Goodbye, Grace
I felt nothing as I stared at the lifeless face beneath the piece of glass.
She was the woman I knew as my mother all my life. Her death was no surprise, she suffered from a lingering illness for the past three years and I was nothing if not prepared for this event.
They let me know while I was in the South wrapping up a lecture tour a week ago. This is the first and perhaps the last time I’ll be seeing her as she is, finally without the ability to hurt me and make my life miserable.
I said a short prayer for her soul as I passed the black painted metal box and let others view her emaciated corpse.
I went back to my apartment in a building an hour’s drive away from my childhood home. I did not have the volition to unpack but did it anyway because it was something to do. Afterwards I lay down in my bedroom, unable to acknowledge the relief and the joy her passing brought me. It was to be the end of a very sad chapter in my life; it was the closure of a painful and scarring episode that defined who I am today.
Her name was Grace, which I think is a very bad divine joke for she exhibited none of it all her life.
My earliest memory of her was when I was three or four and we lived in one of the rooms of her eldest sister’s cramped house in the poorer part of town. Her husband, who is not my father, came home drunk and vomited in the chamber pot at the foot of the bed we all shared with my brother, who was a year older than me.
She screamed at her husband and punched him in the stomach, mouthing epithets faster than you can say uncle.
I don’t know how that memory affected me but it set the tone for my life with her. You could not count the number of times she gave me a mind fuck with her actions.
But the biggest mind fuck of all came when I was five. It’s a memory that will not fade with time, an event that defined me for such a long time.
It was the summer after my first year in school and much as I enjoyed the experience I was glad for a break. I spent my mornings playing with the neighborhood kids and the afternoons napping and playing some more.
One Saturday she woke me up early, heated water in a kettle for my bath and carefully gave me one. Then she dried me with her own towel, dressed me in my best t-shirt and shorts, combed my long hair and braided it. She even tied the shoelaces of my sneakers.
I never felt so loved in my young life!
She was smiling as she did all this and then she said in a soft voice, “Baby, we’re going to your favorite amusement park today. We’ll ride all the rides you want and eat all the cotton candy you want. Just do as I say okay?”
Her words sent me to five year old heaven.
She hailed a cab, got in first then had me sit on her lap. But the taxi did not go in the direction of the amusement park; we went the opposite way where the big houses were.
The driver pulled over in front of green gates which hid a sprawling structure set in an even more sprawling lawn.
We were greeted by a man who looked as if he had been sitting on the lower floor verandah since last night. I did not like him at first sight. His grey hair was camouflaged by raven black dye and he had a couple of gold teeth that glinted sinisterly at me when he smiled. He smelled of sandalwood soap, but it did not sit well on him.
He grabbed my hand after handing Grace a thick wad of hundred peso notes and half dragged me into a bedroom in the second storey of the house. He was rough as he undressed me. He took off my panties last; he did not remove my pink sneakers.
He smelled my underwear before he undressed himself. I closed my eyes and I remember to this day the searing pain I felt between my legs a few minutes later. I did not open my eyes until I heard him go out and close the door a good twenty minutes after.
When I did, I saw blood trickling down my legs and soaking my yellow socks. There was also blood on the bed sheets. I shivered in the cold room; the air conditioner was turned on full blast. I curled up and fell half asleep.
I woke up to her scolding, she bitched about waiting and how I should have had the sense to get dressed and go downstairs. She raised her voice as she commanded me to put my clothes on and wipe the tears that I did not know were flowing from my eyes.
A white car that I imagined to be a funeral pyre took us home.
A week later I heard Grace complain to one of her officemates that she lost thirty thousand pesos at the horse races. Instinct told me it was the money I was bought with.
I changed after that day. I used to be an outgoing, precocious child. I became sulky and moody, always given to introspection and I will admit that majority of my thoughts were focused on trying to figure out what it was I did that got me in such big trouble. I still got good grades in school, I still enjoyed learning and the task of getting an education distracted me from the hell home had become.
But with Grace, it was as if nothing happened. There were no traces of guilt in her demeanor and she treated me like trash as usual. It wounded me to think as I looked back that I was nothing more than a piece of meat to her. And maybe because I was.
She proved this when I was nine and her husband got a job that required him to travel regularly to the provinces to oversee the company’s various factories.
On his first night away, Grace barged into my cramped bedroom and commanded me to go to theirs. She had only a towel wrapped around her naked body. Then she lay on the bed and spread her legs. She grabbed my hair and shoved my face in her crotch.
“Lick me and suck me and don’t stop until I scream,” she said hoarsely.
I was going to do no such thing. This was not going to be 1982 all over again. I kept myself from gagging at the stink of her genitalia. Instead of doing as I was told, I bit her hard there until I tasted the iron of her blood in my mouth.
She boxed the right side of my face and screamed “You worthless animal!” at me. I reeled and fell face first on the floor. My nose broke and the blood that spurted mixed with the blood in my mouth.
I failed my quiz the next day.
I could go on and on and I wish I could say she had no redeeming qualities and maybe there was one. She did not turn me out on the street when she could easily have done so as I learned after she was diagnosed with stomach cancer that she was not my real mother. That was all she told me, she did not go into details. She wouldn’t tell me who my mother was or how it was that I was given under her care.
That was when I finally decided to cut loose. I moved out of her house and finally took on the low paying, highly fulfilling job I always wanted. I stayed in public relations for Grace, because despite everything she did to me I felt what I now realize was an ill-placed sense of duty and gratitude towards her. Wanting to earn her approval was a bad habit I could not kick and when I look back I see it’s worse than being addicted to drugs. But she was the only mother I knew and I always had a strong sense of family.
I taught economics at the state university where I finished college and I could not remember feeling happy in a long time. It was liberating. The hours were not demanding. I had a teaching assistant who took care of most of the grade keeping. All I did was lecture and grade essay assignments, which I loved to give in lieu of quizzes.
I was gaining equilibrium when I was told of her death. The receptionist at the front desk of the hotel where I was staying handed me a note left by Grace’s son, whom I always thought was my brother.
I locked myself in my bathroom, waiting for the tears to come but none did. The note informed me of the date of the cremation, which was two weeks away. It was the soonest Grace’s daughter could come home. I decided to stick to my schedule and go back to Manila after I finished my lectures.
Her will stated that her ashes be left with me, her paltry fortune divided between her two offspring. I did not want to keep it. I was trying to decide what to do with the urn when my doorbell rang.
An elegant elderly woman was at my door. She wore a tailored long sleeved shirt and slim cut black slacks. It was Celine, Grace’s older sister. Seeing her gave me a shock, it was like seeing myself twenty years into the future. I’ve never seen her in person but we wrote occasional letters and I sent her birthday and Christmas cards when I remembered. Grace also let me speak to her on the rare times she called on the phone. She also sends pictures of herself and her family, which is based in England, but I was not prepared for this meeting.
“I have a lot of explaining to do and I don’t know where to begin,” was how she started the conversation.
Celine was married at the time she had me, but not to the man who is my father. I was born in secret in remote Birmingham. She asked Grace, who was starting her own family, to come and smuggle me into the Philippines and have me registered as her own child.
The agreement was Grace would keep me until Celine could get a divorce and marry my father and we would all move to the United States.
“But she kept you so she could blackmail your father and me for money,” Celine expanded.
The money stopped coming when I was five, which was why I was sold, she further explained. They refused to give in to her demands and threatened to sue for breach of contract.
“I didn’t want you to hate me for making such a choice. I regretted it the moment my sister left the hospital with you,” Celine sobbed.
She explained she stayed away because Grace threatened to turn me against her if she stepped foot in the country—it was her revenge for leaving her to care for me and spend for my upbringing. My education was an investment because Grace saw I was no halfwit and had the potential to earn a good living so I can support her in her twilight years.
Tears were trickling down my cheeks as I took it all in. I got the explanation I have been praying for for so long. I tried to hate Celine for the things she did and did not do but I couldn’t. I have known her all my life but it felt like we’ve just met. I sat on my part of the couch silent, watching Celine watch me.
“Please say something, anything. Blame me, I know I could never make up for giving you up, for being such a coward,” she pleaded.
I wiped my tears and gave a half laugh, hoping Celine could see the joy in my eyes.
I held out my hand and said “Hi Mom, it’s great to finally meet you. Do you have any suggestions on what to do with an urn of ashes?”
Her frown lifted and she laughed. She shook my hand. “I’m glad too. How far is the sea from your place?” she asked.
I hugged her and picked up the keys to my 1969 Volkswagen Beetle from the mantel. We drove to the beach three hours from where I lived.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A tale tall
Red
The red parasol set off her creamy skin and grey eyes. And walking under the summer sky, she looked pretty as a picture. Tonight she would make her debut in upper class society, she was turning eighteen and the thought of the party terrified her.
She was walking across the Saturday market with her nanny, who had been with the family since her oldest sister was born twenty five summers ago. They were looking for silken sashes that the seamstress forgot to buy for her dress. She was sent to run the errand because they knew she was always particular about her clothes and they didn’t want to buy the wrong color.
She folded her parasol and went inside the canopied nursery that housed plants of varied origins; some came from the Deep South, others from the farthest corners of the East.
She was looking at purple and yellow and spotted orchids when she came face to face with him. He was a merchant; he made wines and cheeses in his farm and vineyards north of the town.
His heart skipped a beat, he never imagined in his thirty six years he would get this close to the female he has admired since he first saw her walking home in short skirts from school. She was just fourteen then, and he knew he would never be given the opportunity to court her and make her his wife. She belonged to the ruling class and he was a lowly trader, a working class man who had no material comforts to promise his future wife.
He found her enchanting; she had a grace that not even the nun-run school she attended could teach. It was intuitive as a panther is born with its slinky demeanor. She did not walk, she floated on the ground. She had the habit of running her hands through her hair and it did things to him he never imagined possible in this lifetime.
She came away from the nursery with a pot of tea roses, borne by her nanny in her sturdy arms.
