My Fate According to the Butterfly

by Gail Villanueva

  THE STRUGGLE: A PHOTO SERIES ON RECOVERY IS ROMEO GAMELON’S FIRST FORAY INTO EXPRESSIVE PHOTO REPRESENTATION. HIS IMAGE ESSAYS AIM TO CAPTURE THE EXPERIENCES OF DIFFERENT PEOPLE WHO ENDURED SUBSTANCE ABUSE BY THEMSELVES, THE ONES THEY’VE HURT, AND THOSE WHO HELPED THEM RECOVER.

  “Wow. That’s actually pretty cool.” This exhibit won’t be a walk in a park, that’s for sure. Hopefully, the artist shows up soon and we won’t have to stay here too long.

  Ate Nadine groans, but Kuya Jepoy just laughs.

  “Aren’t you supposed to explain this to us?” Pepper tilts her head in their direction.

  “What else do you need to know?” Ate Nadine snorts. “It’s pretty obvious. The dog is dead, but no one cares.”

  I gasp. “Ate!”

  “What?” She shrugs. “I’m a journalist, not an art critic.”

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Kuya Jepoy grins. “Let’s go see the others.”

  The rest of the photos aren’t so bad. The one with the dog seems to be the only one that’s really graphic. The others are more like abstract representations of drug addiction and its effect on other people.

  Like this one, The Downward Spiral. It shows nothing but an empty staircase, taken from the top. The steps form a tunnel, kind of like looking down into a tornado. “That’s intense. The swirling. It’s really drawing me in.”

  “It makes me dizzy.” Pepper blinks and rubs her eyes. She moves on to the next photo.

  I try not to roll my eyes. Pepper is taking the images literally.

  A tall shadow appears on the surface of the photo in front of me. It’s Kuya Jepoy. “I get what you mean. It’s like you’re getting sucked in,” he says. “You’re falling deeper and deeper, but you have no idea where the bottom is—if there’s even a bottom. All you have are fear and uncertainty, but you let yourself fall anyway.”

  “Like a black hole. There’s no other way out but down.”

  “Yes.” Kuya Jepoy nods. “Exactly.”

  “Sab!” Pepper calls. I turn and find her in front of a photo of a family. “Look at that. Scary!”

  Outside the family’s living room, right under the window, is a man hiding in the shadows. We can’t see his face, but his eyes are wide open and dilated.

  But it’s not the man in the window I’m drawn to.

  It’s the family.

  “ ‘Isolation,’ ” I read the caption. This family on the background shows a young boy celebrating his birthday. The other kids and their parents seem to be happy. The celebrant’s mother is smiling, but her eyes are on the wall clock, like she’s waiting for someone to arrive. People always look at the clock when they’re waiting for someone.

  The birthday boy, on the other hand, has his eyes trained on the right of the scene. I can’t see what he’s looking at exactly, but I’m going to guess it’s the door.

  You see, I did the exact same thing on my fifth birthday. I waited for Daddy, who promised he wouldn’t be late for my party. I blew my candles without him around, kind of like the boy in the picture. Dad came home way after midnight instead.

  “Sab.” Ate Nadine rests a hand on my shoulder, then gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you want to go home?”

  I shake my head. “There’s more to see.”

  We move on to the next photo. This time, it features a man and a woman hugging.

  “That’s so sweet,” Pepper says, staring at the photo with a dreamy expression.

  Well, “sweet” is one way of looking at it. This image is titled “Soul Mates,” but with the word Soul crossed out. Like, without the soul, just mates. Or maybe the soul is missing.

  It’s a very appropriate title.

  The man in the photo has his eyes closed. He’s smiling contently. The woman with the long, messy hair, on the other hand, remains as expressionless as the creepy man in the previous photo. She has red dots on her arms.

  My stomach drops. I don’t know why, but the woman reminds me so much of my dad. The disheveled look, the seemingly “not there” expression. I close my mouth tightly so I don’t throw up.

  This is not good.

  I grab the hand nearest mine, thinking it’s Pepper’s. But it’s not. Instead, I find myself holding Ate Nadine’s hand, and she’s staring at me with a frown on her face.

