by Mae Respicio
Tatang pulls me close. “Oh, my dear, you are my absolute joy, and my move doesn’t change that a single bit.” He pulls away and looks me in the eye. “Here’s what I’m thinking: Next summer you’ll come visit. And before that we’ll see each other all the time on our screens, too. But right now, we’ll enjoy all of our favorite things here, starting with this beautiful sunset.”
He keeps talking, but I’ve stopped listening.
We’re surrounded by the golden hour, Tatang’s favorite time of day, when pinks and oranges blend and everything’s rimmed in a halo of light.
“Ah, look at that…,” he says.
Like the ocean, the sun never stops. It slips away, but it always comes up again and is something we can forever count on. Walking and sunsets are Tatang’s favorite things. In the moment when the sun says goodbye, he’s still, so I try never to disturb him when he’s watching. I have a lot I want to say to him right now, but even though I’m mad at him, I stop myself.
The sun lowers and people clap or take pictures. Usually we do too.
“The Philippines has beautiful sunsets that we’ll watch together. What do you think?” he says.
“I think you’re being selfish,” I snap. How could he do this to me? The smile lines around his eyes disappear. If he feels bad about this, then I’m glad. He should feel guilty. “I want to go home now.”
The only thing I notice during our walk back is the silence.
* * *
We walk into the house and Mom looks up from the couch. “Hey, you two. How was your stroll?”
Tatang peers at me and I stare down at the floor. I feel so bad now for saying rude things to him when he was trying to help, but I still feel like screaming. Inside my pockets I ball my hands into fists.
Tatang smiles at Mom, then at me. “We had…a good chat. I think I’m going to read, then turn in early.” He plants a kiss on my forehead before going upstairs.
My eyes feel puffy.
“Come here,” Mom says, patting the couch. She drapes her arm around me and squeezes. “Lots of changes happening, huh?”
“We have to make him stay,” I say. “He has to!” I can’t hold it in anymore and start crying again.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom says, rubbing my back until I’m calmer. Then she looks at me. “We can’t make anyone do anything, most especially your great-grandpa. I don’t want him to leave either, but this was inevitable. He always meant to return one day. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, this is what’s best, and your Uncle Roy feels the same. We talked while you were out.”
“But how can you be so sure?”
She holds her hands together tightly, like she’s trying not to let go of something. “I’m not, but Tatang knows what he needs. I trust him.”
“He’s going to miss out on every good thing.”
“I thought about that. But sometimes life shifts, and even though we don’t have an explanation for why, we have to go with the flow and find ways to accept it. This is going to be hard, but we have to respect Tatang’s wishes. Let’s try to be happy for him.”
She holds me close and I catch the sweet, light scent of her sampaguita perfume—Philippine jasmine. Tatang loves telling the story of how the flower grew all around his childhood house, and on his walks home from school the smell of it signaled he was near.
Whenever Tatang speaks of “home” I know he means the Philippines. Mom’s right. It’s his time.
My head keeps pounding, though my hands start to feel calmer.
“I guess.”
“Maybe we can plan a trip to the Philippines next year,” Mom says. I try to smile at her—she smiles back. “In the meantime, I’m planning a big goodbye party. Will you help me with the menu? We can come up with a theme and the guest list….”
Mom rattles off more details—she’s already over it. I wish I could feel the same.
This break is the Worst Summer Ever.
It’s late, and I toss and turn in bed. I wish there was a way I could convince Tatang not to go.
I pull his journal out from under my pillow. Something pokes up from an edge, but I can’t see anything; it’s pitch-black outside.
When I was little I was scared of the dark, but I was even more frightened of the bakunawa, thinking he was in the sky somewhere taking all the Earth’s light. I’d hide under my covers, not wanting to peek out in case the dragon-like creature flew past my window and decided to snatch me, too.
What would really happen if the sun disappeared? How long would humans survive without it? Some scientists think that might actually happen in another five billion years. Scary. But one of Tatang’s favorite lessons he used to teach his students was that humans can adapt. So maybe if the sun disappeared, people would figure out how to live in submarines in warmer parts of the ocean, or else they’d find a new home, like Mars or something.
I reach over and turn on the lamp to see what’s sticking out from the journal—a photo. I shake the pages and it slips out along with a few others, snapshots of my family from before I was born.
I see younger versions of Tatang and Nanang with their children, other photos with their grandkids. There’s one of Mom and Uncle Roy as cute toddlers eating hot dogs at Disneyland, their brown faces popping out in a sea of non-Filipinos.
My gaze lands on an old black-and-white square of Tatang surrounded by aunties and uncles and lolos and lolas, standing in front of lush mango trees near his home in the Philippines, fields all around. It’s bright. Hot and humid. I can tell from the others in the photo who are wearing their summer clothes and tsinelas, or flip-flops. Tatang looks dressed for the opposite weather, in a button-down shirt, slacks, and the shiniest shoes. Back then he didn’t have a collection of colorful sneakers.
Tatang likes telling me the story of how hard he worked for his first pair of nice loafers, which he bought at a fancy store in Manila with money from his first teaching job. He got those dressy shoes and his first pair of high-tops—in bright red.
