“We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out,” she whispers. She doesn’t say ‘you’. She says ‘we’. She sees it in my eyes, that familiar fear of wanting, and draws me closer to her. I look at her and wonder if I could convince myself that nothing’s going on here. We are just neighbors being neighbors. The goosebumps on my skin are just the turning of the season. I have to try because I can’t have everything I want. I hold on to her and let the tangled roots break earth. I let her kiss the tears on my cheek, as each drop nourishes the seed. I could run in all this wide open space but I don’t want any of it. I just want to be here.
You can’t have everything you want.
Dada’s words come back to me, hurting like a pin prick before throbbing and swelling into a deeper kind of pain. Maybe it’s true. Maybe he was right. Maybe a happy, contented life really is too much to ask. Still, I close my eyes and wish, just for tonight, that I could have this.
Chapter 7
MAMA WORKED ON a holiday to have me. Labor Day of 1996, while the rest of the world took a break, Mama labored to bring me to life. I was difficult, she said. It took a doctor’s ultimatum – I must emerge from the womb before midnight or it was a CS for Mama – to smoke me out. After that, Mama stayed at home but never stopped working. Most mothers hammered talents into their children. They spent a fortune on piano lessons, sports camps and art classes, just to wring out a prodigious skill that isn’t there. Mama was different. She didn’t care about these things. All that mattered is that I was a Christian woman, a servant of God. Bonus if I become a missionary. Our family routine was built with care to serve this purpose.
Back when smartphones weren’t the end-all-be-all they are now, we kept ourselves preoccupied by listening to praise music on the radio. Mama said TV was the Devil’s playground and kept viewing hours to a minimum. Only Dada was allowed to watch as long as he wanted because 1) he needs to relax his mind after work and 2) he is the head of the family. 1 was totally understandable but 2, well, we all know that wasn’t the case.
Mama only allowed me to watch TV on specific times of day. These coincided with Fatima Ocampo’s daily reflections (morning) and The Christian Channel’s Conversations with God (after dinner). Conversations with God was about people sharing their moment of epiphany, how God revealed Himself to them and turned them away from a life of sin. My favorite was of a former starlet who was the queen of adult films back in the day. She suffered an existential crisis while shooting a scene naked. I think Mama secretly considered starring in an adult film, just so she could have her own episode of Conversations. One time, the show ended with a call for submissions. ‘Tell us your stories,’ the TV said. Mama scrambled for pen and paper like a schoolgirl arriving late to class right smack into a pop quiz.
Mama also stressed the importance of waking up early and starting the day with prayer. The call time during school days was 5:30AM. On weekends and vacation, I get an extra half-hour of sleep. We pray in the garden, Dada and I standing behind while Mama knelt and bowed her head. Mama believes the Lord puts priority on prayers from the humbled and bowed. So, she always kneels when praying. The family prayer is short. Each of us takes turns thanking the Lord for another day and praying for His will be done today. Mama stays a little longer for her own practice of prayer and meditation. Right about the time she prays for the sick, I start setting the table. I used to wait for her to make breakfast. But, when I learned how to cook, I took the task upon myself. During breakfast, we listened to Fatima read the Scripture of the Day in a voice fit for angels.
During my birthdays, the house is always filled with people. Mama’s people. Dada’s people. Never my people. To be fair, they tried to throw me little children’s parties until I was nine. After that, they just didn’t bother. My birthday was more than a get-together. It was a tool for Mama to show-off.
Seventh birthday. “Sam, baby, why don’t you show them the dance they taught you in school? For that, what’s that again? Field demonstration?”
Tenth birthday. “Sammy, look! Lily, you know Mrs. Torres’s daughter, was kind enough to bring a keyboard. Won’t you sing us a song? That Brooke? Brooke Fraser, is it now? Come on, don’t be shy.”
Fourteenth. “Come here, Samantha. I want you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lopez. They heard of the success of your Sunday School session. Come, tell them your dream of being a missionary someday.”
