Swoop!
One owl, and then two, and then three, and then four—I lost count.
It was a frenzied mouse-eating party.
It was sad.
It was brutal.
It was beautiful.
I felt this sudden release. Like my chest had burst open, letting everything out all at once. Like my shoulders were lighter. Like my head finally belonged on my body.
I wasn’t really sure why I was getting all emotional.
There were tears in my eyes.
I wiped them away.
And as my vision cleared, I noticed tears in Chiqui’s eyes too.
Except I couldn’t tell if they were the sad or happy kind.
TWENTY-THREE
I wasn’t going to make a list. I wasn’t going to check it twice or three times or more. What I was going to do was pack my bag like any normal twelve-year-old kid would.
I was in my room trying to figure it out. My blue duffel bag—the one with the reflective piping and the nice sturdy handles—was on the floor. Not on the bed, but on the floor, because despite being squeaky clean I was sure there were still microscopic bits of dirt on it.
My clothes were neatly piled into categories: underwear, socks, T-shirts (short-sleeved and long-sleeved), shorts, pants, swim trunks (believe it or not, I actually owned two pairs), and pajamas (the ones coinciding with the days we’d be in Baler).
Phew.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.
Next up were toiletries. I imagined most guys or dudes or whatever hardly gave toiletries a thought. I mean, what was so complicated about shampoo, soap, and toothpaste, right? But in my case, the decisions were never ending. What if the shampoo I packed exploded in my suitcase? What if the hotel soap was only the bar kind? What if it reeked? What if it gave me rashes? What if I somehow misplaced my bamboo toothbrush? What if I ran out of toothpaste or cotton buds or deodorant or wet wipes or hand sanitizer or alcohol or all of the above?
Would I survive?
I could go on and on and on. But I just had to deal with it. One by one, I arranged the products I thought I would need and then zipped my toiletry organizer closed. I placed it at the bottom of the duffel bag in case anything should leak. On top I packed the clothing items from larger to smaller.
Finally.
I was done. And it hadn’t taken more than an hour.
Pssst!
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Happy was outside my window. On top of her head she had on one of those sleeping masks with a cat’s face on it.
I opened the window.
She leaned on the sill with both her elbows. “I saw your light was still on,” she said, looking into my room.
“Yup. Still on,” I said, repeating her more-than-obvious statement.
She pointed at my duffel bag. “You going somewhere?”
“Baler for the weekend. You know, surf and sand and whatnot.” I dragged my beanbag chair over and sat down.
“Hmm … surfing. You don’t look like a surfer,” said Happy with a raised eyebrow.
“That’s because I’m not. I don’t even know how to swim. I mean, not really.” I tried hard to sink into the beanbag even more. My skin itched and I could feel beads of sweat forming on my upper lip.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I don’t know how to swim either.”
I sat up. “Really?”
“Yes. Really … I haven’t even been to the beach. Weird, huh? We live on an archipelago and I’ve never stepped foot on the sand or the sea. Pathetic,” she said.
The itching was gone.
Happy studied my room as if it were a museum exhibit, eyes sweeping from one object to another.
Was it too neat? Too empty? Too boring?
“Um. So. What are you doing up anyway? It’s past eleven. Isn’t everyone asleep at your house?” I said, gesturing across the street with my chin.
She made a sad face. Her body sagged over the windowsill. “I can’t sleep. It’s too hot. Our air-con broke last summer and my parents never fixed it.”
“Air-con?”
“You know. Air conditioning.”
“Oh.” I swept my hands in the air. “I don’t have air-con either.”
Happy perked up. “Really?”
“Yeah. My mom says it’s bad for the environment. She also thinks it’s unhealthy not to sweat. Something about releasing the toxins from your body,” I explained with an eye roll.
“Pablo!” There were footsteps, thuds, and bags being dragged down the hallway.
Happy stepped back and waved. “I better go. Have fun and bring me pasalubong. Okay?”
“Pasalubong?” I asked.
