Between

by Angie Abdou

  the truth as she is. It might get in the way of the agency’s promised

  “good personality and philosophical match.”

  Vero and Iska work through half a dozen of these questions—

  Vero reading the stock scenarios and Iska responding with the pre-

  dictable answers. Mostly, they understand each other, though Vero

  knows Iska can’t really imagine life with the Sprucedale Nanton-

  Schoemans (the “Baa Baa Brown Poo,” song, Speedo Navidad, the

  closet of one’s own) any more than Vero can really imagine Iska

  living in their basement. Vero writes a dark “maybe” at the top of

  Iska’s card.

  “You don’t have children, Iska?” Vero holds her breath waiting

  for Iska’s answer. Her card says no, but Bernie told her to ask. “Their

  situation may have changed.”

  Or maybe they lied? That thought blows into Vero’s mind in one

  hot puff. Then I will make them lie again. Vero runs her finger along

  the pane of glass in the window, draws a flower in the condensation.

  It’s too dark to see the lake in the distance, but she imagines it.

  “No, ma’am. I will care for your children like they’re my own.”

  Vero’s field mouse turns into a twenty-pound rat and starts slam

  dancing. It would seem, according to Vero’s stomach, she does not

  want another woman caring for her children as if they are her own.

  Not exactly.

  “Thank you, Iska. It’s been nice talking to you,” Vero closes the

  conversation just as she had with Mayumi, but then adds: “We might

  be in touch. The agency will let you know. Thanks for your time.”

  “Oh, I hope so, ma’am, I hope so.” Again, Vero feels the tentacles

  of desperation and backs away, grateful when the line goes dead.

  After Vero hangs up, she lays on her back, propping her feet up on

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  the window ledge. She holds up the last card. Ligaya. The card says

  she is twenty-six and single, working with a special needs child in

  Hong Kong. Her card doesn’t have the same mug-shot quality to it

  as the other nannies’ cards. Ligaya looks less like a trapped criminal

  and more like someone Vero might want in her house, cooking her

  family’s dinner. Ligaya’s full lips edge up toward a smile. She has soft

  laugh lines around her eyes.

  When the phone rings, Vero nearly doesn’t answer it. But she

  begins the interview by making small talk.

  “Your name is very pretty, Ligaya.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It means happiness.”

  “Okay, let’s imagine Eliot and Jamal are in the bath. Jamal jumps

  out and runs down the hall. What do you do?”

  Ligaya’s been coached for this one, and answers instantly. “I never

  leave a child in the bathtub alone. I take Eliot out of the bath, and

  only then we go and get Jamal. Before the bath, I make sure to close

  all troublesome zones so I know Jamal cannot find any trouble.”

  Only someone who’s never met Vero’s children could speak with

  such confidence. She imagines Ligaya hauling Eliot—a hulking

  three year old who probably weighs over half as much as Ligaya does

  already—out of the bath. And Jamal will invent “troublesome zones”

  that will have this woman hitch-hiking home to the Philippines

  within a week. Vero tells Ligaya none of this.

  But she feels a palpable sense of relief when Ligaya answers all the

  standard questions easily, with none of the frantic emphatic quality

  of Mayumi’s replies, no giggles like Iska.

  “Do you like to travel? My husband’s family has resort property

  in Mexico. Perhaps you would like to visit there with us?” Vero

  likes the look of Ligaya, the calmness of her voice, the clarity of her

  English. She offers this hypothetical travel as a reward. She blocks

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  the unbidden image of Drunkle Vince’s bikinied ass high in the air,

  his face against the porcelain toilet seat.

  “Oh, yes,” Ligaya’s voice has gone up an octave. “I would love to

  travel and see Mexico! I see pictures on the Internet. Mexico is warm

  with beaches, like my Philippines. Such a beautiful country.”

  It’s unclear whether the beautiful country is meant for Mexico or

  the Philippines. Either way, Ligaya’s high-pitched enthusiasm for

  heat and beaches worries Vero. She doubts Ligaya will find Canada so

  beautiful in the dead of winter. At the thought of the brown-skinned

  Ligaya who loves beaches stranded in Sprucedale during icy February,

  Vero is overwhelmed by a need to offer her more.

  “Do you like hiking, Ligaya? I go every day on beautiful trails

  through the woods. You could come with me.” Vero wonders if the

  neighbours would approve of this word she uses to describe her spo-

  radic and loud barefooted bolts into the woods.

  “Hiking?” Ligaya’s voice wavers, uncertain. Vero has veered from

  the script. She imagines Ligaya looking at the administrator in the

  Hong Kong agency, a question in her eyes.

  “It’s a great workout. The hills—I sweat buckets.” Vero realizes this

  description doesn’t match the enthusiasm in her voice. “I just love it!

  Invigorating! Cleansing! You feel great after!” She leaps off the sham-

  pooed carpet with the force of each of her exclamation marks. She’s

  an infomercial selling herself.

