Visitations

October 30 2008

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I come home and see a scapular hanging on the doorknob of the room where Sister, Brother-In-Law, and the children were asleep.

I ask, “Why is that there?”

Father says that Sister could smell candles the other night.

He smelled it, too.

I ask, “Lolo? Or Papa?”

Father says that it’s probably Lolo.

I say, “She’s more sensitive to his presence anyway.”

I laugh, “What could he want to say this time?”

Father says that before he left, he would hear Lola saying Sari na si Kulasito? Sini pa sana ku subagu.

I say, “Her time is near then. Or is it Lolo reminding her?”

Father says, “Ka undas, migparamrag ako sadto kamposanto.”

Father wants to sit in vigil for Lolo in the cemetery on the day of the dead and souls.

I think, Lolo’s soul is not at peace.

+

We are going to Santiago. I always ask Mother and Sisters, What is Santiago in English? And they always answer, St. James.

Father says while we are eating breakfast, “You go on without me.”

I nod and think, He’s cranky again.

I say to the yaya after to get one of the sundangs and place it in the van.

I say, “Dad, can I borrow the cane?”

I remember, Joey bought me a cane when I couldn’t walk. Dad bought me a cane, too. Its twin cane he gave to Mama.

I count while swinging the cane to hit ears, eyes, knees, stomach, head.

I think, The guns are not here.

Sister teases me about the long knife and the cane.

Father doesn’t say anything.

I laugh.

Father gently asks, “You’re going?”

I smile, I thought you forgot to ask.

I say, “Sure. Don’t worry about it. We’ll be back before 5 and you and I will go to Mass. We’ll have dinner out after, okay? There’s food there, don’t forget to eat lunch.”

My third returning to Santiago in eight years: last year I had said to Ate, Don’t you dare pull dead hair off me and leave them here. I don’t want to leave anything here.

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Just before that sloping road into the bridge built by the Americans--- and that survived the War--- there is a church: Immaculate Conception.

Outside the church, there is a tall, wide Acacia tree.

Old.

On some nights, there are three bodies hanging from its branches: two men and a woman.

Nobody told me yet I knew that they were killed during the War.

The last time I saw them was in 1989, on the first night of Grandfather’s wake.

+

We arrive in Santiago and Brother’s once-yaya, our Ate Diday, fusses over us---- preparing lunch in between talking and laughing about news and spoiling the children. I smile, remembering, Ate Diday was too impatient to read to me that’s why I started reading at three years old.

I ask, “Where’s Auntie Kuring?”

Her mother: Brother’s original yaya and our housekeeper when we still lived in San Roque; the caretaker of Santiago for many years now. They were living by the railroad when Father found them and then took them in after.

I always ask, What is San Roque in English? I would be answered, Saint Rogue. Then I say, What kind of a name for a saint is that? Who the heck is that saint anyway? I would be answered with a laugh, You’re not relihiyosa na kasi. I would answer, Got that right.

Ate Diday says, “Nagsamba.”

I think, Right, you’re Inglesia ni Cristo.

Ate Diday says, “Inukag ngani kadto ining mga igin ku last na bisita nera.”

Auntie Kuring had massaged the children the last time they visited. She has given us healing massages since we were children.

I say, “Amo ngani. Ako man kintana migpaukag ta ini bagang matres ko laka tustos.”

Ate Diday laughs, “Ya, kuno na baya kamo migpakasal ni Joey?”

I laugh, “Kung kuno. Mig abot na sana yan. Ikaw? Balita ko may boyfriend ka?”

Ate Diday laughs the same laugh since she was a teenager, Marriage and children will just come.

I ask after Tata ‘Ulyan. It’s said that Tata ‘Ulyan’s mother kept on looking at the turkey, the pabo we called it, while she was pregnant with him. He was born with a big sac hanging from his nose bridge. People could tease him about the sac but never about the sundang he always wore strapped with a hemp rope around his waist. He always kept it sharp and it could cut paper. Tata ‘Ulyan worked on Grandfather’s land.

Ate Diday says that Tata ‘Ulyan is dead.

I say, “Ah…I know Iyay is dead. I never got to see her again.”

Pilar--- that was Iyay’s name. She was Mother and her sibling’s yaya. Mother cried when she died.

I re-tell a story which makes them laugh:

Iyay didn’t want us to swim in the river because it just rained. We went anyway, just to watch the river, we said. Then we started splashing water on each other so might as well swim. When we came back to the house wet, she screamed, “Mga masimut kamo! Sabut ninyo ta basa na kamu di ta na kamo pupukulun?!” Yep, she whipped our asses. Walang lusot sa matandang yun.