She smelled of rosewater and he wondered if the plant would be used to make the water which perfumed her person.
He followed her, not on his own volition, it seemed. She skipped to the dry section of market, where trinkets from four corners of the world were sold. Silver mirrors, gold jewelry, copper kettles, all manner of bags and textiles and figurines and brushes and ribbons made a menagerie of merchandise in this part of the market.
He wanted to buy everything she touched. He wanted to feel how her finger tips feel if only through the things she came in contact with.
Her name was Lianna, that much he knew and she bore the surname of the family that ruled this small island principality tucked in the latitudes where the East met the West. She is a bright student. He knows because one night he bribed a gang of hooligans to break into her school and steal her test papers and notebooks. She got good marks and was a diligent and well read pupil. You could tell by the breadth of words she used to answer the questions on her exams.
She loves strawberries, for when they are in season, he would watch her come to the market with her posse of servants purchasing kilos and kilos of the fruit that she sometimes ate right there without washing them. He has paid a small fortune to servants in her household to give him information, anything and everything, about the object of his affections.
She likes to bathe at night in a hickory tub filled with aromatics and warm water. Her long hair is always carefully groomed and is never allowed to sway loose whenever she is out. But in the bedroom, as he saw with his binoculars through her window, she does not plait it for sleep. It hangs loose up to the small of her back like a copper curtain. It stirred his loins in a manner he knew was improper, especially since she seemed so distant.
He is invited to her coming out party, for even though he belonged to the merchant class, his family has warranted enough respectability in society to earn them the right to consort with the nobility of the island. He sent his RSVP the day after the invitations were sent out and chose his party ensemble soon after. To say that he was excited would be an understatement.
Carriages lined the generous driveway of the palatial mansion Lianna lived in on the night of her debut. The ballroom sparkled with lights, which were reflected on the flatware, stemware and cutlery. An sixty piece orchestra, that came from across the ocean played music that mimicked the sea’s movements. Everybody wore finery, borrowed or otherwise, as if parties like hers happened everyday.
He would be introduced to her later on, along with the multitude of single men and women who will be presented to her as potential friends, playmates, and lifelong mates. Of course, he knew, he could never belong to the latter category. The most he could hope for is to be allowed in her orbit for her amusement.
After a procession of three hundred forty two males, his turn came to face her and to have her say his name, Auguste, to his face thrilled him. But as he was to step forward and take her hand in his to kiss, a shot from a revolver rang out. The bullet pierced her heart and his blood ran cold, as if he was the one who was shot.
He saw her collapse on the floor and he saw the crimson blood flow from the wound that left a hole in her heart.
He thought, this can’t be. We’re not even friends yet. I have so much to show you! You can’t die. Don’t die, my darling angel, don’t die!
The guards caught the miscreant who harmed her, but they all knew taking his life would not bring back her own.
Emboldened by the crisis, Auguste came forward to Lianna, and kissed her mouth, willing his breath to jumpstart the air in her lungs. He prayed as he kissed her, bring her back, bring her back. She is so young, it wouldn’t be fair. Please if You’re listening, don’t break my heart. I haven’t even gotten to know her yet.
Everyone gasped, as the blood that issued from Lianna’s wound flowed back into her body and the bullet in her heart was expelled and pierced her attacker’s heart. Her wound closed and he knew she was alright, finally when he felt the warmth of her breath on his nose.
He was to let her go, but she held him fast in her arms, tangling her fingers in his hair. They kissed for a few minutes, to catcalls and cheers from those who witnessed it.
She was out of breath then, and her eyes were alight with mirth when she let him go. He stood up and helped her get up. Her dress was unstained. She did not let go of his hand the entire evening. She danced with him, taught him how to, for he never bothered to learn.
Before the party ended, she asked him to meet her in the courtyard by the fountain.
“Wait for me, I just have to ask someone something,” she instructed him.
Her eyes were shining when she met him, with what he hoped was love.
She told him, you have my father’s permission to pay me court.
It was more than he hoped for. He jumped up and down with joy.
“But if you ask me, I’d rather elope,” she said with a wink. “I know you, you know. Nana knows you’ve been sniffing around me for the longest time. She set my father’s spies on you to make sure you won’t harm me. It was her idea to invite you to my debut.”
He was speechless. The tables, for once, were turned on him and he never felt so good.
“I don’t just love that you love me. I know all about you, how you work hard, how you love your family. I know everything!” she was as giddy as the schoolgirl she no longer was.
He finally found his voice. “Okay then. I’ll give you one night to really think about this. If you really see me as a potential husband, send me your red parasol tomorrow. Then, I will come to your father to ask for your hand in marriage.”
It was the first thing she did the following morning; send him her red parasol at daybreak.
The red parasol set off her creamy skin and grey eyes. And walking under the summer sky, she looked pretty as a picture. Tonight she would make her debut in upper class society, she was turning eighteen and the thought of the party terrified her.
She was walking across the Saturday market with her nanny, who had been with the family since her oldest sister was born twenty five summers ago. They were looking for silken sashes that the seamstress forgot to buy for her dress. She was sent to run the errand because they knew she was always particular about her clothes and they didn’t want to buy the wrong color.
She folded her parasol and went inside the canopied nursery that housed plants of varied origins; some came from the Deep South, others from the farthest corners of the East.
She was looking at purple and yellow and spotted orchids when she came face to face with him. He was a merchant; he made wines and cheeses in his farm and vineyards north of the town.
His heart skipped a beat, he never imagined in his thirty six years he would get this close to the female he has admired since he first saw her walking home in short skirts from school. She was just fourteen then, and he knew he would never be given the opportunity to court her and make her his wife. She belonged to the ruling class and he was a lowly trader, a working class man who had no material comforts to promise his future wife.
He found her enchanting; she had a grace that not even the nun-run school she attended could teach. It was intuitive as a panther is born with its slinky demeanor. She did not walk, she floated on the ground. She had the habit of running her hands through her hair and it did things to him he never imagined possible in this lifetime.
She came away from the nursery with a pot of tea roses, borne by her nanny in her sturdy arms.
She smelled of rosewater and he wondered if the plant would be used to make the water which perfumed her person.
He followed her, not on his own volition, it seemed. She skipped to the dry section of market, where trinkets from four corners of the world were sold. Silver mirrors, gold jewelry, copper kettles, all manner of bags and textiles and figurines and brushes and ribbons made a menagerie of merchandise in this part of the market.
He wanted to buy everything she touched. He wanted to feel how her finger tips feel if only through the things she came in contact with.
Her name was Lianna, that much he knew and she bore the surname of the family that ruled this small island principality tucked in the latitudes where the East met the West. She is a bright student. He knows because one night he bribed a gang of hooligans to break into her school and steal her test papers and notebooks. She got good marks and was a diligent and well read pupil. You could tell by the breadth of words she used to answer the questions on her exams.
She loves strawberries, for when they are in season, he would watch her come to the market with her posse of servants purchasing kilos and kilos of the fruit that she sometimes ate right there without washing them. He has paid a small fortune to servants in her household to give him information, anything and everything, about the object of his affections.
She likes to bathe at night in a hickory tub filled with aromatics and warm water. Her long hair is always carefully groomed and is never allowed to sway loose whenever she is out. But in the bedroom, as he saw with his binoculars through her window, she does not plait it for sleep. It hangs loose up to the small of her back like a copper curtain. It stirred his loins in a manner he knew was improper, especially since she seemed so distant.
He is invited to her coming out party, for even though he belonged to the merchant class, his family has warranted enough respectability in society to earn them the right to consort with the nobility of the island. He sent his RSVP the day after the invitations were sent out and chose his party ensemble soon after. To say that he was excited would be an understatement.
Carriages lined the generous driveway of the palatial mansion Lianna lived in on the night of her debut. The ballroom sparkled with lights, which were reflected on the flatware, stemware and cutlery. An sixty piece orchestra, that came from across the ocean played music that mimicked the sea’s movements. Everybody wore finery, borrowed or otherwise, as if parties like hers happened everyday.
He would be introduced to her later on, along with the multitude of single men and women who will be presented to her as potential friends, playmates, and lifelong mates. Of course, he knew, he could never belong to the latter category. The most he could hope for is to be allowed in her orbit for her amusement.
After a procession of three hundred forty two males, his turn came to face her and to have her say his name, Auguste, to his face thrilled him. But as he was to step forward and take her hand in his to kiss, a shot from a revolver rang out. The bullet pierced her heart and his blood ran cold, as if he was the one who was shot.
He saw her collapse on the floor and he saw the crimson blood flow from the wound that left a hole in her heart.
He thought, this can’t be. We’re not even friends yet. I have so much to show you! You can’t die. Don’t die, my darling angel, don’t die!
The guards caught the miscreant who harmed her, but they all knew taking his life would not bring back her own.
Emboldened by the crisis, Auguste came forward to Lianna, and kissed her mouth, willing his breath to jumpstart the air in her lungs. He prayed as he kissed her, bring her back, bring her back. She is so young, it wouldn’t be fair. Please if You’re listening, don’t break my heart. I haven’t even gotten to know her yet.
Everyone gasped, as the blood that issued from Lianna’s wound flowed back into her body and the bullet in her heart was expelled and pierced her attacker’s heart. Her wound closed and he knew she was alright, finally when he felt the warmth of her breath on his nose.
He was to let her go, but she held him fast in her arms, tangling her fingers in his hair. They kissed for a few minutes, to catcalls and cheers from those who witnessed it.
She was out of breath then, and her eyes were alight with mirth when she let him go. He stood up and helped her get up. Her dress was unstained. She did not let go of his hand the entire evening. She danced with him, taught him how to, for he never bothered to learn.
Before the party ended, she asked him to meet her in the courtyard by the fountain.
“Wait for me, I just have to ask someone something,” she instructed him.
Her eyes were shining when she met him, with what he hoped was love.
She told him, you have my father’s permission to pay me court.
It was more than he hoped for. He jumped up and down with joy.
