The sea horses are predictably elusive, but our two dives are lovely, conditions perfect.
Back on shore, I pull out my cell phone, which remains frustratingly silent. Ten years we have been together. Is it too much to ask that Edward phone or text to wish me a happy birthday? Exactly one year ago he threw a lavish party for my fortieth birthday. This year, he has apparently forgotten all about me.
*
Seven weeks have passed since my forgotten birthday. Fully awake now, I climb out of bed and creep downstairs, leaving Edward in what I hope is a very deep sleep. I am determined to find out why my husband has become a rare visitor in our home, why he has emptied most of his clothing from his closet and dresser drawers, why his hair is now being cut so stylishly, why his clothes are new and expensive-looking.
My heart races as I pick up his cell phone and click onto his text inbox. I know that many people read their partners’ text messages, but I have never, until this moment, been one of them. My husband has never given me a reason to distrust him—until now.
Far too easily I discover what I had feared. I read shocking messages from girls named Rose and Jasmine, Joy, and of course, Baby. His outbox reveals texts that were written by a new and unrecognizable Edward. Now understanding why he and Baby were washing my bed sheets in the middle of the afternoon, I lay down on the sofa and concentrate on only one thing—breathing.
In the morning, accusations are made; harsh words are spoken.
"But you like blondes!” I scream.
"People change.”
"No they don’t! They shouldn’t! Not like this.”
"Don’t worry,” he says vaguely, "I’ll take care of you financially.” My wedding ring is removed and Edward walks out the front door and down the front pathway, not looking back. Just like that, as though he were leaving to buy a carton of milk, he walks away from ten years of us, off to his new life, leaving me in his wake.
Edward has often ridiculed the white men who come to the Philippines and take up with young Filipinas. "God, they’re stupid,” he said.
"Who is stupid? The men or the girls?”
"Both,” he replied.
So what happened to change the mind of my introverted, brilliant husband, an electronics engineer who holds two patents?
*
I am being asked to choose what color I would like the living room walls painted. Dante, our Filipino boatman, has taken care of Feisty Lady since we arrived in Puerto Galera. His skills are many: he can varnish and paint, change the oil and fuel filters, steer the boat, hoist and take down the sails. Four days ago, on a Sunday morning, Dante quietly knocked on my front door asking for work at the house; he has a family to support and no job.
I have always hated these stark white interior walls, but Edward would never let me paint them. Since he’s gone, I guess I can do anything I want now. But what color do I like? It occurs to me that I should call Edward and ask him, but of course, I can’t.
Since Edward left, I have found it hard to focus, often climbing the stairs to the bedroom only to forget the purpose of my trip. Familiar words and names regularly elude me. Once when I needed milk from the refrigerator I found my head in the freezer trying to remember what I was looking for. The smell of food turns my stomach. Only when my legs feel shaky and weak do I force myself to eat instant noodles.
There is fear in my solar plexus. What will happen to me, to my carefully built world? Will I be alone for the rest of my life? Each morning I take a tricycle to an Internet café and check the balance of our joint bank account. Will this be the day Edward empties the account, leaving me too penniless to hire a lawyer? Should I hire a lawyer? Oh, why didn’t I open an account of my own? I should have made sure I had my own money; I should have demanded or begged or stolen money from him while I had the chance. Now it’s too late. The Philippines is no place to look for a job, unless I can survive on five dollars a day. Am I fated to return to the grey tundra of Canadian suburban life, to work in a beige cubicle, without windows?
My great-grandmother’s early Christmas gifts of chemistry sets and history books flicker through my memory. She refused to give me the Barbie dolls that I weaseled out of my parents. When I grew up, her daughter sent me to law school. There was clearly a message there, which I obviously missed until now. I’m glad they can’t see how pitifully dependent I have turned out to be.
Having Dante in the house every day helps. There is a reason to climb out of bed and get dressed, and I can no longer sit on the sofa, crying. I am cleaning my own house again since firing Baby. She sent one text, begging me to reconsider: Please, ma’am, I need work. My daughter is hungry.
