of lumber in a heap. I noticed the picture of her parents near the dining room. Her mother had been a strong-willed woman, I remember, striking but not conventionally beautiful while her father had an odd sense of humor but still a good man. I remember them because they had to accompany me to my house in high school when my father had one of his tantrums and screamed expletives on the phone for my coming home late from a swimming excursion, one that included Nessa.

I studied her parents’ portrait closely then Nessa asked me to sit on the dining area, a step away from the sala with the large stereo. She talked about how her son Eric had been encouraging her to walk without the cane and had been very patient with her. She dabbed her eyes again.

“I don’t know how I can still go on being this way” she said, looking down. “Sometimes, I just want to give up”

I looked at her slumped frame and moved toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Do it for Eric, then…get better for him..forget about Ramon for a moment and concentrate on getting better for your son” I said, wanting to shake her off her stupor, her wallowing. I wanted to tell her to get up, dammit, get up and be the woman I've always known, arrogant and unbreakable.

But I couldn't. Who am I to speak of her that way when I don’t have not experienced the sudden helplessness of being unable to walk, to take care of yourself, the isolation of being in a body that won’t cooperate and the creeping fear that you may never recover.

We sat down silently while she was searched her bag for more tissues.

“How’s Danny?” she finally asked. The only time she did ask of my son.

“He’s doing well, still has OT and Speech therapy but we’re getting better” I said.

“That’s good” she said looking at the picture on the wall.

Danny, my  five year old has autism and was left with our “cyborg of a” maid at the moment.

Then my phone rang, it was my husband. I put it on silent.

 I’ll be going soon, I told her and looked at my watch. I stood up then rummaged through my bag, I gave her a pendant of St. Benedict, something I got in our church and a small purse with tufted petals on it.

“It’s lovely, thank you” she said and smiled. It was the only smile I saw that day.

“You take care of yourself, okay?” I tell her, enveloping her and unconsciously feeling the flabby skin on her left arm.

I wanted to stay and comfort her more but my son was waiting for me. I promised to visit her again and planted a kiss on her cheek before going out. She was still sitting when I left and dabbing at her eyes.

I went back to the car and cruised through the once unfamiliar road and rushed along the expressway, pressing hard at the gas pedal when the roads were clear then inched my way through the toll gate lined with slow-moving vehicles. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while waiting for cars in front to move forward. I changed stations constantly, irritated if a DJ’s chatter droned on.  Finally, I arrived home and called back my husband when I opened the door. My son was jubilant when he saw me, jumping up and down and began pulling at my hair when I hugged him. He brushed at my hair and smelled it again and again. Our human “cyborg” sat near the TV, her mouth agape while texting on her phone.

That night when my husband walked through the door, I gave him a tight hug.

“Missed me?” he joked.  His hair was a tangle of curls and his eyes had a darker shade below it.

I nodded. I didn't tell him about Nessa, He wouldn't have liked driving myself all the way to Molino. His protectiveness can be both endearing and exasperating sometimes.

“How was your day?” I asked, taking off his polo. My son was watching television, amazed while Tom chased Jerry incessantly.

“Busy, as usual, Doctor Rodriguez went to a seminar so I had to cover his shift” he said. “I called you earlier, where were you?”

“I went to the mall, the music was loud inside, the phone was in my bag” I said while tossing shredded parts of a magazine Danny ripped apart in the thrash.

Then my son began jumping up and down the bed, excited with the sudden chase of his favorite cartoon characters.

“Can’t you ask him to stop?” my husband asked while changing into a faded t- shirt.

“Calm down, Danny. Hey, stop it!”  I exclaimed, restraining him with my arms.

He struggled but my arms came loose and he began jumping again.

My husband looked at me.

“ How do you expect me to rest with all this ruckus? I’m so tired from work and..wow,  look at this mess”  he said while pointing at the jumble of toy soldiers, dinosaurs, cars, stuffed animals scattered on the bed. Then he walked out of the room.

I sat down while the bed motioned up and down. Danny screamed with glee.

That night, with the room in order, my husband and son slept beside me, I struggled to sit up. Danny had his hands on my hair, he always liked to grab it and smell it before going to sleep. Finally, I was able to wrench it out of his grasp. I went to the other room and opened the computer. I logged on my Facebook account and scrolled down the page. An image of my high school classmate with her child took my attention. They were smiling and her daughter was looking straight at the camera. My son always looked sideways when taking a picture, his gaze out of focus.  I turned off the computer and began reading a book on autism interventions. Then I heard whisperings at the back of the house, I looked out the window and saw our help, giggling while talking on the phone. She was sitting among the plants like a grinning dwarf. I was tempted to tell her to go to sleep but I slumped back on my seat. Maybe we all deserve a break.

The next day, my husband was in a better mood.

“I’m sorry about last night” he said when I met him in the kitchen.

I went to him and adjusted his skewed white coat.

“You’re just tired, I’m sorry the room was a mess” I said looking at him. He had been working so hard lately and I sometimes worry about his lack of rest. I felt guilty for not keeping things in order, for not being the perfect domesticated stereotype of a wife.

He nodded then kissed my cheek before heading out. Danny was still asleep.

 After bringing Danny to school, I came back the house and arranged the stack of bills to be paid that morning. Then I got a text from one of the parents in my son’s school. Lisa, one of my friends there was in the hospital.

She had been complaining of nose bleeding last week and was rushed to the emergency room twice. Each time she went home, the bleeding started again. She was in and out of the hospital and no findings have been finalized even after a series of tests and ultrasounds.

