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.

What color is the snowman? by May Navarro

(This is an essay I wrote two years ago. This is for all the mother's out there this Mother's Day month)

My kid never seems to tire asking me this question over and over. He can’t get it out of his head lately after watching a winter season on video. I've answered him a thousand times and should be irritated by this constant intrusion yet I am grateful.  My son diagnosed with autism is trying to communicate. It is a rainbow in the uncharted world of autism, a treasured joy for a mother like me.  Motherhood has not exactly been a walk in the park because having a child with autism has been a road of challenging discoveries. At almost 5 years old, he is unlike regular kids who are gregarious in words. He’s still not conversant, mostly employing repetitive language. His tantrums due to high sensitivity to certain sounds have left me high strung most of the time.

Despite the struggle, I wouldn't trade the experience of having him for anything.  Yes, there are have been moments when I wanted my old carefree self back. But still, I wouldn't exchange it for a fraction of aimless youth because being a mother has carved facets of me that I haven’t discovered before like my ability to lovingly endure even in the most trying circumstances. It may not be the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me but it is one of the significant highlights of my life. I am still awed by the intense love I feel for my child, the unwavering certainty that I will explore undiscovered paths to make him well. They’re right you can only understand your mother until you have a child of your own. You can only understand the depth of her love when you’re holding your son’s hand. I wish I had been more accepting of my mother and fully appreciated all the sacrifices she has made for me because looking back her own motherhood journey was quite a challenge too.

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When I was nine years old I would often wonder why my ponytail was always crooked and why I often carried blotched patches of powder on my face like a half-made clown. I also wondered why my Mom was always in a hurry, yelling at us to hurry up while impatiently packing our lunch boxes. That time I didn't realize how hard a single mom of three kids was on top of being a university physician and what a sight she must have been, a lady driver who revved her raucous brown Volkswagen on the provincial streets where only a handful of women had their own car.  In the far-flung city in the North during the eighties a separated women whisking three kids to school was fodder for gossip. She wasn’t from that place, didn’t know the dialect very well, only known as the estranged wife of Mr. X.  She was ahead of her time though because nowadays, being separated with kids with a job to boot and slaving through traffic is not eye-popping news anymore.

When you’re the kid it’s easier to judge especially when you’re the recipient of your parents’ separation, when you have to endure the race from home to school and the shuttling back and forth between their houses. I admit, I sorely judged my Mom’s unkempt house and the greasy food she always ordered from the neighborhood carinderia because she didn’t have time to cook. I would often compare it to my Dad’s house, one that had a shiny baluster, the immaculate floors and hot, piping food. The one where my dolls were always neatly lined in one cabinet with encyclopedias I can browse in while waiting for him to arrive, a contrast to the waylaid dolls and komiks in my Mom’s place.

I thought then that maybe my Mom was just untidy like my grandmother complained. But how can she compare herself to my Mom when she always had help around her and my grandfather stood by her no matter what. Like me it was easy to judge my Mom. Moreover, during the angry, confused parts of my childhood, I often thought that my mother didn’t do her job well. She didn’t save her marriage, didn’t clean the house very well, fought with my teachers over my unfinished schoolwork thus, always humiliating me. And now that I’m a mother myself, I painfully realize the incredible sacrifices she endured, the strength she summoned to bring food to the table and the determination to keep a semblance of a family.

As a child of separated parents, my view of motherhood has always been ambivalent. Growing up raised by my father, being a mother was not a priority. The value of a career was given more importance than raising a child. And when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom to my child with autism, my Dad was not especially pleased. For him, it was better to pay someone to take care of my son while I go out to work. Maybe he was right. It has been a struggle financially and I had been tempted many times to go back. But there is an instinct that says I have to be hands-on with the interventions given to my son during these early years. If this was the right choice I don’t know. Besides, I discovered that I am not the corporate raider type and preferred work that offers flexibility to have more time with my son.

So it pains me to hear the word plain housewife, her job, just mothering the kids, often said with a tad of disgust and pity. Though not always directed at me, I still bristle inside. And as a mother, I often wonder do they really know how tough this job really is? I see mothers who are pregnant, some with two kids in tow dodging cars in busy intersections and admire their resilience. It’s not an easy job as I have maneuvered only one kid in a busy mall and I was in the point of distress.  These mothers take care of the kids more than themselves. They prepare meals, rock babies to sleep, wash the clothes and care for their husbands. These moms are the so called plain housewives. If that is plain then that is plain fortitude, a work addressed 24 hours a day, seven days a week without pay and no benefits. Of course, being a working mom is tough, juggling the roles of wife, mother, employee, always tearing themselves up with guilt and stress. But it seems to be given more respect than stay-at-home mothers. However, there should really be no debate on who should be respected more or whose job is harder because motherhood in its entirety is already a formidable undertaking.

            In the reverse turn of events, my mother now judges me. She bugs me about staying at home. I can feel her disappointment because I’m not realizing my full “potential”. Like my father she also mutters about the waste of my expensive education. Now I wonder if spending my time with my son really is a waste of time, if all of my efforts with him can be easily substituted by other people and I’m just fooling myself spending my time at home. When did motherhood become easily qualified? That working at the office is more acceptable now than taking care of your son at home? I always had the impression that it was a matter of choice.