Sister laughs, “Now, Auntie Kuring is a konsentedora. So that we can swim, she washes the laundry in the river. Even when she’s done she lets us take our time swimming.”

I say, “Ate Diday, one of these days I’ll write a story for you.”

Father and Mother sent Ate Diday to college. She’s been serving as Mother’s family assistant since then. She’s now 40 years old, a widow for many years, and manages Mama’s affairs. She makes sure we get our share of rice, of what love could be given.

I say, “Ate Diday, when Mama dies, you can all go your way. Abelo shouldn’t serve the family.”

Her son. He’s now in college in Bicol University. He likes Math and wants to be an engineer.

I think, We’re still fucking feudal.

+

I say to Grandmother and smile, “Inta Mama? You look good, still strong.”

Grandmother laughs, “Inta Igin?” then tells me, You’re all good children, not lovesick like the others, your Mother and Father are lucky.

I laugh, “Well, they reared us well Mama. They were strict but very supportive of what we wanted to do and needed. Dance lessons, music lessons, sports, books… All on their own. No help from any of you, from both sides of the family. Taught us to work hard.”

I look at Grandmother, That drew blood, satisfied.

I tell Grandmother news about the family, all good.

Grandmother says, “You should go to the States.”

I say, “One of these months. I’ll come for a visit, see Mommy. Maybe with Joey.”

I think, Yeah, Toto will likely take me dancing.

Grandmother says, “It’s good you’re taking your time before marrying. Salamat sa Dios Joey understands you. Mabuut yan boyfriend mo. We can all see he loves you.”

I say, “He is. He does, Mama. He doesn’t like it when I’m away from him for too long, gets short-tempered.”

Grandmother laughs and I tease, “Oh di ba? I’m an adult now. I can’t be sent outside of the room when the adults are talking!”

Grandmother laughs some more as we talk and then I assist Grandmother from the chair: her body now stooped into an S.

I ask, “Mama, how old are you now?”

Grandmother answers, “84. Next year they’re all coming home from the States for my birthday, a reunion.”

I think, Who knows if this time I’m going.

I smile, I hope my twin comes home to me.

I say, “I hope Toto comes. I always think that he’s just several hours older than I am instead of a day. He looked for me in 2004, did you know? Spent a day with me and Joey in Manila, just before his flight back to the States… He said later he’d give anything just to watch me teach inside a classroom.”

I remember, Ate said Toto had been looking for me the whole time. “Where’s my twin? Where’s my twin? Where’s Maya?” he kept on saying. Nobody would tell him why I wasn’t there. When he got out of the airport, he said “I just knew who you were in that crowd!” I had laughed, “Considering the last time we saw each other was 1989. And I just about reach your chin now? How dare you get so much taller!” Toto had listened to me, hugged me, and held my hand that whole day. He kept on teasing me about my quirky shoes: pointy sneakers with heels. We were looking for Coach bags for his Cuban girlfriend. I gave him an Abaca bag instead.

I smile, He had crashed his car in college in California because he was drunk-- just like me-- and a self-professed social asshole when it comes to emails, too. Que guapo ng kambal ko.

We eat lunch-- Ampalaya with fish eggs, fried Tilapia, Sinigang na Baboy, boiled peanuts, red egg and tomato salad, rice—while we talk and laugh some more. After lunch, Grandmother tells me, “Tell me about your siblings again.”

I remind Grandmother their names, nicknames, what they are called now, jobs, what they have achieved, what they want to do with their lives.

After, I almost carry Grandmother from her chair and guided her into her bedroom, onto her bed.

I say as I tuck the two white towels around her legs and feet, “I remember when I would sleep beside you Mama, always just below your shoulders. You said that the young are not supposed to sleep on the same pillow as the old.”

Grandmother smiles and I smile, A long time ago when I loved you.

I laugh as I place her walker beside the bed, “Mommy knows that the saddest time for me is siesta. 1-3 pm. It’s damn lonely whenever I look outside at those times. Maybe that’s why we all go to sleep for siesta.”

Grandmother laughs, says, “Your Dad gave me that.”

That was a portable urinal, a chair where she could sit and pee. Ate Diday comes in and takes away the bucket underneath. We used to have those in this house, irinola, where we can pee in the bedrooms upstairs at nights so that we didn’t have to go to the comfort room downstairs.

I say as I pat her leg, “Nap muna Mama. We’ll still be here when you wake up. Rest.”

Grandmother says, “Thank you, Igin.”

I leave her bedroom.

+

Outside, I point out to Brother-In-Law, There used to be an Indian Mango tree there. There used to be daisies here. There used to be a tree with a swing for the children. We have pictures…Papa whipped our asses when we stole mangoes from the other’s yard, with a bugtong.

