“Oh. Haha.”
She motioned to the barber chair. “Come, sit. Did you come for a haircut?” She moved closer to me. “Your hair is beautiful, thick and light like the foam. It matches your eyes which are so blue like the ocean.”
“Thank you.”
She took a comb and began to part my hair.
“No, sorry.” I turned the chair away from her. “I didn’t come for a haircut.”
“Let me do your eyebrows then,” she said, touching my face and running her fingers above my eyes. “I can just shape them since it’s been a while.”
“Sure.” I giggled. “It has been six weeks.”
Diana bent down and opened up her supply cart. There were plastic bins on wheels located right under the mirror. She pulled out some tweezers and placed a drop of lotion on her fingers before smoothing it over my face. For a while, I thought she was going to pluck the hair on my cheeks. No idea why she wouldn’t have just lotioned my eyebrows.
She spoke under her breath, her face close to mine, her lips almost touching my nose. “How long have you and Roman been married?”
“Not long,” I muttered back, careful not to breathe on her either.
“Why did you choose to move here? Of all places, there are more accessible and developed resorts around us.”
When you’re living a lie, you’d better be ready to cover it up with more lies. “We came over on a private tour and just loved it here. Roman and I have had very hectic careers—our jobs had consumed our lives recently. So we went on sabbatical and decided to find a place where we could disengage from the world a little bit.”
You’re rambling, Carin.
“Newlyweds. Your husband is working so hard on your new home. I can see how much he loves you.”
“He does. I am very lucky.”
“Yes. But he’s lucky too. And it’s funny because the people in town call you Ken and Barbie.”
“Ken and Barbie?” I laughed.
“You know—the perfect dolls.”
“We are far from perfect!”
“The women have a mad crush on your husband. They think he is an actor. And the men say you look like Miss Universe.”
“Hardly!”
“Are you adjusting to this place?” she asked, grabbing a tiny pair of scissors and cutting the edges around the space between my eyes.
“Yes, I am, thank you. Roman and I are so happy to be here.”
“That’s good,” she said, putting her tweezers and scissors away. She sprayed a soothing liquid on my forehead while shielding my eyes. “We are done! Now your beautiful eyes will stand out more.”
She busied herself once again, taking a towel to wipe down the chairs.
“Actually, I’m here to ask you for a favor.” I kept my tone low, afraid you could walk into her salon at any time. Highly improbable but the guilt I felt made everything possible.
“Oh?” She sat on the seat next to me, her legs hanging in the air, away from the ground. Slowly, she leaned over, tilted her head, as if offering me her left ear.
I leaned back. “I would like to send a letter out, but I don’t have any stamps or stationery.”
“To write to your family?” she asked, standing and making her way toward the front counter. “I have some paper here. Mang Inog next door has stamps, and he goes to the post office once a week.”
Diana handed me a pen and a yellow-lined pad of paper. She then placed an envelope on the counter by the mirror.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I also have a cellphone. Would you like to call them instead?”
I averted her gaze and darted my eyes between the pen and the fingers that held it. “No, I ...”
I paused, carefully choosing my words. People who lie always have to slow down their words, pace the stories they make up, convince themselves first before anyone else.
“I have so much to say to my sister. We weren’t on good terms when I left.”
“Oh, I see.” And then she moved around. “I have to clean up before the children come back from helping their grandfather in the fields. Take your time to write your letter. When you are finished, we can walk next door to get some stamps.”
“Thank you, Diana.” I shielded the paper by hunching forward before addressing the envelope.
“You’re welcome,” she answered. And then, “Julia?”
No one but you called me by that name. It was still unfamiliar to me, a stranger’s name. I missed the cue to answer.
“Julia?” she stressed, this time louder.
Julia. That’s me. I’m Julia. “Oh, yes! Yes!” I responded, kicking myself for not paying more attention.
“If you need anything else, let me know.”
Chapter Thirty
Short
Two weeks turned to six weeks and six weeks turned to two months. We led an idyllic kind of life. The repairs on our home had settled, and we had time on our hands. We finally made it outside of the island to the neighboring province. They had shops; they had stores; they had groceries.
Civilization was closer than we thought. When you applied for a teaching job at the small university, they accepted you right away.
“That’s great!” I clapped when you told me the news. I accompanied you for an interview, shopped while you met with them for two hours.
“It’s a small job, teaching business to freshmen students. It won’t pay us much—just three thousand a year, which in their standards is quite a bit of money. That will go a long way in this place.”
“I wonder if I can come in with you on some days, take more art classes. You know, I did have some of my work displayed at the local gallery when I was in college.”
You gently stroked my arm. “Carin, baby. Too risky.”
“What’s risky?”
“You and I in that province. There’s a direct link to the mainland. I’d rather you stayed close to our home. Maybe find a day job there?”
I shrugged, slung the shopping bag over the wooden boat and climbed in.
