Serendipity: A Short Story

Occupy

She lives on the loft of an old building in what used to be an industrial part of the city. It used to be a textile factory but the owners ran into hard times and rented out the space to anyone who would take it.

She took it. She was neither rich nor poor, was comfortable but not well off. She liked that the building had security and amply open space where she could sit and draw.

She lived with her uncle all her life. She never knew her parents, never learned of the circumstances that left her in her uncle’s care. It was a secret no one, not even the gossips in the family, ever spoke of. But she was okay with that, happy to be someone’s niece because as someone’s niece she was never neglected, with a lot of people caring for her. Her uncle gave her a good education and his estate made her an independent woman of moderate means.

She moved back here after living in Malaysia with her uncle after finishing college. He pursued an illustrious, but not quite lucrative career as a freelance visual artist for state publications there. He liked the atmosphere of the place, despite its many restrictions because he felt it was a good place to raise a reasonably attractive and gregarious young woman. He could not keep an eye on her all the hours of the day so he relied on the quite restrictive society to do his policing for him.

He died of a heart attack, and when his remains were cremated, she took him back to their home country. She yearned for the hustle of the Philippines even as she traveled with her uncle to various parts of the world where his work took him.

Her favorite place in the metro is her university campus, north of the city. After coming back from Malaysia, she made it a point to come here every weekend, after painting for hours on end on weekdays. She would eat fish balls and all manner of food hawked by street side vendors. She’d walk along the cobbled sidewalks and watch joggers and bikers pass by in a Technicolor blur.

She first saw him there, sitting on a concrete bench, reading a magazine. He had a not so flashy camera with him and on occasion he took it out from its case when someone interesting passed by.

He must have been 60, give or take a few years. His salt and pepper hair was wavy and cut in the fashion of 1960s matinee idols. His brown eyes seemed to be mirthful, even as his jaw drooped sometimes in disapproval of a jogger’s skimpy outfit.

He sat on the same bench every Saturday at exactly four pm and stayed until six. On rainy days, he did not show up. But once he brought with him a box of French macaroons to give to the fish ball vendor.

She loved observing him from her spot near the trees. He looked so out of place in this tropical country, despite his regulation flip-flops, Bermuda shorts and white cotton T-shirt. He looked like he belonged more to a formal English garden or an Italian piazza.

Once she mustered up the courage to speak to him. She could not resist. He was a regular character and characters like him were rare in this part of the world.

“Love the weather?” she asked

He looked startled, as if unused to strangers coming up to him to talk about the weather.

“Lovely,” he observed.

She could tell he was laconic not because he was being curt, but because habit dictated his economy of words.

“May I look at your photos? I couldn’t help but notice. My uncle loved photography,” she wondered if she was making sense.

“Certainly,” he handed her his camera with a nonchalance that belied its precious monetary value.

She flipped through the digital photos on the LCD screen and was impressed with what she saw. One could tell he was unschooled in photographic techniques, but he more than made up for it with perspective and style.

“These are good,” she said with a smile.

“You’re too kind,” he flashed well kept pearly whites.

“Do you have anywhere to go for dinner? My apartment’s a thirty minute drive from here. I make a mean puttanesca,” she grinned to cover up the nervous dejection she knew she’d feel if he rejected her offer.

“I must admit I do not ride off with strangers to their apartments, especially not in this country. But you seem nice, so I’ll say yes. I don’t eat dinner though. I’d be happy with tea and biscuits.” She marveled at the number of words that came out of his mouth.

They walked companionably to her vintage Austin Mini and drove in the direction of her digs. Once there, she switched on all the lights so he could see the paintings that leaned against the walls of her spacious loft. She was a modest young woman in all the other aspects of her life, but she knew she could rival her established uncle’s talents as a visual artist.

“Might I return the compliment? Your paintings kick arse,” he said in jest.

“Come on to the kitchen. I won’t cook if you’re not eating. I only bother when I’ve got company, but you said biscuits would be okay. I’ve a few raisin scones left from breakfast. Will they do? They go well with lemon ginger tea,” she asked.

“You really think my paintings are good?” she asked, surprised that she needed to be assured of his good opinion of her.

“You’re a regular Van Gogh. Or do you like Manet better?” he queried.

“How’d you guess?” she asked, amazed.

“The books on the table. They’re equally dog-eared,” he grinned.