Brother-In-Law asks, “Ate, yun manipis ba yun na kawayan?”

I say, “Oo, panghataw sa kalabaw.”

Brother-In-Law has never been to a bukal.

Brother-In-Law asks, “Ate, ano yun bukal? Parang batis?”

I answer, “Oo, pero yun tubig galing sa isang crack sa bundok. Malamig. Last time kaming pumunta sa bukal, after Christmas nung 2006. Pero di kami naligo. Mabuti yan na yun mga bata nakakapunta dito.”

I tell Sister to take him there.

Sister says, “Abu, maibanan pa ko!”

I tell her to just say Tabi apo, “They know that you mean no harm and they won’t come with you.” They know you’re of this land’s blood.

Sister takes him there, accompanied by Abelo and Myka. Myka is the daughter of Kuya Peter, Ate Diday’s youngest sibling who served as our houseboy for a time, even when we moved to Naga.

I ask Ate Diday as I smoke, “Whatever happened to Kuya Jerry? Manoy Aurelio?”

Both served as Santiago houseboys, too, and pinboys first in the bowling lanes in San Roque. Kuya Jerry taught me how to swim in the bukal and how to butcher with the knife. He taught me the reality of pain more than two decades ago as he had pressed the knife to my calf, feel that, know it, so that you don’t flinch every time you cut this into a chicken or a pig, he had said and I had nodded.

I say to Ate Diday, “I took Joey to the bukal ten years ago. Mama was in the States at that time. Only Auntie Kuring was here.”

Then I laugh, “We swam fully clothed. We went home wearing our wet clothes and Auntie Kuring was very worried that we might get sick.”

I feel my stomach object, My body is rejecting food and water from here.

I say, “Wait, sumakit tiyan ko. I have to go to the CR.”

Ate Diday says, “Nagdedesmenoreya pa rin ika Igin? Pakuluan tay ka sa Lakad-Bulan.”

Mother used to have Chang--- our housekeeper for almost two decades now--- boil Lakad-Bulan leaves on water and would make me drink this brew when I was in high school and had my period. Two of Chang’s daughters went to the same high school I did and it always made me uncomfortable when they would offer to carry my bag for me or when they would bow their heads a little whenever they saw me. When my classmates would see Chang bringing home-cooked lunch for me and I would ask her hand for a mano, they would ask Your Lola? And I would proudly say, Yeah.

I obediently drink the brew Ate Diday prepared after.

Ate Diday goes around, even going into the family’s nearest adjacent land we always called the piggery but now empty of pigs, getting bananas, coconuts--- whatever we could bring with us back home. The two dogs--- from us--- were following her around.

I ask, “How much is a pig nowadays?”

Ate Diday answers, “Ten thousand, Igin,” then laughs at the dogs, “Pirmi ko kining sinusundan.”

I laugh and pat the dogs we gave Santiago, “They’re good dogs. One of these days we’ll give you cats. They’ll guard you from the things you and the dogs don’t see.”

I say, “I want Makopa, Bala-igang… but I know it’s not the season for those.”

I stay in the dirty kitchen and write.

Ate Diday asks, “So, how is it when you’re writing?”

I mumble my answer, “I forget everything and even get sick.”

Ate Diday leaves me alone to write.

+

They’re back and we’re back in the dining room.

I hear running feet on the wooden floorboard upstairs.

I stand by the stairs and call out to my niece, “Don’t go running around upstairs. You’ll wake Mama with your feet.”

Grandmother calls out, “A ti’il…”

I say, “Ta… Ssshhh…”

My Niece smiles at me from the top of the stairs, “Opo, Inay,” and runs back to playing.

I laugh, “Namemorize ko lang lahat ng prayers para sa patay dahil kay Mama. Pagkatapos yan ng rosary, gabi-gabi. Ang daming patay, haba ng listahan, nakaluhod kami the whole time diyan sa taas. Diyos ko. Umabot na kaya yun sa Langit sila Inay Lilay, Itay Gorio…”

Ate Diday laughs.

Grandmother calls out from her bedroom, “Diday… Unga’i raw si Maya kung gusto niyang mag-ilay-ilay sini…”

Mama wants me to rest and sleep in her bedroom while she sleeps.

I answer, “Mama, it’s okay! I’m not sleepy!”

Grandmother comes out of her bedroom just in time for merienda and I assist her once more onto the chair.

I say, “Look, Mama,” and show her my Moleskine.

Grandmother says, “Such small handwriting. And in print? These drawings, are they about what you’ve written?”

I answer, “Sometimes. Sometimes I draw when I can’t write.”

