Don't Tell My Mother

by Brigitte Bautista

  Mama leads her own prayer for herself. It’s weird. Even in the foul mood I’m in, I have to cover my mouth to keep myself from laughing. My shoulders are vibrating like a jackhammer. Clara holds them down because the people beside us are muttering and shaking their heads. Clara struggles to keep a straight face herself. The prayer ends. Mama catches me laughing.

  “Tonight, we are calling for two more volunteers. Just feel free to raise your hand and, because it’s my dear Samantha’s birthday, I’ll be generous and count you in on the spot.”

  Our tiny living room settles into silence, like someone just cut the power cord to the speakers. Clara urges me to raise my hand. I shake my head and mouth a big, fat ‘no.’ Being stuck with Mama in a remote island for two weeks is not my choice of slow and painful death. Clara’s hand shoots up in the air. Now, two weeks in a remote island don’t sound so bad.

  During the day, we could do all the daycare sessions and I could finally tell the story of Esther to an audience that would listen. They’re 4-year-olds. What can they do? Afternoons will be strolls on the beach. Knowing Clara, a leisurely stroll would evolve into a race, one that I wouldn’t lose this time around. At night, we’ll be in separate rooms, texting each other, if there’s signal. I’d most likely bunk with Mama and never get any sleep because of all the snoring. But, that’s a small price to pay for an island getaway with Clara. I was about to raise a reluctant hand when Mama shoots down my daydreams even before they could happen.

  “Thank you for your volunteerism, Mrs. Alves. But, right now, we’re looking for members who are more involved in the activities of the community and are…” Mama pauses to glare at me. How could you bring this disgraced woman into our home, she seems to say. I told you to keep a low profile and yet, here you are, putting her on display. I’ll put an end to this.

  Yes, it took one split second death glare to communicate all that to me. “…highly regarded members of the church. But, if you’re in the spirit of making a significant contribution to the cause for some reason I find hard to think of right now, we are welcome to monetary donations any time.”

  Even the wrinkly old women in the room could not mistake that as a burn. Nobody but me sees the clenched fist Clara made behind her back. Nobody notices the tension in her body, which was loose and giddy and giggly just a while back. Mama expects a fight. She’s calling for it, just so she can justify kicking Clara out. One snide remark and out you go.

  “I just did a Sunday School session. Daycare, at that,” Clara responds.

  “Oh, one little session hardly counts as involvement, does it now? And, besides, I don’t think you have the wardrobe for this kind of work. We wouldn’t want that expensive dress all ruined, would we?”

  A weak laughter breaks the silence. Clara bites her lip, contemplating on whether to fire back or take the loss. “As you wish, I’ll send a blank check. Will that be enough?” she finally says. It was half of fighting back and half of admitting defeat, and it did not accomplish either. In the end, Ted from Sunday School and his girlfriend get the last two slots. Everyone claps and makes well wishes. The party forgives and forgets Mama’s public shaming and creeps back up to a festive mood. Guitar riffs and tambourines fill the air. Everyone is high with the spirit of worship.

  I catch Clara trying to slip away unnoticed. I follow her to the driveway and ask if she’s up for a walk in the park. Maybe a chess match would lighten up her mood. I offer to steal some of the cake and have coffee at her house.

  “I don’t feel so well, Sam. Must be something I ate. I’ll go ahead.”

  “Clara. I—”

  “Happy birthday.”

  I see Mama watching from the balcony as Clara’s Mercedes drives away.

  Chapter 8

  I WAS SIX years old when we moved to the suburbs. I only remember the broad strokes of why we moved—the fighting, the shouting, that one time Mama’s sinigang tasted of salty tears. Leave it to Tita Gina, dear no-holds-barred, shameless, no-shutting-up-this-mouth Tita Gina, to supply the details and complete the painting.

  Mama and Dada were your basic, middle class twenty-something couple. They afforded a small one-bedroom house, a small car and a small kid. We were fine, Tita Gina said, until Dada started screwing the neighbor’s husband. Yes, the neighbor’s husband. It’s the new millennium. Get your ass out of the 70s and sit your judgmental eyebrows down. If the future generation asked my 80-year-old self when World War III happened, I would say it was waged in little houses like ours. Husband and wife, screaming out bombs and bullets they could never take back. Children scurry from one parent to the next, the collateral damage to this war. Same story of infidelity unfolding all over town, all over the nation, all over the world.

