by Jan Elder
Despite the dilapidated dwelling, Liwayway and Pinky seemed to have many friends and support from the neighbors. One at a time, a dozen or so people popped their heads in to say a quick hello and drop off food, a few pieces of fruit, a plate of rolls—Timothy called the bread pan de sal—a coconut, and a tin of something called Skyflakes.
Liwayway’s hands fluttered as she busied herself, obviously determined to make us feel welcome. She switched on the two-burner propane stove and heated water for instant coffee—the very best in the Philippines, too. When the coffee was ready, she sliced a mango and broke out the Skyflakes. I was waiting for something unusual, but they were ordinary saltine crackers. The fruit and crackers hit the spot. What moved me more was her willingness to share the little she had. Wasn't there some verse in the Bible about that?
After a polite amount of visiting time, Timothy motioned with his head toward the doorway, giving me the international sign it was time to go.
We were ready to leave when Liwayway sniffled, her moisture-filled eyes turning on Timothy.
Glassy-eyed, his stare reminded me of a deer caught at the wrong end of a shotgun, but I knew what she was trying to say. It was clear she was grateful beyond words that her daughter was home and alive. I'd explain it to him when we got back to the apartment.
He didn’t seem to understand subtleties.
9
The ride back to the campus was so quick, I didn’t have time to sneeze.
Timothy’s car mounted the steep hill behind the seminary, and he parked in his assigned spot.
Bayani tipped his cap at Timothy and narrowed his gaze at me. It was plain he didn’t trust me.
My calves ached with the memory of descending those wicked stairs—better down than up—but this time I’d follow close. I redoubled my pace and chased him down, down, down. I was moving so fast, at the bottom, I smacked right into his back. I might as well have slammed into a sequoia. Off balance, I flailed and reached out my hands, steadying myself by gripping his massive shoulders.
He slanted his head and winked at me, mischief in his slate-gray eyes. "If you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask."
Shocked down to my pointy-toed shoes, I nearly took him up on it.
This was a new side of Timothy. Who knew the boy could flirt when he put his mind to it?
I was trying on a witty retort when, all of a sudden, I was so drained I could hardly stand up.
He caught me as I swayed and draped a steadying arm around my waist.
“Sorry. I guess I’m more worn-out than I figured.” At least that’s what I meant to say. It came out as an unintelligible mumble.
"It's past time we got you home. It's been a long, long day for you." It had been a long day for him too, but he didn’t seem to mind.
The sun hung low in the sky as we trudged side by side up to his apartment, his strong hold supporting me. The last few steps, my feet didn’t touch the ground. With no effort at all, Timothy lifted me into his arms and carried me into the living room and set me down on the sofa. Sweet, blessed coolness. “You’re dehydrated. Wait here and I’ll get you some juice.”
As if I could move.
After the juice, he held a cool, wet cloth to my forehead. Between the air conditioning, the life-giving drink, and the cooling washcloth, I perked up. The room stopped revolving, and I could breathe again.
Timothy disappeared into the kitchen and, ten minutes later, after some banging and clanging, in wafted the delicious scent of chicken soup. It smelled almost as good as my own special recipe. My mouth watered with anticipation.
He emerged from the kitchen with a tray. “I have chicken noodle soup and some corn chips. You need nourishment.”
Chips were nourishment? This was a nice country. “Thanks.”
Timothy plunked down in the chair next to the couch, muscular legs stretching almost to the middle of the room. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his thick hair. It hit me he’d been worried. Nobody ever worried over me except for Brianna. I made sure they didn’t have to.
Along with the light meal, on the tray, Timothy had placed a jelly jar with a white flower stuck in it. Tears stung and threatened to fall. With a shaky hand, I spooned a mouthful of soup. It was good and hot, just the way I liked it, the chips crisp and salty. After I’d eaten every drop of the soup, and licked the salt from my fingers, I drew my feet up on the couch and rested my head against the back. A cavernous yawn escaped my lips. As I snuggled into the cozy sofa, evening light streamed through the sliding glass doors, illuminating the portraits of Timothy parents. The magnificent paintings sprang to life—his father’s expression stern and imposing—his mother’s smile warm, her liquid, dark brown eyes arresting.