Grandmother says, “So many talents.”

I laugh, “Mommy says the same thing. Who knows, one of these days I’ll become a nurse or a doctor.”

Grandmother laughs.

We hear my niece playing with the piano keys.

I ask, “Mama, where are the collections of Reader’s Digest and National Geographic? The music sheets for the piano?”

Grandmother says they’re gone, no longer upstairs.

Sister says, “I never played the piano. The banduria, yes, but not the piano.”

I do not go upstairs. I say, “Those things dated back to the ‘80s, Mama. Mommy sent me to piano lessons, you know.”

Ate Diday laughs, “I always tell people that you kids are the smartest in this family, always reading.”

I laugh, People who don’t read don’t have much understanding of their insides in relation to their outsides, then I ask, “And whatever happened to Papa’s hat?”

It went to an uncle, wasted genius.

Grandmother asks, “You and your Papa were close?”

I say, “Mommy tells me stuff about her childhood, being Papa’s sidekick in the farms and all. Papa would tell me how things should be done. Including not eating too many watermelons. He kept on berating me while I was vomiting watermelon. It was even coming out of my nose! Couldn’t eat watermelon since then!”

Grandmother laughs.

I laugh, “That was just before his shaking got worse. Mommy says I’m like Papa when I’m angry.”

I think, Maisug. Feral, in English, perhaps.

Ate Diday laughs, “Maray man palan ta agko kay namana sini.”

Should I be thankful for these inherited traits, I laugh a shrug.

Another uncle inherited his 6-footer height--- including Parkinson’s, it seems, Grandfather’s disease and cause of death.

I ask, “How many years was Papa older than you?”

Grandmother answers, “Ten. He was already teaching for a while when we married.”

I say, “His birthday’s on March 10, right? He died on March 21.”

Then I laugh, “Auntie Kuring had to make sure I stepped on that line of ash by the gate before I entered, right after his funeral.”

Grandmother says, “You remember.”

I laugh, I wouldn’t let go of his coffin and wouldn’t leave his grave. I stopped seeing the dead after crossing through ash, “The doctors tried to do something about the memory. Nothing worked.”

Sister teases, “Maray sana kong nakasulit. Si Manay Maya di pa ata.”

I laugh, When would I return fully to this world.

I say, “We have to leave soon. I’m taking Dad to Mass.”

Sister says, “We’ll leave after 3.”

I ask Grandmother, “You still go Ballroom Dancing? To Mass?”

Grandmother answers, “When someone can drive me.”

I snort, “Anong silbi nung mga ibang anak and apo mo rito?!”

Those you loved.

Grandmother sighs, “Inda man kita kiton,” says, “I lost jewelry,” counts how many.

I say, “What?! Who took them?”

We know but she doesn’t say.

I tease, “Solusyon diyan ipamana mo na para di na manakaw sa ‘yo.”

Grandmother laughs, If there are still jewelry left, and plays with the children, keeps on telling me to eat the bread we brought for her, tells Ate Diday to cook pansit, and I keep on telling her I’m not hungry and tell Ate Diday not to bother because we are leaving.

We laugh as we talk some more.

It’s time to leave.

Ate Diday promises to have libi-libi cooked for me. She says she’ll try to find out where the jewelry was pawned so that she could claim them back. She says as she hugs and kisses us goodbye, “Magpaabiso na sana kamu mga igin kung kuno kamo sunod na mig-iyan.”

Our visits always have to be arranged, to be solely ours, our time to be alone with our Grandmother.

I say to Grandmother as I hug and kiss her goodbye, “I missed you, Mama.”

Grandmother hugs and kisses me, “I love you, Igin. Maray man ta binisita mo ko.”

I tease, “Don’t cry. Papanget ka. We’ll come back when Ate gets here. Makita mo yun bunso mong anak. Yan, biniyak kayong bao!”

Grandmother laughs.

I smile, “Probably on November 1, okay? Then next would be maybe Christmas. Egg will be here and you can see her, TJ and Gnomie again. I’ll come.”

Grandmother smiles, hugs and kisses me again, “Thank you, Igin.”

+

The first time I returned, I took back the bukal. I had stared at it--- deep and cold, it could take you--- letting it kiss my feet, the water whispering ‘Yang na, let me take the tears of that bleeding heart, wash away the broken that have tainted you.

The second time, I took back the zaguan, a carriage house that had become a bodega and now a living room. The zaguan had whispered, You can no longer hide that bleeding, not even as you eat to hide in flesh.

This time, I have taken back siesta. The sun, wind, and trees had whispered, Your heart no longer feels sad and lonely on these hours.

I whisper back, always, I have come, Papa.