“A gift … a souvenir from your travels.”
I stood and leaned out the window. “Like what?”
She shrugged. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
I had a bunch of questions on the tip of my tongue.
What was her favorite color?
Her favorite shape?
Her favorite number?
Her favorite scent?
Her favorite food?
Her favorite animal?
But she ran off into the darkness.
I was left alone with all my unanswered questions.
Wondering.
TWENTY-FOUR
We left at midnight for the more-or-less six-hour drive. Apparently it was better to travel at night. Miguel explained it was the best way to avoid the epic Manila traffic. The added bonus was sleeping the time away and waking up at the beach, well rested.
Everybody conked out pretty fast except for Zeus, obviously, since he was the one driving. It took me a while, though. For the first hour I just sat there and pretended I was asleep so no one would bother me. I looked out at the blackness closing my eyes when the car was going too fast. It felt like we were driving through a never-ending dark tunnel. I had no idea what would be on the other side. My stomach fluttered. My neck throbbed. My fingers and toes were numb. I squeezed my pillow, burrowing into the pile of throw blankets around me.
Go to sleep, Pablo.
I let my mind and body go.
There was nothing left to do but hope for the best.
* * *
I was awakened by the sound of slamming car doors.
“Welcome to El Gran Pacifica Resort!” said a blurry man and woman.
I blinked and tumbled out of the truck. The blurry man and woman handed me a fruity drink with a cocktail umbrella.
“Uh. Thanks,” I said, taking a sip so I wouldn’t look ungrateful. The jolt of sweet mango hit me, and then everything started coming into focus.
I glanced at the man’s and woman’s name tags, JON-JON and RAEZEL. They were both smiling and fresh-faced, dressed in matching black-and-white sarongs. I guessed they were the resort’s official welcome wagon. After they ushered us through the entrance, more black-and-white-clad staff carried our bags. We must have looked bedraggled with our crumpled clothes and slept-on hair. Mine was probably flat against my head, Mamá’s was poufy, and Chiqui’s was all over her half-asleep face. The only presentable one was Miguel, who was somehow uncrumpled, as if he’d slept on air.
“Why don’t you guys have a look-see while I check us all in?” he said.
Mamá and Chiqui plopped down on a teal-colored sofa. Chiqui’s brow was furrowed like she was in a bad mood, or maybe she was just tired; she curled away from us, sulking on the opposite side.
Mamá’s sigh practically echoed through the giant reception area. I stood and walked away, not wanting to get in the middle of either of their moods. Instead, I kind of strolled in a big circle, taking it all in. The place was brand-new. I mean, it practically sparkled. Everything was glass, metal, and wood with pops of tropical prints—pineapples, banana leaves, and shells. Nothing was worn or scratched or faded. Nothing was crooked or out of place or askew. Nothing smelled funky or chemically or plastic-y.
As far as I could tell, it was perfect.
After a f
ew minutes Miguel came back with a handful of key cards. “We’re all set. Why don’t we freshen up, and then we can have some breakfast?”
“Yes. Por favor. I need a shower and a very, very strong coffee,” said Mamá.
The porter led us to an impressive glass elevator. There wasn’t a single smudge; I couldn’t help wondering how much glass cleaner it took to keep it that way. We got out on the top floor, where supposedly there were four suites. Ours was the first one: the Hibiscus Suite. It sounded promising. The porter tapped the key card, a green light blinked, and the door opened. I caught a whiff of sage and grapefruit and then entered.
For a second all I saw was sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But then it hit me like a tidal wave.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
The sea. The infinitely deep blue sea was right there on the other side of the glass.
I was surrounded by it.
I froze. Then every inch of my body trembled.
“Pablo? Are you all right?” asked Mamá.
“Yes. Uh. Um. I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
I ran to the nearest door. It was the closet. But it was too late. I puked all over the complimentary bedroom slippers.