  I feel like she’s waiting for me to ask something. Honestly, I feel like I need to ask her something. But my brain is too scared to form the words. Not because Ate Nadine will get mad—more like, I’m afraid of the answers I’ll get.

  “Well, well, well! The attendant wasn’t kidding when he said my youngest guests have arrived,” a tall Black man with a rumbling voice exclaims. He holds out his hand. “I’m Romeo Gamelon. You can call me Rom.”

  We introduce ourselves to him. For some reason, we don’t tell him our surnames. Even Ate Nadine.

  “This woman looks familiar,” says Pepper, pointing to the wild-haired lady in the Soul Mates image.

  “Oh, you like that one? It’s my favorite too.” Rom smiles, his perfectly white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin. “I based her likeness on the one I consider my soul mate. He was my best friend. But we were young; we partied a lot. We made bad choices we very much regret now. I heard he has a family now—two daughters, my friend Greg said—but I never got to meet them. I guess I’m just too ashamed to, if they knew the things we did. But I do hope to meet them one day.”

  Pepper bites her lower lip. I look away, but I can feel her eyes on me. Rom’s talking about Daddy, I’m sure of it. Ate Nadine’s Ninong Greg did say they were friends in the old days. They were party people, he said. And Rom just confirmed it.

  The model is based on Dad.

  The sick feeling in my stomach is getting worse, and I feel like throwing up in a minute.

  Pepper takes my hand, and her touch gives me the assurance I need.

  I can’t back out now. I need to ask the question.

  Taking a deep breath, I exhale slowly and meet the man’s gaze. “Is that man you’re referring to Christopher Dulce?”

  “Yes!” Rom’s jaw drops. “How did you know?”

  Ate Nadine puts an arm around my shoulders and says, “We’re his daughters.”

  AWKWARD.

  Awkward is the only way I can describe the silence between us. Like, the awkwardest awkward silence ever. Even Pepper is at a loss for words.

  Rom shifts his feet and clears his throat. Still, his voice comes out like a croak. “How is Christopher?”

  I look up at my sister. Call me a coward, but I’m not the one breaking the ice.

  “Oh man.” Rom groans. “I’m so sorry. You might think I’m terrible for saying all those things to you.”

  “No, it’s okay. We get it.” Ate Nadine gives him a reassuring smile. “Our parents are separated. He lives in Pililla now.”

  “Yes. He’s in Pililla with his boyfriend.” Pepper throws me a knowing look, then stares Rom in the eye. “We love Wendell. You’re not trying to be Tito Christopher’s other boyfriend, are you?”

  Kuya Jepoy coughs, trying to hide his laugh but failing spectacularly.

  “No, no. No. Definitely not,” says Rom. He holds up his hands and lets out a nervous chuckle. “It’s just that … Your lola Cordia was religious and conservative. I thought you didn’t know—”

  “That our dad dates men and women?” Well, I can’t blame him for thinking that way. I read online that Dad’s identity is something not everyone will understand. “I think we’re lucky. Ate and I have three dads!”

  “Three? Ah. Ginnette has a boyfriend too.” Rom smiles. “I agree. You have a lovely family.”

  “Yeah. Mom and Tito Ed have been together for three years now. Wendell and Dad, five years.” Ate Nadine peers at Rom. “How long have you known our father?”

  “Since forever.” Rom looks wistfully at the Soul Mates painting. “We met in the summer before college. Tita Cordia didn’t want him staying at a dorm while he studied in Pignatelli. So she and your grandpa bought a hous
e in Quezon City. They went home to Pililla during the weekends and holidays. I lived on the same street with my mother.”

  “Their family lives in that house in Quezon City.” Pepper tilts her head. “I’m at Sab’s, like, every day. How come we never see you around?”

  Rom points his thumb to the direction of the poster with his name on it. “I moved to New York twenty-four years ago. The summer before my senior year in college, if I remember right.”

  I do a quick calculation in my head. Mom said that she and Dad began dating in their last year of college—just after Romeo Gamelon left.

  A frown creases my forehead. I hope Dad didn’t date Mom just because he was sad about Rom leaving. “You still talked to Dad even after he was married?”

  “Yes, but not as much. We lost touch in about a year or two. I wish I was there for him when he—” Rom’s eyes flicker to the Downward Spiral photo. “When he wasn’t well.”