  “Oh, ma’am, that sounds very funny. In my country, we sweat when

  we work. I have never sweat for the fun.” There’s an echoing pause on

  the line, and then she adds, “But if you like, I come with you, ma’am.”

  “We should talk about the weather. It’s very cold here from

  November to April. How do you feel about winter?” Vero poses the

  question out of a sense of obligation, but then prompts her. “Are you

  excited to see snow?”

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  Ligaya picks up the answer that Vero hands her. “I love to see

  snow!” Ligaya’s voice rings. “I love it very much!”

  Vero’s grip tightens on the phone as she imagines Ligaya staring out

  their living room windows late in February, stunned by the mountains

  of snow, opening and closing her mouth without making a sound. Just

  a mute oh-oh-oh. A cartoon goldfish. What could Ligaya possibly

  know about winter weather, coming from the tropical Philippines and

  having been nowhere else but Hong Kong? Vero might as well have

  asked her how she would like living in a moon crater.

  “Do you have family?”

  “In the Philippines, I have little sister and brother, Nene and Totoy.

  We live with my parents.” Something in Ligaya’s voice—a full-bodied

  grief so present and solid that it might be contagious—stops Vero

  from asking more.

  “How do you like working in Hong Kong, Ligaya? Tell me about

  your employment there.”

  There’s an extended silence. Just when Vero thinks Ligaya has

  hung-up, she says, “My employer is called Poons.” She pauses again.

  “Hong Kong is very hard, ma’am. But I come here
so I get to Canada.

  I nearly done Hong Kong now. I don’t speak bad of my employer.”

  “We want you to be part of our family, Ligaya. Not a servant. Never

  that. I would like if you just call me by my first name. Just Vero. That’s

  all.”

  “Yes, I will be like your sister. Your little sister helping you with

  your babies, Vero. I can be like their auntie.”

  Yes, an auntie. Vero smiles into the receiver. It’s her. The one. Ligaya

  will be Shane’s promised portal into an easy, blissful future.

  “I have no more questions for you, Ligaya. I guess I’ll talk to the

  agency, now. I’m not allowed to make an offer to you directly, but you

  will hear from us very soon. We will talk again, Ligaya. I promise.”

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  “Oh I hope so, ma’am. Vero. I hope I talk to you again, Vero. I will

  love your family.”

  As Vero emerges from Shane’s office, she feels heavy and jet-lagged

  as if she’s just flown in from Hong Kong itself. She fans Ligaya’s

  nanny card at Shane and extends her hand for a high-five. “She’s per-

  fect. She’ll be here in six months. By the fall for sure.”

  Every muscle in his face relaxes. “This is a huge step in the right

  direction. You’ll see, Vero Baby! Things are looking up for the

  Sprucedale Nanton-Schoemans. We’ll think back to this night as

  the moment when things really turned around for us.” He holds his

  arms out, and she steps into him, pressing close to his sticky warm

  chest. She notices the glow on his face and realizes he’s just come up

  from the basement, from a workout with Cervella, propped on the

  wind-trainer. She holds her nose against the evidence of his workout.

  “You’ll see,” he says again, planting a firm kiss on the crown of Vero’s

  head. She lets herself nod ever so slightly, but can’t help picturing

  Ed ward’s hairy knuckles rapping the hot water pipes of the anti-tank.

  She closes her eyes, shaking off her nagging questions.

  Yes, but at whose expense? What gives us the right?

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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Trees and rocks.

  Trees and rocks.

  And then:

  more

  trees

  and

  rocks.

  That’s all Ligaya sees as her plane lowers toward Sprucedale. Nothing

  but forests and mountains, green and grey as far as her vision can

  stretch. Is this what opportunity looks like, then? Ligaya had expected

  something different. High sparkling buildings, maybe. Smooth paved

  roads. Golden statues. Something that looks like money.

  In the terminal, the world swirls and dips around her, bobs and

  sinks. Her senses gulp, trying to take in this new place. Perhaps this

  spinning and whirling is what people mean by “jet lag,” her inner

  senses lagging a step behind the external world. Or culture shock, it

  could be that. The nanny agency manual warned her of both.

  The woman who meets Ligaya at the luggage carousel speaks no

  more of wealth than the trees and rocks. She grabs at Ligaya’s hand,

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  squeezes her fingers hard, and pulls Ligaya so close to her body that

  Ligaya hears herself squeak.

  Wealth does not pull, Ligaya thinks. Money never needs.

  “Ligaya! Hello! I’m Vero!” The words jump from the woman’s

  mouth, the force of each practically lifting her from the ground.

  The woman looks a bit like Ligaya herself—her little body, her dark

  hair—but she vibrates. She seems to bounce on the spot, nervous as

  a hunted street cat. Ligaya expected this North American woman

  to look different—more like someone in the movies. Taller. Blonder.

  Redder lips. More serene. This woman, this Vero, looks small and dark

  and tired.