* * *
Thankfully, there were curtains—thick, velvety green ones that covered the entire view. I was in bed trying not to envision what was on the other side of them. It was actually a relief to be alone. I’d told Mamá I was feeling nauseated from the long car ride. She tucked me into bed, kissed me on the forehead, and went down for breakfast with Chiqui and Miguel, after I assured her I’d be okay. I was embarrassed and humiliated, especially after the nice housekeeping lady came to clean up my puke. She had rubber gloves and numerous spray bottles, plastic bags, and even a suction vacuum thingumajig that was supposed to make every trace of nastiness disappear. I was kind of impressed, even though my insides were still doing somersaults. After she was done, she smiled like it was nothing and said, “I hope you are feeling better soon.” And I could tell she meant it.
Suddenly, my stomach grumbled. The door clicked open. Maybe it was Mamá with some food. But when I looked over, it was Miguel. “How you feeling, little man? I brought you some lugaw. It’s like chicken soup. The chef made it vegetarian especially for you,” he said, placing the steaming bowl down on a table.
I sat up. It did smell good—garlicky and gingery and earthy. I crawled out of bed and joined Miguel at the table. “Thanks. I am kind of hungry.”
He watched me eat the first bite. It didn’t even matter that I only had one spoon and one napkin. I was that hungry.
“So…” he finally said. “What’s going on, Pablo? You can tell me, man-to-man.”
I felt like I should have been looking him in the eye. But he had on his sunglasses. So I wussed out and just stared at the grains of rice floating in my broth. “Nothing. I must have been carsick or something,” I mumbled.
“You sure?”
I peeped at him. Miraculously, his sunglasses were off. His eyes were like magnets. They drew me in. I couldn’t look away. “Um. It’s just. Well. I’m kind of—”
“Kind of what?” he interrupted.
Then I had that feeling again—the same feeling I’d had at the sanctuary, watching the owls feeding on the mice. A sudden release. Like my chest had burst open. Like my shoulders were lighter. Like my head finally belonged on my body.
Whoosh!
The tidal wave returned, except it was words that were hurling out of my mouth instead of puke.
“I’m scared … of the sea … Like deathly, end-of-the-world kind of scared.”
Miguel frowned, but only for a split second. “Huh. I wasn’t expecting that.”
I had no idea why I’d decided to finally spill my guts out. Miguel was Mamá’s boss. He wasn’t my father or an uncle or a best friend. But maybe that was it. Maybe it was easier to talk to someone who wasn’t so close.
“Does your mom know?” he asked. I could tell he was thinking by the way he fiddled with his sunglasses.
“No. Nobody knows. I guess, I was too ashamed to tell anyone … And now, it just feels like it’s too late.”
Then it occurred to me. Was he going to snitch? Spill the beans?
“You won’t tell her, will you? Please … I don’t want her to think I’ve been keeping secrets,” I said, leaning forward so he could see the urgency on my face.
“But you have been, Pablo.”
I looked down at my lap. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Miguel bent down really low, searching for my gaze. “Now, I want to know everything. How it started … How it makes you feel. Everything.”
“I—I don’t know how it started. One day it was there. The first time I really felt it was when I was at the aquarium with my father. There was this bat ray touch pool. Just looking at it made me nervous. I didn’t want to be near it. The bat rays scared me. Then there was this other time we went on a sunset cruise. I was shaking the minute we stepped on board. My clothes were drenched in sweat. I couldn’t look at anything. I just closed my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t puke. But I did. My father, he said—” I paused, swallowing back the tears. “He said, ‘It’s nothing. Pablo’s just going through a seasickness phase. He’ll get over it.’ Thing is … I never got over it.”
Silence.
I peeped at Miguel.
It seemed like it was taking him forever to reply. But finally he gripped his sunglasses, tapping his other palm on the table like he’d come up with a plan. “Okay. I won’t tell her. But … I want you to promise me something.”
I nodded.
“I want you to promise to let me help you. Starting today, we’re going to work on it. Work on making it better. No miracles. Just better.”
