by Noël Alumit
“People in my province disappear. For no good reason. They were suspected of being Communists. I know those people who disappear. Bullshit. They were poor farmers. Dirt-poor farmers. But all you had to be was suspected, and you were taken away.
“I was a teacher working in Baguio. I led a prayer for my school group. I prayed for the souls of the people who disappear. They took me away for that!”
•
I never saw much of Mr. A. during that time.
“He’s out working, looking for clients,” Mrs. A said, watching As the World Turns. She wore her hair down, instead of wrapped in that tight bun on top of her head.
Mrs. A had lost some of her excitement. She had dulled a little bit, becoming a queen who has lost her kingdom. I couldn’t help but feel sad for her. Regardless of everything, she did one good thing: She had Amada.
Auntie Yuna was mean and cranky, but she was a part of my family. I can’t hate her completely, it’s not her fault that we were accidentally bound together by blood. Mr. and Mrs. A, Amada, Auntie Yuna—all of us tried and tried. And sometimes, the best we were stuck with were mistakes.
•
Amada had another plan. A plan I didn’t like at all.
“I need eight hundred dollars,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because a girl at school told me where I can go to have an abortion. It’ll cost me eight hundred dollars.”
“Another clinic?”
“No. Someone she knows. Some guy out in Palmdale.”
“Why don’t you just go to another clinic?” I asked.
“I’ve had it with clinics. I’ve had it with those anti-abortionists being everywhere. I just want to get it over with.”
“Amada, are you sure about this? We can find another clinic. I’ll help. Just give me some time to find one.”
“I am running out of time,” she said. She took a deep breath, blowing away the strands of hair on her face. “My life is fucked. I don’t want to be one of those girls, the kind people whisper about. I don’t want to walk around for nine months with baggy clothes and carry books around my stomach so no one can tell. People’ll think I’m a slut or just plain dumb for getting into this mess. My parents’ll kill me. They’re strict about me going to bed on time. Imagine what they’d do to me if they found out I was pregnant.”
“There must be some other way.”
“I thought about it every way I could.” She took a deep breath. “If I could turn it all back, I would. But I’m stuck. I need your help.”
I nodded and agreed to giving her the money she needed.
We left after school, hitting rush-hour traffic. It was almost dark when we got there. I imagined we’d be going to some horrible place in the boonies, but this place wasn’t that bad: a brown stucco building in a shopping mall.
I opened my car door when Amada stopped me.
“Stay in the car,” she said.
“Why?”
“Look out for bombers or something.” She left the car, gave me one long look before entering the building.
I waited for almost three hours. It seemed the earth had rolled over a dozen times when Amada finally came out. She walked kind of funny, her hands over her abdomen.
She got into the car and said, “It’s all done.”
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, and buckled her seat belt. “When we’re this far from the city,” she said, “it’s a whole different world. It doesn’t even seem we’re in the same state, the same country. I don’t know where I am.” She rolled down the window, letting the cool wind fill the car. “The guy was kind of cool. The guy who took care of it for me. He works in that doctor’s office. He has keys and comes and goes when he wants. He only sees girls after closing. He was kind of funny, too. He was young. Cleancut. Preppy. He said he didn’t want to be burdened with school loans when he got out of college. He’s saving up for medical school. He does this on the side to pay for tuition.” She turned on the radio, and couldn’t find a station she liked. She turned it off. “I can’t wait to graduate this year. I’ll move away. We can live together. Move back to San Francisco, maybe. You’d like San Francisco. Or New York. I’ve always wanted to live in New York. Start brand new. Brand new. I’ll study acting and become an actress like Marilyn.”
There was barely any traffic. We zoomed back to the sparkling lights of the city. We saw the Hollywood Sign, we knew we were almost home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In the Blackness of My Mind
Dear Monty, June 10, 1986
Amada and I didn’t make graduation. We weren’t up for it. I’m still trying to make sense of the last month. Having to rush Amada to the hospital scared the shit out of me. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost her. I don’t know what I’d do if she vanished.