“But if you ask me, I’d rather elope,” she said with a wink. “I know you, you know. Nana knows you’ve been sniffing around me for the longest time. She set my father’s spies on you to make sure you won’t harm me. It was her idea to invite you to my debut.”
He was speechless. The tables, for once, were turned on him and he never felt so good.
“I don’t just love that you love me. I know all about you, how you work hard, how you love your family. I know everything!” she was as giddy as the schoolgirl she no longer was.
He finally found his voice. “Okay then. I’ll give you one night to really think about this. If you really see me as a potential husband, send me your red parasol tomorrow. Then, I will come to your father to ask for your hand in marriage.”
It was the first thing she did the following morning; send him her red parasol at daybreak.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Can't live for tomorrow...
Today
Today is going to be the greatest day ever.
I remember telling myself that when I was in school and the day turning out to be a dud. In various times and places in my life, today didn’t turn out the way I thought or hoped it would.
These were the times when I should have stopped believing in the God of my childhood, took a U-turn and attacked life from another perspective. But I never learn.
I never learned when I was playing Chinese garter and my playmate tripped the elastic so I fell head first into the concrete flooring of the schoolyard. I wouldn’t stop bleeding for hours.
I never learned when the bullies dunked me head first into the toilet in the faculty CR (the water is colder there because of the air conditioning). I was dunked a total of 3,456 times during my entire stay in that school.
I never learned when a sorority novice took all my books in college and made a bonfire of them over which we roasted marshmallows and made smores. My participation was vital in the public humiliation ritual. Strangely, it felt like I was the one being humiliated.
I never learned when they attached an empty can to my dress during college graduation and everybody cheered when I went up to the stage, dragging the tin behind me to the heckling of my batch mates.
I never learn.
So when I started my first job as a receptionist in this really great building in the central business district, I brought with me all the optimistic hopes and good intentions I have been carrying as my baggage since I was little.
See, I am a self taught optimist. My home life was crap. I lived with a mom who liked to gamble everything in sight and was biologically predisposed to bet on everything (“Bet you this roach will die as soon as I cut its head off”—it didn’t). I suspect that if I fetched a price she’d bet me in the casinos.
Dad is a drunk. I will not elaborate, except say that he is not the kind of drunk that can really hold alcohol well. He pukes every three beers.
Mom and Dad can’t have any children so they took care of other people’s children. There were eight of us kids in their households, some the children of neighbors who had to work abroad for a living, others are the product of a marriage that husband and wife got tired of. In this menagerie I didn’t know where I belonged. Nobody knew who my parents were or how I came to be here. There was a theory going round when I was in third grade that I was the product of the earth and rain’s copulation. I sprang from a geyser, my sisters and brothers would tease.
So how would such a dysfunctional household produce a stubborn optimist like me?
I like to read, and starting from when I was little, I was attracted to stories that had themes of good winning over evil and the knight in shining armor winning the day.
I liked the story about the Archangel Michael driving Satan away from Paradise after a fight.
I like the retelling of the Cinderella story in the movie Ever After starring Drew Barrymore where the wicked stepmother and stepsister were given their just desserts.
I like to read my Bible, especially the part where Jesus resurrects from the dead and ascends to heaven.
I like happy endings.
So now, as I start with my first job here in this towering glass building, I bring with me the optimism of my childhood and my faith in God and all that is good in the human race.
I smile as I hand out guest IDs and ask visitors to register in the guestbook. I assist those who are confused by the information they need to fill out. I nod and acknowledge those who have permanent building passes who go through the metal detector. Until he came along.
His ID says Phillip Anthony Norman and it indicates that he is the Chairman of the company housed in the building across the street.
I detain him and ask him to get a guest pass and register. He smirks and says, “I own the building across the street. What do I need to register for? I always get past security without having to be checked. Are you new here? You smell new.”
“Sorry sir, but rules are rules. Maybe you can ask your Club to issue a permanent pass so you won’t have to register every time,” I replied, smiling still but wishing I could kick his seventy year old butt.
“Oh alright, but let it be known that I am only doing this because you are not worthy of being in an argument with,” he conceded.
He came to the building every day, but he still did not ask for the guest pass from the establishment he visited there. I would have acquiesced at some point that he need not register anymore because he did have face value in the building. Everybody knew him and they did give him special treatment.
I would have acquiesced had he been not determined to make my life hell. Sometimes he’d steal my pens just to make my life difficult. Once I made the mistake of lending him my vintage Waterman ballpoint and the sneak did not return it. When I asked for it back, he was all nonchalance and pretended he did not hear.
Another time, he brought a hundred employees with him and made them register just for the heck of it. It took me two hours to get them all through.
There was also a time when he spilled chili and lemonade on my guestbook. Deliberately, you could tell. I wanted to cry then but I wasn’t going to let him get my goat.
Because I was the way I was, his antics did not annoy me or instigate wrath and vengeance in my heart. I felt…compassion for the poor old fart who would stoop so low as to play mind games with a receptionist. I mean, come on, what kind of Chairman thinks up new ways of making a lowly receptionist miserable every day? I thought, he must be really screwed up.
Today would be the greatest day ever, I said to myself to celebrate my first year at work. I survived a year of hell in the hands of an evil geriatric and I was dang proud of myself.
I waited for Mr. Norman that day, but he did not show up. I waited for him the next and the next and the next but still no Mr. Norman. I got curious. Did he finally kick the bucket?
I thought of him in a sickbed, but the image didn’t fit. I thought he seemed so indomitable he’d scare away disease.
I gave in to my curiosity and dialed the number on his guestbook registration. A cultured voice greeted me with his company name and her name.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Elizabeth Jones. I am the receptionist in the building across yours and I know Mr. Norman. I am just worried about him. We haven’t seen him in a while. Do you have news?”
“Oh. So that’s your name,” the voice on the other end answered. “Mr. Norman took time off indefinitely; his daughter was diagnosed with cancer. He’s taking care of her.”
“I see. Well, is there any way I can visit? Can I get his home address?”
“I’ll ask him first. Call me same time tomorrow,” I was told.
I got his home address the next day and the hospital where his daughter was confined. I made sure the daughter was still in the hospital before I went over the weekend.
“You! I thought I saw the last of you. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I missed your antics,” I said tartly. “I wanted to know what you were up to.”
Then, “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
He did something I did not expect him to do. He gathered me in his arms in a hug and cried silently on my shoulder. It must have been uncomfortable because he was taller than me by at least ten inches.
“Whoa!” I said, rubbing his slim back.
“Elizabeth, I can call you that can I? My daughter and I were estranged before she fell ill. Now I am praying that she live a little longer so I can spend some time with her,” he said, tears still streaming down his face.
“I got a call from the States last week, telling me that my daughter had ovarian cancer. They said she put me down as next of kin in her papers. That’s when it hit me, she could change jobs, change boyfriends or girlfriends, change her name, but even through those changes she cannot change the fact that I am her father.”
That’s how it started he said, their estrangement. His daughter started dating women and eventually told him she was lesbian. He couldn’t accept it and he banished her. He said if she did not leave the country, he would. So she left.
I wish I could tell you Mr. Norman got his wish, but it was too late for him. His daughter died that same year. He stopped coming to our building. Actually, he retired from work and refused to visit the Club in our building, saying it was to snooty for his tastes anyway. That if he didn’t have to take out his clients there, he wouldn’t go there.
There’s a McDonald’s behind our building. I take my lunch there whenever my foster sister forgets to prepare me something for the day. He treats me to a Big Mac too, there, once a week. But there are nice restaurants about and we eat in at least four every weekend.
I can tell he is trying to make up for the time he lost with his daughter by spending time with me. I don’t mind being a proxy. I am just glad I did not write him off as a crazy old coot. Which he is, it’s just apart from that, if you get to know him, he’s a really great guy.
Today is going to be the greatest day ever.
I remember telling myself that when I was in school and the day turning out to be a dud. In various times and places in my life, today didn’t turn out the way I thought or hoped it would.
These were the times when I should have stopped believing in the God of my childhood, took a U-turn and attacked life from another perspective. But I never learn.
I never learned when I was playing Chinese garter and my playmate tripped the elastic so I fell head first into the concrete flooring of the schoolyard. I wouldn’t stop bleeding for hours.
I never learned when the bullies dunked me head first into the toilet in the faculty CR (the water is colder there because of the air conditioning). I was dunked a total of 3,456 times during my entire stay in that school.
I never learned when a sorority novice took all my books in college and made a bonfire of them over which we roasted marshmallows and made smores. My participation was vital in the public humiliation ritual. Strangely, it felt like I was the one being humiliated.
I never learned when they attached an empty can to my dress during college graduation and everybody cheered when I went up to the stage, dragging the tin behind me to the heckling of my batch mates.
I never learn.
So when I started my first job as a receptionist in this really great building in the central business district, I brought with me all the optimistic hopes and good intentions I have been carrying as my baggage since I was little.
See, I am a self taught optimist. My home life was crap. I lived with a mom who liked to gamble everything in sight and was biologically predisposed to bet on everything (“Bet you this roach will die as soon as I cut its head off”—it didn’t). I suspect that if I fetched a price she’d bet me in the casinos.
Dad is a drunk. I will not elaborate, except say that he is not the kind of drunk that can really hold alcohol well. He pukes every three beers.
Mom and Dad can’t have any children so they took care of other people’s children. There were eight of us kids in their households, some the children of neighbors who had to work abroad for a living, others are the product of a marriage that husband and wife got tired of. In this menagerie I didn’t know where I belonged. Nobody knew who my parents were or how I came to be here. There was a theory going round when I was in third grade that I was the product of the earth and rain’s copulation. I sprang from a geyser, my sisters and brothers would tease.
So how would such a dysfunctional household produce a stubborn optimist like me?
I like to read, and starting from when I was little, I was attracted to stories that had themes of good winning over evil and the knight in shining armor winning the day.
I liked the story about the Archangel Michael driving Satan away from Paradise after a fight.