I stood up and inched closer so I could study the artistry. “The portraits are startling in their vibrancy. Such bold strokes. Your father’s face is…unsettling, like he’s holding on to some deep, underlying anger.”
He nodded in agreement.
“On the other hand, your mother is so lovely I can hardly bear it. Who painted them?”
“I did. My father was easy. He’s always angry. My mother’s took more time. I painted her as I remember her.”
“Why didn’t you say you were an artist before? They’re not signed.”
“No, not signed. I paint for myself.”
“Timothy, they’re brilliant. Do you still paint?”
“No. Haven’t for a while. Too much to do.”
I moved back to the couch, keeping silent, hoping he would continue.
He gulped, powerful muscles cording in his neck as he stared at me. His emotions were palpable. He appeared to be deliberating, weighing his options. I waited while he surveyed me, letting him resolve the war within himself. I must have passed the test because he said, “My mom died when I was fifteen. Car accident. She wasn’t wearing her seatbelt.” Voice breaking, he swallowed again, and slowly exhaled. He leaned his elbows on his knees and clenched his fists. “My father was angry at her for leaving us. He never fully recovered.”
Only fifteen. Twenty long years ago. Timothy turned his head and gazed at the portraits, his expression unreadable.
I couldn’t tell which parent held his attention. My instincts said I should go to him. I longed to comfort the motherless teenage boy he’d been.
Did this aloof man either want or need my empathy?
I waited, scarcely daring to breathe, hoping for more. It took a while for him to trust me with his heart, but he finally spoke. “I miss her.”
That was it, but it was enough. He folded in on himself. For an instant, his head tilted up, a mute plea radiating from his eyes.
I slipped off the sofa and embraced him. He didn’t cry, but as he held on to me, his breathing ragged, I had the impression he’d never learned to grieve, or if he had, it hadn’t been enough. Twenty years later, and his raw heart still mourned.
He murmured in my ear, voice so low I could barely make out the words. “Dad said we were never to mention her. After the funeral was over, we didn’t. He…he went through the house and obliterated every trace of her.”
I stroked Timothy’s hair with tenderness, taking pleasure in the silky feel. “Would you tell me about her?” I released a floodgate in him.
We moved to the couch and talked about Timothy’s childhood. When his enigmatic father had been in his early forties, he’d vacationed in Italy. Beautiful Sophia caught his eye and he wooed and pursued her. They had a whirlwind courtship, and a month later, Mr. Flynn had flown home with a bride.
“I never could see what she saw in my dad. It didn’t make sense to me that her passionate Italian spirit was drawn to his cold, uncompromising intelligence.” He paused. “By the time I was old enough to understand, it was apparent my mother was not a priority in my father’s life.”
No doubt, Timothy had gotten his own commonsense way of approaching life from Daddy, i.e. the marriage application—not to mention his polished pewter eyes. What intriguing traits had come fr
om his mom? He’d already shown flashes of fervor and a warm heart.
He stole one of my chips, crunched, and continued. “When I was a kid, I hoped and prayed she would leave him and take me with her. After her death, I couldn’t wait to make tracks and never return. I worked hard in high school, graduated a year early, and escaped to college.”
I didn’t ask how he’d managed to pay back his student loans, or maybe he got a scholarship.
“I figure I ended up in the Philippines for two reasons. The first was a desire I’ve had most of my life—a calling if you will—to help the younger generation. The second is, as you might have noticed, Pacific Rim is about as far away from my father as I could get.”
“How long has it been since you’ve been home?” I’d been curled up in a ball, but I dared to stretch my legs out, barely touching my toes to his thigh. As if he did it every day, Timothy surprised me and pulled my ankles toward him, settling my feet on his lap. Now I had lots of room to stretch out.
“Not since my senior year in college. I remember the exact moment. Christmas break was over, and I was ready to leave. I backed my muscle car out of the driveway and waved goodbye. My father was standing on the front porch, impassive, watching me go with complete indifference. He didn’t wave back. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other.”