It’s my twentieth go-around now, and it looks like there’s no changing the spin of the carousel. The doorbell dings. I open the door, only to be at the receiving end of Tita Gina’s slobbery kisses and underhanded jabs at my weight. “Look at you, my dear. I can’t believe how much you’ve grown, baby. Back then, I could carry you in my arms like this. You are so fat, hija! How much do you weigh now? Lose a little and find yourself a boyfriend!”
I slam the door and blame it on a gust of wind when Mama throws me an admonishing stare. That’s it, I decide. That’s the last time I’m going to play doorman tonight. I can’t bear opening the door and not find her there. What was I thinking? She’s not going to show up. I drag my disappointed feet back into my room, and change into boxers and a shirt. The noise below seems to punch through my bedroom floor, making the room vibrate with a fake liveliness. Nothing of this is for my benefit, anyway. It just so happened to be my birthday, that’s all. I lay the back of my hand over my eyes in despair. Mama is only halfway through her testimonial. Dinner should be three hours away.
“Before we found the Lord, we were drowning in a life of sin and vice. We were your average, middle class unenlightened family. We mistook the worldly comforts of the city as God’s outpour of blessings. We thought we needed nothing more. We thought we were happy. But…”
Check that. At this rate, dinner will be anytime between Halloween and Christmas. I fish out the packet of Sky Flakes I stashed from the kitchen. I look at the Nokia on my desk and think about it. I’m just too tired for that right now. Still, I set it at 8:00 in case I change my mind. I’d be better sleeping this off as another lame-ass birthday with Mama and Dada’s friends and none of mine. I break the crackers along the dotted line. I raise a piece with both hands, like I imagined Jesus did with his last meal. Here’s to another birthday dinner gone wasted and cold by the never-ending litany of prayers uttered over it. Here’s to the same old life, different year.
White light streaks through the blinds. I peer out the window and could scarcely believe the Mercedes slowing down to a stop just outside our gate. It’s Clara! She came! She really, truly, madly, finally, all-superlative-adverbly came. I hop into the nearest pair of jeans. There is no way I’m meeting her in another one of my horrible dresses. I contemplate among three prints of flannel—red and black, violet and green, pink and grey. Which one says ‘My heart is leaping with the joy of Jesus, Mary and Joseph that you are here to save this night from being a total bummer.’?
“I’ll get it. You carry on,” I hear Mama say. The clack of her heels becomes the tick of the time. Ten stair steps? More like two. I overshoot the last jump to the landing and hit smack on the wall. Nobody cares. Nobody sees. They’ve broken into groups, probably discussing church decorum while indulging in the latest teenage pregnancy scare and taking pride that it’s not their daughter. Mama is almost at the door. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I don’t care if you’re not ready for this, you lumpy body, you. I don’t care if you’re seeing stars and lights and fireflies. I zigzag my way to Mama and wrap her in a tight, boa-constrictor body lock.
“Mama!”
“Sam! I thought you were already asleep.”
“Mama, thank you for throwing me another wonderful birthday. I love you oh so much. You know that, right? You are the best mother any child could ever ask for.” Still locked in an embrace, I push her back towards the crowd. She looks at me with narrowed eyes, looking for an agenda as always. She zeroes in on a streak of greyish dirt on my cheek and offers me her hanky.
“Oh, Sam. Do wipe your face. I can’t have you looking all di
rty and sweaty when I make the announcement,” Mama said.
I was about to ask what announcement. But, she’s already busy shaking hands with the new neighbors from Molave. I’m also busy trying to answer this door, chest puffed, back ramrod straight, shoulders tensed up. I run my fingers through my hair, bangs swept to the side. I wipe the sweat off my face like Mama said. Give me two deep breaths now. Lights, camera, action!
“Hello, beautiful.” I lean on the door. I feel like the cool heartthrob in the movies, the one who never runs out of leather jackets and never sweats in them. Never mind that my hip is probably bruised up. Never mind that I’m sweating through my armpits. Never mind that my hair is all untidy, like an abandoned child left to grow feral in the forest. The important thing is that Clara is excited to see me. I know because her eyes grow bright and wide and her voice has just the touch of high-pitched squeal in it. Well done, Sam. Pat on the back.
“What happened to you? Your nose is bleeding.”