Living here is torture. Mr. and Mrs. A are in a perpetual state of fury. I feel like I’m walking around in a glass house. The only thing that kept me going was my conversations with Mrs. Billaruz. And I can’t even do that anymore.
Amada and I have Hawaii to look forward to. And I start college in the fall. Amada and I are going to leave, find our own place, get away from this house.
It was late and dark when Amada came into my room. “Something’s wrong,” she said. The only thing I could see was the outline of her body as she stood in the doorway. I switched on the lamp beside my bed, and Amada was scared shitless. Her nightgown was stained red. Her hands were bloody.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” I said rushing to her. She leaned against me. Her feet were locked together, blood streamed down her legs.
“I have to get your parents. I have to,” I said, laying her on the floor.
I called for Mr. and Mrs. A. They shuffled down the hall. “What’s the matter?” Mr. A asked. He saw Amada and gasped. Mrs. A ran to her, screaming: “Amada, Amada, AMADA!”
I called 911.
In my bedroom, Mr. and Mrs. A huddled around their daughter, rocking her. Amada kept hitting her stomach, yelling over and over again, “STOP! MAKE IT STOP! STOP BLEEDING!” Mr. A yelled louder: “CALM DOWN!!! GODDAMMIT CALM DOWN!!!” And Mrs. A yelled, too. She said nothing in particular.
In the distance, a siren approached, a whirring whistle—ongoing and unceasing. Dogs in the neighborhood reacted by barking, howling. All around me was noise. A cacophony of wailing.
•
At the hospital, Amada slept. She had been there for twenty-four hours. We camped out in the hospital waiting room.
“Do you know what happened?” Mr. A asked again.
I pretended not to hear. I thought about Amada and how she handled Lou going AWOL, disappearing. Disappearances are hard, I knew. Something I began to comprehend was the fleeting nature of human beings. We have the remarkable capacity of leaving others far behind, severing any or all relations. Sometimes by force like my parents. Most times by choice like Lou. Like Robert Bulanan. Like J. Like Auntie Yuna.
“What happened?” Mr. A asked again. I shook my head I don’t know. Mrs. A clutched a rosary, reciting Hail Marys, praying. I wanted to tell her that prayers get tangled up like balloon strings.
I stared at the wall, desperately wanting a book. I wanted to wander the hospital, look for a thick medical book, and blotch.
A doctor walked into the room. “Your daughter will be fine,” he said. “She will have to stay in the hospital for a few days. She began to hemorrhage from her abortion, but she’ll be fine. If you have the name of the doctor, I’d like to have it. He did very shoddy work. He should be reported.”
Silence.
“Abortion? We did not know she had one,” Mr. A said.
The doctor took a deep breath realizing what he’d done.
“May we see her?” Mrs. A asked.
“Certainly, but let her rest,” he said, and led us to her room.
Amada was unconscious. Her breathing was slow and even. Mrs. A caressed her face with incredible warmth. Mr. A looked solemnly at her, sitting on a
chair by the bed, shaking his head. I stood against the wall, barely breathing, afraid of upsetting the quiet of the room.
I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander away, far, far away. I slid down the wall, resting my knees against my chest. I thought of Amada’s face in the blackness of my mind, and I thought, It will be all right. Can you hear me, Amada? I love you. It will be all right. I love you.
I got up and quietly left the room, walking down the hall, finding a restroom. I didn’t need to do anything in particular. I just wanted to get away. I looked into the mirror. In the Mirror World, I stared back at myself, seeing the pimples and the hairs sprouting from that ridge between my lips and my nose. I peered into the dark universe of my eyes. Suddenly, my eyes turned blue, and Monty appeared before me. We looked at each other, and I was comforted.
I reached out to touch him, but only felt the cold glass. I pressed my hand into the mirror, trying to break into the Mirror World, but the barrier wouldn’t give.
I desperately wanted to be with him.