For a dollar a day, we found a fisherman willing to transport you across the water to your new job. I thought of it like the daily train pass or the daily parking fee I paid in Chicago. How often did one get to cross the beautiful Pacific Ocean, let alone daily, as a job perk?
We were blessed.
Despite the pain we caused the universe, blessings continued to abound. I hoped that it wasn’t at the price of something else.
The first week you started your job, I made you a list of art materials to purchase for me.
You brought them home excitedly, telling me what the lady at the bookstore recommended, carrying not one but three square canvases, your laptop bag filled to the brim with oil paints, charcoal pencils and cray-pas.
You made me an easel out of bamboo, set it up on the porch, bought a used CD player and restarted your music collection. I began to fill my days with art, drawing and painting most of the time.
I started to write about my days without you. I wanted to remember them and read them back to you. And because I lived my days in color, I drew for you the different shades I saw every day. I painted the clouds and the sky, the ocean, the seashells. I wanted you to see how deep the color gray was when you left for your job, covering the sky, peppered with stars and blurred out by the early morning mist. I wanted you to see how the sun turned bold red as you rode the Bangka back home, skating across the water, in a hurry to retire for the day.
On the first Friday of your first week, I sat on our porch with my back toward the sun, finishing up a painting I’d started on Monday. Summer was slowly fading away, and although the breezes were still hot as an oven, I noticed more shade than light. I twisted the brush in my left hand, making circles of different depths, trying to mold my strokes into churning clouds. Afterward, I took the charcoal crayon and began to introduce the different hues of the sky, always changing, reflecting back the light from the sea. My fingers were covered in paint, colors bleeding into my nails. I had an hou
r to clean up, soak my fingers in turpentine before getting started with dinner.
“Excuse me?” I heard you say. “What are you doing in my house? Where is my wife?”
I turned around to face you. You continued to stare, eyes squinted but unblinking.
“Matias, it’s me.” I looked to the ground, apprehensive about what I’d done. I rifled my fingers through my hair over and over, nervous and unsure.
Slowly, you walked up the steps until you stood inches away from me. “Your hair, it’s brown.”
“Yes.”
“You dyed it? And cut it short.” You towered above me and I remained seated. You touched my hair, tracing the strands until you reached my neck. It felt cold and exposed.
“Diana did. I went to see her today.”
You offered me your hand. “Come.”
You sat on the stoop, the top step of our porch and placed me on your lap. I left a palm print on the wooden floor as I leaned down for balance and swung a leg over your knees to face you. The paint was still on my hands.
“You hate it.”
“No, on the contrary, I love it. It suits your face, this short hair. Shows off your cheekbones.” You grazed your fingers across my face.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked. “You’re early.”
“Fridays are apparently half days,” you answered. “And I’m having a great day now. What made you do it? Cut your hair.”
“Well,” I said, smiling, “everything is so new for us. I wanted to have new hair, too.”
“Carin—”
“Julia,” I countered, swiping a trail of blue paint down your nose, across your cheek, leaving a trail of blue lines on your face.
“Julia,” you whispered.
“Do you know what Julia likes to do?” I pulled the hem of your shirt up and over your head then trailed kisses down your neck to your chest, to your abdomen. I unbuttoned your jeans with my other hand, paint getting all over your skin.
You laughed. “These were my only clean pair of jeans.”
I grinned when you leaned back on your elbows and arched your body upward, allowing me to slip them off.
“What does Julia—” You gasped as I enclosed my mouth around you.
“You.”
You held my head down with both hands, keeping a cadence with the movement of my mouth. You were too large, too thick, my hands made up for what my mouth could not cover.
“Julia, Julia,” you moaned. “I’m going to come. Sit on me.”
Not that day. That day, I craved your taste. I desired to drink you in, quench my thirst for you.
“Come, Matias,” I said, moving my hand up and down, keeping my mouth on you, taking you all the way in. You shook and shuddered as you met your release. It took a few seconds for you to recover, and I held you until you did.
A loud, rickety truck stopped right in front of our home. You were at work. I stood outside on the porch, a water can in hand. Music played in the background and I sang along.
“Delivery, miss.” An elderly gentleman shuffled slowly from the driver’s seat to the back of the truck.
“What is it?” I asked happily, so sure it was something you had purchased from the village.
I followed him to the truck and peered in the flatbed, excited to find another piece of furniture, some groceries, something from the world outside of ours.
Instead, I fell back in horror.
“Mom! I found you!”
“Charlie!” I screamed. “Charlie!”
“Carin!” you exclaimed, holding me down as I thrashed my arms and rolled around the bed. “Baby, it’s okay. Carin!”
“Charlie!” I cried. “He was here! I saw him!” I was hysterical, out of breath. Sounds emerged from me, piercing and painful shrieks I’d never heard before. “Matias, Charlie was here!”
“No, no,” you said, enclosing me in your arms, holding my head firmly against you. “You had a bad dream. No one is here, but me.”
I sobbed into your chest. “Oh, Matias. I miss him so much. I miss my Charlie!”
