“Maybe we can get past it?” She offers her hand. “You’re the best chess match I’ve ever had since, well, since Burt. I don’t want to lose you.”
I don’t want to lose her either. Because she stayed and revived me when I was half-dead at her gate. Because she’s a much better sport than Dada and the only one who’s ever beaten me at chess and “Just Dance.” Because . . . I deafen my senses to the whisper. I banish it to the cold, uninhabited Antarctica of my mind. I meet her handshake just to keep the thought from stretching farther than it should. “The feeling’s mutual.”
It’s just a handshake. But, why does my heart beat fearful and thrilled at the same time? Does she feel the same way as we watch the event before us with a grin on our faces? My watch beeps 9PM to ruin the moment. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
We walk to her car. She opens the door for me, and I realize that I had been holding her hand all this time. My hand tingles a little bit, as if my nerves were trying to remember the pressure points. The car stereo starts to Brooke Fraser. I try to play cool and not sing along to “Arithmetic.” My mind is humming, though. My fingers are tap-tap-tapping the make-believe piano keys on my thigh.
“What’s so bad about the daycare group anyway? It’s toddlers and play,” she asks as she drives to my street. I wish we didn’t live so near the church. I don’t know if it’s the leather seat or Brooke Fraser or Clara herself, but I’m finding it difficult to leave.
“Oh, Clara. You’re about to find out.”
She leans in for a kiss on the cheek. I lean in too eagerly and end up head-butting her. I wince and try to come up with an apology that never comes. So, I fumble with the door handle, cross my feet on the way out and mutter a hasty good night.
All our lengthy conversations through the week, and I forgot to tell her to dress down for the session. Naturally, she shows up looking the way she always does. Red dress, full-on makeup, hair in big curly waves, big-ass diamonds bearing down her ears. Don’t get me wrong. I love these little kids. They’re really sweet. But, they’re also a handful. They’re a chaos of tiny hands and unruly hair and super quick feet. They all want to sit in front, as near the teacher as possible.
When they see me get out of the car, they come running. I have to lift the bag of cupcake treats over my shoulder. I’d have been a splatter of chocolate cream if I didn’t. It’s their first time to see Clara, and they’re not quite sure whether to stand back or attack.
“Is that your aunt?”
“No! She’s my…”
“A friend,” she finishes as she throws me a glance. “Just a friend.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Why, thank you, little one.”
It takes fifteen minutes to corral all the children to the makeshift tent. Fifteen minutes of chasing chocolate-buzzed 4-year-olds, bribing them with the promise of another cupcake, threatening to tell their parents if they don’t behave well. I know the drill. Clara doesn’t, and it’s painful to watch. Her pointy shoes keep getting stuck in the soft mud. She breaks her step and skins her knee. Chocolate smears the side of her dress, where one kid latched on to her in a bear hug. The toddlers keep running around her in circles, distracted and fascinated at the little rainbows her necklace makes.
After a few failed attempts of adding to the all-good-and-ready toddler tally, she runs back to the car without a word. She’s ditching the session, I’m sure of it. She’s a wealthy widow. She doesn’t need kids ruining her designer dresses. I was about to offer a word of encouragement when I see her opening the trunk and ditching her heels for open-toed flats. She mutters as she removes all her jewelry. She takes a rubber band from her pouch and ties her hair up in a loose bun.
“Are you alright? Do you want me to take over?”
She cracks her knuckles and takes a sharp breath. “Sam, I can do this.”
The chaos and the excited chatter subside. The children ditch their little chairs to sit on the floor and huddle around Clara. “Today, I’m going to tell you about my friend, David, and how he defeated the super huge giant Goliath. Who wants to sit on my lap while I read the story?”
Thin, sunburnt hands shoot up in the air, waving and wagging. She points to a quiet, little boy in the back of the class. He’s a little smaller than the others. He can’t even raise his hand straight up.
“What’s your name?”
“David.”