  Dada was set on leaving. He ached to be with this man. They set a rendezvous in Cebu, where they would live far away from the wives who spit-shone their dress shoes, fixed them dinner and reared their misbehaving children. It was all set, hardcase trolley and ticket, until a passing salesman in a white button-down and a black tie sold them Jesus. Now, my parents were polite to a fault. Always last to leave a lame-ass dinner party. Always tiptoeing questions “How do I look?” like somebody asked them if they had committed first-degree murder. How could they say no to a clean-shaven gentleman with a Bible?

  Dada stayed. And, because Dada stayed, he missed the flight. And, because he missed the flight, Mama stayed, too. It was for the better because the man, the neighbor’s husband, never showed. Just disappeared like a first-degree murder. They took all these unexpected events as a sign, especially Mama. What are the odds that a passing stranger would preach to them? What are the chances that the plane to Cebu would go without Dada? By the tail end of the door-to-door preaching, my parents were all up for a big move to the suburbs. The whole shebang about higher purpose appealed to them. It tickled their egos that such lowly and broken folks could be destined to preach God’s word if they repent and confess and all that shit. Nest in the suburbs, Jesus told them by way of the traveling salesman, and become holier versions of your selves. This is a good location, just outside the city but not too far to qualify as not-suburbs. The commute is easy enough. Good church community. Attractive mortgage like you wouldn’t believe. Did I mention the stranger was a real estate agent?

  From the backseat of our grey Sentra, I watched the landscape turn from city smog and skyscrapers to blue sky and red roofs. Frame by frame, the city passed me by. I was nothing but a living, breathing baggage, squeezed and secured with a seat belt between a box of toys and kitchenware. I was too young to know and consent to the gazillion rules of engagement that constituted living in a smallish, two-story house with a pocket-garden-slash-garage on the side. ‘Ooh, a tire swing,’ I remembered exclaiming. It was all that mattered back then.

  The passenger seat of Clara’s Mercedes is unlike the beat-up Sentra Dada lugged around when I was a kid. The same feeling stays with me, though, this helplessness over being dragged along. I’m still the 6-year-old stuck between balikbayan boxes, at the mercy of an external force. The windows are down, and the wind is forcing me to feed on my own hair. I don’t know where we’re going, but we’re going there pretty fast. Mama and Dada had only been gone two hours when my phone rang. After two weeks of shutting me out, Clara called. ‘Pack an overnight bag and wait for me on the street corner.’ she said.

  “You’re driving scary fast, Clara.” I could crush the overhead handle with my bare hands, the way I’m clutching it. I still want to live, Clara. I can’t die a virgin.

  She slows down for my sake. She pats my thigh and apologizes.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  She doesn’t say. It could be that she herself doesn’t know. She just drove the car on impulse, no destination in mind. The scene changes to pine trees and contoured hilltops. A thin, chilly fog descends and makes my eyes water. She slows down at every inn along the road before speeding up again, either shaking her head or mumbling, ‘No, no, no.�
�� The car finally stops at a bed and breakfast with a wooden sign that just says, INN. I follow her lead and walk to the lobby. From a nearby sofa, I watch her talk with the receptionist. She exchanges a room key with a credit card. The yellow bells call me to the garden. Beyond the fences is Taal Lake, a postcard backdrop to a trip that is looking less and less like the send-me-a-postcard variety. The sky looks pissed and heavy. Is it pissed at me for agreeing to this trip? I wonder. I feel rotten and, at the same time, thrilled about leaving home. I return to Clara, and she pulls my hand with a sense of urgency down the stairs. End of the narrow corridor. Blue door with a gold-plated 9. She fumbles with the lock, muttering curses as she forces the key in.