She was about to bring the tea tray to her molave dining table when she felt a searing pain shoot through her shoulder. Her next vision was that of her visitor bleeding through his neck on the floor. His eyes were still sharp, he was handing her his cell phone, as if telling her to call for help.

Trying not to mind her own pain, she dialed her downstairs neighbor’s number.

“Hey. I think I’ve been shot. Please call for help and send them to my apartment,” she was out of breath before she passed out.

She woke up in a hospital room with a police officer peering at her like she was a specimen under a microscope.

“Miss? Your father’s okay. He’ll live. The bullet almost hit his jugular, missed by a couple of centimeters. Lucky bastard. But he’ll have trouble speaking for a while,”

“I’m sorry? I’m sorry. What did you say? Which father?” she croaked.

“The man we brought with you to the hospital. We conducted DNA tests on the samples in your apartment to determine if there were other victims of the shooting. Your blood and that of the man in your apartment match. You don’t have to press charges, the court martial will. We traced the bullet to a gun issued to an army officer. He was drunk when he fired the gun in the open space near your apartment…”

She heard no more. Her mind was in a whirl. She could not believe that she found a parent she wasn’t trying to find in the unlikeliest place in the world. No. How could it be unlikely? She was born here. It only made sense that her parents be here. But in the same city? After being absent from her life all her life?

The man was weak from losing a lot of blood when she visited him in the next room the following day. His eyes didn’t seem to have lost the sense of ridiculous that made him such a likeable person.

She brought a notebook with her and a pencil so she can communicate with him even if he still can’t speak.

“Here,” she handed him the paraphernalia. “Write the answers okay? First question, you know about our matching DNA?”

A “Yup” was scrawled shakily on paper.

“Did you know who I was when I came up to you?”

“I had a feeling…” He erased it and replaced it with a “No.”

“What now?”

“Wait ‘til I can speak. It’ll take a few weeks. I’ll explain,” he wrote.

Her aunt, her uncle’s youngest sister, brought both of them home the minute they were discharged from the hospital. The doctor gave thorough instructions about the care of their wounds and the antibiotics they still needed to take. They were also referred to a physical therapist and her father made a sour face when he was instructed to exercise daily to regain function of his muscles.

“Hate exercise,” he scrawled.

“So, are you really my aunt?” she pestered her hostess once they were settled in her roomy home in the suburbs south of the city.

“That’s a question I’m in a poor position to answer. Just be patient, dear,” was all she could get from her.

She tried to paint, but it was something that did not come easy to her. Expressing herself on canvas used to be a breeze, now she wondered if not knowing who she was had a lot to do with it.

“I’m not my uncle’s niece anymore. I’m somebody’s daughter. I have a father,” she wrote sadly in her journal.

“What’s your name?” The familiar voice tugged at her consciousness one day while she was replanting her aunt’s herbs in the sunny garden.

She turned and saw he looked almost like the carefree bystander she saw at her university campus.

“When did you start speaking?” She asked accusingly, the trowel falling from her gloved hand.

He consulted his watch mockingly. “Just about a third of a second ago. What’s your name?” He repeated.

“Patricia,” she blurted out. “But maybe you can tell me what my last name is.”

He burst out laughing. “What’s so funny? Since when was my name such a private joke?”

He held out his hand, “Since you learned that your Dad’s name is Patrick. Patricia, Patrick is pleased to meet you.”

Laughter got the better of her as she herded him to the folly the corner of the yard.

“So tell me my story. How did we come to be here?”

She was born 36 years ago, exactly on the same birthday she celebrates. Her uncle seemed like a former spook, because some of his friends looked like the secret agents she saw on TV. She was right. He and her dad were best friends in the secret service, but they parted ways when the former decided to retire and pursue a quiet civilian life.

Her mom died giving birth to her, because it was in the boondocks far from a maternity clinic in a province south of the country. It was a difficult pregnancy to begin with. Her father only had enough time to hand her over to the man she knew as her uncle before being assigned outside the country.

“Your uncle kept me updated on your progress, when you said your first word or when you took your first step. I always bought you a birthday present. I thought my solicitor’s office would send them to you after I died. This is a great, great surprise. I wouldn’t have had the courage to seek you out on my own after turning my back on you then. Even I wouldn’t forgive me for what I did,” he mused. It was the first time she saw the laughter leave his eyes.

“Well, forgive yourself because I have. I want to hug you. Can I?”

“Certainly.”

She scooted close to him on the bench and wrapped her arms around his considerable girth.

“That easy?” he said to her tousled hair.

“That easy.”