But do I really know if staying at home with my son makes a difference?  I want to claim that it is the right choice but there is no motherhood jury to validate that. I’ve also accepted that I’m now part of the unglamorous side of motherhood because while the crowd of mothers is on their way to work I’m on the opposite side, going the other way, staying at home. While other moms rifle through a mound of paperwork, I’m busy preparing my son’s hot bath. And while their office is an air-conditioned cubicle in a towering building, mine is the insides of a fastfood wiping spaghetti sauce off a child’s chin. While these mothers confidently shop for clothes, shoes and bags, I mentally restrain myself as the blossoming prices of groceries come to mind.

But it is my son who validates this choice; his speech is improving and can feed himself with less assistance. No job promotions or Chanel bags can top that. It is the result of numerous drives to rigorous therapy sessions, consultations with caring therapists, hours of research, and the constant push and initiations to situations he would otherwise fear. It is a delicate balance of firmness and compassion. This is what motherhood is to me right now.

I try not to dwell on what other people think like my Mom. She and I lived in different times and different conditions and as long as my husband and I agree on this arrangement for my son then I should go on with this job. Motherhood will always be fraught with criticisms, opinions and unsolicited advices especially from those who survived their own set of circumstances.  But I know all mothers are trying their best in the only way they know how because like me they are still continuously learning about this phase in their lives. And it is only through the passage of time can they completely unravel what motherhood really means, a word that encompasses the meaning of sacrifice, love, sadness, joy, disappointments, tears, and happiness.

Nowadays, the snowman question comes and goes. Sometimes it’s about the sounds of the cow and the rooster. But it doesn’t matter. My patience can take it as long as he talks to me. I’ll answer it over and over again. So now, when he asks me again for the millionth time, What color is the snowman? I’ll tell him “Anak, the snowman is white with faint patches of pink because of the tight hugs his mom has given him. She hugs him because she loves him so much and because he has been a good boy.”  He may not fully understand it but I’m sure he knows what hugs are because I often give it to him even if he’s not always a good boy.

Lakambini by May Navarro

The night has began to cool, the air seeping through the bamboo slats of the hut. Oriang drew her shawl closer and tasted the sauce on the earthen pot. Nowhere near the adobo she used to have during family Sunday meals but still, it will be a feast with more potatoes than chicken parts. Her comrades found some native chicken wandering near the hut and happily caught these for her. It’s been awhile since they had some meat. Living in the mountains for weeks before coming to Cavite have been hard, digging rootcrops and hacking sap vines for water. Tonight they’ll partake chicken steeped in vinegar and garlic with mounds of warm rice. Then she heard a slight commotion and looked out the window, She saw people congregating, jubilant with someone’s arrival. “Supremo! “ someone called. Her husband had arrived.

Coming back from the camp in Tejeros, he went past her with no word. She knew it wouldn’t be a celebration tonight. His somber mood reflected the same one when he lost in San Juan, when the Spanish guards defeated them when its reinforcements arrived, he lost many Katipunero brothers there. She herself witnessed the slaughter, riding her mare on the sidelines, watching from afar as he tried to raid the powder room of the colonizers and heard the bursts of gunshots and curses and screams in Spanish. It was the same look he had in every defeat. But this one had a sting it seems. He looked downtrodden, his bolo haphazardly thrown on the table, his crumpled and dented strawhat at his feet. He let out a  sigh and slumped on a bamboo bench. Unfazed about this blight, Oriang took out large spread of banana leaf and smoothed it on the table. She then poured some contents of the adobo, careful to leave enough for the others, the rich scent wafting inside the hut. He smiled and eagerly scooped the chicken bits with his hand.

After dinner, Oriang gathered her needles and thread to sew some of his worn and yellowed shirts. She took off her payneta and let her hair flow freely, taking advantage of the breeze. He sat in front of her, his head leaned back, his eyes closed.

“They demoted me..” he said, his voice hoarse. She didn’t say anything, letting the rustling of the leaves outside fill the gap of her silence. She knew there are still words he had to say like a wound that needs to fester with coagulated blood still willing to flow. They were in Cavite to unify the two warring groups of the revolutionary group he established, the Katipunan and as its leader, he felt he had to intervene.  But this meeting turned into an election he didn’t foresee. As he continued, she learned that they wanted Emilio, a Caviteño to lead a revolutionary government not him. He who pierced the silence of the Motherland and rattled the Spanish government.  She can hear his deep sighs and noticed his closed fist, clenching his arm.

 “After everything, Oriang, everything… ” he lamented.

Everything, she thought. What does that encompass really?  Fleeing for your life, surviving a fire, losing a child and living in the mountains for this fight for independence, does that cover it? Isn’t that enough sacrifice for this cause? What more can they possibly want from him?

            “I almost killed that Tirona..calling me unlettered, unqualified even for a post they spat at me”, he continued in anguish.