“David! Would you look at that? Now, David, are you ready to hear your story?”
David gives a nod before settling her head on Clara’s shoulder. Like David, I hang on to Clara’s every word. I tune to the lilt in her voice when she’s playing David, the deep bellows when she’s playing Goliath. It’s like hearing the story for the first time. I get lost in the storytelling that I miss the look on David’s face. He’s as pale as paper, his cheeks puffed up like he’s going to hurl. Oh, dear, oh, dear, he is going to hurl. I make a move for it. Too late.
This is the last straw, for sure. If Ted’s expecting Clara as a regular addition, he’d better kiss his hopes goodbye. If he’s just doing this at the beck and call of the Stuck-up Moms, then he just passed the mission with flying colors and projectile bits of instant noodles. Clara gasps as David makes a mess on her lap. She could have walked out and nobody would have taken it against her. David’s mother comes to our aid, saying sorry like a broken record. She says David was suffering with the flu this morning. But, he was excited to see me and insisted on going.
“You mean, Clara?”
“No. You.”
Clara finishes the story when everyone, including me, thought she wouldn’t. She just wipes away the mess, redeems her dress and goes on with the rest of the program without any complaint. While we were packing up, she catches me laughing in disbelief.
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“Nothing.”
“Did I do badly?”
“No, you were amazing.”
She slaps my arm and tells me to stop joking around and just get in the car. Her cheeks are flushed pink. I don’t know if it’s because of the heat or what I said. Probably the heat. She looks tired, the good kind of tired, the kind you feel when you beat the buzzer and win at spelling bee, the kind that reminds you why you bothered in the first place.
“I can’t wait to get out of this dress,” she says, kicking off her shoes and letting her hair loose as we enter her bedroom. She seems to have forgotten that she has company and strips into her underwear. My jaw drops to the floor. Beads of sweat dot my forehead. My heart is racing. I feel like I’m going to faint again. What is it with this place that makes me want to faint? I didn’t see anything, I swear. Except that it was black. And that it most likely had lace.
“Oh, my goodness. I’m sorry,” she says, using her upturned dress as cover.
I wave my hands and shake my head like it’s no big deal, like I see lingerie on a regular basis. I could pass for a seizing epileptic right about now. I laugh and stammer and finally manage to say, “Downstairs. I’ll wait downstairs.”
We convene to the kitchen, both of us decent and fully clothed, and have coffee with the leftover cupcakes. She’s treating the scratches on her knee with Betadine. “Was it worth ruining the dress?” I ask her.
“Not quite. That was DV, you know. But, I’ll live. Can you pass me a Band-Aid, please?”
I open one and place it over her knee. I run my fingers a couple times to make sure it’s laid smooth. I blow over it just like Mama used to do when I was a kid. Her leg tightens up. “DV? I haven’t heard of that before.”
“DV. Divisoria.”
“Why, Mrs. Alves, you little poser.”
She makes a hoot out of her own joke. She laughs until tears spring from her eyes. She laughs and gets me thinking if there is an end to this laughter, an end to this day. Her first stab at Sunday School was a disaster. I’m sure the moms would see it as such. But, sitting here with her, you wouldn’t know it. She beams as she recalls the day we just had and tells me
she wants to do it again.
I sprinkle the last of the cupcake crumbs into my mouth, downing them with a gulp of coffee. “What got you all excited about Sunday School in the first place?”
“You.”
When I don’t respond, she shakes her head and asks for a rewind. “Your stories, I mean. I’m thirty-six and you’re nineteen, and you’ve done more with your life than I have. It made me realize how long I’ve been living alone. Burt died and I just faded. I kept waiting for things to happen when I should have just made things happen.” She looks out the backyard porch, perhaps counting how many years she wasted waiting for a kind neighbor to come along. “And, the way the kids looked at you and ran to you like you’re the best thing they’ve seen in ages. It’s amazing. You are amazing.”
