Manila Marriage App

by Jan Elder

  As we strolled, it appeared I’d attained celebrity status. Students froze in mid-stride to gape, some waving, others giggling, a few pointing and whispering. The dormitory areas were set into a steep hill toward the back of the grounds with plenty of those insufferable steps going up and down.

  On our return to Timothy’s office, we paused to visit some of the other faculty. One of the other professors, Jemma Villanueva, impressed me with her delicate Asian beauty and quiet demeanor. She couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, forty tops. She was far prettier than I was and showed that certain soft-spoken deference Timothy favored. Had he already judged and eliminated her as marriage material?

  As we passed each other by, I detected a strange vibe. Did she know why I was here? Now there was an idea. It hadn’t occurred to me I might have “competition.” Did her answers to his questionnaire reveal she was gluten-free—an unfathomable cause for disqualification? Or what if her favorite movie was not up to his standards, or heaven forbid, what if she’d also neglected to submit a picture of her mother? I had “placed ahead of the rest of the applicants.”

  As if it mattered.

  7

  Timothy met up with me, and we tramped back up the long staircase from Hades. He fired up the car and reached to switch on the radio. I expected to hear some wholesome religious station—Angelo’s maybe—but instead, the smooth groove of soft rock music floated around us. At least it wasn’t rap. One of the questions on the deal breaker section of the application asked if rap or hip-hop music appealed to me. A giggle leaked out of me at the image of uptight Timmy rapping along with the radio.

  Now it was his turn to say, “What?”

  “Nothing. Really. Nothing.” I covered my yawn with a hand. It was nice to take a breather from walking in the heat. “By the way, why did you have to teach a class this morning? Aren’t you on sabbatical?”

  “I am, but we’re short staffed, so I’m filling in. I might have to teach all week. That’s one of the disadvantages of teaching at a small school. There are never enough people to do the work.” With practiced ease, he swerved to the right along with the traffic.

  “Hmm. Sorry you’ll be so busy.” I was trying to listen, but my cotton-stuffed head drifted away with the music. I awoke to a large, gentle hand shaking my shoulder.

  “Shay? Wake up, Shay.” My name sounded super-fine in his rich baritone.

  Blinking, I sat up straighter and ran a hand through my flat hair. With no mirror handy, I did the blind fluff, adorning myself with my sparkling personality and ready wit. “Hey, Timothy.” In my sleepy state, his name sounded divine on my own tongue. I peered through the windshield, confused. I sure didn’t see a cemetery anywhere in sight. I might be a smidge punchy, but I knew a headstone when I saw one. “Where are we?”

  Timothy pointed across the street at, of all things, a chain chicken eatery, famous in the States. I could go for some chicken. Who knew this slice of Americana had made it to the Philippines?

  “Its past noon, and I thought you might be hungry.”

  Now that was kind. The missionary man had potential. “Thanks. I ate a bite this morning, but that was a long time ago. Chicken sounds wonderful.”

  “Good. You want to wait here or come with me?”

  Since the fast food place was across yet another busy street, I opted for the latter. “I’ll wait. Could you get me some chicken fingers, fries, coleslaw, and a soda?”

  Question twenty-two sprang to mind. Timothy could rest assured I wasn’t a vegan, although once again, why would it matter?

  “Meal number seven coming up. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, this place has real, bona fide Grade A chicken—emphasis on the word chicken. No mystery meat.” He chuckled and shut the car door behind him.

  It was cozy eating in the car. After our greasy, delicious meal, we had trash that needed to be disposed of. Taking his life in his hands once again, Timothy dodged traffic to throw it away and trotted back to the car. Wow!

  He caught my attention jogging across that road, taut muscles stretching under his white cotton shirt. Absolute eye candy, handsome hunk.

  We zipped along through the streets headed for the Manila American Cemetery and Memorial Park.

  I was getting used to the busy traffic when one of those funny bus things stopped beside us, mere inches from the side panel of our car. I directed his attention to the banged up vehicle painted with garish graffiti. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What are those?”