  “It’s okay. You can say it.” I try not to roll my eyes. What is it with adults and avoiding the proper word for stuff? “Dad had depression.”

  Rom raises an eyebrow, and Ate Nadine shakes her head. If they’re sharing a secret, I want in on it. I open my mouth to speak, but my sister is faster.

  “We still have a few minutes left before the museum closes,” she says, glancing at her watch. I don’t get it. Her ninong said this man has the answers she seeks, and yet she’s not asking him anything. Not the important questions anyway. “Why don’t you show us around? I’m sure the girls have some questions.”

  “I have a question!” Pepper waves her hand in the air. But the intense look she gives Romeo Gamelon is far from comical. “Did you kill the dog?”

  “Huh?”

  “That one. In the first frame.” I point to the photo near the door. “Life Will Go On.”

  “Ah!” Rom’s expression clears. “No, of course not. The dog is actually just sleeping. Come, look closer.”

  We follow the artist across the gallery. When I see the dog this time, I don’t feel horrified anymore.

  “See?” Rom says. “Just sleeping.”

  True, the dog isn’t dead. He just looks dead. Rom tells us that the dog, named Hot Dog (really?) belonged to the street vendor selling hot dogs nearby (ugh, it’s not even funny). Hot Dog liked sleeping near the gutter because it’s cooler there. He was perfectly safe.

  Rom gives us a personalized tour of his gallery, telling us the story behind each photograph. I’m not sure most of them are entirely true. Sometimes, he’ll be enthusiastically discussing something about substance abuse, then he’ll look at Ate Nadine and stop mid-sentence. It’s almost as if he’s asking for her permission.

  He does, however, have a lot to say about how the government and media are dealing with the substance abuse problem. “The media should also be promoting health services for substance abuse, but the government itself should put more money into those projects instead of unlawful arrests that almost always end badly.”

  Rom also explains how his pictures follow a certain theme. “Things aren’t always what they seem, see? You mustn’t be so quick to judge. Anybody, rich or poor, can suffer from substance abuse. And sometimes, people suffering from it are the ones you least expect.”

  I notice he skips Soul Mates, which turns out to be the only photograph that had a female model who reminds me of Dad.

  It seems to me that my question has already been answered, but I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be asking. My initial question of “Do you know what happened between Ate Nadine and Dad?” isn’t the right one to ask. After all, Ate Nadine also just met Rom today. There’s something more to this story, but I can’t pinpoint what it is exactly.

  Well, an idea is forming in my head. But it just seems so terrible, even my wild imagination refuses to acknowledge it.

  If Rom’s art is based on real life, it can only mean that Dad is hiding something. And that something is bad, very bad.

  THREE HOURS.

  It took us three hours to get home and then we spent another thirty minutes dropping Pepper off and going back to Quezon City. My legs collapse under me, and I fall back on the couch. Ate Nadine dumps her bag on the table and slumps on the seat beside me.

  “That bad, eh?” Tito Ed appears behind us. He rubs his hands down the front of his apron. “You must be hungry. Come join me and Lawin in the kitchen. I made chicken sopas.”

  I’m exhausted. I just want to close my eyes and sleep right here on the couch, but it’s hard to say no to Tito Ed’s chicken sopas.

  “Hmm,” Ate Nadine murmurs as she swallows a spoonful of the hot soup. “That’s amazing.”

  And it certainly is. The chicken soup with milk, macaroni, and vegetables warms me up and soothes my tired bones. It’s the best comfort food ever, the kind of food you eat when you’re sick or feeling awful.

  But for some reason, the sopas’ comfort magic isn’t working for me tonight. My body is warm and has everything it needs to relax, but this nagging feeling I got from the exhibit just won’t leave me. It has followed me home all the way from Makati City like a restless ghost bent on making my life miserable.

  “You should have called me,” Tito Ed says as my sister finishes telling him about our train misadventures for the day. “I could have had someone pick you up at the MRT station.”

  “What? And waste taxpayers’ money?” Ate Nadine rolls her eyes. “They’re paying you to serve and protect the Filipino people, not just Sab and me.”

  Tito Ed chuckles. “That’s true.”