“Hey, don’t go stealing my line! I only have a few!”
“Sam, I’m glad we’re friends.”
She touches my cheek, and it doesn’t burn as much anymore. It’s not hellfire, just fire hot enough to keep the loneliness at bay. I try to recall the last time I didn’t need to jump through hoops to be liked and wanted, the last time that I was enough just the way I am. My mind draws a blank.
“Me too,” I say. “Me too.”
Chapter 6
I WANTED A toy gun. I didn’t know what the big deal was and why Dada refused to buy me one. I didn’t even want the real-looking kind. I just wanted the one that lights up and makes a thousand awful laser sounds. I begged for it for days until Dada had enough. I learned that he got fired that day by that ungrateful, no-good company he served for ten years.
“You can’t have the toy gun! For the last time, Samantha, guns are not for girls!” he screamed over dinner. He banged his fist so hard my tiny spoon made a somersault. Mama rubbed Dada’s shoulder, but it did nothing to calm him down.
“Why?” I was spoiling dinner with all my questions. What can I do? I was eight and I needed him to explain to me why guns are not for girls. I needed him to tell me why he can buy a car and this house and not a laser gun for his only child.
“Because you can’t!”
“Why?”
“You can’t have everything you want, you stubborn little child!” He whipped my behind with a slipper and yelled at me to get out of his sight. “Out, you fucking devil! Out!” That was the first and the last time I ever heard him say the f word.
In shock, I ran to the garden-slash-garage, sat on the sidewalk and cried. Dada’s words kept playing in my head like a terrible heavy metal song. It vibrated all over my body, cracking my heart into pieces. Get out of my sight. I stood up and sniffed back the snot from my runny nose. I wiped my tears and started walking. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know which family belonged to which house like Mama did. I reached the park and tried the swings for a while. It was weird having the playground to myself. In the daytime, I couldn’t even wrest the chains of the swing from the boys. I reveled in this rare moment of isolation and flew as high as my pendulum force could push me. That was when I noticed the archway that led to a giant acacia tree. I rested under the tree, the grass pricking my back, the stars winking at me like they all like me. Nobody likes me, I thought to myself. Dada didn’t even want me. Maybe they won’t come looking for me because I was such a terrible child. Well, fine, I don’t need parents. I could live here and nobody would mind or even notice.
Under a full moon, I remembered Tita Gina’s story about the manananggal feeding on little children. A kapre smoking big cigarettes that burn little towns to the ground. Hideous dwarves casting hexes that made an arm grow out of your ass. Terror struck me. I called for Mama, wailing and sobbing and promising that I would never ask for a toy gun again. I will be a good girl. I will wear dresses in church. I will grow my hair long and pull them up in a neat ponytail. I will play with Barbies and tea sets and sit with my legs crossed.
Dull light started beaming in my direction. The rays kept an even swivel. My tear-streaked eyes mistook them for ghosts coming to take me. But, they were no creatures of the night. They were just the village guards on their night sweep. They picked me up and took me home. There was already a crowd in our driveway. Some of them had flashlights, while others had phones glued to their ears. At the sight of me, Dada just smiled, laughing it off like this thing was bound to happen and that he knew I’d be safe home in no time. Mama, though, thought that she had lost me forever. She was so distraught that she broke a plate and cut her finger while washing the dishes. It took seven stitches to mend. Every time I hold her hand, I feel it there as a reminder of the pain I caused.
Clara is waiting for me at the gate of her house. She is decked in neon green runners and a twisted grey cut-off shirt. She’s stretching her arms up and to the side.
“What is this?” I ask.
“I’m running. Let’s see how fast you can run.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Only losers can be mocked.”
“Are you calling me a loser?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs before cheating me out of a head start. She disappears and reappears between lamp posts, as I try in vain to catch up. I can’t lose her. It doesn’t matter how old I get. I will always be afraid of ghosts. My tiny lungs finally give up when we reach the park. The park was a world of its own when I was young. The hills were little islands and my friends would stand on top, pretending to be princesses. I didn’t want to be a princess. I wanted to be the castle guard at the foot of the hill, making captives out of the boys. Christina was my princess, like anyone had to ask.