  “Those are jeepneys.”

  We jerked to a stop, and I was glad I’d tightened my seatbelt. I could have reached out and shaken the hand of a weathered old man in the vehicle. Men, women, children, and grandparents were crammed inside like corn kernels in a can. “Jeepney? What’s a jeepney?”

  “After WWII, the Americans left a great many Willys Jeeps behind. The Filipinos revamped and renovated, and arrived at this cheap form of transportation. Cars are expensive, taxis are expensive, but jeepneys are very economical.”

  We bumped over a slight rise to see a cluster of low buildings on the left.

  Timothy gestured toward the complex. “Over there is one of our famous marketplaces. Vendors sell pearls, jewelry, perfume, gold, wood carvings, shoes, anything you can think of. Good prices. Good bargains. I’d be glad to take you around the place whenever you want to go.”

  I could always shop. This odd country might not be for me, but it would be nice to take home a pearl necklace or a pretty blouse for Brianna—and a new one for me. My nieces and nephews always adored gifts, and I should pick up something for Lily. My head buzzed as I thought of all of the presents I could purchase for a song.

  A prominent plateau emerged up ahead, imposing sentinels guarding the gate.

  Timothy showed his driver’s license, explained we were Americans, and they let us through without any hassle. We drove at a sedate pace through well-manicured grounds, past a plaza with a fountain, and rolled to a stop at the visitor’s center.

  As we walked toward a vast stone memorial building, Timothy slowed, moving with reverence. In front of the memorial was a grassy mall surrounded by gray headstones arranged in a circular pattern. All of the tombstones were fashioned in the shape of a cross, every stone in perfect alignment. Planted throughout the grounds, a variety of trees and shrubs created a peaceful atmosphere. I wasn’t the type who fancied historical parks, but this one was different. A person couldn’t help but feel a deep appreciation and respect for the fallen.

  “Over 17,000 soldiers from World War II are buried here. Every state’s represented, as well as some of our allies.”

  We climbed a short flight of stone stairs, and Timothy pointed out the Great Seal of the Commonwealth of the Philippines etched into the pavement. To the right and left of the seal an inscription read: In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices, this memorial has been erected by the United States of America 1941-1945. My throat constricted as I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the words.

  Swallowing hard, I shielded my eyes from the merciless sun as I searched for a patch of shade. My skin was beginning to scorch under the hot, tropical rays that hammered down with a vengeance.

  Timothy glanced at my reddening arms. Cupping my elbow, he guided us toward a covered open-air building. “I apologize. I should have reminded you to bring a hat and some sunscreen.”

  “And how is it you’re not burned to a crisp with a name like Flynn?”

  Timothy slowed his pace so I wouldn’t have to hurry to keep up. Those long strides could eat up the ground. “My dad’s side originated in Ireland, but my mother was Italian.”

  That would explain the thick, dark hair covering his head and bronzed forearms. Irish-Italian was a striking combination. I’d have to take a better look at the portraits of Timothy’s parents.

  We ducked under the roofed shelter to find large mosaic maps recounting the battles of the United States Armed Forces in the Pacific, China, India, and
Burma. Carved in the floor were the seals of American states and territories. I should have been paying more attention in world history class. There was so much I didn’t know. We continued our journey into the past. Surrounding us were high limestone walls inscribed with the names of soldiers who’d died. The four branches of the service each had their own section.

  “Would you care to hunt for Callahan?” Timothy asked. “Most people want to see if their ancestors are on the wall. The first time I visited, I checked for Flynn.” He was so cute when his smile widened into a boyish grin. “I’ll help.”

  We ambled on in companionable silence, each of us combing the aisles for my possible relatives. On the third wall in the United States Navy region, we hit pay dirt. Petty Officer John T. Callahan had been born on Christmas day in 1923 and died January 10, 1945. He could have been my long lost cousin.

  As I wandered, lost in thought, the enormity of what the carvings on those walls meant stirred my soul. Each name was a real person, with a mother and father; and perhaps a spouse or sweetheart left behind. Each death had necessitated a telegram that had shattered someone’s heart. “We regret to inform you …” These brave soldiers had given their lives for the freedom I enjoyed. I walked a little more softly on what now seemed sacred ground.