I washed my face, looked up, and Monty had disappeared like false hope. I screamed internally, COME BACK! COME BACK! I went to a toilet stall. I opened the door to the stall, placed my arm between the stall and the door, then slammed the door into my arm. I slammed it again and again, until welts ran up and down my arm. The welts stayed for a few days, until Amada returned home.
She stayed in her room, slumbering. When she woke, she didn’t want to see anyone, not even me. Mrs. A brought her meals, staying for long periods of time.
Mr. A silently watched TV or read his newspapers. In the mornings, he drank his coffee with little sips, not speaking to me or to his wife. He didn’t ask about Amada.
•
My only respite from all of this was talking to Mrs. Billaruz. But even those conversations were uneasy as she avoided talking about my father.
“What exactly happened in prison?” I’d asked.
“When you visit, we can talk,” is all she’d say.
I kept calling her until Mr. A told me to stop.
“Bob, are you the one making those phone calls to Hawaii?” he asked me, pissed off.
I nodded.
“Stop it. They’re too expensive.”
•
I woke up one morning and Amada’s bedroom door was wide open. I peered in; she was gone. I looked all over the house, but she wasn’t around. Mrs. A’s car wasn’t in the driveway. I thought Amada had gotten up in the middle of the night and took off, not letting anyone stop her from doing what she wanted to do.
Amada’s a free spirit, I thought, freer than birds, freer than the air birds glided upon. I wondered if she left me a good-bye note somewhere, letting me know that she was going to San Francisco or New York. Then again, it didn’t matter, as long as she was free, like the untamed horses in The Misfits.
I ate my cereal. I heard Mrs. A’s car pull up in the driveway. The front door opened. I went into the foyer. It was Mrs. A. Amada followed.
“What are you doing today?” Mrs. A asked me.
“I’m going to the library,” I said, keeping my eyes on Amada. She didn’t look at me; she kept her eyes to the ground. She wore a pink satin dress that looked like an upside-down tulip.
“Good. Wait for Amada. She’ll go with you.”
Amada went upstairs, and I sat in the living room. I knew it would take a while for Amada to get out of that hideous dress, and change into something else like Calvin Klein jeans with a Pendleton shirt.
“Are you ready?” It was Amada still dressed in the upside-down tulip. She tied her hair into a ponytail.
“Sure.”
For most of our walk, Amada was silent. I asked her how she was.
“All right,” she said.
“Where did you go this morning?”
“To church. Mom wants me to go with her to morning mass for a while.”
“How was it?”
“Okay. Mom wants me to pray every morning, go to confession, beg God to forgive me for what I did. I probably have to do what they say for a while, which includes wearing stupid dresses like this all the time.”
“Are you sorry you did it? Had the abortion, I mean.”
“Hell, no. I’m just pissed at that stupid butcher. I called the doctor’s office he worked in and told them that a guy was using their offices for abortions. They asked me who it was, and I described the guy. Turns out it was the son of one of the doctors there. I hope he gets the shit beaten out of him, that good for nothing motherfucker.”
I laughed. She put her arm in mine and we went off to the library.
•
Getting back into her parents’ good graces hadn’t been as easy as Amada had thought. She had been going to morning mass for two weeks.
“How long do I have to keep going?” Amada asked Mrs. A.
“Until I think it’s time to stop,” Mrs. A said.
“When will that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Christ, it wasn’t like I murdered anyone.”
“That’s exactly what you did,” Mrs. A quickly replied and left Amada at the breakfast table. Amada’s eyes followed Mrs. A out of the kitchen.
“I hate this place,” Amada said to me.
“They’ll come around,” I said.
“At least my mom’s talking to me. Dad hasn’t said shit to me.”
•
Eventually, Mr. A did say something. Boy, did he. We were eating at a restaurant in Chinatown. Just eating. I didn’t expect the meal to become a war.
“Did you choose a college?” Mr. A asked me.