Oriang didn’t say a word. His defeat in San Juan had grazed his pride but now it was hacked in pieces. Recalling his sacrifices, she remembered their son and felt the familiar pain. He was named Andres too, like his father. He was barely three and died of smallpox. They couldn’t reach to get medicines on time. He was giddy and playful boy. Andres used to carve him play daggers and wooden boxes from discarded lumber.  But they didn’t have time to mourn him because they had to flee. It was day in August when they buried him.  Andres face had been gaunt, emotionless while looking at the men placing their child to the ground. She held tightly at his arm as their son was being lowered to the pit and let out a faint scream as a primal pain gutted her. She tried hard to steady herself as her legs wobbled and threatened to give way. But Oriang didn’t fall.

“Maybe wanting a free county is not enough,” Andres continued in the cool night.“Because why would they want to believe me, I’m not an ilustrado like Rizal. Maybe they’ve treated him with more respect” he mocked.

Then he stood up and paced the bamboo floors, creaking at each step. Then in a sudden fit, he kicked a wooden chair that came crashing into the nipa wall. “Mga punyeta!” he yelled. “Andres!” Oriang wailed, dropping her threads. She made her way to the fallen chair.

“I’m sorry he said, following her. She looks at him, his eyes filmed with defeat. Their betrayal flicked his armor, pricking the braggadocio he insolently waved. But Oriang refused to acknowledge his defeat. There was too much at stake. The Supremo has to have the tenacity to lead the people.  She touched his shoulder. “We will go past this, like we always do” she said. Her face determined in the darkened room, her frail frame undeterred. He nodded and went to his men.

It had been a few days when the frantic knocks came on the door. Her heart lurched as she remembered the same sounds that awakened her at night in Caloocan when the Guardia Civil came. But this time it was different. Emilio’s men were here. With thundering hoove steps, they fired shots and Oriang saw some of her Katipunero brothers fell, others beaten.  She held her Remington rifle tight but Andres told her to flee before they arrived. She tried hiding in a thicket but was captured with Andres and his brother, Procopio and brought to Naic for trial.

His meeting with other Katipuneros a few days ago had been the subject for this sedition trial.  The trial lasted for days and they were placed in a dingy cellar with only one window.  It was stuffy and overheated. Andres was weak from his wounds, a gunshot in the arm and stab wounds on his neck. He was also feverish. Oriang ripped portions of her tapis to bind his wounds and dipped some of it in water and dabbed it on his body to lower his fever. With an old, musky blanket she covered him. Her solitude often awakened by her worries of his fate, triggering sobs that are stifled when he stirs.

It had been the ninth of May and it was the night of her birthday. Andres heard her cries. He touched her hand. “What is it?” he asked weakly. “Nothing” she replied. “Please..”  he pressed. She was silent then replied.  “It’s just my birthday…I’m sorry I’m being a baby..” He smiled. “Happy birthday, mahal“ he said. She leaned to meet his lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate tonight…” he sighed. “You deserve a grand celebration, Oriang with lots of food, lots of friends, lots of laughter, he said “Maybe your parents were right..I can’t give you a good life” he said. She jerked and looked at him. “Don’t say that“ she admonished. Andres smiled and wearily closed his eyes.

When he fell asleep, Oriang remembered how she has changed, from a daughter of a gobernadorcillo to a revolutionary. And how escaping from the Guardia Civil have became apart of her life when she married Andres.  Like riding a carromata in darkened alleys  while clutching critical Katipunan documents or paddling a riverboat in Pasig River to get away from the Spaniards. Perilous as it was, she loved the river part of her escape, the lapping water, the moon that suffused the river with its light, the silence. Far from the travails, the torture, the anguish. She found a stillness there, a comfort she often brings back as she goes through the chaos, the cries again.

The next day the verdict came out, its content was unknown. When the guards arrived at their door, Oriang held on to Andres as long as she can, grabbing his shirt, holding on to his leg until they forcibly ripped them apart. They led him to a hammock because he was too weakened to walk.  Her cries teamed with the tempest that arrived that day. The wind whined as it broke the tree branches and the rain fell hard, angry and steady. She begged the guards not to take his husband and let her go to Heneral Miong and beg for his life or at least let him recover from his wounds before taking him away. They agreed. Holding up her saya tightly, she crossed a furious river while holding on to the sides of white-washed boulders embedded in the water. But when she arrived in the camp, the Heneral wasn’t there.

When she went returned, she saw some guards carrying the blanket they used and the hammock lay in a pile. “Where is he? Where are they?” she screamed frantically. They didn’t answer and walked away. “Please, please, sirs, where are they?” she asked each soldier, grabbing the sides of their uniform, begging and kneeling along their path. Finally, someone said. “We left them in the mountains.”

Oriang ran. In her wooden clogs, she hauled herself up the rocks that littered the slope, grabbing the branches, vines that covered a soggy trail. The rain drummed her face as she clambered on the mud-covered rocks and protruding tree roots. She searched the mountain, going through the thick cogon grasses, scraping herself and calling out his name. She didn’t find him. Days passed and other Katipuneros went up and stayed with her, bringing her food and clothes. But she didn’t eat, accepting only buko shards to abate her hunger. She was filthy and her saya was soiled from dirt, her fingernails ragged and scratches adorned her hands and shoulders.

No, they could not have done it, she thought. We are brothers. Filipinos. No. She refused to believe that they can commit an atrocious act to a brother. After all he did, this was it? Fate can’t be that cruel. No. She wanted to believe he was alive even if the gritty mountains mocked her with its immovable stance, bearing witness to her harried state. No, this can’t be the end. We will always go past anything.