I turn the picture over. On the back in his neat handwriting it says:
Start new adventure! Make family proud!
This is of him getting ready to leave one country for another.
Nanang and Tatang were scared to start their new life, but they figured it out—and they did it for me, Toby, and Lainey. That’s what he always says. Whenever I get nervous about anything at all, he shares the memory of the day he and Nanang left the Philippines. On the plane they squeezed each other’s hands and watched the view of the ocean turn into a sea of clouds. Up there he felt small. The world looked so big.
Another picture stands out: it’s of a young Tatang in his army uniform, wearing thick boots. He’s standing in front of a painted backdrop of trees and staring off somewhere with a solemn look.
Tatang has told me every Filipino monster story he knows, but he’s never shared much about his days as a soldier in World War II.
I study the image for a long time. Tatang looks so young and vibrant, with the same determined eyes.
Sometimes I worry about him getting older and the thought creeps in that he won’t be around forever.
If going back to his home country is what he wants in his life right now—a man in his nineties—why would I try to stop him, especially after all he’s done to give me the best life?
I tuck the photos back into the journal and bring it with me into the dark hallway, where Tatang’s snores vibrate. He has a way of filling a space no matter what he’s doing. Normally I hate his snoring—sometimes it keeps me awake—but I’d take that over him saying goodbye.
Kaia, where are your feet?
I try to feel them bare and flat against the carpet, padding downstairs until they reach the ping of cold tile.
When we’re outdoors, Tatang and I like to slip our shoes off and let our soles touch the earth—gra
ss, dirt, or cement—trying to connect to something bigger than ourselves.
In the kitchen I flip on more lights, grab an apple, and plant myself on a stool. I leaf through pages of Tatang’s precise handwriting before I stop on his to-do list.
My chicken scratches on the chalkboard aren’t too different from what he’s written. I learned to make lists from him. Figure out what you need, stick to your decision, write it down, get it done. He came to California with only his dreams and made them all happen this way.
Next to my list is Mom’s calendar, full of notes. There’s one date she’s circled in red: TATANG’S LAST DAY.
It finally hits me: He’s leaving.
He’ll fly out on a red-eye and wake up in his homeland. He’ll take off his shoes to feel connected to the one place that makes up every part of who he is, and no one’s changing his mind, not me, not even Lainey.
My great-grandfather spent his life helping his family and all of his students. Maybe I don’t want him to go, but he deserves our help now.
I crunch into my apple and stare at the dark windows; I imagine ocean foam dissolving into sand.
Suddenly I’m grabbing a stick of chalk, scanning Tatang’s list, and mixing his to-dos with mine on the wall. And not the boring ones like “Pack,” but ones like “Take many sunset strolls” and definitely “Watch solar eclipse.” If he wants a proper send-off that’s what he’ll get. We’ll start with this list.
I’ll have to break the news to Trey and Abby about Tatang leaving. They’ll be sad too, but at least we’ll have the film contest to keep us busy. All we need now is a good idea for it. But what?
Tatang’s journal has a chunk of empty pages. I take a pen and start drawing whatever pops into my head—Dad calls this “stream of consciousness,” when you doodle or write the first thing that you think of. Sometimes we do it together. Right now I have monsters on my mind—Filipino ones, from Tatang’s stories. All my favorite characters are from the tales Tatang likes to tell me whenever I need cheering up.
First I sketch the bakunawa with slithering curves and mischievous eyes, gliding through the sky past suns and moons. He has a rascally smile on his face. I also sketch the siyokoy, part man and part fish; a sirena, a Filipina mermaid; and the tiyanak, a Philippine vampire that takes on the form of the cutest little baby, who cries in the jungle to attract gullible travelers before eating them.
A whole hour later I’ve filled in a few blank pages.
Hmmm.
I’ll give Tatang what he wants—a spectacular send-off—by making him proud of me. I’m about to start my own adventure.
And there’s the spark I needed. Thank you, Psychic Cat, for getting the ball rolling.
I have one last thing to add to my list. In big, bold letters I write:
Win Beach Season.
* * *
Upstairs a thin sliver of light cuts under Tatang’s bedroom door. It’s open slightly, so I push it in.
He’s sitting on the bed, his back to me.
“You’re up too?” I say. He doesn’t reply. “You need anything? Some water?”
Silence. Then I realize Tatang is meditating, hands on his knees, palms up, receiving peace. I try to tiptoe out but he grabs my arm and yanks me near.
“Like this,” he says, going back into his pose.
Meditation is all about awareness. I copy him and try to focus on sounds coming through the window—a dog barking, music from a car driving by. But my thoughts scatter: How many new Hawaiian shirts did Tatang bring back? What time is it where Lainey is? Can my friends and I really make a movie good enough to get into the film festival?
That’s the hard part about meditating: not letting your mind wander.
He clasps his hands into his lap and turns to me. “How’d you do?”
“Tatang…” I have trouble finding my words, but I know my great-grandpa deserves to hear this. “I’m sorry for earlier. I said some mean things, but I was mad at your news, not at you.”
“I know, anak. Are you still feeling that way?”