I like the retelling of the Cinderella story in the movie Ever After starring Drew Barrymore where the wicked stepmother and stepsister were given their just desserts.
I like to read my Bible, especially the part where Jesus resurrects from the dead and ascends to heaven.
I like happy endings.
So now, as I start with my first job here in this towering glass building, I bring with me the optimism of my childhood and my faith in God and all that is good in the human race.
I smile as I hand out guest IDs and ask visitors to register in the guestbook. I assist those who are confused by the information they need to fill out. I nod and acknowledge those who have permanent building passes who go through the metal detector. Until he came along.
His ID says Phillip Anthony Norman and it indicates that he is the Chairman of the company housed in the building across the street.
I detain him and ask him to get a guest pass and register. He smirks and says, “I own the building across the street. What do I need to register for? I always get past security without having to be checked. Are you new here? You smell new.”
“Sorry sir, but rules are rules. Maybe you can ask your Club to issue a permanent pass so you won’t have to register every time,” I replied, smiling still but wishing I could kick his seventy year old butt.
“Oh alright, but let it be known that I am only doing this because you are not worthy of being in an argument with,” he conceded.
He came to the building every day, but he still did not ask for the guest pass from the establishment he visited there. I would have acquiesced at some point that he need not register anymore because he did have face value in the building. Everybody knew him and they did give him special treatment.
I would have acquiesced had he been not determined to make my life hell. Sometimes he’d steal my pens just to make my life difficult. Once I made the mistake of lending him my vintage Waterman ballpoint and the sneak did not return it. When I asked for it back, he was all nonchalance and pretended he did not hear.
Another time, he brought a hundred employees with him and made them register just for the heck of it. It took me two hours to get them all through.
There was also a time when he spilled chili and lemonade on my guestbook. Deliberately, you could tell. I wanted to cry then but I wasn’t going to let him get my goat.
Because I was the way I was, his antics did not annoy me or instigate wrath and vengeance in my heart. I felt…compassion for the poor old fart who would stoop so low as to play mind games with a receptionist. I mean, come on, what kind of Chairman thinks up new ways of making a lowly receptionist miserable every day? I thought, he must be really screwed up.
Today would be the greatest day ever, I said to myself to celebrate my first year at work. I survived a year of hell in the hands of an evil geriatric and I was dang proud of myself.
I waited for Mr. Norman that day, but he did not show up. I waited for him the next and the next and the next but still no Mr. Norman. I got curious. Did he finally kick the bucket?
I thought of him in a sickbed, but the image didn’t fit. I thought he seemed so indomitable he’d scare away disease.
I gave in to my curiosity and dialed the number on his guestbook registration. A cultured voice greeted me with his company name and her name.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Elizabeth Jones. I am the receptionist in the building across yours and I know Mr. Norman. I am just worried about him. We haven’t seen him in a while. Do you have news?”
“Oh. So that’s your name,” the voice on the other end answered. “Mr. Norman took time off indefinitely; his daughter was diagnosed with cancer. He’s taking care of her.”
“I see. Well, is there any way I can visit? Can I get his home address?”
“I’ll ask him first. Call me same time tomorrow,” I was told.
I got his home address the next day and the hospital where his daughter was confined. I made sure the daughter was still in the hospital before I went over the weekend.
“You! I thought I saw the last of you. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I missed your antics,” I said tartly. “I wanted to know what you were up to.”
Then, “I’m sorry about your daughter.”
He did something I did not expect him to do. He gathered me in his arms in a hug and cried silently on my shoulder. It must have been uncomfortable because he was taller than me by at least ten inches.
“Whoa!” I said, rubbing his slim back.
“Elizabeth, I can call you that can I? My daughter and I were estranged before she fell ill. Now I am praying that she live a little longer so I can spend some time with her,” he said, tears still streaming down his face.
“I got a call from the States last week, telling me that my daughter had ovarian cancer. They said she put me down as next of kin in her papers. That’s when it hit me, she could change jobs, change boyfriends or girlfriends, change her name, but even through those changes she cannot change the fact that I am her father.”
That’s how it started he said, their estrangement. His daughter started dating women and eventually told him she was lesbian. He couldn’t accept it and he banished her. He said if she did not leave the country, he would. So she left.
I wish I could tell you Mr. Norman got his wish, but it was too late for him. His daughter died that same year. He stopped coming to our building. Actually, he retired from work and refused to visit the Club in our building, saying it was to snooty for his tastes anyway. That if he didn’t have to take out his clients there, he wouldn’t go there.
There’s a McDonald’s behind our building. I take my lunch there whenever my foster sister forgets to prepare me something for the day. He treats me to a Big Mac too, there, once a week. But there are nice restaurants about and we eat in at least four every weekend.
I can tell he is trying to make up for the time he lost with his daughter by spending time with me. I don’t mind being a proxy. I am just glad I did not write him off as a crazy old coot. Which he is, it’s just apart from that, if you get to know him, he’s a really great guy.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Almost
Sometimes
Sometimes
I think of you
All the time
And I am reminded
That joy is within
Reach
It helps that
A million miles separate
Us
And that I cannot touch
You
To do that I must
Fly
And that I cannot see you
Except through pictures
You send
I talk to you on the phone
And think of the time
When you will be
Mine
I think of you
Sometimes
And I treasure
The distance
I measure the time
And longing is a stranger
Sometimes I think of
You
All the time
And I love the memory
That you are funny
A little cruel
A little stingy
Unkind
And would never mind
What the next chap
Thought of you
I think of you
All the time
You do not belong to me
But the world is mine
Sometimes.
Come
When the lights go
Down
You steal into my
Kingdom
Here where no one matters
But the other
When you make me
Come
To you
I like to open my eyes
I like to hold your hand
I like to keep you close
Listen to your cries
Because you cannot
Borrow my heart
I do this to make you see
What eloquence
Verbs, nouns and sentences
Cannot tell you
Because you cannot
Read my mind
It is my dearest hope
That you see my soul
Through my eyes
The soul that came alive
Where torture no longer
Rules
Whose demons are
Vanquished one by one
By one by one by one
Until the multitude of them
Are gone
Where courage planted a seed
Where the anesthesia has faded
Because you came
Along.
Sometimes
I think of you
All the time
And I am reminded
That joy is within
Reach
It helps that
A million miles separate
Us
And that I cannot touch
You
To do that I must
Fly
And that I cannot see you
Except through pictures
You send
I talk to you on the phone
And think of the time
When you will be
Mine
I think of you
Sometimes
And I treasure
The distance
I measure the time
And longing is a stranger
Sometimes I think of
You
All the time
And I love the memory
That you are funny
A little cruel
A little stingy
Unkind
And would never mind
What the next chap
Thought of you
I think of you
All the time
You do not belong to me
But the world is mine
Sometimes.
Come
When the lights go
Down
You steal into my
Kingdom
Here where no one matters
But the other
When you make me
Come
To you
I like to open my eyes
I like to hold your hand
I like to keep you close
Listen to your cries
Because you cannot
Borrow my heart
I do this to make you see
What eloquence
Verbs, nouns and sentences
Cannot tell you
Because you cannot
Read my mind
It is my dearest hope
That you see my soul
Through my eyes
The soul that came alive
Where torture no longer
Rules
Whose demons are
Vanquished one by one
By one by one by one
Until the multitude of them
Are gone
Where courage planted a seed
Where the anesthesia has faded
Because you came
Along.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Monday Verses
Brevity
As I look back
On this short life
A witness to
Thirty two summers
Countless monsoons
Criminal typhoons
I look back with regret
I regret that I lived
For a future
With a God I cannot see
But who feeds me
And fuels my desire
To be noble
I regret that I feel
My God
As I feel the breeze
In my hair
As I feel the love
Sent from overseas
As I sense the end of hunger
With each mouthful
As my thirst is quenched
By sweet water
I regret that I felt
Divine benevolence
With the passing of the tide
When the sun rose
To give life to those
It touches
When the rains poured
To nourish a thirsty
Earth
In this short life
I regret that I do not
Look back
As often as I should
To count the blessings
Of friendship
Of love
Of faith
Of grace
Bestowed upon me
Despite life’s difficulty
As I look back
I look back with regret
And I do not regret
That regret
Only makes me
Want to make the next day
A better day.
Lie still
A lie for a lie
Is not the same as
An eye for an eye
You lie so comfortably
It is like second skin
Like the air you breathe
Your kith and kin
You destroy the truth
With ignoble intentions
Made manifest
In your inventions
You lie, regardless
Of whom you hurt
Of the homes you destroy
Of the love that dies
At its birth
You twist reality
To suit your morbid tastes
So instead of a diamond
You’re nothing but paste
Each lie is a hole
In the ship God built
To take your soul
To the Heavens that is home
So at the end of it all
When all has been said
Prepare to meet the undertaker
Of wayward souls
Because I pray
That with each lie you told me
You earned a ticket
To burn where you belong
In the fires of Hell.
As I look back
On this short life
A witness to
Thirty two summers
Countless monsoons
Criminal typhoons
I look back with regret
I regret that I lived
For a future
With a God I cannot see
But who feeds me
And fuels my desire
To be noble
I regret that I feel
My God
As I feel the breeze
In my hair
As I feel the love
Sent from overseas
As I sense the end of hunger
With each mouthful
As my thirst is quenched
By sweet water
I regret that I felt
Divine benevolence
With the passing of the tide
When the sun rose
To give life to those
It touches
When the rains poured
To nourish a thirsty
Earth
In this short life
I regret that I do not
Look back
As often as I should
To count the blessings
Of friendship
Of love
Of faith
Of grace
Bestowed upon me
Despite life’s difficulty
As I look back
I look back with regret
And I do not regret
That regret
Only makes me
Want to make the next day
A better day.