I immediately catch the blood on my nose. My palm looks guilty of murder. Either that or an unexpected case of the mensies. So much for operation : Smooth Operator. I turn my head and sniff back the rest. My mouth wells up with the taste of rust. “It’s the heat. This awful heat,” I recover. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time.”
We help ourselves to the cold dinner. The crowd clears the table like Moses parted the Red Sea. From the corner of my eye, I see a few of them shifting glances between Clara and me. Only Tita Gina dares to come forward because she knows nothing of this town. I introduce Clara to her.
“Tita, this is Clara, my…friend.”
“Nice to meet you, Clara. Aren’t you a little old to be Sam’s friend?”
“I’m more like a neighbor, really. We did Sunday School together.”
“Wow, that dress is gorgeous. How much does that cost?”
“Okay, Tita. We’re at the balcony if anyone asks.” I steal Clara away before Tita Gina can pull off one of her tacky moves. She was this close to pulling at Clara’s dress just to have a look at the label.
“Did you make all this?”, she asks. We’re cramped in the tiny veranda space, having dinner in the two-piece garden set. It’s rather dim out here; those garden lights are due a replacement. I could just only make out Clara’s face, that slight smile that’s enough to send my heart into a fit. After almost a whole summer of seeing her on the daily, you’d think I’d get used to it by now. But, I haven’t yet. And, I hope I never do.
“Sorry it’s a little cold. You know how testimonials can get out of hand. And, sorry for bringing you up here. Rather cramped up here than stared at down there, I’d say.”
She dismisses my apologies with a wave of the hand. “You should teach me how to cook.”
“About time you asked.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Clara fishes into her bag and slides a box across the table. The card attached flips open. I read, ‘It’s okay to have everything you want. Be brave.’ I tear the wrapping like it’s the first minute of Christmas and the box is the only present under the tree. It’s the laser gun I’ve always wanted, twelve years late. But, as they say, better late than pregnant or never.
“You remembered the story? Thank you.” Her cheek is warm where I kiss it. We linger in that space with our faces close together. The moment begs for another kiss, one more daring and longer perhaps, one reminiscent of that time in her bedroom. But, for the sake of decorum or my own cowardice, I let the moment pass. She breaks out of the spell and asks where my room is. I oblige and lead her to it. I apologize for the small room, as if it was my fault the architects built it this way; it was just a smidge larger than Clara’s bathroom at home. Again, she dismisses my apology and sets herself comfortably on the bed, legs outstretched, feet freed from her five-inch heels. I was clearing space on the shelf for my new laser gun when she notices the Nokia on my study desk.
“Oh, how cute. A Nokia phone!”
“No. Don’t touch that!”, I scream. I scramble to the desk and shield it with my body. Sensing something’s up, she tries to fight me for it, pressing her body against me, trying to reach for the phone from behind my back. She’s strong for someone at a twenty-pound disadvantage.
“Why? Why? Why?” She keeps asking, giggling, poking me in the ribs, corkscrewing my dimple, giving my arm a playful shove. She fakes me out and almost gets away with the phone. I decided to put an end to this and park my ass right over it. There, that should settle it.
“Because.”
“Because?” She raises her eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. This should be a good story, her eyes seem to say.
“Because.”
Just my luck, the clock strikes 8:00 and the phone vibrates like a man possessed. The phone vibrates while I’m sitting on it. I use my hand to shield my face. Clara puts 2 and 2 together, her mouth forming an O.
“Really? You? Really? I mean, how?”, she squeals.
“You know what, why don’t we just go back to the balcony so I can fling myself over and fall to a merciful death, eh?” I thought I had heard the end of it as we reconvene to the balcony. Sam uses a cellphone vibrator. End of story. Can we move on with our lives now? Good.
But, then, she says, “A cellphone? Really?”
Words have deserted me. The only appropriate response is an embarrassed, I-wish-the-world-would-swallow-me-now kind of groan. She pinches my cheek. “You’re cute. I really like…” Her hand stays there, drawing lazy circles round and round. I inch nearer. I catch her looking at my lips. The balcony door shudders and we find Mama’s face pressed against the glass, scaring the living moonlight out of us.