  We shut the door behind us and take stock of the empty room. Neither of us knows how to move forward. Neither of us has even taken a single step. The unstoppable force of impulse that brought us here has subsided. The momentum has slowed down and we are at a standstill. The mind becomes clear, and Clara is suddenly aware of what this looks like. One bed and two of us, staying for the night. Panic overcomes her. Her shoulders keep heaving up and down as she takes one short breath after another. She stammers. I don’t think I have ever seen her so flustered before.

  “This is a bad idea. I don’t know what got into me, Sam. I’m sorry. Let me talk to the receptionist for another room.”

  “Don’t.” Her pulse leaps at my touch as I catch her wrist. Don’t let go. Don’t let her go, I tell myself. This is exactly what it looks like. This is exactly what it means. I lead her to the bed. I place her hands on my hips, just below the hem of my shirt, posing a question she needs to answer. Her clenched fist vibrates against my thigh. I am close enough to see the roots of jet black under her highlights. A scar on her eyebrow has me worried how she got it and if it hurt. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She exhales and I am warmed by it. A second later, I am warmed by her mouth on mine, pressing and hungry, going for seconds, thirds, fourths. She strips me of my clothes and the skins I’m forced to wear, skins I’ve been wearing for so long they might as well have been sewn in.

  No rush. Time is ours. Space is working on our side, pulling us closer. Outside, the thunder claps. In approval or disdain, I couldn’t tell. I don’t need approval. I don’t need permission to unzip her dress. I don’t need the tiny voice in my head saying that this isn’t normal. I fall in love with a heart-shaped birthmark on her ribcage. I keep tracing the outskirts of it with my fingers. I bring my lips to it, and it’s as if my whole body is bathed in fire and light. They say a fever is the body fighting an intruder. It is a warning that the state of things is not quite right. There is a defect in here somewhere, and you ought to find it. She is not an intruder. There is no defect. This is the most right I have ever been my whole life. The fears and insecurities, the nagging thought that I will burn in hell for this, all fall away. That electric panic, that roller coaster-sick kind of feeling, is gone, too. I hold her, naked and vulnerable, and find no shame in revealing myself to her. I touch her freely, my hand and mouth roaming and tracing and claiming what it can. My body is at the bidding of my heart’s desire. I take a bite of the forbidden fruit and find for myself that the forbidden is just a construct. Just a term that people use for things that they are unwilling to understand. With a trail of kisses, Clara breaks the vow Mama forced me to make when I was thirteen. These parts, these pieces of me had been promised to a husband. As she lays on top of me, all I can think of now is I don’t want a husband. I won’t ever want anyone else in a world where Clara exists.

  The rain beats like a hail of bullets on the roof. Clara is sleeping through the noise, spent and exhausted. White and blue sheets are wrapped around her like a shield. My arms serve as her pillow and safety. I am the reminder that she is not alone, that we just made love, that this is real even if it sure feels like a dream. I plant a kiss on her neck. She shifts slightly and turns to me. Lightning strikes and makes her face a pattern of light and dark, both harrowing and beautiful at the same time.

  “Stop staring.”

  “Stop looking like that, then.”

  She smiles in half-sleep, and I am overcome by a love that I have never felt before. It brings me to tears. Tears that have me hoping for better things and happier days. When Mama comes home from the mission, I will come clean and tell her about Clara. I will make her understand because I couldn’t stand another day in a world, in a home, in a mind where this is unnatural and forbidden. I want Clara in broad daylight, not in secret places like this.

  The morning after proves to be a swift reckoning, the universe challenging my words spoken in the dark of night. I wake up to fifty missed calls and just as many messages. Some were from Dada, most were from Mama. Somebody call the Red Cross, because all the blood drains right out of me as I open the message on top. There was a storm warning in the South. Mama and Dada’s flight got cancelled. They’ve been home since last night.

  “What’s wrong? You look pale,” Clara says. I show her the message. I zigzag around the room. I can’t sit still. If I sit still, I will have to deal with the worst-case scenarios in my head. Clara takes me, all shaking shoulders and weak knees, into her arms.

  “We’ll figure it out. Together,” she assures.