Lie still
A lie for a lie
Is not the same as
An eye for an eye
You lie so comfortably
It is like second skin
Like the air you breathe
Your kith and kin
You destroy the truth
With ignoble intentions
Made manifest
In your inventions
You lie, regardless
Of whom you hurt
Of the homes you destroy
Of the love that dies
At its birth
You twist reality
To suit your morbid tastes
So instead of a diamond
You’re nothing but paste
Each lie is a hole
In the ship God built
To take your soul
To the Heavens that is home
So at the end of it all
When all has been said
Prepare to meet the undertaker
Of wayward souls
Because I pray
That with each lie you told me
You earned a ticket
To burn where you belong
In the fires of Hell.
Forgive
You have forgotten
Half the promises
I have broken
You who remembers
Every little thing
Who keeps each memory
As a miser
Hoards his treasure
You love me you say
And forgetting is part
Of forgiveness
You would rather
Remember
Promises kept
Than promises broken
Believe me when I say
I love you
For forgetting
For remembering
For knowing when to
Do one and the other
Take heart in this promise
One day I’ll show up
At your doorstep
Finally, to claim your heart
As your beloved
As the one you waited for
Believe me when I say
I love you
Believe as much as I believe
You love me
And every time you forget
You forgive.
Half the promises
I have broken
You who remembers
Every little thing
Who keeps each memory
As a miser
Hoards his treasure
You love me you say
And forgetting is part
Of forgiveness
You would rather
Remember
Promises kept
Than promises broken
Believe me when I say
I love you
For forgetting
For remembering
For knowing when to
Do one and the other
Take heart in this promise
One day I’ll show up
At your doorstep
Finally, to claim your heart
As your beloved
As the one you waited for
Believe me when I say
I love you
Believe as much as I believe
You love me
And every time you forget
You forgive.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Trap
I told you, you shouldn’t work so much.
But you didn’t listen so now I am looking at you with a pane of glass between us. You lie there so still, with the stitches on your forehead still. You are in a white painted metal box, and I stand here on the other side willing you to get up and cheat the Grim Reaper.
You don’t know how much I long for you to be alive again, if only because I am pregnant and I have never felt more alone in my entire life. It doesn’t matter about the money. I can always work to make a living for myself. But you, losing you—just the thought of it is enough to make me want to go mad.
I am due to give birth in two months. The sonogram said it will be a boy. I want to call him Edward, after my great uncle. You didn’t get the chance to see it, the sonogram, and didn’t get to see my shortlist of names for the baby.
There were a lot of things I didn’t get to share with you. I cry when I think about how I should have insisted, demanded that you spend more time with me. But it’s been so hard to reach you as you buried yourself more and more in your work.
I wondered. Did you know about my affair with your boss? Did you know that the baby in my womb is not yours? That I contrived to sleep with you that one last time so that you would not suspect anything?
I wonder. Were the assignments that kept piling up in your desk part of a ploy to keep me from you? Did my lover want us to separate and get an annulment so he can have me to himself?
I have no answers and as I look back on our life together this last year, I am only riddled with more questions.
You did not sleep the night before you drove to your death. You were working late, as usual and you were on your way to a provincial assignment when you fell asleep at the wheel and drove straight into a ravine.
I wonder. Were you working yourself to death? Did you do it deliberately, not sleep knowing you were driving a long distance the following day?
My lover called yesterday to call the whole thing off between us. I wonder. Did he get what he wanted finally? To trespass on your property (me) and destroy you utterly? Was I a part of a plot against you? What was it that you did that would be so horrible it would merit carefully planned vengeance?
I was looking through your things the other day and I saw pictures of your boss and you at the beach, in different restaurants and cultural places looking like you are having the times of your lives. I wonder, is he the ex you only talked about in vague terms?
But you didn’t listen so now I am looking at you with a pane of glass between us. You lie there so still, with the stitches on your forehead still. You are in a white painted metal box, and I stand here on the other side willing you to get up and cheat the Grim Reaper.
You don’t know how much I long for you to be alive again, if only because I am pregnant and I have never felt more alone in my entire life. It doesn’t matter about the money. I can always work to make a living for myself. But you, losing you—just the thought of it is enough to make me want to go mad.
I am due to give birth in two months. The sonogram said it will be a boy. I want to call him Edward, after my great uncle. You didn’t get the chance to see it, the sonogram, and didn’t get to see my shortlist of names for the baby.
There were a lot of things I didn’t get to share with you. I cry when I think about how I should have insisted, demanded that you spend more time with me. But it’s been so hard to reach you as you buried yourself more and more in your work.
I wondered. Did you know about my affair with your boss? Did you know that the baby in my womb is not yours? That I contrived to sleep with you that one last time so that you would not suspect anything?
I wonder. Were the assignments that kept piling up in your desk part of a ploy to keep me from you? Did my lover want us to separate and get an annulment so he can have me to himself?
I have no answers and as I look back on our life together this last year, I am only riddled with more questions.
You did not sleep the night before you drove to your death. You were working late, as usual and you were on your way to a provincial assignment when you fell asleep at the wheel and drove straight into a ravine.
I wonder. Were you working yourself to death? Did you do it deliberately, not sleep knowing you were driving a long distance the following day?
My lover called yesterday to call the whole thing off between us. I wonder. Did he get what he wanted finally? To trespass on your property (me) and destroy you utterly? Was I a part of a plot against you? What was it that you did that would be so horrible it would merit carefully planned vengeance?
I was looking through your things the other day and I saw pictures of your boss and you at the beach, in different restaurants and cultural places looking like you are having the times of your lives. I wonder, is he the ex you only talked about in vague terms?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Sleep
I was fixing my hair and putting on my make up when I noticed the dark circles under my eyes. It was ironic that I’d have eye bags the size of a Louis Vuitton trunk when I have been doing nothing but sleep of late.
I sleep like a cat, for three hours after a late breakfast and another four after lunch. And at night up to fourteen hours. That’s why I rarely go out nowadays. My answering machine and cell phone voice mail are full of queries about my whereabouts from well meaning bosom friends. I never answer them. I just want to sleep.
I ought to be gaining weight, what with my uber sedentary lifestyle, but I hardly eat anything now. So I am breaking even, I sleep a lot, eat a little and tip the scales at 120 lbs.
I did not mention that I am scared. My psychiatrist thinks I am sleeping my hurt away. Maybe I am, but I am more scared than hurt.
Last month, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years. I broke up with him because he brought up the possibility of marriage and it was something I felt I wasn’t prepared for. He first asked me what my thoughts were on taking our commitment a step further six months ago and I freaked. I started an argument; an irrational outburst that I hoped would drive him away.
It didn’t, he stayed. And his decision to stick with me freaked me out even more. Because it meant he wants to be with me for the long haul and I was afraid if I let him stay, he would find out there wasn’t much to love about me, and leave. To me that would hurt more—to let him in and find he didn’t love me enough to stay than to nip what we have in the bud, while we’re still not too attached to each other.
It would have been great if he broke up with me as I broke up with him. But he didn’t. He insisted he’d give me time off, but we’d still be status quo, still boyfriend and girlfriend and potential betrotheds.
He didn’t give me a deadline, he just said he’ll wait for as long as he could and if he feels that the waiting is taking too long, he’ll tell me so and move on. It’s a phone call, or conversation I’ve been waiting for for a month now. It hasn’t come.
If I were someone else, my situation would be easy. My boyfriend is someone you would consider a catch. He’s old enough to be mature and able to support me and a future family financially. He’s not conventionally handsome, but I find him attractive enough to make me want to take my clothes off and jump his bones when he’s around. Which I haven’t done. He’s the right amount of jealous to make me feel wanted and special. We finish each other’s sentences. He knows how much I love flowers, pets and children and always gives me the opportunity to indulge these interests.
We’re perfect for each other, his friends say.
I make him laugh. I turned him to home cooking and amateur chef’s nights in hole in the wall restaurants. I convinced him to love nature; our favorite activity now is trekking along mountain paths in the countryside on weekends.
That scares me even more. I’d have been able to accept it if he was the type to beat up girls or cheat on his taxes or lie to his mother or make me cry.
But he doesn’t and the thought that I would be the keeper of a heart so noble and pure scares me. What if I break it? What if somewhere along the way, twenty years into our marriage he realizes I am lacking and he wants to leave me? I know I wouldn’t be able to take it.
Part of me says that my fears are irrational, but my experience as an abused child tells me otherwise.
Friends have left me, just when I was beginning to love them and discover I want to be with them for good. Nannies have been sent away when we were starting to bond because my mother couldn’t stand to see me happy. My father was good at making promises but not keeping them.
And I was the sexual slave of at least five male relatives. I was molested so many times when I was a kid I couldn’t remember anymore who did what to me.
The experience left me with the belief of myself that I am not good for anything other than being the plaything of men and the punching bag of women who want to feel better about themselves.
My childhood scarred me so much, I isolated myself from people. I never let anyone get too close, except for a few female buddies who made me feel good about myself and feel accepted.
Then he came along. I was at a bookstore, browsing through the coffee table books in the art section. He made like he wanted to start a conversation, but my eyes widened with panic I had to turn away.
He was patient. He went to the bookstore every weekend I was there and would just smile and wave at me. One Saturday, after four months of the routine, he bought the book I’ve been looking at but never could bring myself to buy. He gave it to me with a note stuck to the paper bag: Care for lunch? It had with it a smiley face. I had to say yes.
Things were good when I was with him. He opened my world to people, to new places, to different experiences. It was like I was just starting to live. And I couldn’t remember what life was like before he came along anymore. I do not exaggerate when I say that just by choosing to be with me, he changed my life. And he scared me, more than all the monsters of the past, he scared me. Because with him I realized I could be happy and that he had so much control over that happiness.
I could not bring myself to talk about these fears with anyone. Not my therapist, not with him. Because I felt talking about my fears made me inadequate, that I could not be anything less than the strength I projected to people. It was a lot of bull I knew but my fears held me hostage.
Until my favorite uncle died. He was survived by his wife of 40 years and three children and five grandchildren. I have always been close to my uncle, he helped me through the rough patches of my life and whatever people said of him, I always believed he was a good man. If only because he saw me through tough times and kept me believing enough in myself to reach out to life when I wanted to give up.
