The Chronicler
by Patricia Laurel
A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket. ~ Charles Péguy
Author’s note: At the time of this writing, my life as I knew it, broke loose and went all to hell. I observed the character transformation with a horrified fascination as it wreaked havoc in my life, to others and a person I valued in particular, and for that I am heartily sorry. When the fog of changing years finally cleared and Mother Nature mercifully intervened, I became quiet and retreated to my mother’s house in the province of Laguna.
I gathered the shattered pieces, and like a puzzle I figured it out, and hopefully I have progressed onto a more peaceful and happier phase.
Thankfully, Oscar Wilde, Rainer Maria Rilke, Ayn Rand, Ernest Hemmingway and so many other brilliant writers helped to get me back on track with my writing.
Don’t believe everything you read. Writers tend to embellish their words, and imagination has a great deal to do with the telling of the story.
The Chronicler gazed at the house on the corner that now resembled a hastily put together clapboard box, a fire hazard. Rusty nails clumsily held together sheets of plywood covering what used to be the beveled glass front entrance.
She stood across the street and overheard an invented tale of the history of the house and its residents. A woman peddling boiled bananas at the corner introduced her version to bait curious passers-by.
“Ay, ma’am, so many sad and tragic things happened in that house,” the vendor said, pointing her puckered lips in the direction of the house. “Only snakes now live in it and a ghost is always seen wandering around the house,” the woman related with relish. “An old woman with her hair in a bun and wearing a house dress.”
Beaming her toothless grin, the vendor handed over the bananas. Pocketing her sale, the woman continued her tale, pleased that she found a good corner to peddle.
The Chronicler cringed at the fabricated story. But the description of the ghost intrigued her. Lola?
She kept her anger in check. The woman was trying to scratch out a living, and it was a good marketing ploy.
She thought about the anger she tried to control these days, but sometimes inadvertently released like a giant tidal wave. It was usually a loved one on the receiving end. Vile words spewed out of her mouth like red-hot lava.
You idiot! How do you undo your stupidity?
She approached the house and peeked through the small gap of the rotting massive wooden gates leading to the patio and saw grass growing from the planter box in front of the huge tiled mural.
The boarded-up window of her grandmother’s room on the ground level looked sinister. She remembered her brothers enticing her inside Lola’s room, shutting the door and pulling on the knob, wildly giggling and hooting as she struggled to pull it open from the inside, heart racing, trying to get out.
Once again, the rage threatened to overcome her at the state of neglect and abuse the poor house suffered from the people who took over. Strangers who could care less about the history of the side-by-side duplex her grandmother built to house her mother’s and her aunt’s families.
Looking up and down the street, the Chronicler saw many changes. Nick’s beauty salon where she was subjected to her first and last perm was no longer there; the movie house that showed Filipino movies from her youth; the vendors selling roasted or steaming boiled corn on the cob, grilled or boiled bananas, salty tamarind balls and garlic peanuts.
The old market a block away had burned down long ago along with the corner store where she bought her favorite chocolate-covered M&M peanuts.
An old pump-water fire truck, a throwback from before WWII, was the only firefighting vehicle available then. All of these were now missing from what used to be a lively mix of residences and small businesses.
Her mother’s favorite first cousin lived a few houses down. His home/pharmacy nearby with the pigsty out in back made visitors and customers wrinkle their noses from the stench. His wife was her godmother who always protested being greeted with an embrace. The woman with the huge smile said she smelled like the pigs. The Chronicler used to chase her godmother around, not minding wrapping her arms around the thick waist. She was gratefully rewarded with sweets. They were buried in the old cemetery.
She remembered the clackety-clacking of lazy hooves of the horse-drawn calesas meandering down the street in search of passengers. She used to sit on the pavement eating ice cream, and watched with crinkled nose as the driver climb down and scoop up the curly clomps of horse manure.
Now the street of her youth was grimy, rundown and crowded with jeeps and tricycles forming three lanes out of a one-lane street.
When did I start feeling this way? Is it a sign of discontent at being back home? Where is the comfort of home these days? Oh man, at this age, one would think I’d have my ducks all in a row. Yeah, right.
The writer spent huge amounts of time talking to herself, sitting in the office of the rent-free house of a cousin’s widow. The house in Manila was offered to her to live in exchange for looking after it.
When she did get out and about, she felt like a caged animal on the loose. She used to offer her opinion when asked. These days she was overbearingly opinionated.
I used to be rational and pretty much on the sane side. What happened?