  This is the slowest I have ever turned into our street. The needle of the speedometer flirts between ten and twenty, and it’s still not slow enough. I told Clara I’d just walk the walk of shame and get it over with. But, she insisted on taking me home. A pair of headlights peeks from the garage. The wall lamps in the veranda, old things as they are, are flickering with warning. Mama is gaining ground, her strides determined and urgent. Mama bangs her fist against the car window. Clara gets out of the car to face Mama. “Cynthia, I’m so sorry. This is all—”

  Clara starts with an explanation. But, Mama would have none of it. “My daughter showed you kindness and this is how you repay her? You prey on her with these… sick desires of yours? What made you think she meant anything to you? Tell me, what made you think you’re worth something to my daughter?” Mama challenges. “You’re nothing. Just a charity case to pass the summer. She told me herself.”

  “Mama, stop!” I turn to Clara, who searches my face for an answer. She begs with her eyes to tell me that Mama is lying. “Clara, it’s not like that,” I start. Shades of yellow light have emerged from neighboring houses. Curtains have been parted discreetly. Partial silhouettes–a head, or just an ear, or half the body–appear behind the windows, shy and unwilling to engage but dead curious about the commotion below.

  “Say it isn’t so, Sam.” From the way I avoided her gaze, she must have deduced that there was some truth to what Mama said.

  “A charity case,” she says, her voice cold and detached. I feel her slipping away, retreating to her shell, a stark contrast to the Clara I shared the night with.

  “Clara, just hear me out. Please. We can sort this all out.”

  “It’s Mrs. Alves, Samantha. Have a good night.” She pushes me out of the way and starts the car.

  Mama locks me in an embrace. Perhaps, it is a sign that I have outgrown her that I was able to pry her clasped hands open. I run to the car, hoping Clara would hit the brakes, roll down a window and hear me out. All my hopes are dashed as the car purred past the row of red-roofed houses back into its fortress up the hill.

  Once inside the house, out of earshot from the neighbors, I let all my anger out. “Ma, what did you do that for?”

  Mama’s all matter-of-fact about it, her mouth forming a smirk of satisfaction. I know that look. It’s that look when she gets her way, when she feels that God is favoring her just a little more than the others. “What? Isn’t that what you told me? I asked you why you keep visiting her, and you said you did it out of charity. Serves her right for taking advantage of you.”

  I am tempted to wipe that smirk off her face. I know Mama better than anybody, even Dada. I know the words that will hurt her. But, I remind myself that it’s not what I promised to do. It’s not what I p
romised Clara. Come clean, I tell myself. What’s the worst that could happen? Mama and I may butt heads all the time. But, I am her child, the fruit of her rearing. She will understand. She will forgive me, like she always has time and time again. “I lied, Mama. I lied to you. I made it all up because I knew you’d make me stop seeing her. I didn’t understand it then. All I knew was that being with her felt good. So, I told you the story you wanted to hear. I tried to do it your way, Mama. Believe me, I tried real hard to avoid another Christina. But, she’s not Christina, Mama.”

  I might as well have stuck a kitchen knife to her back, as her face contorts with the news of my betrayal. What I did is an affront to Mama’s loyalty and to her belief that family trumps all. Blood is thicker than water, don’t they all say? But, love, in whatever form it takes, is thicker than blood.

  “I prayed, Mama. What would Jesus do? I prayed and prayed until I knew that the best I could pray for was courage. Courage to be able to tell you this, Mama. I am not the woman you wanted me to be. I won’t be a missionary. I won’t even be a Christian woman, the way you expect me to.” I take Mama’s hands. I brush against the lumpy scar. Guilt rises from my gut. Still, it has to be done. I am making a choice.

  “I love Clara. And saying that, Mama, saying that fills my heart with happiness I didn’t think was possible. I now know how it is to have a heart singing with joy, Mama. All those songs we sing about love in church, in weddings, in birthdays and anniversaries. I finally understand.”

  There are few things, if any, that cut me deep like Mama’s inconsolable sobbing. It happens so rarely, this being only the third time by my count. It’s my turn to force her into an embrace. She withdraws her hands and paces back like I’m a leper, only worthy of her disgust. She brings herself to say it, “You disgust me,” before retreating upstairs. I hear the slam of the door and muffled conversations. My guess is they’re screaming and scheming and panicking, not quite certain what to do with their disgrace of a daughter.