You didn’t say a word. I felt you tighten your hold on me, but you stayed silent. You gave me time to process it all. You knew this would eventually come. That the guilt I felt over what I’d done would inevitably catch up with me.
In time, you released me and ran from the room, just as my sobs subsided into hiccups. I sat on the bed with my arms wrapped around my knees.
“Here,” you said, handing me a glass of water.
“I don’t know how long I can take it.”
“So you’ve been feeling this way for a while? How long?”
“I’ve missed him since the day I left.”
“Of course, I knew that. But this bad?”
I gulped down a mouthful of water. “What could you have done?”
You fluttered your eyes, opened your mouth to say something, and then changed your mind.
I placed the glass on the night table and stood.
“Where are you going?” you asked, your eyes still laden with sleep, your voice weary. You watched me pull on a sweatshirt and slip on a pair of shorts.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Just need some time alone.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Breakfast
I walked for miles, starting out along the shore, illuminated only by the lightweight flashlight I held. The sand looked gold, touched by the water and packed tightly like cement. Flying fish and silvery crabs sparkled in the moonlight—the tide was still high, leaving only a nick of room between the upper bank and the water.
You were right. Once we returned, I would devote my life to making it right with those I’d hurt. There would be no room for you in my life. I finally understood why we were both desperate to buy some time.
Pretty soon, the path led me into town, curving to the right, the softness under my feet turning into rubble and stone. It was 4:00 in the morning and the lone lamppost was working overtime. In the dimness, I could see candles in the windows, clotheslines, bicycles parked along the road.
I walked on, lost in the sound of the crunching gravel. I knew my way around. Five hundred feet away was the rotunda that led to the plaza that led to the church. Shanties and storefronts lined the perimeter, their windows shuttered with metal bars affixed to the ground. Diana’s beauty shop stuck out like a sore thumb. It was the only one with a neon sign and a door. Even the post office looked like a wooden box. Electric lines hung lazily along crooked, wobbly wooden posts like unstrung Christmas lights.
As I reached the rotunda, someone called out to me. “Julia!”
I turned around and saw a little figure standing in the alley next to Diana’s store.
“Psst. Julia!” she hissed. “It’s me! Diana.”
I traced my steps backward and approached her. She wore a duster with a cat print on it, loose and flowing. Next to her was an open window with candles on the sill. “What are you doing all the way here?” she asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I answered, a sheepish grin on my face. “I’m going back home now.”
She eyed the top of my head. “Did Roman like your hair?”
“Yes, he loved it.”
A little boy appeared from under her nightgown while a little girl peered from behind the door.
“We’re about to have breakfast. Come! Join us.”
“No, thank you,” I declined. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“No bother!” She swatted a hand in the air. “Ariel left for the mainland. The kids and I are heading out for errands soon.”
I smiled and allowed her to lead me inside. It was a tiny home, cozy, neat but scarcely furnished. Full of warmth and welcome. I felt it. Like a soft blanket that wrapped you in safety and security. There were no pretenses, no hidden agendas. A couch was for sitting, the table was for eating. Every function served without pretension. Hardly the kind of living I was used to. Our home in Chicago had furniture we couldn’t even use, antique benches so brittle we couldn’t sit on them. I
liked this simplicity. It felt like the home we had, you and I, and I was comforted by it.
Diana carried the little boy on her hip and held the little girl by the hand.
“Sit.”
I guessed that was directed at the children. They obeyed willingly, climbing into two booster seats while she walked to the stove, pulled out some cups and saucers and turned on the burner to heat up a kettle.
A younger woman, probably in her twenties, stood with her hand on the handle of a frying pan. She hurried around Diana, taking over the cooking while her employer peeled fruit for the children. I played with the little boy, gave him my flashlight, turned it on and off while he broke into fits of laughter.
In a few minutes, we sat at the table laden with rice and sweet meat and fried eggs. The woman had taken the children upstairs. Diana ate with her fingers, while I politely declined anything more than a hot, steaming cup of dark brewed coffee.
You loved our weekend breakfasts, and I wanted to be able to have a meal with you.
“Are you okay, Julia?” Diana began.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, taking a sip of my coffee. “I really just couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s a pretty far walk. What is it, five miles?”
“Something like that.” I laughed. “Now I’m actually exhausted. I should get going soon.”
“Julia? I hope we can find more time to get to know each other,” she said. “I’m not sure if you know this, but Ariel and I have only been here for a year.”
“Oh? Where did you used to live?”
“Long story.” She grinned. “Maybe too long for this breakfast.” She grabbed my gaze as I lifted my eyes from the table. “You have a long story too, huh?”
I nodded. No words for strangers at this point.
“We do the craziest things for love, don’t we?”
I stood, making sure my eyes never left the floor. “I really have to get going. Thank you so much for the coffee and the hospitality. Your home is so welcoming, your children are beautiful.”
I couldn’t wait to get home to you, tell you how much I loved you, how perfect life was with you.
The Year I Left Page 15