I went to the hospital while my son was in school. Arriving at the elevator, I noticed the tub of hand sanitizer near the door and remembered why I hated hospitals. The elevator doors swung open and I went inside. Then a gangly male nurse with bangs like a Korean pop boy band member suddenly held his hand between the elevator doors and pushed in a wheel chair with a frail old man in a hospital gown. The man had a wistful look on his face like he was imagining that he was somewhere else.  Any place is better than this I thought. I sighed and gripped my basket of oranges tighter. When the elevator opened, I carefully went past the older gentleman in dreamland and almost bumped into a young, balding doctor who was putting on his rubber gloves as he rushed off. I turned left and walked through the empty corridor, looking for Lisa’s room. I found the room number and walked inside. The same doctor was there and Lisa was on the bed sitting. Two women were beside her, one was taking out tissue from a box and the other holding a small metal container standing near her. Lisa had her hair pulled up with stray strands on her face. She was wearing a thin blue hospital gown with her bare legs hanging from the bed. I put down my oranges and looked at one surreal scene.

Lisa was dripping blood from the nose and she was wiping it with tissue one woman was giving to her. She was brushing it off and tossing it on an empty metal tray. Then I noticed a small metal container under the side of the bed with a pool of stark red blood on it. I looked the other way.

The TV was open, high on top across the bed. It was playing an afternoon teleserye, the rail thin female protagonist in a confrontation with another. Their screaming surrounded the room as the doctor and nurses scrambled to check Lisa’s blood pressure.

Lisa barely noticed I was there as the doctor examined her. She complained that she can hardly breathe and the doctor suggested hooking her up in an oxygen tank. Then the tissue ran out and one of the women had to buy more in the hospital’s pharmacy. I volunteered to take her place but Lisa barely looked at me, she was busy soaking the tissues with bright scarlet and tossing it off. I tried not to flinch.

She had been in the hospital for days but still no word what her illness was. All the tests didn’t confirm anything. But she was still dripping blood. I wondered about her son who was almost about my son’s age and who has autism too. He is with some of her friends in her house together with Lisa’s ageing mother who she also takes care of. Her husband is still in Dubai, a computer programmer.

I always liked Lisa. She’s a gregarious woman with a sense of humor to match, telling stories of her son’s tantrums in public with an easy smile and mock action for effect. She was always jolly in the face of humiliation, a natural occurrence for mothers with a child with autism.  She was my fellow soldier in this battle with a relentless enemy who strikes without warning and has no strong identifiable weakness. Now, my fellow soldier is incapacitated like a bloodied comrade in battle.  Even without saying it, I know the worry she feels for her son as she refused to be taken to another hospital far from their house. And I wonder if anything happened to her, who would carry such dedication she willed taking care for her son, the same question that often kept me awake at night when my son’s fate in the future haunts me.

Suddenly, Lisa complained that she had more difficulty breathing. They called in a more senior doctor. He arrived carrying a backpack and was still wearing his street clothes on. With his moustache and brash manner he looked more like a goon in a Bong Revilla movie than a doctor. He got his stethoscope out and asked some questions to the younger doctor and pondered on it. He looked at the floor, looking dumbfounded. I was aghast at his seeming inability to spur action for my friend. Do something, dammit! I wanted to say, are you going to stand there and let her gush blood all day and night.  Get her well. Now. Please.

Maybe with no other recourse, this doctor inadvertently decided to bring her to the operating room.  And while the nurses rushed out to prepare for the procedure, more people arrived for a visit and hovered around Lisa like spectators in a gruesome crime. They meant well but I left shortly after.

Driving back to the house, the sun was setting and its subdued orange rays almost blinded me. I put my left hand over my eyes to shield it.  The traffic was starting to build toward home but I turned the other way and went to the direction of the mall instead. But the cars here were almost on a stand still. I abruptly stopped when the car in front signaled a brake light then turned off the radio. No need for Sting’s sentimental Englishman in New York today.

Cocooned in traffic, the scenes I saw that week replayed like a commercial in a jarring loop. Nessa’s uneven gait, her wrinkled left leg, Lisa’s bloodied nose, red-streaked tissues, the small metal tray with deep red liquid on it.

I leaned back my head on the seat.

Nessa sometimes has seizures, I remember Ramon telling me when we saw each other last Christmas. She was buying presents for Eric that time. It happened earlier that month and the doctor was unsure if it will happen again. He wanted to appear nonchalant but the worry altered his voice. I didn't mention this to Nessa.

Meanwhile, Lisa’s husband will be coming home soon, one of the women in the hospital told me. He will be there when Lisa will be brought to the ICU. He will care of their son while Lisa is recovering, leaving his job in Dubai and taking care of the hospital bills.

And amidst all these, I will continue on, cramming errands in two and a half hours while my son is in school, paying the bills, going to the grocery, folding clothes. Or if time permits, wander around the mall, gawk at store displays with bright, smart dresses that won’t fit me anymore or envy women with better skin on derma clinic billboards. Or maybe I’ll sit by a coffeeshop with a raunchy paperback on hand and watch harried mothers chase their toddlers around the mall or commiserate with retired people shuffling along.  Sitting there, I know I’ll find time to worry about my husband’s uneven hours at work and the effectiveness of Danny’s therapies.

I turned the car to the parking lot. I cancelled Danny’s therapy that day and turned off my phone. Briskly, I walked to my favorite haunt, a coffeeshop with a French- sounding name. I could almost see the luscious crepe embedded with mango bits and drizzled in chocolate syrup and soft whipped cream in front of me.