“Time out!” I make a T with my hands before hugging a nearby tree. I wonder if acacias feed on workout barf. That ought to be some sort of fertilizer, right? Circle of life, Sam, circle of life.
“How come you run so fast?”
“Burt was into marathons. We used to run two, three times a year.”
“Fuck. Wrong neighbor to mess with.”
We slow down to a walk around the park, and I watch Clara overwrite my childhood memories. When I see the slide now, I wouldn’t remember Dan, that runny-nosed bully from Narra who made it a mission to make all the girls cry, pushing me head first into the gravel below. I would only remember Clara looping through it with her arms raised in the air, shrieking in delight.
We take to the swings and take turns pushing each other as fast and high as we could. Butterflies swirl around in my stomach, but not because of the swings. The butterflies are because Clara is here. She’s gripping the chains of the swing so hard her knuckles turn white. Her eyes are closed shut, terrified of falling at the downswing right into me.
It wouldn’t ever cross my mind now how I bore Christina on my tiny shoulders as she crossed the monkey bars. This is what I would keep instead: Clara daring me to a pull-up contest on the monkey bars, me falling with a thud on the ground below while she pumps two-handed pull-ups.
“Are you alright?” Even her landing is soft and sure. It’s just not fair. She extends a hand to pull me up. I tug too hard, catching her off-balance. I fall down – for the nth time – flat on the grass. She falls down on me. We stare at each other for a minute. I could swear it was an eternity. My lungs are failing me for the nth time. My head swells with fear that she’s seeing through all my wishes and desires. I can’t have her discover that she is the fear and the thrill and the wish all at the same time.
The faces of my playmates would soon fade. Some of them have already been erased, overwritten by tons of other faces and places. But, her face, this place, I would never forget. Tonight, she’s not thirty-six, widowed, with a fortune to spend as she wishes. Tonight, she’s just a kid. We both are. Tonight, the park is our little slice of freedom. I lead her to my hideout. The archway is ruined now, weakened by rust. The blue bells have withered into brown bells. They’re not even bells anymore. Just sad, saggy sacks like Mrs. Bautista’s cheeks and…I’d rather not say. The tree is still there, though. It’s all branches now, the gathering life of leaves and flowers long gone and wasted. The branches slic
e the moon and the sky. The neglect has somehow made it more real to me. I lay myself flat on the grass, just like old times. Clara is beside me, looking up at the same sky I was looking at eleven years ago. I wonder if she also thinks she could live here. I wonder if she’s scared of the monsters that come at night or the loneliness that creeps into her bed. She looks at me and I wonder what thoughts run in her head. I move closer and rest my head on her arm.
“If you could live anywhere, where would you go?”
“Home.”
“But, you’re already home.”
“I used to live in a small beach town with a broken pier and a rocky shore. Those were the days when all we had was a little hut, and it was enough. You look up behind you and it’s mountains all around. You look in front of you and it’s the sea as far as your eyes can reach. I’d go back there if I could be anywhere.”
She returns the question to me. “How about you?”
“I used to think I could live here forever, you know. Right here under the tree. Right here in this village. But, now, I don’t know. I want to be in the city, but Mama wouldn’t allow it. The outside is a scary and dark place. So, I try to like being here, but I just can’t seem to find the heart to. Every day is the same. But, small and insignificant things add up and I feel like I’m changing. Thing is, I don’t know what I’m changing into. I used to think that I only need to follow Mama and all things will fall into place. But, the more I listen to Mama, the more I lose my way. I love her, but I…” My voice trails and cracks. It’s the mustard seed growing inside me. I thought I could keep it a secret. My body tears apart as the roots pierce and stab and try to get out.
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