  After our tour, we ventured back out into the punishing sunshine. I was assaulted by a blast of heat. Slick sweat trickled down my neck and soaked my sleeveless blouse. Feeling faint, I closed my eyes to find the earth tipping off-kilter. Taking a deep breath of the sticky air, I plopped down hard on a nearby bench and hung my head.

  Timothy sank down next to me and touched the back of his hand to my sweaty forehead. “We need to get you out of this sun. Right now you bear a strong resemblance to a wilted sampaguita.” His lips pressed into a frown as he swept the hair out of my face.

  “Excuse me? What’s a sampaguita? Asian spinach salad with warm bacon dressing?” I slapped at a mosquito and fluttered my eyelashes at him.

  His lips parted as laughter rumbled in his throat. I fought the urge to purr like a kitten when he laughed. He seemed more human. “No. It’s the national flower, part of the jasmine family. A very pretty, fragrant flower.” A warm flush crept up his neck as he glanced away.

  No one had ever told me I resembled a flower before, much less a sweet-smelling blossom.

  “Time to get you back to the seminary. You need a cold drink and a few hours rest at the apartment. After you’re feeling better, I thought we might go out to dinner tonight. We’re due to have a long talk, don’t you think?”

  At last.

  As we reached the car, his cell phone rang.

  It was the hospital. Darling Pinky was going home within the hour.

  8

  I positioned the air conditioning vents toward my face and pinched my cheeks. The sharp sting helped to revive me.

  We raced across town—or rather, we raced and crawled—finally arriving at Manila Makati Medical. I was sure Danilo had taken his driving lessons from Timothy.

  We moved into the crowded waiting room, and I found a seat.

  Timothy loped off to find out more information on Pinky. The sick, the poor, the dying, not to mention the sniffling, the crying, and the moaning surrounded me. I didn’t care for hospitals at the best of times—like when my sister, Lily, had delivered baby Ethan—but it was important to be here for Pinky’s sake. Maybe Timothy’s compassion was rubbing off on me.

  Timothy returned, and we were off to the accounting department.

  A harried employee informed us that in order to discharge a patient, full payment was expected.

  Timothy reached for his checkbook. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I overheard that Timothy had also paid a down payment when Pinky had first been admitted. I would imagine precious few people in the Philippines had medical insurance and definitely not anyone from the shantytown up the creek from the seminary. How expensive was a hospital bill when no insurance kicked in?

  We wound through the labyrinth of halls, rode on a creaky elevator up to the children’s wing, and entered the second room on the left. The room held eight beds, each bed occupied by a sick or broken little girl.

  Pinky sat up in the first bed, her mother’s arm around her thin shoulders. Her dark-haired head was swathed in bandages, her right arm supported by a blue cloth sling.

  Liwayway’s face lit up when Timothy strode into the room. She quickly rose to greet him, and just as quickly sat back down, suddenly shy.

  Pinky was not so reserved. With unconcealed glee, she squealed, “Dr. Juicy. It’s Dr. Juicy.”

  Turning to Timothy, I made sure he spotted my arched eyebrows. “Juicy? This ought to be good.”

  Timothy knelt by the bed, and with the gentleness of a mother cat comforting her kitten, he gathered Pinky into his arms. I could hear her tiny chirp of pleasure as she snuggled against his chest.

  Over his shoulder, he spoke in my general direction, “Juicy as in chewing gum. Whenever I visit the creek community I bring along a generous supply, making sure each child gets a stick or two. It’s such a small thing, but it makes them happy.”

  That explained the gummy glob I’d stepped into on his office floor. Timothy was the culprit, or at least the source.

  Liwayway reached over and tugged on his sleeve. “Thank you, Dr. Flynn, for coming to get us…and for everything.” One shining tear glided down her cheek.