No wonder he hadn’t returned. What reason did he have to go home?
“Now it’s your turn. Tell me more about you.” Timothy loosened his collar, and I had the feeling it was a rare day when he loosened anything.
Thanks to the lengthy application, he already knew more about me than some of my lifelong friends. I could be tight-lipped, too. There was no reason to tell the world my private thoughts.
I started with my sisters and expounded on the joys of being the oldest of three girls. I explained how my mother had depended on me and how my dad had waltzed out one day and never returned. No big loss in my book, but Mom was devastated. Sometimes, she didn’t bother to get up. I’d been the one to get Lily and Brianna to school on time with breakfast in their tummies.
When we were both tired of talking, we lowered the lights, switched on an inane comedy in English, popped some buttery popcorn—I was thrilled to see they had popcorn here—and laughed ourselves silly.
~*~
I awoke to an odd soft whiffling sound. The TV was still on, and in the dim light, I could make out Timothy, fast asleep.
He was mostly sitting up with his head resting on the back of the sofa, both arms wrapped around a throw pillow. Out of his mouth came the cutest pseudo-snore, more of a low whistle with deep rumbling notes. Mister Adorable melted my heart.
He must have been wholly exhausted to have allowed himself to drift off while in the same apartment with a woman. He’d be nonplussed when he woke up and discovered his faux pas! It was nice to know he had a human frailty or two.
Quietly, I watched him for a while, in awe of his perfection. I had to admit, I wished his arms were around me rather than that darned cushion!
Tiptoeing to the bedroom, I grabbed the afghan and covered him.
As I spun around to go to bed, I spied something black halfway under the chair. It was a wallet. How had it slipped down there? Or was it even his? Perhaps Danilo or someone else lost it when they were bringing my luggage up.
After a brief flicker of indecision, I flipped it open. He had one credit card—good grief, just one?—two insurance cards, a school ID, and twenty-three dollars. He traveled light. Even his driver’s license picture was flattering.
Other than his middle name was Michael, and he weighed 220 pounds, his wallet afforded a decided lack of personal information, except a flimsy, faded photograph with a creased corner. The picture was of Timothy’s mother, perhaps when she was in her early twenties. She shone a beatific smile at the camera, her long, heavy hair curling around her shoulders. There was pure joy in that smile.
I couldn’t help but grin back, my heart warmed.
At least he’d managed to save one photo.
10
In the morning, Timothy was gone, but there was a note on the kitchen table.
Once again, I’m teaching Dr. Kyun’s theology class. Lunch and shopping after that? If agreeable, meet me in my office at noon.
Timothy
P.S. Thanks for the blanket.
I still wasn’t feeling quite right, so a lazy morning sounded perfect. Sashaying around the apartment in shorts, bare feet, and my hair up in a high ponytail, I made myself at home. At last, there was time to get organized. I’d start by tackling my poor, squished clothing. This whole trip had been a blur, and I was rarely so negligent.
I inspected the closet to find Timothy had pushed his clothing to the back, thus leaving me more than sufficient space for my own. I checked out his shirts and pants. Hmm. More expensive labels than I would have expected, and everything pressed with precision and smelling of sandalwood. I wasn’t surprised at the pristine condition of his clothes. Everyone here of middle-class status or above employed a housekeeper, or so I understood from conversation with him.
After I’d hung up everything that belonged in a closet, I sorted my socks—and why had I brought so many pairs of socks to the tropics?
Timothy had cleared out the top drawer of his dresser for me to use and, since I’d over-packed, I needed the whole space.
How could he be so autocratic and unselfish at the same time? Stilted and thoughtful? Shy and engaging? I suspected the cause to be a remarkable mix of mom and dad, a traumatic childhood, with a pinch of his superior intellect thrown in. Brianna would approve of my astonishing insights.
Sorting completed, I gave the sticky dresser drawer a good tug. It squeaked open, and I started to toss in a few rolls of socks—that is until I noticed the beady-eyed beasty hugging the back corner.