“Sammy, it’s time for your birthday message. And my special announcement.” She turns to Clara with a sickly sweet smile on her face. “Mrs. Alves, you can stay here if you want. The air’s nice and cold. Just like the way you have it up there, I presume?”
“I would love to hear Sam’s speech.”
“Well, if you insist, just follow along downstairs whenever you’re ready. Sam and I are just going to have a little talk.”
Fun time is over. Mama’s hands are like paperweights on my shoulders, gripping me hard and leading me to the bedroom. Behind closed doors, her smile disappears. There’s not even the caricature of her bulging eyes and flaring nostrils. The trouble I’m in has just dialed up to eleven.
“Sam, why is she here?”
I knew that would come up. I’m surprised it took this long. “Ma, she’s my friend. Can’t I have my friends at my own birthday party?”
“Sam, the people are talking about her. I told you to keep a low profile on whatever it is you’re doing for her. This is not keeping a low profile.” Mama rubs her temples, as she is wont to do when something or someone is testing her patience. “Sam, I’ve warned you before of the temptress and her ways. I’ve taught you everything the Lord told me to. Twenty years, I raised you to be the—”
“I know, Ma. The Christian woman you know I could be.”
“Look at you, answering back at me in that tone. You think this is a joke, teaching you the right way to live your life? All this, all my sacrifice is for your own good. Don’t ruin yourself over these…” She opens her mouth then closes it, struggling to find a term that fits, one that doesn’t hurt her maternal pride as much. She finally settles with, “…these unnatural friendships.”
“It’s not like that, Ma.”
“You better make sure of that, Samantha.”
A slam of the door and I’m left to collect my thoughts. I feel like throwing a tantrum. I mull over staying here like Xerxes’ queen. Who are they, anyway? Just strangers who happen to live nearby. Strangers whom I only see in church. Strangers who matter to Mama, but never to me. I don’t have to face them. But, then, I remember Clara, all alone downstairs, skinned alive by accusing stares, waiting for my birthday speech.
Why can’t I have friends on my own birthday?
Are you sticking with that?
We’re just friends.
Back downstairs, I compose myself to give smiles and embraces. Mama forces me in front of the crowd for my little speech. I stand up on a little riser that Dada fashioned from a little wooden crate. Clara is in the back of the room, near the door, an easy exit if she wished to.
“I am fortunate to have all of you here. It’s a holiday, I know. You could be anywhere, but you chose to spend it with me, with us. And, it’s always great to be surrounded by the people you love.” I find Clara standing in the back, raising her glass to me. “I want to thank Mama and Dada for bringing me into this world. And, I want to thank my friend—”
“Okay, honey. We don’t need to put them to sleep just yet because I still have exciting news to share with you all.”, Mama interrupts. She gently removes me from the front and whisks me away to the side, even giving me a little motherly kiss on the cheek. Her mood changes to deliver the news of Mrs. Bautista’s misfortune. A little bit confused and humiliated, I walk to the back of the room to join Clara.
“As all of you may know, our dear Mrs. Remedios Bautista has suffered a massive stroke. I’m sure she wanted to be here tonight to announce the good news about our evangelical mission.”
Behind those pursed lips is a heart leaping for joy. Her dream has finally come true. She has stolen the throne from dear old Mrs. Bautista. She’s won the presidency, her life’s Holy Grail.
“This year, thanks to your efforts, whether in service or in monetary aid, we will be able to send missionaries to our brothers and sisters in Marinduque. We won’t just be spreading the Good Word of the Lord. But, we will also have a medical mission for the children. We will help them build a church. We will teach them how to make sustainable livelihood in their community. Is that a round of applause I hear?”
The guests ramp up their cheap applause, which is music to Mama’s ears. “While it is with a heavy heart that I assume Mrs. Bautista’s duties as president of Moms Standing Up For Christ, I believe with my whole heart that I can bring this summer mission to success, praise be the Lord. Brothers and sisters, may I ask you to raise your arms and pray for my strength of body and mind.”
Don't Tell My Mother Page 6