Then he arrived. Julio. One of their trusted friends.  They led him to Oriang. He was aghast at her despondent state but remained collected. She had a slight stench that whiffed in the air. “Oriang, you have to go down..,please don’t do this to yourself  ” he said urgently. She looked at him in his white rolled-up polo and blue trousers with a pistol hanging on his side. Nakpil, she sometimes calls him, is a scrubbed face she haven’t seen in weeks.“ I haven’t found him yet, Julio” she said, barely a whisper. Her lips were dry and her hair was down and unruly, her payneta dangling on the side. They were at a peak of a valley, the sun simmering on their heads. “We already scoured the mountains” he said then shook his head. Her eyes remained fixed on the shrubs below. Yes, fate can be unkind. It can. With that, she drew a deep breath and let the searing numbness she fought for days finally subdue her.  Then she looked at Julio’s kind face and noticed the darkness edging on his side, slowly filling the afternoon light then her legs gave way.

The Gift of Asul by May Navarro

A new set of gray clouds began to float towards us, suffusing the morning sky. My hands began to turn cold. The sea began to gather its own shade of gray as if the nimbus fleet wasn’t enough to cast an ominous mood. Meanwhile, the winds laps at our hair, scattering it to our faces. Where are you, Taytay? I thought. Dear Lord, I hope he’s okay. My grandfather has been missing in the enormous ocean, reduced to a speck in the vastness of it, alone in his beaten bangka. It has been three days. “The storm erupted suddenly, catching everyone by surprise” said one of the lucky fishermen who escaped the grasp of this temperamental monsoon.  But Taytay wasn’t so lucky, swept away by the furious winds, he still hasn’t made it back.

Naynay clutched her sand-crusted rosary beads and held her scarf tightly on her neck as she looks at the defiant ocean. Her duster mottled with sprays from the sea, the lashing waves threatening to get to us. I held on to my wilted umbrella as the wind tried to pull it away, adamantly refusing to give in to this tug-of-war. He will come back, I tell myself, he should. Because he can’t leave me like Asul did.

It is the summer I turned nine, the summer of 1985. I had been reading my Archie comic book in my room when I heard a familiar rumble and slid the curtains aside. It was Taytay revving his owner type jeep inside our subdivision, breaking the lull of monotonous silence in our place. After kissing my wary parents goodbye for the summer, I clambered up Taytay’s stainless steel jeepney and touched the old rosary that hanged in his rearview mirror. Naynay made sure that it was always here, swinging like a pendulum during the ride.  Taytay’s jeep was old and spartan, no fancy radio or contraption, only rolled black plastic covers on the side to protect us from the rain. I have always awaited his arrival, his presence a gift of momentary freedom, freedom from the suffocating house riddled with angry crashes and bitter ramblings, fights that was becoming intense as of late. But when my parents made up, it was as if they didn’t almost kill each other with my mother beaming at the baubles my father bribed as a peace offering. But the lull is achieved only for a time. Then the tempest rises again and I am at my room, listening to rants of a rock band on my headphones to mute their voices.

Taytay often whisked me away, his only apo to the coastal town of Laiya during vacations. Maybe he pitied me, an only child, an innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. I always felt welcomed in their home despite its bare conditions. They lived in an old nipa hut with slats of bamboo as floor and earthen jars to store water with. They ate with their hands, happily polishing the plastic plates that often had fish as viand. But their warmth more than compensated for these modest accommodations as Naynay would  hungrily gather me in her arms when I arrive. “My, you’ve grown up so fast Mina”, she often would exclaim, the lines of her face deepening with each grin. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe my mother grew up in a simple fishing village like this, even harder to comprehend how her red-tinted nails and fully-made up face  is a sharp contrast to Naynay’s rough, hands and weathered face. But I was nine years old and I didn’t think about it much, only the kind concern of my grandparents mattered and the sound of gentle waves washing away the numbness that trailed me from the city.

I wasn’t very fond of taguan and patintero, games some of the kids played in the village. I played for a time then settled to reading my Funny or Hiwaga komiks near the shore. I enjoyed watching the fishermen going out to sea as if embarking on a new adventure and going back before sunset with a heavy bounty. I wondered what kind of fish they caught and the sea creatures they saw. Did they wrestle a giant, hungry squid or dived with the sharks? I wondered. Then I looked at my freshly-brushed doll with a crudely sewn- fish tail courtesy of patches of cloth that fell from Naynay’s sewing machine. Did they see mermaids too?  Were they beautiful as regaled by books and had long, lustrous hair? Did they see their tails in the waves? I always wanted to ask Taytay these question many times. But I knew they were as true as Santa Claus jumping down the chimney and the elves making my doll.

When I exhausted my pile of komiks, I often go to the waves, submerging my feet, feeling the coarse sand underneath. I would also dive and grab seashells underwater and hide it in my pocket and polish the white, smooth stones I would get on my walks. Sometimes, I would chase a skittering hermit crab to its hole, marveling at its speed. Then I would go further down and climb a bed of rocks and sit on top while the sun set, eagerly awaiting the crimson hues and orange splashes that painted the sky.  The display of colors stirred a sadness that made me miss my family.