It was all so sudden, my aunt, his wife said. We had such a good thing going, he was always caring to me and the children, and she sobbed. Now he’s gone, but I don’t regret anything. I’m glad I took a chance with him.
I asked, took a chance?
My parents didn’t like him; they thought he wasn’t good enough for me. But I loved him, and I knew I loved him enough to want to face the uncertainty of a financially insecure future with him, she replied.
It was like a bulb lit up in my brain. The answers were so easy; maybe I was just looking too hard for them.
I slept for 24 hours straight after the funeral. After that, I went to see my therapist and poured my heart out to her. I told her, I don’t want to sleep the hurt away anymore. And maybe she’s right; I am more hurt than scared.
I went back to work and started seeing my friends again. But somehow I could not bring myself to call him. Because I felt I made such a fool of myself by blowing his proposal all out of proportion.
One Wednesday, I came upon him waiting for me at the front gate of the house. Dread crept upon my heart like a cold hand. I made him wait too long, I thought.
“I’ve been thinking…” he started.
“You scare me,” I whispered at the same time.
There were tears in his eyes. “I realize that. But I hope you see I won’t do anything to hurt you, not if I can help it.”
I smiled a thin, pained smile. “I know about that. But there’s a lot I haven’t told you. Come in, please.”
I told him everything, without missing a single sordid detail. Explained why I’ve been behaving the way I have, because of the fears being with him rouses in me.
He cried in some parts, laughed at the others, but on the whole looked relieved.
“I thought you were in love with someone else. Couldn’t figure out if it was a boy or a girl, because you shut me out whenever I try to get intimate with you. I’m glad it’s because you’re scared because at least, it means I can move you enough to feel something for me,” he was smiling now.
“I know it’s not easy, and I can’t give you guarantees. But I hope you love me enough to take that chance with me. To let what you feel for me be stronger than your fears. The only guarantee I can give is that I will love you today, as much as I can and hope that the love will be greater with each passing day,” he said.
I nodded silently.
“So, I am going to ask you again, will you, my love, marry me and spend the rest of your days with me, for as long as you live?”
“Yes, I will,” I replied.
But I had a question. “Does this mean though, we can finally get cats?”
I sleep like a cat, for three hours after a late breakfast and another four after lunch. And at night up to fourteen hours. That’s why I rarely go out nowadays. My answering machine and cell phone voice mail are full of queries about my whereabouts from well meaning bosom friends. I never answer them. I just want to sleep.
I ought to be gaining weight, what with my uber sedentary lifestyle, but I hardly eat anything now. So I am breaking even, I sleep a lot, eat a little and tip the scales at 120 lbs.
I did not mention that I am scared. My psychiatrist thinks I am sleeping my hurt away. Maybe I am, but I am more scared than hurt.
Last month, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years. I broke up with him because he brought up the possibility of marriage and it was something I felt I wasn’t prepared for. He first asked me what my thoughts were on taking our commitment a step further six months ago and I freaked. I started an argument; an irrational outburst that I hoped would drive him away.
It didn’t, he stayed. And his decision to stick with me freaked me out even more. Because it meant he wants to be with me for the long haul and I was afraid if I let him stay, he would find out there wasn’t much to love about me, and leave. To me that would hurt more—to let him in and find he didn’t love me enough to stay than to nip what we have in the bud, while we’re still not too attached to each other.
It would have been great if he broke up with me as I broke up with him. But he didn’t. He insisted he’d give me time off, but we’d still be status quo, still boyfriend and girlfriend and potential betrotheds.
He didn’t give me a deadline, he just said he’ll wait for as long as he could and if he feels that the waiting is taking too long, he’ll tell me so and move on. It’s a phone call, or conversation I’ve been waiting for for a month now. It hasn’t come.
If I were someone else, my situation would be easy. My boyfriend is someone you would consider a catch. He’s old enough to be mature and able to support me and a future family financially. He’s not conventionally handsome, but I find him attractive enough to make me want to take my clothes off and jump his bones when he’s around. Which I haven’t done. He’s the right amount of jealous to make me feel wanted and special. We finish each other’s sentences. He knows how much I love flowers, pets and children and always gives me the opportunity to indulge these interests.
We’re perfect for each other, his friends say.
I make him laugh. I turned him to home cooking and amateur chef’s nights in hole in the wall restaurants. I convinced him to love nature; our favorite activity now is trekking along mountain paths in the countryside on weekends.
That scares me even more. I’d have been able to accept it if he was the type to beat up girls or cheat on his taxes or lie to his mother or make me cry.
But he doesn’t and the thought that I would be the keeper of a heart so noble and pure scares me. What if I break it? What if somewhere along the way, twenty years into our marriage he realizes I am lacking and he wants to leave me? I know I wouldn’t be able to take it.
Part of me says that my fears are irrational, but my experience as an abused child tells me otherwise.
Friends have left me, just when I was beginning to love them and discover I want to be with them for good. Nannies have been sent away when we were starting to bond because my mother couldn’t stand to see me happy. My father was good at making promises but not keeping them.
And I was the sexual slave of at least five male relatives. I was molested so many times when I was a kid I couldn’t remember anymore who did what to me.
The experience left me with the belief of myself that I am not good for anything other than being the plaything of men and the punching bag of women who want to feel better about themselves.
My childhood scarred me so much, I isolated myself from people. I never let anyone get too close, except for a few female buddies who made me feel good about myself and feel accepted.
Then he came along. I was at a bookstore, browsing through the coffee table books in the art section. He made like he wanted to start a conversation, but my eyes widened with panic I had to turn away.
He was patient. He went to the bookstore every weekend I was there and would just smile and wave at me. One Saturday, after four months of the routine, he bought the book I’ve been looking at but never could bring myself to buy. He gave it to me with a note stuck to the paper bag: Care for lunch? It had with it a smiley face. I had to say yes.
Things were good when I was with him. He opened my world to people, to new places, to different experiences. It was like I was just starting to live. And I couldn’t remember what life was like before he came along anymore. I do not exaggerate when I say that just by choosing to be with me, he changed my life. And he scared me, more than all the monsters of the past, he scared me. Because with him I realized I could be happy and that he had so much control over that happiness.
I could not bring myself to talk about these fears with anyone. Not my therapist, not with him. Because I felt talking about my fears made me inadequate, that I could not be anything less than the strength I projected to people. It was a lot of bull I knew but my fears held me hostage.
Until my favorite uncle died. He was survived by his wife of 40 years and three children and five grandchildren. I have always been close to my uncle, he helped me through the rough patches of my life and whatever people said of him, I always believed he was a good man. If only because he saw me through tough times and kept me believing enough in myself to reach out to life when I wanted to give up.
It was all so sudden, my aunt, his wife said. We had such a good thing going, he was always caring to me and the children, and she sobbed. Now he’s gone, but I don’t regret anything. I’m glad I took a chance with him.
I asked, took a chance?
My parents didn’t like him; they thought he wasn’t good enough for me. But I loved him, and I knew I loved him enough to want to face the uncertainty of a financially insecure future with him, she replied.
It was like a bulb lit up in my brain. The answers were so easy; maybe I was just looking too hard for them.
I slept for 24 hours straight after the funeral. After that, I went to see my therapist and poured my heart out to her. I told her, I don’t want to sleep the hurt away anymore. And maybe she’s right; I am more hurt than scared.
I went back to work and started seeing my friends again. But somehow I could not bring myself to call him. Because I felt I made such a fool of myself by blowing his proposal all out of proportion.
One Wednesday, I came upon him waiting for me at the front gate of the house. Dread crept upon my heart like a cold hand. I made him wait too long, I thought.
“I’ve been thinking…” he started.
“You scare me,” I whispered at the same time.
There were tears in his eyes. “I realize that. But I hope you see I won’t do anything to hurt you, not if I can help it.”
I smiled a thin, pained smile. “I know about that. But there’s a lot I haven’t told you. Come in, please.”
I told him everything, without missing a single sordid detail. Explained why I’ve been behaving the way I have, because of the fears being with him rouses in me.
He cried in some parts, laughed at the others, but on the whole looked relieved.
“I thought you were in love with someone else. Couldn’t figure out if it was a boy or a girl, because you shut me out whenever I try to get intimate with you. I’m glad it’s because you’re scared because at least, it means I can move you enough to feel something for me,” he was smiling now.
“I know it’s not easy, and I can’t give you guarantees. But I hope you love me enough to take that chance with me. To let what you feel for me be stronger than your fears. The only guarantee I can give is that I will love you today, as much as I can and hope that the love will be greater with each passing day,” he said.
I nodded silently.
“So, I am going to ask you again, will you, my love, marry me and spend the rest of your days with me, for as long as you live?”
“Yes, I will,” I replied.
But I had a question. “Does this mean though, we can finally get cats?”
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Henry
He had the appeal of an un-flushed toilet; there lay his appeal for her. He stank, by choice if you want to know and he let himself go after he came home from the war. Without the structure of the military, he became unkempt and he looked like he hasn’t bathed since the nineteen nineties.
She first saw him outside the expensive bookstore housed in a five star hotel chain far from her side of town. She was with a friend who came to see her cousin play the piano for the guests at the hotel bar.
He wore his military issue boots, faded khakis and a white shirt punctuated with ketchup stains. He was smoking a cigarette like it was going out of fashion and fast. Despite his unkempt appearance, you could tell he had money; at least he had family who had money. His clothes were branded and the rucksack on his shoulder bore the name of an expensive luggage company.
But it wasn’t his disguised wealth that excited her. She was attracted to him in the same way she was drawn to stray cats and hobos. She had this visceral urge to tame them, make them heel, and have them under her command.
She came back to that hotel where she saw him first a week after and found him nursing a cup of espresso at the cheap café across the street. She thought of the million ways she could contrive to meet him: ask for a light perhaps. Or offer to buy him coffee. Maybe give him a lift home. The possibilities were endless, but they all seemed too impossible.
“Nice shoes,” he smiled at her.