“Not as much.” Luckily. “But…yeah.”
He points to the window. “I can barely see the moon. The bakunawa’s been busy—and hungry.”
He’s right. Tonight the moon’s thin.
The first time I heard Tatang’s bakunawa story was from under a fort blanket with all the lights off except for a flashlight.
“What’s the scariest Filipino monster that ever existed?” Lainey asked him then.
“Let me think about this one,” Tatang said. “Okay, ladies, one moment.”
He turned slowly so we could see only his back, but he whipped around, flicked the flashlight on under his chin, pulled out his dentures, and gave us his scariest monster face.
“This one!” he shouted.
My sister and I screamed and howled.
“What’s going on in there?” Mom asked through the door, but that only made us holler more.
Lainey and I won’t have any time with just the three of us before Tatang leaves. I hadn’t thought of that.
My gaze goes from the window to the wall in front of me, where Tatang’s life hangs in little wooden frames: Nanang in a white nursing uniform on her first day of work in a new country. My parents on their wedding day, barefoot on a beach in Hawaii surrounded by their closest friends and family. Mom next to a giant bear sculpture on campus on her first day teaching college—so young, like a student herself.
There are more recent pictures, too: the sweetest, teeniest Toby wearing a fuzzy hat with ears the day he was born, and one of me and Lainey at the top of Griffith Park Observatory with the Hollywood sign behind us. Tatang brought us there, but he’s not in the picture because he snapped the shot.
“Do you already have your plane tickets?” I ask.
He nods. “I have so much to do…organizing, packing, saying my see-you-soons…,” he says. “Anyway, it’s late, anak. Get to bed before the sun comes up.”
Tatang’s wall of photos stares at me, so many of his happiest moments spread out like a time line. And I notice something else: none of these pictures has him in them, just the people he loves. He’s spent his whole life taking care of us.
I focus on my feet tapping the carpet. “Tatang…I don’t want you to go…but I know it’s your time,” I say softly.
Our eyes meet. His shine. “You are quite remarkable, my dear.”
The sadness in my chest feels lighter. His words give me a boost, and suddenly all I can think about is the goodbye gift I’ll give him when we win that contest.
Get started. Now.
Trey, Abby, and I sit in the courtyard at camp during lunch next to a fairy-tale jacaranda tree covered in fluffy lavender blooms. These trees aren’t from LA, they were planted for their beauty. I always think of them the way I think of Tatang—that they came from someplace else but now they belong here.
We lay out our snacks to share and I unpack a purple cupcake from my lunch bag. Ube-flavored—Filipino purple yam. Uncle baked it. He wants to add Filipino flavors to more desserts, and I love this one the most. He says ube is sweet, rich, and unique, a little like our family.
Trey grabs the hand sanitizer hanging from his backpack and douses his palms. He’s always careful about germs.
His eyes light up. “Is that what I think it is? Can I have a bite?”
I wave the ube cupcake in front of his face to tantalize his taste buds. “Not yet.”
“Guys, some concentration, please?” Abby says. She’s wearing a red bandana to hold her hair back, a T-shirt, and jeans. Her bandana reminds me of a poster in her room that says We Can Do It! It’s the World War II image of Rosie the Riveter, the woman who could take on any man’s job. Abby also has a pencil tucked behind her ear, her favorite look for keeping us on task.
Abby puts a large sheet of p
oster board onto an easel. She starts writing and crossing things off. Three other boards full of scribbled-out ideas lie on the ground.
Trey and Abby brainstorm while I nibble on the cupcake and wonder: How am I going to tell them about Tatang?
“Okay, crew, let’s start from the top and see if we can pick one,” Abby says, reading down our list:
• On the morning of the brightest sun, a giant mutant robot piranha terrorizes all seventh graders on Earth, starting with an unsuspecting middle school in Santa Monica. It’s Jaws meets middle school…only not a shark!!!!!
• A thirteen-year-old diver discovers gold treasure beneath the sea, but the treasure’s haunted—and now he’s being hunted!!!!!
• A group of half-kids, half-birds crashes onto a tropical island, where they must survive with only a harmonica, a banjo, a bag of gummy worms…and a kid-bird-eating alien octopus!!!!!
Abby caps her pen and taps it to her lips. She’s a Libra, so her star sign is the scales; she likes to weigh things out before she makes a decision. It can take her days to decide on something, like what book to write a report on or what funny thing to say in the video birthday card we make Trey each year.
I cross my fingers behind my back. Please don’t take forever on this.
“Ready…feedback…and go!” Abby yells.
“No, no, and no,” Trey says.
“Specifics, please,” Abby says.
“There’s no ‘wow’ factor.” When Trey says wow, he holds up three fingers on each hand in front of his mouth so that his fingers form Ws and his mouth forms an O. He’s a Taurus. Heart in the right place but doesn’t mind arguing.
“Then what would wow everyone?” Abby asks.
“Beats me,” he says.
“You can’t say you don’t like our pitches but then not give other suggestions. That’s the first rule of artistic criticism. Give me something I can work with, something concrete.” Abby folds her arms. I’m glad she’s taking this seriously; that will lead us to snagging one of the festival spots.