I always love eating crabs, scraping away at the lavish orange fat inside it shells and dipping it in vinegar strewn with crushed garlic and sea salt. Taytay told me that these crustaceans often lived in the crevices of rocks. So one day I went to my bed of rocks earlier than sunset so I can surprise Naynay with the crabs I can collect. With a basket on hand, I untangled the rocks with my stick, but there weren’t any. Disappointed, I pushed on then I noticed a slight movement behind a pile of rocks, a big crab! I thought. So I tentatively navigated myself there and then saw her. A young girl my age was sitting with dark ringlets like curled noodles framing her face. I was miffed by the intrusion on my space and wanted to call her about it. Then I noticed her long curled locks discreetly covered half her body, her skin dark tan with ridges like scales and a tail covered with blush pink scales. And her eyes had the deepest blue disconcertingly standing out from her brown face. I didn’t move, so surprised, I almost fell down the rocks. She smiled, her teeth the color of ivory. “Hi” I said. She didn’t talk. She had some kind of telepathy. Something like Hello, she conveyed. “You’re a sirena” I told her in my mind. “Is that what they call us here?” she teased.

I called her Asul because she doesn’t have a name. We became friends and played with the pearls she gathered from the oysters she ate. She only eats seaweeds and oysters, nothing with tail. I would bring my sungka and drop the pearls on its wooden ends. I taught her how to play this native game and with my swimming goggles and snorkel on, she would hold my hand as she showed me the yellow and blue lathered fishes swimming in the corals. My grandparents would worry at the time spent near the sea but I told them I met a friend there and they would be appeased.  Nobody minded me as I am an outcast, the city girl who refused to play and keeps to herself so I was free to swim with Asul, and how she swims so beautifully, so fluid and effortless, her tail elegantly dancing through the water. When I couldn’t keep up with her, I would swim on my back and watch the soft clouds float by, listening to her stories. I love hearing her adventures like the pink jellyfish with thin filaments that she swam with in Coron, the dangerous, blustery waves that almost crashed her near the cliffs of Batanes and the timid whalesharks  she observed in quiet Donsol.  

Asul had an acute sense of hearing and would swiftly swim away once anyone gets near us. She also heard their thoughts like she does mine. And this is why their kind was never discovered. But to my detriment, some kids curious about my solitary stance in the rocks often caught me talking to myself as Asul swiftly left, observing us from below the water. The cruel kids then branded me as their Sisa, heckling me as deranged, not only an outcast.

I once asked Asul why she chose me to see her. Or why her kind let them be seen my humans. After taking her turn at sungka, dropping the tiny seashells on the holes, she replied “Because you love the ocean, I know, I’ve heard it” I looked at her, my eyes searched her azure eyes. Is that why? Or maybe she was amused. Maybe she has watched me often lying on the sand, face down, arms tucked my chest and my legs pointed to the sea, anticipating the gregarious waves to sweep me to shore. I would often fantasize being a mermaid, wishing I could swim the depths of the sea and be overwhelmed by the silence of the underwater world . No screams, no crashes, just plain serenity. Maybe Asul had read my mind.

The summer was ending and I was ecstatic about my new friend, one I could anticipate playing with every summer. But she handed me grave news. She would be leaving soon. Her family has had enough of the loud destruction they had to endure from the humans, aghast at the slaughter they have seen. Asul recalled the scores of dead fish that often floated by after each attack, the blood on their gills and the destruction of precious corals where sea animals thrived on. She disliked the bombardment on her home with rocks sometimes crashing at them. Dynamite fishing, I thought. Taytay abhorred these practices and dissuaded the other fishermen from abusing the sea. But some never learned and the amount of fish began to dwindle.  They had to go farther into the ocean to cast their nets like Taytay did the day he went missing.

Saddened, I cried at the cruelty of fate. I’m losing a friend. But Asul softly held my hand then pressed one of the biggest gold hued pearl I’ve seen. She said it was a gift, a reminder of our friendship.  I held it in my hands, watching it catch the light and gape at its smooth perfection. Then I remembered something I could give her and told her to wait. I scampered back to the hut, hid my pearl inside the pocket of my rust-colored jacket, and rustled through my toys then I went back to the rocks. Other kids amused by my fast retreat, called out “Hey Sisa, what’s the rush?” and laughed. Heaving from the run, I gave her a small glass colored sphere with a colored strip embedded inside. Asul looked at it, amazed by this ordinary marble. “It’s so beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like this in the ocean” she gushed “ We call it our glass pearl” I said proudly. She hugged me and I felt the surprising coolness of her textured skin and inhaled the scent of seaweed on her hair. I would often remember that when I think of her. Asul left at sunset, waving goodbye as the last rays of the sun diminished in the sky. I was inconsolable that night and my grandparents didn’t know why.