This was her chance. She hoped she wouldn’t blow it.
“Thanks. Yours aren’t so bad either,” her smile was wide and inviting.
He laughed at her obvious lie. “Where’d you get them?” She was genuinely curious.
“I was with the army for a while, during the war. Glad that’s over.” His lopsided smile was doing strange things to her heart.
“Can I join you, if you aren’t expecting anyone?” Her boldness surprised even her.
“Sure thing, but bear with me. I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time.”
He may not have kept anyone company for a long time but you couldn’t tell that he was out of practice. He was a regular raconteur and he kept her entertained with his stories of life in the military both funny and sad. He spoke of his beliefs about God and the human race (is man good or evil?), and his philosophies about war (he was against it). He asked her a lot of questions about herself, but he talked little of his life before the army.
She enjoyed herself thoroughly and before she knew it she was making arrangements to meet him, same time, same place next Saturday. It would be her treat, she said. Let’s go Dutch, he insisted, saying he wants to see where the thing goes before anyone gets obligated to someone. It excited her.
Next Saturday, she dressed casually, careful to fit in with him. He bathed and shaved and had on a clean shirt. But he still wore his military boots.
“Hi! Thanks for showing up,” she greeted him.
“What? Do I seem the type who stands up his dates?” He laughed heartily.
Date. This is a date to him. She didn’t know what to think. Things were proceeding at a pace faster than she thought they would. It scared her.
“Of course not, but with men you never know,” she laughed despite herself.
She told him about her dream from the night before. She was in a corridor filled with blue container drums of all sizes and it felt like she was being pushed through it. Then she reached a brown door and behind it were two men whose faces were unfamiliar to her. The dream was strange she said, because she never had such a dream before.
“Maybe the blue drums represent the empty spaces in your life. And the long corridor filled with them says you perceive you need to fill a lot of spaces, the strangers may be the new things you try to fill your life with,” he analyzed for her. Then he broke into a laugh. “I don’t really interpret dreams. I was pulling your leg!”
She laughed with him and she invited him to join her at a nearby Thai restaurant for dinner. They had pomelo and shrimp salad and tom yum with noodles. They washed the whole thing down with milk tea. They split the bill and made a date to watch a new release at the movie house the following week. He is paying.
After five more dates, he brought up the possibility of being exclusive dating partners. She agreed. After six months of exclusive dating, she moved in with him.
On the month before was to live with him, he introduced her to his uncle, his only surviving family on his mother’s side. He is his mother’s younger brother and is a very wealthy writer. He wrote pulp romances that sold really well among the female market worldwide, but was panned by critics left and right. He felt no acrimony. He said his main goal is to entertain and if his style was revolting to the literary hoi polloi, he couldn’t care less.
He received her with as much affection as one receives a frisky pony, with a lot of curiosity as well as caution. Uncle Raitt quizzed her about her own means of making a living and was pleasantly surprised she had poetic persuasions. But her bread and butter is entertainment journalism, although she would love to be an author who writes at her leisure one day, she told him.
He gave them his blessing and promised to increase his nephew’s allowance to accommodate the change in his status.
She brought very little when she moved in with him: just clothes and books, her desktop and laptop computers, music compact discs and a selection of DVDs. Her single bed was put in the empty guest bedroom, which he had decorated so her friends can stay over if they decide to drink after dinner.
His suburban hideout was spacious for one, but adequate for two people. His home belied his scruffy appearance. It was neat and well kept. It sat in a new development outside the metropolis, in a province that is not quite rural, not quite urban. The community shone with the intelligent planning of the developers, it kept its old incarnation as a forested patch of land as much as it could. The buildings were integrated with the flora and fauna in the area. In the mornings she could hear the birds sing in the centenarian trees while she has her coffee in the clubhouse.
She did not mean to, but she made him over. Seeing her busy, well groomed and occupied with various artistic pursuits got him off his bum and had him resume his old occupation as a civil engineer. He applied for jobs with two boutique development firms and got accepted by the one with offices in the city. He had his unkempt hair shorn for a neater haircut. He shaved in the morning, but left his five o clock shadow in the afternoon. She loved rubbing against it.
He bought a minivan and proposed they get a pet. She did not wish for it, but she was pleasantly surprised. She will choose, he will name the pet. She chose a Maine Coon cat and he christened him Henry.
Life fell into an even rhythm. They argued over little things: wet towels on the bathroom floor, uncapped toothpaste tubes, kitty litter that needed to be taken out. They made up, more than made up for the arguments with long, loving letters and walks in the park, dinners at hole in the wall restaurants and Michelin star hotels.
Yet it felt like their connection did not go deeper than the amicable, sexually charged friendship they started with. Neither was inclined towards marriage. Neither cheated, but the commitment they shared was not one borne of a passion towards the other. Fidelity was part of each one’s values system; it was something they would have granted to whoever their partner was.
It hit him one day.
That he loved her because she was more friend than lover. It made him sad. Sad that he changed into something he loathed and that he spent years trying to fit into her world. He didn’t want to, but he did. He was going someplace he didn’t want to be with a person he wasn’t sure he should be with. He made a run for it.
He left her a letter and didn’t ask her to leave their home. He bought a one way ticket to England, where he hoped the cold will cure him of his addiction to domestication.
She found the letter the day after he left. She read it dry-eyed, after feeding Henry.
It read:
“Dearest Sarah,
I was never meant to be in the place you brought me, yet after years of being with you I found myself there, as another middle class statistic earning a keep in an office job. I joined the army because I didn’t want identical days; I wanted each to be different from the other. Routine suffocates me. But I found myself yearning for it because you were around.
I do not blame you. You are who you are and you did not ask this of me. I blame no one. I know things just happened, we took the next step and the next and the next without asking if it was what we wanted. At least that’s how I see it.
You tamed me, without meaning to. But that doesn’t mean I should belong to you.
I will always be grateful for what you did to me, get me back into the land of the living once again. But you are more a friend than a lover and I hope you understand that we both deserve more than what we have right now. Let’s not settle for anything less than love.
Yours always,
John”
She tore the letter to pieces and wrote a reply, sent to him through his uncle:
“John,
I hope you rot in hell.
Sarah.”
She first saw him outside the expensive bookstore housed in a five star hotel chain far from her side of town. She was with a friend who came to see her cousin play the piano for the guests at the hotel bar.
He wore his military issue boots, faded khakis and a white shirt punctuated with ketchup stains. He was smoking a cigarette like it was going out of fashion and fast. Despite his unkempt appearance, you could tell he had money; at least he had family who had money. His clothes were branded and the rucksack on his shoulder bore the name of an expensive luggage company.
But it wasn’t his disguised wealth that excited her. She was attracted to him in the same way she was drawn to stray cats and hobos. She had this visceral urge to tame them, make them heel, and have them under her command.
She came back to that hotel where she saw him first a week after and found him nursing a cup of espresso at the cheap café across the street. She thought of the million ways she could contrive to meet him: ask for a light perhaps. Or offer to buy him coffee. Maybe give him a lift home. The possibilities were endless, but they all seemed too impossible.
“Nice shoes,” he smiled at her.
This was her chance. She hoped she wouldn’t blow it.
“Thanks. Yours aren’t so bad either,” her smile was wide and inviting.
He laughed at her obvious lie. “Where’d you get them?” She was genuinely curious.
“I was with the army for a while, during the war. Glad that’s over.” His lopsided smile was doing strange things to her heart.
“Can I join you, if you aren’t expecting anyone?” Her boldness surprised even her.
“Sure thing, but bear with me. I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time.”
He may not have kept anyone company for a long time but you couldn’t tell that he was out of practice. He was a regular raconteur and he kept her entertained with his stories of life in the military both funny and sad. He spoke of his beliefs about God and the human race (is man good or evil?), and his philosophies about war (he was against it). He asked her a lot of questions about herself, but he talked little of his life before the army.
She enjoyed herself thoroughly and before she knew it she was making arrangements to meet him, same time, same place next Saturday. It would be her treat, she said. Let’s go Dutch, he insisted, saying he wants to see where the thing goes before anyone gets obligated to someone. It excited her.
Next Saturday, she dressed casually, careful to fit in with him. He bathed and shaved and had on a clean shirt. But he still wore his military boots.
“Hi! Thanks for showing up,” she greeted him.
“What? Do I seem the type who stands up his dates?” He laughed heartily.
Date. This is a date to him. She didn’t know what to think. Things were proceeding at a pace faster than she thought they would. It scared her.
“Of course not, but with men you never know,” she laughed despite herself.
She told him about her dream from the night before. She was in a corridor filled with blue container drums of all sizes and it felt like she was being pushed through it. Then she reached a brown door and behind it were two men whose faces were unfamiliar to her. The dream was strange she said, because she never had such a dream before.
“Maybe the blue drums represent the empty spaces in your life. And the long corridor filled with them says you perceive you need to fill a lot of spaces, the strangers may be the new things you try to fill your life with,” he analyzed for her. Then he broke into a laugh. “I don’t really interpret dreams. I was pulling your leg!”
She laughed with him and she invited him to join her at a nearby Thai restaurant for dinner. They had pomelo and shrimp salad and tom yum with noodles. They washed the whole thing down with milk tea. They split the bill and made a date to watch a new release at the movie house the following week. He is paying.
After five more dates, he brought up the possibility of being exclusive dating partners. She agreed. After six months of exclusive dating, she moved in with him.
On the month before was to live with him, he introduced her to his uncle, his only surviving family on his mother’s side. He is his mother’s younger brother and is a very wealthy writer. He wrote pulp romances that sold really well among the female market worldwide, but was panned by critics left and right. He felt no acrimony. He said his main goal is to entertain and if his style was revolting to the literary hoi polloi, he couldn’t care less.
He received her with as much affection as one receives a frisky pony, with a lot of curiosity as well as caution. Uncle Raitt quizzed her about her own means of making a living and was pleasantly surprised she had poetic persuasions. But her bread and butter is entertainment journalism, although she would love to be an author who writes at her leisure one day, she told him.