  Ligaya knows she must say something by way of greeting. She

  opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes feel dry as day-

  old chicken, her throat tight. It’s been too many hours since her feet

  touched the ground. And she’s dizzy too; her head thick with the

  transitions in altitude. She tries to shake off this cloak of disorien-

  tation, but instead she finds herself picturing Pedro catching a street

  cat, tying a noose around its neck, and slamming it hard into a cement

  wall. “Cats don’t die easily,” he had said, “and people have to eat.”

  Vero is trying again, less emphatically. “Welcome, Ligaya. You must

  be tired. You’ve had such a long trip. Did you sleep? Have you eaten?

  You had long layovers. Oh! You must be so jet lagged!” Her words

  pick up speed as if they run down a hill. She reaches for Ligaya’s car-

  ry-on bag. Their hands brush, but Ligaya pulls hers quickly away. “Let

  me help you with that, Ligaya.” Vero stresses the last three syllables as

  if saying Ligaya’s name will pull her into this place.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ligaya makes herself say. “Trip very long.”

  “God, this bag’s heavy!” Vero slumps under the weight as she swings

  Ligaya’s travel bag over her shoulder. “What’s in here?!”

  “My laptop.”

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  Vero looks surprised, as if Ligaya should have arrived from the

  uncivilized wilds, trekked out of the jungle wearing nothing but

  bamboo sandals and a palm-leaf skirt.

  “I bought it during my year in Hong Kong. There is many electron-

  ics there. I use it to talk with my family. If that okay.”

  “Of course! Of course! Excellent! Shane and I planned to buy

  you one ourselves!” Vero’s eyeballs bulge with each exclamation and

  Ligaya feels herself flinch at the force of the words.

  “Indian summer,” Vero explains in the car, rolling down her window.

  “Hot, hot autumn. Roll down yours, too. If you want. Let’s get some

  air in here.” The vehicle smells of new leather. Ligaya knows the scent

  from the airport store, a bin full of brand-new Ralph Lauren wallets.

  Ligaya wanted to put her face right up against them. She held one in

  her hands, looked at the price, pretended she might buy it.

  Ligaya cracks her window open. The air is heavy and humid. She

  expected her new country to be cold and has dressed too warmly. She

  unzips her heavy coat, a present from Corazon, peels it off her shoul-

  ders, feeling foolish.

  “I didn’t mean that to sound like an order. About rolling down

  your window. I mean, you don’t have to roll anything down if you

  don’t want to. It’s up to you. I hope you know that. I mean, I’ll never

  order you around. You should know that, right? Ordering’s not my

  style. All that ‘ma’am’ stuff, too—not my style. We’re all equals here.

  Being equals, that is our style.” Vero nods quickly, keeping time with

  the words and looking at Ligaya sideways as she drives. Ligaya wishes

  the woman would just watch the road and feels her fingertips digging

  hard into
her thighs as she stares at the oncoming vehicles.

  The radio plays loudly, an upbeat song about suffering and loneli-

  ness, but Vero rattles along over top of it:

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  life will be so different here

  you need something just ask

  democratic

  rules of course

  but

  must never, especially, let the boys boss you around

  your home too.

  She has two mouths. That’s what Filipinas say of Corazon with her

  non-stop chatter. This Vero, then, she has twelve mouths.

  Ligaya says nothing, just sits and sweats, moisture springing up on

  her chest and back until her bra is damp. She wipes the sweat above

  her upper lip on to her sleeve. Drops slide down her spine, pool in

  the roll at her waist. The world outside the windows passes, simulta-

  neously too fast and too slow.

  “These are evergreen trees,” Vero says of the blur. “Ever green: they

  won’t change colours. You can see the larch, though, they’re starting

  to go. This hillside will be entirely golden within the week.”

  Gold. Like money. Ligaya smiles. She doesn’t even know why.

  Vero points out the other window. “And here’s the amusement

  park, where we take the boys. Do you like roller coasting?” Vero

  swings her head around to look at Ligaya again, and Ligaya wants

  to take the woman’s chin in her hands and twist it until she faces

  the road. “Up there’s the ski hill. I know you won’t have skied. We’l

  get you out there. Over here’s the golf course. An old-people sport,

  Shane says. We’re not taking it up seriously until we hit sixty. He has

  to golf for work sometimes, of course, like everyone. But we certainly

  don’t call ourselves golfers. But you’re welcome to golf. Then there’s

  the strip mine.” She points up the mountain. “Ugly. We try not to

  look there.”

  The road, the road. Please look at the road, prays Ligaya. The trickle at

  her waist has turned to a waterfall.

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  “And now here are the malls. You know Manila, so I know you

  know malls. This is where we’ll find you, isn’t it?” Vero winks.

  Ligaya pictures her small home in the Philippines, with ibong bahay

  flying in and out of the kitchen as they pleased. The closest shopping

  mall was a four-hour walk followed by a thirteen-hour bus ride.