The coast guards have arrived, muscled men in deep orange shirts, quietly determined to fight the towering waves and scour the islands for Taytay.  Brave men, I thought. I hope they find Taytay fast. Hours passed and some people were muttering that no one could have survived at sea that long, that it was a miracle if he was found. I glared at them for losing hope as I walked the slippery slope of hope and hopelessness. I slid closer to Naynay and held her hand tightly. Then I heard the roar of a rubber boat, from afar it looked like a toy bobbing up and down the unsteady waves, then I saw a figure weakly standing and waving his hands. The rain began to pour and the visibility began to worsen. Then I recognized him. Taytay! I ran to the shore, tearing away my umbrella and screamed with jubilation. Naynay made the sign of the cross and sighed her relief.

Taytay was assisted out of the boat, drenched, shivering and severely dehydrated. His hands and feet crumpled by the sea. He told me that he hanged on his boat as the waves overpowered it, he didn’t let go even if the frightening darkness of the ocean engulfed him at night. And when all had left us alone, he ushered me to come sit beside him. ” I didn’t tell them but I had a friend with me”, he whispered to my ear. “Taytay, come on!” I exclaimed blaming his hallucination to fatigue and hunger. He had been at sea too long, it was muddling his senses. I was just glad that he made it. Digging inside his wet pocket, he smiled then looked at me. “She even gave me this” he said and opened his wrinkled palm, a marble tumbled to the floor.

Musings of the Unworthy by May Navarro

The shifting groan of the aircon hurtled my thoughts back to the sparse motel room.  Here in this rented cocoon, the uncomfortable silence welcomes me again. I stifle a smile as I remember the little justice I tried to mete in my mind, images of him succumbing to my blows, a scene I have wanted to be played out an hour ago. But I remain seated hiding the onslaught within.  He is here unharmed, murmuring in his sleep with the crisp white sheet askew on his bare thighs, innocently unaware of the violence I pictured him in. Only the steady hum of an old aircon keep me company.  I don’t know what time it is. The windows are boarded up, blocking any streak of light, only the rickety side lamps illuminate the room casting it with a homey glow I find ironic.  I look at him, unmindful of me in his slumber. I wonder if I’m part of his dream. Is he dreaming of me? Or is he lost in it with her and their two boys?  I sighed as I adjusted myself on the worn sofa opposite the bed, watching him.  Will I ever be strong enough to leave?  I wonder.

It had been a rainy evening in July 2009. I had been waiting on a jeepney stop wilted by the rain watching packed jeepneys careen on the slippery streets with no headlights on when a black Mercedes glided to a stop in front of me. He rolled down a window and asked if I wanted a ride. I immediately recognized the face.   “Naku, Sir Charlie, thanks po”, I said and without much thinking, folded my soggy umbrella and stepped inside, my wet shoe almost getting stuck on the door. Then I looked at him, his wide smile crumpling his slanted eyes, his face smooth with pinkish tints and an outline reserved for magazines. I almost held my breath. I have always watched him from afar encased in his office or with a slew of assistant trailing him. I’m surprised he would remember me. I tried to look detached, distracting myself with the car’s confines, its wood-paneled interiors and fancy leather. This was a far cry from the cramped jeepneys I rode in where I jostled for position, burrowing my behind into a conquered space and bracing my nostrils for polluted fumes.

 Looking back, I didn’t realize then that these “car rides” would become frequent, initially peppered with friendly conversations, how’s your job, the family, your holiday followed by long side glances and accidental touching of hands. Then one day he just kissed me.  Euphoric was an understatement as I felt a blush under my brown cheeks. Of course, he wasn’t into me because of my charm. I realized that when he turned the car to an alley lined with garage rooms. Locking the door behind him, his once affable eyes slowly became heated. He came near and kissed me hard, his tongue lingering in my mouth. He quickly unbuttoned my blouse then lifted me up and carried me to the thinly covered bed. Lying there, I noticed our reflection above, his smooth back and my disheveled hair. Then I felt him tug off my last undergarment. I don’t know why but I suddenly panicked and covered myself with my hands. He smiled then softly kissed my lips, trailing it to the back of my ears.  He pulled my hands down and I felt a tingle that radiated to my body. .So this is how it feels like as I recalled some of the lewd scenes in my dog-eared novels. Finally….then I touched his face as I spread myself to him.

There were no promises on his part and I didn’t care. Over time, I became more than the prey, I learned to hunt for his pleasures, subduing him with my caresses and charged kisses. I also became a mute listener to his frustrations, his disappointments.  I listened while he ranted about his father’s interference with the business and his hard campaign for his approval while his wife maxes out his credit cards with her trips abroad. Then he softens when he talks about his two boys he hardly knows, blaming himself for not having time for them. I listened to him in earnest while massaging his back or while caressing his hair as he laid on my chest. It didn’t matter to me then, holding this handsome angel in my arms was more than enough for me. Even if I don’t see him as much especially during the holidays. Christmases and New Years were reserved for his family. Forlorn and dejected, I would often spend those days walking aimlessly in festive malls.

I wasn’t a beauty. Men didn’t fall all over me. Riding the LRT, I often look down during Valentine’s day, embarrassed by my empty hands, secretly envious of the roses the other girls had. Men ignored me or pegged me as a younger sister or the silent friend. My first kiss was with a short boy with premature gray hair from a nearby college when I was twenty.  He was visibly elated when I agreed, maybe I was the first one who said yes.  I was still flattered even if he slobbered me like a dog, his saliva almost reaching my eyes. It was my first kiss immortalized in the darkened cavern of a moviehouse while AiAi de las Alas spirited it away with Aling Dionesia. He didn’t call after and I didn’t mind, he’s not someone to look at anyway, I thought callously. No one asked me after that. I studied for the Accounting Board which I didn’t pass. Then came Charlie, my manna from heaven.