  They then proceed to have a boring discussion about the traffic situation in Metro Manila. I stifle a yawn and tune them out.

  I stir my sopas. Macaroni noodles and tiny bits of celery, carrots, and onion swirl as they’re dragged into the tunnel of milky soup. It’s kind of like Romeo Gamelon’s photo of the staircase, The Downward Spiral.

  There are a lot of things bugging me about that photo exhibit. For one, it had a photo with a model who looks remarkably like Dad—like his twin, even. Then, there’s the family scene with the birthday boy sadly waiting for someone while his anxious mother keeps staring at the clock. It’s just way too familiar.

  I splash my soup and a carrot tidbit falls on my arm. I flick it off and rub the spot clean with my thumb. I remember touching a similar spot on Dad’s arm—Dad’s arm full of tiny dot scars. “Ants like to bite me,” he said. “Don’t tell Mom. She doesn’t like ants.”

  It had been our little secret, but I think Mom knew.

  “You’re very quiet tonight, Sab,” remarks Tito Ed. His mention of my name jolts me back to the present. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired,” I say. It’s true. I am tired. But maybe not in the way he thinks.

  Ate Nadine throws me an odd look. I think she’ll say something, but she doesn’t. She simply returns to her discussion with Tito Ed about the politics behind the lack of proper maintenance of the MRT. I let my mind wander back to Romeo Gamelon’s gallery.

  Recovery. Rom explained that’s basically what his exhibit was about. He didn’t mention it, but it was on the gallery description and pretty obvious in the art: It wasn’t just about any recovery. It was about recovery from substance abuse.

  Substance. I’ve encountered that exact word online. If I remember right, it was on the same website that told me what the purple-and-pink building in Pasig is for. The place wasn’t just for people who have mental illness. It was also a rehabilitation center for patients recovering from alcoholism and drug addiction.

  I let the vegetable pieces fall from my spoon and into the soup.

  “Is there something wrong with your soup, Sab?” Tito Ed asks, his eyes on the utensil in my hand.

  Get a grip, Sab.

  “It’s fine.” I take a mouthful of my sopas, giving him a small smile. I can feel Ate Nadine’s eyes on me, but I avoid her gaze.

  “You can just finish that tomorrow, if you want.” There’s a loud screech as Tito Ed stands and pushes his chair away f
rom the table. He clears the table, taking his and Ate Nadine’s empty bowls to the sink. He lets the water run for a bit, then turns off the tap. “I’ll wash these tomorrow. Don’t tell your mom we left dirty dishes overnight.”

  A secret. It’s another secret Mom shouldn’t know about.

  Ate Nadine cleans the table as Tito Ed transfers the leftover sopas to an empty plastic container. I always like seeing Tito Ed when he’s not in his blue police uniform, wearing just a plain shirt and running shorts.

  Tito Ed clears his throat. “Well, I better head to bed. There’s more sopas in the container. Get some if you want. Just don’t forget to put it in the fridge when the soup cools—”

  “We got this, Tito Ed.” My sister gets up from the table and walks to my side. Tito Ed bids us good night, but it’s only Ate Nadine who responds.

  I continue to stare at my bowl, and Ate Nadine comes to sit next to me.

  “Listen, Sab. About the exhibit …”

  I dip my spoon back into the sopas and stir it again. Around and around, the vegetables and chicken bits spin like a washing machine cycle, or debris trapped in a tornado destroying everything in its wake.

  “I now realize it might not have been a good idea to let you go in once I saw what the show was about,” my sister continues. “But we were there already, and I thought it could help prepare you for the truth … the truth about Dad.”

  It’s as if somebody turns on a switch, and a slide show begins to flash in my head.

  The forgotten birthdays.

  The broken promises.

  The downward spiral with no means of escape.

  “No.” My heart pounds so fast, I almost have trouble speaking. “Dad couldn’t be … Those three years we visited him in Pasig … No one bothered to tell me. Mom said … You all said he had a medical condition!”

  I should have known better.

  The truth, or what I thought was the truth. The secrets. The lies.

  They’re all falling into place, one by one.

  “Dad wasn’t in that center for depression.” I put down the spoon, finally meeting my sister’s gaze. “He was there for something else.”