He gave them his blessing and promised to increase his nephew’s allowance to accommodate the change in his status.
She brought very little when she moved in with him: just clothes and books, her desktop and laptop computers, music compact discs and a selection of DVDs. Her single bed was put in the empty guest bedroom, which he had decorated so her friends can stay over if they decide to drink after dinner.
His suburban hideout was spacious for one, but adequate for two people. His home belied his scruffy appearance. It was neat and well kept. It sat in a new development outside the metropolis, in a province that is not quite rural, not quite urban. The community shone with the intelligent planning of the developers, it kept its old incarnation as a forested patch of land as much as it could. The buildings were integrated with the flora and fauna in the area. In the mornings she could hear the birds sing in the centenarian trees while she has her coffee in the clubhouse.
She did not mean to, but she made him over. Seeing her busy, well groomed and occupied with various artistic pursuits got him off his bum and had him resume his old occupation as a civil engineer. He applied for jobs with two boutique development firms and got accepted by the one with offices in the city. He had his unkempt hair shorn for a neater haircut. He shaved in the morning, but left his five o clock shadow in the afternoon. She loved rubbing against it.
He bought a minivan and proposed they get a pet. She did not wish for it, but she was pleasantly surprised. She will choose, he will name the pet. She chose a Maine Coon cat and he christened him Henry.
Life fell into an even rhythm. They argued over little things: wet towels on the bathroom floor, uncapped toothpaste tubes, kitty litter that needed to be taken out. They made up, more than made up for the arguments with long, loving letters and walks in the park, dinners at hole in the wall restaurants and Michelin star hotels.
Yet it felt like their connection did not go deeper than the amicable, sexually charged friendship they started with. Neither was inclined towards marriage. Neither cheated, but the commitment they shared was not one borne of a passion towards the other. Fidelity was part of each one’s values system; it was something they would have granted to whoever their partner was.
It hit him one day.
That he loved her because she was more friend than lover. It made him sad. Sad that he changed into something he loathed and that he spent years trying to fit into her world. He didn’t want to, but he did. He was going someplace he didn’t want to be with a person he wasn’t sure he should be with. He made a run for it.
He left her a letter and didn’t ask her to leave their home. He bought a one way ticket to England, where he hoped the cold will cure him of his addiction to domestication.
She found the letter the day after he left. She read it dry-eyed, after feeding Henry.
It read:
“Dearest Sarah,
I was never meant to be in the place you brought me, yet after years of being with you I found myself there, as another middle class statistic earning a keep in an office job. I joined the army because I didn’t want identical days; I wanted each to be different from the other. Routine suffocates me. But I found myself yearning for it because you were around.
I do not blame you. You are who you are and you did not ask this of me. I blame no one. I know things just happened, we took the next step and the next and the next without asking if it was what we wanted. At least that’s how I see it.
You tamed me, without meaning to. But that doesn’t mean I should belong to you.
I will always be grateful for what you did to me, get me back into the land of the living once again. But you are more a friend than a lover and I hope you understand that we both deserve more than what we have right now. Let’s not settle for anything less than love.
Yours always,
John”
She tore the letter to pieces and wrote a reply, sent to him through his uncle:
“John,
I hope you rot in hell.
Sarah.”
Monday, May 3, 2010
Forgetting
Ceiling
The ceiling never fails to startle me. It is nothing intricate; its plain cobalt blue paint with the brown borders nevertheless surprises me every time I look at it.
I am told that it has been two months since the accident that took away my memories. The man who comes into the room to bring my meals and clean me up says he is my husband. I am in love with him.
I could not remember anything about him, could not recall the intimate moments he recounts when he lays down beside me at night. I have no memory of the photographs he shows me—the places we went to, the restaurants, the beaches, and the museums.
He has not gone beyond kissing and hugging, I want him to go further. I know I can be physical with him. When he is in the room, my blood sings and my heart beats a little faster and I could not stop smiling. I ask him, “Have I always been like this with you?”
He replies, “You were a bit of a cold fish. You were always so formal and reserved.”
I am offended. “Then why did you marry me in the first place?”
“Because I love you,” he said simply. It made me want to cry.
There are no kids, I am told. The man who says he is my father in law says I cannot bear children. It made me sad.
One day, when my husband was about to bring in my breakfast, I took off all my clothes and slid under the sheets.
“Hi! Wanna join me? Bed’s still warm.” I smiled my best smile.
“Sure. Wait. I’ll put this down. But you promise to eat, okay?”
I caught him unawares when I sidled up to him and put his hands on my body. We spent a rambunctious half hour in the bed. It became a ritual, during mealtimes. I asked him, was it always this good between us. He replied, no because he was always afraid he would offend me because I was always so prim and proper. He did not want to do the wrong thing and drive me away.
Things became different after that morning. I would ask him to talk about himself, what he wanted in life, what his dreams were.
He wanted kids, most of all, he told me. Because he would watch me with our nephews and nieces and see what a good mom I would make. He said I know when to give enough encouragement and when to let kids follow their dreams, and when to draw them down to earth to make them realize dreams take work.
I asked him, why can’t I have kids? He was still for a moment. Something happened, when you were little. Something that’s of no consequence now.
During the rainy season, the doctors allowed me out of the house, despite the fact that I have not recovered my memory. My husband seemed okay with it, my not being able to remember.
My husband went back to work and I missed him. I asked him, what did I do before the accident? He said I was a cartoonist. He asked me if I wanted to try and pick it up again. But if it stressed me out, he said I could always stop. I tried. I could draw characters, but I could not make them converse. I gave it up.
One day though, I was going through the morning paper and tried to do the crossword puzzle. It made me happy. I tried making my own and sent them to the papers. I got my second job.
My life fell into a predictable pattern. In the morning, my husband would bring me breakfast. We made it a point to take it early, to make time for our other activity so he can be at the office on time.
Then I’d make my crossword puzzles. At lunch, my father in law would drive me to the park in front of my husband’s office building where we will eat the sandwiches I made. He will kiss me good bye and meet me at the chapel after work, where we would talk behind the altar until it was time to go home
One day, I put on my favorite white ruffled tea dress with the maroon sash after having lunch with my husband. I waited for him at the chapel. I bought pink peonies. I presented them to him with a hug.
“I’m so in love with you. But this feels wrong. I can’t remember being married to you,” I said.
He smiled. “I understand. What do you want to do about it?”
“What if this is how I will always be? Unable to remember?”
“I have no problem with that,” his smile was even wider.
“Do you love your job?”
“Not really.”
“Okay,” I said holding both his hands. “What say you we elope? Go someplace near the sea?”
“Oh baby you betcha.”
The ceiling never fails to startle me. It is nothing intricate; its plain cobalt blue paint with the brown borders nevertheless surprises me every time I look at it.
I am told that it has been two months since the accident that took away my memories. The man who comes into the room to bring my meals and clean me up says he is my husband. I am in love with him.
I could not remember anything about him, could not recall the intimate moments he recounts when he lays down beside me at night. I have no memory of the photographs he shows me—the places we went to, the restaurants, the beaches, and the museums.
He has not gone beyond kissing and hugging, I want him to go further. I know I can be physical with him. When he is in the room, my blood sings and my heart beats a little faster and I could not stop smiling. I ask him, “Have I always been like this with you?”
He replies, “You were a bit of a cold fish. You were always so formal and reserved.”
I am offended. “Then why did you marry me in the first place?”
“Because I love you,” he said simply. It made me want to cry.
There are no kids, I am told. The man who says he is my father in law says I cannot bear children. It made me sad.
One day, when my husband was about to bring in my breakfast, I took off all my clothes and slid under the sheets.
“Hi! Wanna join me? Bed’s still warm.” I smiled my best smile.
“Sure. Wait. I’ll put this down. But you promise to eat, okay?”
I caught him unawares when I sidled up to him and put his hands on my body. We spent a rambunctious half hour in the bed. It became a ritual, during mealtimes. I asked him, was it always this good between us. He replied, no because he was always afraid he would offend me because I was always so prim and proper. He did not want to do the wrong thing and drive me away.
Things became different after that morning. I would ask him to talk about himself, what he wanted in life, what his dreams were.
He wanted kids, most of all, he told me. Because he would watch me with our nephews and nieces and see what a good mom I would make. He said I know when to give enough encouragement and when to let kids follow their dreams, and when to draw them down to earth to make them realize dreams take work.
I asked him, why can’t I have kids? He was still for a moment. Something happened, when you were little. Something that’s of no consequence now.
During the rainy season, the doctors allowed me out of the house, despite the fact that I have not recovered my memory. My husband seemed okay with it, my not being able to remember.
My husband went back to work and I missed him. I asked him, what did I do before the accident? He said I was a cartoonist. He asked me if I wanted to try and pick it up again. But if it stressed me out, he said I could always stop. I tried. I could draw characters, but I could not make them converse. I gave it up.
One day though, I was going through the morning paper and tried to do the crossword puzzle. It made me happy. I tried making my own and sent them to the papers. I got my second job.
My life fell into a predictable pattern. In the morning, my husband would bring me breakfast. We made it a point to take it early, to make time for our other activity so he can be at the office on time.
Then I’d make my crossword puzzles. At lunch, my father in law would drive me to the park in front of my husband’s office building where we will eat the sandwiches I made. He will kiss me good bye and meet me at the chapel after work, where we would talk behind the altar until it was time to go home
One day, I put on my favorite white ruffled tea dress with the maroon sash after having lunch with my husband. I waited for him at the chapel. I bought pink peonies. I presented them to him with a hug.
“I’m so in love with you. But this feels wrong. I can’t remember being married to you,” I said.
He smiled. “I understand. What do you want to do about it?”
“What if this is how I will always be? Unable to remember?”
“I have no problem with that,” his smile was even wider.
“Do you love your job?”
“Not really.”
“Okay,” I said holding both his hands. “What say you we elope? Go someplace near the sea?”
“Oh baby you betcha.”
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