It was hard to tell who was more stunned—the lizard or me. Maybe three inches long, a pale tan color with brown spots, he was a diminutive fellow. For a split second, our eyes locked and then he vanished. I couldn’t remember ever seeing one of God’s precious creatures move so fast. If I hadn’t just peered into those glassy, brown orbs, I might have wondered if I’d dreamed him up.
With everything now in its place, I shifted gears and sat down to paint my toenails a bright, shiny fuchsia. As I primped, I reached down to scratch my ankles yet again. Drat. Three huge red welts and a fourth forming on my elbow. If I ever made it to heaven, one of my first questions to God would be why He’d created mosquitoes.
I’d completed all of my projects, but it was still only eleven. I changed into something pretty, moseyed on down to the religion building, and decided to sit in on Timothy’s theology lecture. He’d invited me to stop in any time, and today was a good day to take him up on it.
I sneaked into the classroom and dropped into a seat in the back row. Within the space of two heartbeats, every head rotated in my direction.
Up at the front, Timothy quaked, amusement written all over his handsome face. “Ladies and gentlemen, please let me introduce our special guest.”
My cheeks flamed, heat climbing all the way up to my ears. I wanted to dissolve through a crack in the floor.
“Shay Callahan has come all the way from the United States to visit us. Let’s please welcome her.” Timothy clapped, and the class followed suit. He threw me another one of his mischievous grins.
After the hubbub died down, he got back to business. “OK, back to one of my favorite theologians. My favorite quote by Paul Tillich is ‘Faith consists in being vitally concerned with that ultimate reality to which I give the symbolical name of God. Whoever reflects earnestly on the meaning of life is on the verge of an act of faith…’”
I squished down in my chair and listened with half an ear.
Timothy was a gifted speaker, energizing the classroom with his commanding personality. The subject matter wasn’t very exciting, but watching the affect he had on the female students captured my interest. Every face enthralled, the women strained for
ward to catch each pearl of wisdom. Timothy held them in the palm of his hand, and he didn’t have the slightest clue.
By the time the class ended, I wished I were one of his students. I would come early to every class, pay strict attention to the subject matter, and stay late to ask questions. I’d focus my full, undivided concentration on the teacher.
Timothy passed out homework assignments at the door as the students filed out, many with reluctance. Then he centered his attention on me. “I was so happy to see you walk in the door. I hope you enjoyed the class discussion.”
“You’re a charismatic teacher.”
He held out a hand and helped me to my feet. “Thanks. I have one more thing to do, and then we can rendezvous at the office and get going on our date. Sound good?”
Timothy and I were dating? It seemed appropriate since we were going to be married. I chuckled at my own joke—married, ha!
As we ambled out of the building, a football hurtled through the air in Timothy’s approximate direction. With a hustle I wouldn’t have expected from such a brawny man, he zoomed off like a 747, launched himself into the air, and floated down with the ball. On nimble feet, he pivoted, firing the football across the campus in a perfect spiral. Who knew the man possessed such a gift?
I called out, “Let me guess. You were a quarterback in college?”
“Yep.”
I’d never seen him play—he was four years older than I—and though I’d gone to most of the games when I was in school, I didn’t know much when it came to football. I was hardly cheerleader material, and I’d had way more fun besting the boys on the skeet shooting team.
The scrimmage resumed without Timothy’s help. He waved and rushed off to yet another pressing task.
Grabbing the opportunity, I wandered around the grounds and absorbed the atmosphere. The campus was compact, but well laid out, each nook and cranny rife with unfamiliar foliage and lush undergrowth. And it wasn’t even the rainy season yet. As I hiked, I searched for geckos. I found three, not quite as fast as Timothy’s, but close. I’d been so busy checking out the scenery, I’d forgotten the time. I shifted into high gear and took off for the Faculty Center. Whoa, whoa, whoa! I stepped on the self-control brakes and continued at a slower pace. I was leaving here next week. It wouldn’t do to seem overeager, even if he was growing on me.