I DON’T CARE. THAT’S YOUR PROBLEM. DON’T TEXT ME AGAIN.
And she hasn’t.
Dante is careful not to mention Baby or Edward. But one day he says, "I heard that Edward isn’t using the boat in Subic. Why don’t you sail it back here?”
*
Isabel looks beautiful and radiant, and I would like to leap across the table and punch her in the mouth. Pull yourself together. Isabel is your friend; she’s an athlete, not a bar girl. But all I can think of when I look at her dark eyes and long black hair is that she is what Edward dumped me for. Isabel happens to be in love with an Englishman, an Englishman who has a wife. This fact, which never bothered me before, now enrages me. Why doesn’t anyone care about the wife? Oh, but Isabel is so sweet, so Asian, always asking me how I am, giving me helpful advice: "What you need is lots of exercise,” she has said.
Well, we are going to have plenty of exercise. We are about to climb Mount Kinabalu, the 4,095-meter mountain that is the tallest peak between the Himalayas and New Guinea.
Isabel is in front, so much fitter than me. I’ve been an insomniac for weeks now, waking up in bed, harassed by visions of my husband fucking Baby or Rose or Jasmine or whatever young dancer or hunting girl he has hired for the night in a girlie bar. How does a nation, especially a Catholic one, justify pimping out its prettiest daughters and sisters and wives and mothers? How do women rationalize feeding their children with money earned by prostitution? How many Western men, outwardly conservative and respectable, visit Asian countries as sex tourists, taking advantage of this deep, endless poverty?
I don’t think I can do this climb; my legs feel like they are made of cement. Apparently, even the Malaysian guide knows I’ve come unhinged. Within minutes of setting off he stopped, snapped off a branch from a tree and carved it into a walking stick for me.
Following Isabel up the Mesilau Trail, I am aware of ginger plants, bamboo trees, rhododendrons, and wild orchids clinging to lichen-streaked trees in mossy forests. But who cares? My husband is screwing maids and prostitutes. Does Baby think he is going to divorce me and marry her? Does she think she will be moving into my house, cooking rice and fish heads in my kitchen? Is she crazy enough to think she will be sailing on my boat? I want to take my walking stick and whack Isabel over the back of the head.
Oh yes, Filipinos are so religious, such good Catholics, ostentatiously crossing themselves every time they drive past a church. Well, whatever happened to Thou shalt not commit adultery? Do the rules of morality not apply to poor people? I would like to knock Isabel right off this goddamned mountain.
For hours the torture continues, Isabel taking photos of me beside the Nepenthes rajah, feeding me energy bars and butterscotch candies, smiling at me, unaware of my crazed animosity. Our lungs, so long accustomed to breathing at sea level, struggle to find oxygen in the thinning mountain air.
Finally, after nine hours of climbing the seven-and-a-half-kilometer trail, we reach our sleeping hut at 3,300 meters. Isabel’s head has begun to ache. There are other people in our unheated room, apparently rolling around in aluminum foil to keep warm, the ceaseless crinkling distracting my exhausted mind from sleep. We are staying in backpacker lodges, my budget now reduced to that of a student. How dare Edward do this to me?
The guide knocks on our
door at 2:00 am, summoning us for an unappetizing breakfast before we embark on the summit climb. Isabel feels terrible. It is freezing cold and pitch dark outside, and I want to quit and go back to bed. On the trail Isabel vomits. The guide takes me aside, announcing that Isabel has altitude sickness, but wants to continue the climb, slowly. He will stay with her.
"You must walk to the top alone,” he says to me.
I am strangely invigorated by the notion that the mighty Isabel can be been felled by something as accidental as altitude sickness—and at a mere 3,300 meters! I stomp up the trail, angry that the guide has abandoned me in the dark, my cheap flashlight producing only a pale sliver of light. I am the only climber who is alone.