It was my turn for silence. Except my heart was stomping, beating, clawing its way out of my chest. I gasped and coughed. Miguel handed me a glass of water.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
I drank half the glass.
He squeezed my forearm gently. “I’m not going to force you to do anything, Pablo. I just want you to give it a shot. Maybe we can take a short stroll on the beach. And then we go from there. Okay?”
A shot.
Easier said than done. But Miguel was reaching out. He wanted to help.
Maybe I should trust him.
Or at least try.
“Okay.” It came out sounding squeaky.
“Good,” he replied, handing me his sunglasses. “Let’s start with these. They’re yours now. You’ll see. Everything looks better with a pair of shades on.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The sunglasses made me look like a total dork. At least that’s what I thought. Miguel assured me I looked cool. But it seemed like a bit of a stretch. One thing was for certain, though. When I gazed through the grayish-green lenses, everything became one color, as if I were gazing at faded black-and-white photos. That was a good thing, because it gave me the illusion of being in a dream. And dreams couldn’t drown you, or suck you into a current, or serve you up into the jaws of a man-eating shark. Not for real anyway.
As we strolled past the hotel swimming pool, which overlooked the stretch of beach and sea, my stomach tightened and twisted and almost somersaulted. I was okay, for now. But for how long, I wasn’t sure. I had a sneaking suspicion the puke was just waiting to hurl upward at the worst possible moment.
Mamá was in the kiddie pool with Chiqui—or to be more specific, Mamá was in the pool, and Chiqui was nearby, hiding next to a lounge chair.
“Chiqui, come … I promise it’ll be fun. Look … P-O-O-L … WA-TER,” she said slowly, splashing the water with an exaggerated happy face. Chiqui shook her head and lifted her neon-green arm floaties to shield her face.
Mamá was getting nowhere.
Sigh.
Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
“Still no luck, huh?” said Miguel.
“Not yet,” Mamá replied. “Pablo! Guapito. You look so handsome.” She be
amed as soon as she saw me. Either that, or it was the sunscreen making her skin all glowy.
She was clearly deluded.
I waved and pushed my chest out in an effort to match my eyewear. I mean, people who wore sunglasses were confident, right? Like movie stars and rock stars and rich people.
Miguel slapped my back. “We’re going for a walk. To check out the surfing action.”
“On the sand?” Mamá asked with a surprised frown. She knew I had a thing about getting dirt in between my toes.
“Of course on the sand,” he said.
I wiggled my toes inside my canvas shoes. Thank goodness I’d packed them.
Splish-splash.
Chiqui had inched to the edge of the pool, the tip of her toes dipping in and out of the water. For a second she gawked at me. I guess she didn’t think I looked cool or handsome.
“All right. Well, you guys have fun, then!” Mamá blew me a kiss.
I blushed.
Ugh. How embarrassing.
A dude wearing shades shouldn’t have his mom blowing kisses at him, right? Luckily, I didn’t think anyone noticed.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I was stalling. Delaying the inevitable.
My feet shuffled.
Is it too late to chicken out?
Maybe I should offer to stay and help Mamá?
But I promised to give it a shot.
“C’mon, Pablo,” Miguel said.
Mamá waved goodbye, and then she went back to coaxing Chiqui into the kiddie pool.
Oh well, here goes nothing!
I stumbled and caught up with Miguel. He was walking toward the beach, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world. When the pathway ended and the sand began, I closed my eyes.
Be brave, Pablo. It’s sand. It’s not going to kill you.
My one shoe inched forward, and then my other shoe followed. I sank a couple of inches. It was kind of bothersome. But I was fine. I opened my eyes. Miguel was right there. “C’mon,” he said.
We walked on the edge of the beach, with Miguel on the side closest to the water. That way his body would block the majority of the view. It kind of worked. Once in a while, I’d see a silver-blue shimmer, the froth breaking on the shoreline, the curl of a forming wave. But it wasn’t enough to freak me out.
How to Make Friends with the Sea Page 8