“I’m going to USC,” I said. “They gave me a great financial package, covering most of my tuition.”
We ate quietly for most of the dinner, until Mr. A asked Amada what she was going to do. It was the first time Mr. A spoke to her. And Amada, in her usual style, said something to piss him off.
“I’m going to be an actress,” Amada said.
“An actress? Not that again.”
“I was gonna take classes.”
“And who’s going to pay for them?”
“I’ll get a job.”
“You don’t know how to do anything.”
“I’ll learn to do something.”
“Go to community college. Find something you like. Then study that. Try it our way for once.”
“I’ll do it my way.”
“Like getting expelled. Like almost killing yourself by having an abortion?”
“It’s my life.”
“Let’s go,” Mrs. A said, “people are staring at us.”
Without asking for the bill, Mr. A threw down some money, and raced to the car. The rest of us quickened our pace, trying to keep up with him.
We got into the car and as we drove, Mr. A yelled, “I’m sick and tired of this, Amada. You keep making the most stupid decisions. Stupid ideas in your head!”
“Stop yelling,” Mrs. A said.
“They’re not stupid!” Amada said.
“I said stop yelling,” Mrs. A repeated quietly, rubbing her temples. “Amada, listen to your father. It would be a good idea to think of something else to do. Acting is a hard job.”
“That’s what I want to do.”
“I don’t want to hear any more, Amada,” Mr. A said. “I’m sick and tired of you talking, always talking nonsense, always doing nonsense. Like having an abortion.”
“I’d do it again,” Amada said, crossing her arms.
“Amada!” Mrs. A brought her hands to her mouth.
“You do whatever you want without thinking,” Mr. A said, speeding up the car. “Your mother and I tried to have other children. We tried so hard. We tried for years. After you were born, we still tried to have more. Give you brothers or sisters. We wanted more children. A house with children is blessed by God. Don’t you know that? That’s why we wanted Bob. A house with more children is blessed by God.” Mr. A quickly braked at a red light. The car stopped halfway in the intersection. He turned aro
und, his face shooting daggers at Amada. “And you go ahead and just get rid of children like it doesn’t matter.”
That was unfair. It did matter to Amada. I knew that and she knew that.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” Amada said.
Mr. A didn’t have an answer, but Mrs. A did. She spoke softly, but firmly, “I want you to be sorry. I want you to want forgiveness. But you don’t. You don’t care. When do you start caring?”
The light turned green. We drove the rest of the way in silence. Once we got into the house, Amada said to her parents, “I’m not sorry for what I did. If I had the baby, you would have given me hell about that, too. No matter what choice I would’ve made, it would have been a bad one. I learned a long time ago, you will never be happy with who I am or what I do. So I decided to make whatever decision I wanted.”
As Amada started her slow ascent upstairs, Mr. A hollered, “Amada, come back down here. Where are you going?”
“Mother, I’m not going to go to morning mass,” was all she said.
Her bedroom door slammed shut.
In the morning, I knocked on Amada’s door. I knocked a lot, but she didn’t answer. I went downstairs to get some breakfast, waiting for her to come down. She didn’t. I went back upstairs and knocked on her door some more. I twisted the knob; it was locked.
“Amada?” I said, “Wake up. I want to buy some things before we leave for Hawaii in a few days.”
She still didn’t come to the door. I said her name again and again and again, my voice rising each time. I banged on her door, but nothing. I shoved my weight against the door, yelling Amada’s name. Still nothing. I kept shoving and shoving until the door gave way. I saw Amada on her bed, naked. She wasn’t moving and a little brown plastic bottle was on the floor. I shook her. I held her in my arms, tears welling up in my eyes.
“Amada, please wake up. Please, please, please.” I rocked her, holding her still body. Then I whispered a message in my mind to her soul: Come back, please come back.
I felt her rib cage expand. She took in a big breath. “Damn, I’m good,” she said. “You really thought I was dead, didn’t you. I’m going to be a great actress. My parents don’t know shit.”