Pulling myself along guide ropes which have been chiseled into the steepest of the granite slopes leading to the summit, I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other, counting out loud, "one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.” My body’s reaction to the thin air is an unpleasant surprise. After every fourth step, I sit down on the granite and suck at the air, desperate for oxygen.
Edward has done this to me, as surely as if he had driven our car into a tree with me in the passenger seat, smashing my life into pieces, while he walked away unscratched.
Soon, I cannot walk more than three steps without resting. You’re never going to make it. Eventually, I am alarmed when I need to sit after only a single step, while other climbers steam past me. Again and again I see Edward lying on top of Baby in my bed. I know that I cannot continue like this. Exhausted by this infinite and tedious anger, I have a choice to make. Either I allow them to win—or I defeat them.
I begin to sob. There is a new voice inside my head, barely audible at first, but which becomes louder and more insistent: You may have ruined my life, Edward, but I will not let you ruin this climb! I AM going to make it, you lying, cheating bastard!
For three and a half hours I walk and sit and walk and sit—until scrambling over the final boulders before Low’s Peak. I stand proudly on top of Borneo, observing what remains of a cloudless, peach-colored dawn. Though my fingers are numb, I continue to stand there, awaiting the arrival of the Malaysian guide, who, according to the rules, must witness me at the summit in order to credit me with the climb.
While I wait, I feel that something has changed inside of me. I am not the same person who set out on this journey yesterday morning. I don’t know how, but Mount Kinabalu has transformed me in some strange and miraculous way. I can feel a new strength, both inner and outer. I can do anything!
I make a decision. I will fight for Edward, for my marriage, for my home—for everything that I value in my life. And I will win.
*
Back at home, I fly into action, determined to lose weight and get fit. In the decade that I’ve known him, Edward has always pressured me to stay slim. My recent lack of appetite has served me well, helping me to shed eight pounds already. I take up jogging and begin each day with sit-ups, push-ups, and toning exercises. I buy new clothes. Edward has always been attracted to me and I refuse to believe that he no longer wants me. When I look in the mirror, I like what I see.
But will he?
*
I watch the girl wrap her body around the pole on stage. I have lived in the Philippines for more than three years, yet this is my first time in a girlie bar. Tonight, my friends have suggested that we come here for a laugh.
I can’t resist wanting to see what my husband sees. Some of the girls on stage look bored; a few seem inexperienced and awkward. The one slithering around the pole is clearly aware of and savoring her power over these men whose eyes remain glued to her every move. I wonder about the girls, how they have come to work in a place like this. I’ve been told that most have small children who are being raised by their families. This is one way to pay for diapers and milk.
I am surprised to see so many men that I know. I feel embarrassed, as though I have caught them in the act of masturbation. I look away from their faces when I begin to imagine Edward’s eyes instead of theirs.
Money is paid to the mama-san; girls are led away for the night or the week or whatever length of time has been negotiated. Surprisingly, as a woman, I am not made to feel out of place. Waitresses are polite and smiling: "Ma’am, what would you like?” This is, after all, a business.
Does Edward believe that these young, beautiful girls are really attracted to him? Does he think that they are dying to go home and have sex with him? Watching the old men watching the dancing girls, I realize that a man’s ego can convince him of anything.
"What would you like?” the waitresses keep asking.
I’d like my life back, please.
*
As each week passes, I find it easier to live on my own, knowing that it is only a matter of time until Edward comes back. I am ready to put this terrible episode in our relationship behind us. Eventually, he will tire of playing Hugh Hefner and come back to me.
Sure enough, three and a half months after he walked out of our house, he texts me that he wants to come for a visit. I am jubilant but nervous. Everything must be perfect. I clean the house until it shines; I plan meals and shop. On the morning of his arrival I put on a new dress, jewelry, and mascara.