My friends like to ask me if I have someone in my life. Often I lie, while the others who know are aghast with the arrangement. “So is he leaving his wife for you?” they ask. I stare back with no answer and they shake their heads. Then they talk about something else. Honestly, Charlie never mentioned it and I didn’t ask or didn’t demand it. Maybe I was grateful he chose me, that he wanted to see me even for a couple of hours even if I have to wait for his call or text messages in the middle of the night. With each ring or bleat, I step out in the shadowed streets to meet him, his Mercedes waiting in a hidden side street. Any doubts I have about us dissipates once the car door opens and I see his face.  Beholden, his soft lips will distract my ungainly mind and I will feel enamored again. Then our exhilarating ride will end and I have to get out, back to the ghoulish roads again.

Alone, a part of me will brood, a nibbling ache will surface.  Is it wrong to hunger for more time with him not only the crumbs he can spare me? Do I even have the right?  I know I don’t. I should know my place. But sometimes, I just want to know more things about him, what food he likes, who his favorite band is and the names of his pets when he was ten. We never talked about that. And when he leaves me two streets away from my boarding house in a drizzling midnight, I sometimes wonder if this affair is still worth it when the feeling of worthlessness throbs after each tryst.  Why do I go on like an addict who needs her fix?  Ingesting a drug that vividly colors my existence yet slowly destroys me within.  Why do I need this quick high, this heady feeling when I burn after?  I can’t seem to stop yearning for him. It is an addiction that doesn’t seem to care about anybody else anymore.

“Don’t you ever feel remorse about his wife and kids?” a friend once asked me while waiting inside a coffeeshop.  Remorse, that’s a strong word.  I looked at her and gripped the handle of my scalding cup. And with an amused smile I met her accusing eyes and pursed lips. “Sometimes”, I say, knowing all too well of the intensifying guilt that has started to fester lately.  “If she finds out, what then?” she asks as she calmly stirred sugar in her espresso, maybe imagining tearing out her husband’s other woman’s roots if she had a chance.“She knows” I say casually. Her eyes widen but say nothing. “She doesn’t care as long as he still lives with her” I continued blandly. And she shakes her head like most of my close friends do when I talk about us.

I’ve seen her wife, sometimes visiting the office with kids in tow chased by yayas in matching starched uniforms. She seems larger than life with her glutathione-injected ivory skin, brown hued lustrous hair and a kind face that belies her fierce temper. Her voluptuous figure is often hugged by skinny jeans and sheer tops. Everything about her spelled of expensive derma treatments, hours in the gym and exclusive salons. She often throws me a glance when she meanders by the Accounting department and smiles like I’m a joke. She believes there are others too, not only me. I sometimes wonder if she doesn’t care anymore or only pretends not to or perhaps she had been hardened by his infidelities. But she takes it in stride, parading her expensive bags and slutty heels maybe because she knows that in the end he will always come back to her and her children and I am but one of his flings.  

Meanwhile, in the office where no one knows or if they did pretended not to know, Charlie refers to me perfunctorily, just another employee, no secret glances or messages. I am contacted only through my phone. He never really asked anything about me, my family nor does he notice the new things I try for him, the fruity cologne I dab on my wrist or the lacey pink camisole I bought for three “gives” from our resident Avon lady. He never seemed to be interested in me, in who I am or what I like. I don’t even know if he knows anything about me either.  And I never really minded. He wants to see me and that’s what matters.

I’ve always thought I would get married, imagined myself wearing a resplendent white gown with lace sleeves like the Barbie my classmate used to have. And the only man I imagined marrying is Charlie, he in his white tux, polished and breathtaking like a Ken doll. I know that’s quite a laugh, dreaming to be married to a married man.  But my elaborate imagination had already captured us kissing on a dusky beach at a sunset wedding, our feet submerged in the soft sand caressed by the waves. It’s a fantasy I’ve always seen through while standing inside an LRT train, watching the blur of buildings go by and listening to the nasal voice of the train driver as he announced each station. And when the train fluidly stops and the people spills out, I’m jolted back to the real world again. He is a married man and I have quite an imagination.

           

Lying on my cot at night, disturbed by the sounds of mattresses squeaking and other boarders snoring, I often wonder about my fate. I’m not the type who strives for the best things in life. I wait for it to arrive. Like my job, proudly endorsed to me by my Aunt Lalaine, thanks to her “connections”  in the company I’m working for and of course, the arrival of Charlie.  Maybe this roots from my childhood recalling the Freudian discussions I heard in the HR office once.  My father left when I was five. He left us for another woman, a hulking woman with large breasts manning a convenience store. My mother, a frail woman didn’t fight back, she let him go. Fits of tears often accompanied our days when I would see her lying in bed, defeated, tissues discarded on the floor. Sometimes, she refuses to get up and I would go to school with unpressed shirts and empty lunchboxes. But she recovered and went to work as a seamstress in a nearby garment factory to support me. She died before my college graduation.