  It hit me that Liwayway had been by Pinky’s side since they’d both arrived at the hospital. There was no way for her to get home, but she was the kind of mother who wouldn’t have left her daughter’s side even if she could have.

  With the doctor in the room, everything else, including me, faded into the background.

  The worshipful gaze she aimed at Timothy landed on me. “I’m sorry, are you with Dr. Flynn?” Her mouth scrunched up as she tried to remember.

  Despite our riding in the same car for miles when we’d first brought Pinky to the hospital, it was possible my appearance might have changed now that I wore suitable clothing and shoes. And I hadn’t made much of an effort to comfort her. No wonder she didn’t remember me. I stepped closer, offered a hand, and introduced myself. “Yes, I’m Shay, a friend of Dr. Flynn’s.” I guess I was a friend. I certainly wasn’t anyone’s fiancée.

  Used to taking charge, I combed the area for an aide, a wheelchair, or something useful, but nothing materialized. We were on our own.

  Pinky’s fragile body trembled. It was obvious she was in pain and there was no way she was going to walk out of here on her own two feet. Why was the hospital sending her home so soon? I’d lay odds that money was the issue.

  There had to be a nurse’s station or someone who could help. Before I was halfway out the door, Timothy assumed the role of chief commander, lifting Pinky off the bed as if she were a china teacup.

  As we headed out, I peeked back into the room and waved goodbye to the other patients. The girls who were awake had been awestruck by Dr. Flynn, too. As he swung on his heel to leave, one child started to cry. The good doctor had an effect on females of any age.

  Timothy carried Pinky to the car and nestled her in the back seat with her mother. It bothered me that there was no car seat, but I reasoned such American priorities were far down on the list for those without enough food. Timothy drove at a sedate pace—at least compared to his usual jet-fueled zigzags—and we arrived at the entrance to the village in less than an hour. Our grand slide-to-a-halt-in-a-cloud-of-dust arrival drew a crowd, and swarms of kids showed up calling “Dr. Juicy! It’s Dr. Juicy and Pinky.”

  The squatter community was poorer even than I’d expected. Most of the homes were small shacks perched on the bank of the creek. Skinny chickens scratched for sustenance at our feet while, in the midst of the squalor, a gleeful troop of boys and girls kicked a ball through the narrow passages between the dwellings.

  As we made our way through the gathering crowd, we received a warm welcome from the adults in the community.


  Timothy held Pinky in his strong embrace, her good arm tight around his neck. As usual, everyone knew Dr. Flynn.

  Liwayway's house was located in the middle of a row of homes. As we walked through the doorway, we dodged three small children as they headed toward a basketball hoop situated in the middle of the barrio. The last boy slowed as he glanced back at Timothy. If I came back, I’d have to remember to keep a stash of gum handy to ensure everyone got enough.

  The shanty was made of plywood covered with a corrugated metal roof. The room we stepped into was clean, but that was all there was—just the one room. An old wooden cushion-less couch leaned against the back wall. In the corner, on the rough concrete floor, was a narrow bunk bed with folded up mats underneath. Timothy had mentioned that seven people resided in this structure. From the size of the place, the residents lived all crammed together.

  I was offered a seat on a wooden chair pulled up to a white plastic table. On the wall to the right, scant measures of rice, a few vegetables, half-a-chicken, and two lonely bottles of hot sauce sat on a “pantry” shelf. The only water available seemed to be a rain barrel full of brackish liquid placed outside under the eaves. And where was the bathroom?

  I couldn't help but be distraught at the lack of, well, everything I regarded as essential in a home. My arms wrapped around me, my breath hitching.

  A tiny gray mouse huddled in a shadowy corner while two big, fat mosquitoes circled around the room. My skin prickled, just thinking about the creepy critters. Checking the area for something akin to a fly swatter, I was disappointed there was nothing I could use in case of attack. I’d keep a sharp lookout.

  Timothy settled Pinky on the mattress-less bottom bunk, covering her with a threadbare scrap of blanket. He squatted down, whispering who knows what into Pinky's ear. Whatever he said had her giggling before she fell headlong into dreamland.