He arrives in the early afternoon, smiling. I notice that he looks happier and more handsome than he has in years. I hope this is because he has come home, but I am wary: he is carrying no luggage. I cannot upset him, cannot interrogate him, cannot accuse him. I cannot live in limbo anymore; I cannot live in borderline poverty. I must get my life back.
He compliments me on my appearance and the changes I have made to the house. I serve wine as lamb shanks braise on the stove. He receives text message after text message, and is quick to answer them. I cannot ask questions. Foreboding creeps into my chest.
I light candles and serve dinner and he praises my food. The texts continue and my anxiety grows. He says he is tired and asks if he can sleep in our bed upstairs.
"Of course,” I say. "Do you mind if I sleep there too?”
"That’s fine, sweetheart,” he says.
I climb into bed and seduce my husband, as I have planned, eager to show him that I can do anything those girls can do.
The next morning, I am triumphant. Take that, you whores! Might there be some irony in the victory?
At eleven o’clock his cell phone rings. When he answers, a woman’s voice is loud and angry. He is placating, using a tone of voice I have only ever heard him use for me.
"I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, sweetheart,” he says into his cellphone.
"Who is that?” I yell.
"A friend, that’s all.”
"A friend? You don’t talk like that to a friend. Why is she calling you?”
"Okay, look, I didn’t want to upset you, but I’m living with her in Subic. It’s nothing serious, I’ve lived with a few girls in the past few months. I really just came down here to take back the electric oven.”
*
It has been almost two months since Edward walked away with the electric oven, and I’ve tried to figure out where it all went wrong. After all, how can two people living inside the same relationship have two such completely different assessments of it? Why was I happy while Edward was not?
A faded memory emerges from my distant undergraduate past. Many years ago, I participated in a study conducted by my university’s psychology department, designed to evaluate memory. I watched hundreds of slides, wrote tests, attended interviews. After all was said and done, I felt that I had performed very well. Until my exit interview, that is.
Apparently, the study was not about memory at all. It was about my perception of the world.
"You see the world through rose-colored glasses,” I recall being told. "You are the complete opposite of depressed.”
"Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” I asked. "Isn’t it good to be happy?”
"There is a danger that you could become delusional. Being
happy without a reason is not necessarily healthy.”
Delusional? Who was this guy to imply that I had no reason to be happy?
I sat there, wondering if this was some kind of joke.
"I don’t understand,” I persisted. "What’s wrong with feeling good?”
It was explained that I could be lacking emotional sensors. Kind of like the emotional equivalent of being able to walk on hot coals and not feel it. I may get badly burned.
What a crock of shit! What have these guys been smoking? Hey, I have no trouble functioning. I wake up in the morning feeling great. I pass my exams. I pay my bills on time. I have friends. What could possibly be wrong with that?
"Be careful” were the last words I heard as I escaped out the door.
Now, all these years later, it occurs to me that maybe those psychology students were right. Maybe I have been living in a rosy bubble. Maybe my marriage was always terrible. Maybe my whole life has been terrible. Maybe I have been deluded into believing I was happy because of some random chemicals flowing through my brain.
What is perception, anyway? Aren’t we all influenced by brain chemistry?
*
Though it may only be a delusion, I believe I am on the road to recovery. I have met divorced middle-aged women who are terminally bitter. I don’t wish to join their club. If I want my wounds to heal I must stop picking at them; it’s time to move forward.
I’ve told my family that I won’t be returning to Canada. In fact, I never even considered the possibility. I like Asia. Despite its flaws, I like the Philippines. There is an energy in this part of the world, a dynamism that speaks to me. This is where the future lies and where I want to be.
I phone Edward to discuss finances. I tell him that unless he wants to spend the rest of his life working the graveyard shift at a Seven-Eleven he’d better agree to support me financially. He does. I also tell him that I’d like to have Feisty Lady back with me, in Puerto Galera. I would like to sail to Palawan in a few months. Surprisingly, he agrees.
How Does One Dress to Buy Dragonfruit? True Stories of Expat Women in Asia Page 19