It was the week before my thirtieth birthday and an unexpected gift arrived, a wandering butterfly unconsciously landed on my palm.  Riza, a friend handed it to me with an envelope, thanking me for trimming her business expenses. It was a butterfly mirror case adorned with indigo stones. “You deserve it” she beamed and walked away. I touched the glistening beads and the intricate butterfly setting, I never had anything this beautiful, this pretty. I’m used to hand-me downs from my richer cousins from faded clothes and yellowed books. I studied my reflection on the mirror. Is she right? Do I deserve this? Do I deserve this radiant and brand new gift? I sighed as I glimpsed at the dark and plain-looking woman staring back at me. I’m not really sure.

I never expected this day to arrive, one of the rare occasions I asked Charlie what will happen to us, our future. Maybe being thirty in two days disconcerts one’s mind. Or maybe it was the butterfly. He becomes evasive as always. “Can we not talk about it please?” he said while checking his phone looking away.”  I just want to know if this is leading somewhere” I said, surprised by my honesty. He didn’t move, his eyes locked on the screen. Then he calmly it puts down. He comes closer and looks at me with steely eyes.“If you’re not happy with me then maybe you deserve someone better”. Then he abruptly turned his back.  And I stood there, dressed down, aghast, fixing my eyes on his turned head as the room turned silent. It felt like a gunshot had been fired and everything faded into black and white. The world turned slowly and I couldn’t move. I felt parts of me collapsing inside.

He ignored me as he strips down his clothes and entered the shower, I wanted to lunge at him and hit his face. But I wasn’t like that. So I sat down and began to look back. Seven years, Charlie, seven fuckin years of hiding me, of ignoring me in public, of leaving me in isolated roads, of whisking me away when your friends or family were nearby and I’m reduced to a damn cliché. You deserve someone better.  That’s it, that’s the best you can fling to me? I didn’t even deserve a half-hearted excuse or a nebulous one. I was silent and he avoided my eyes. He finished his shower and lay in bed. I remained seated and said nothing.  He never did love me, the realization echoing mercilessly in the pallid walls of my mind. I was convenient and available for seven years.  So it really is possible then for a man to reach for a warm body when he needs it even if he doesn’t feel anything for this thing, this person. I let him sleep, his back turned to me. Maybe he was thinking that when he wakens, I would be over my dramatics, the way he always does me after our fights.

Sometimes being hidden like a leper feels like rain chipping away at you, piece by piece, flesh by flesh, cell by cell, pounding slowly but relentlessly or like waves smashing at you in the ocean tearing at you with undulating constancy, leaving you deformed and almost unrecognizable. I was always picked last and I never felt that I deserved better. Maybe I deserved this. And if people ask me, “Susan, why did you stay too long? Wasn’t it obvious that he was just using you” stopping short of saying how could you be so stupid.  Then I will say, even if it’s none of their business that I genuinely believed that he must have felt even an iota of affection for me in that span of seven years, that maybe I may have meant something more to him other than his trusty booty call. Now, naïve as it sounds, I still wanted to hold on to this theory even after his devastating cliché because if I was never his beloved mistress, what am I then, a decent whore with a day job?  Maybe in the end it was wrong for me to hope. Maybe I should have given my terms. Maybe I shouldn’t have put a low price on myself. Maybe.

He woke up and got dressed. No words passed between us as he slipped on his polo, adjusted his belt and combed his hair. He didn’t utter a word even when I opened the car door and slipped into the dark streets. And as the usual cacophony reverberated in our neighborhood, a new silence began echoing in my heart, my humiliation dawned to me again. I know this should be the last time I should see him but I know it won’t be. Part of me still wanted to see his face even after all this. Such was the cruel reality of this addiction. And yes, Charlie still called me after that night and I still met him. Again and again. And though, everything may have felt the same to him, something in me have changed. The steady warmth I’ve always felt for him have warped into an unexplainable frost that I didn’t show. I had begun biding my time. Hours, days, weeks passed. Then it arrived, the phone call with an accented voice, another manna from heaven. I couldn’t believe it at first and repeated the offer numerous times as if I had not heard it right. Then I began to feel happy. Finally, someone wanted me.

One night he called and I told him I would be waiting in the usual street of M. Domingo. I waited and a car finally came. I saw the streets bathed in weakened lights flashing through the car window as my mind wandered inside. Then I found myself in Edsa with cars inching in millipede pace. But I didn’t mind, I amused myself by watching people through their untinted cars, yawning and bored while some have a deranged look on their faces, staring ahead, seething at the stall of cars. Exiting Edsa, I felt the car cruise to a faster pace, I looked out to see unfamiliar roads coming into view. Finally the car moved toward a sloping pavement. Upon reaching the top, it stopped and someone unloaded my things from the back. I stepped out and tugged my black cardigan tighter. A mild breeze touched my skin.  I checked all my bags then gave him my last crisp bill. “Thanks po manong”. The taxi driver took it with his hardened palm and nodded. My phone was furiously ringing and I took it out of my pocket and turned it off.  Then I looked up to see the moving lights in the sky and adjusted my ears to the sound of loud engines welcoming the night.