The Chronicler felt she needed guidance to remold her character. She had to learn to tone down what people here considered abrasive behavior. It helped her survive in Europe and the U.S., but it wasn’t going to go over well with her people. She had forgotten how to read between the lines. Being open and direct was never the norm here. A stranger in her own country; she’d been gone too long.
She had asked and was finally granted permission from the owner to visit her old house. She’d tried many times before during a visit in the past, but never received a reply. This was an opportunity that could not be missed. The Chronicler approached the house.
The woman vendor hollered at her.
“Ma’am! What are you doing? There are snakes and a ghost roaming the house. You might never come out! Buy my bananas instead and I will tell you the story of that house.”
Dan Fogelberg’s song, Part of the Plan, blared in her ears. She crammed the earphones of her Ipod to her ear, and sang softly to herself as she reached the padlocked gate of the front door.
I have these moments
All steady and strong
I’m feeling so holy and humble
The next thing I know
I’m all worried and weak
And I feel myself
Starting to crumble
The meanings get lost
And the teachings get tossed
And you don’t know what you’re
Going to do next
You wait for the sun
But it never quite comes
Some kind of message comes
Through to you . . .
The Chronicler turned the key to the padlock, loosened the chains and swung the old, rusty iron gates open. She pushed the makeshift door and peered in the old house to make sure there was no nasty slinking surprise to greet her and pounce on her leg. She hated herself for listening to the banana vendor’s nonsense.
She held her breath and walked in. Lola’s bedroom door was immediately to her right. The fear of seeing her grandmother’s ghost played around in her head as she gingerly tiptoed toward the foyer, placing a hand on her fast beating heart.
Better not invite trouble . . . did I just say that? What a wimp. Sorry, Lola. Maybe another time, I’ll come by and say hi.
She shrugged off the thought, bypassed the room and entered the gloomy foyer.
She stood in the dark and another Fogelberg song came on. She started to hum Heart Hotels and conversed with herself. She did that when she was nervous, her way of turning the volume down of the ever-increasing and unending noises in her head.
You may have been a bit on the sappy side, but you’re hitting the mark today with your words. Rest in peace, Dan F. Your troubles are over.
Her mind wandered to Boulder, Colorado, when she saw the singer in someone’s ranch outside of town. She was with Nathan then . . . Nat, how are you?
Well there's too many windows in this old hotel
And rooms filled with reckless pride
And the walls have grown sturdy
And the halls have worn well
But there is nobody living inside
Nobody living inside . . .
A screen of memories flashed of their time together . . .
Our most precious time together, what was it? Ah, yes. We crammed our green ’51 Chevy full of our belongings with a carrier on top packed with cases of Coors beer, and headed out of Denver to the last frontier, Alaska. We needed to see if we could pick up the pieces of our damaged relationship.
We didn't quite make it, but we sure sold all the Coors beer and made a killing, didn't we, Nat?
She stood there unsure of what to do, where to begin looking for her past. She fished the flashlight out of her bag, trying not to think about any movement she might glimpse in some dark corner.
OK, nice little flashlight, please don’t shine on rats and cockroaches, heaven forbid a frigging snake!
Why the hell am I on this fool’s errand? Am I here to recapture my stolen youth? To reminisce on happy times before everything came crashing down, before the whole family shattered into so many Humpty Dumpty pieces?
She shined the light on her feet to adjust her sight. She should have brought someone with her; too late for that now.
Gonna pull in the shutters of this heart of mine
Roll up the carpets and pull in the blinds
And retreat to the chambers that I left behind
In hopes there still may be love left to find
Still may be love left to find.
Do I seek redemption? Will this heal my wounded soul? Maybe penance for my sharp tongue and misplaced pride I inherited from the women on both sides of my family? How stupidly masochistic is that?
Move on with your life and live out what’s left of it, you dolt. This old house won’t come alive with visions of when you were happiest. You’re not your children’s book character little Sammy who can time travel. You are time’s prisoner.
The Chronicler laughed out loud. Her delightful lead character, Samantha, in her as yet unfinished third book of the young adult fiction trilogy she was trying desperately to finish writing. She didn’t know why she bothered. The second manuscript was still unpublished, buried somewhere in her Mac Book desktop. She thought about self-publishing, but nixed it. She was never any good at selling herself.
My editor should have backed me up. Jesus, compromise my writing by deleting pages? Damn marketing department. I don’t think so.
Oh yeah? What about the other writing projects glaring back at you everyday when you turn on the screen.
How long have you been in trouble? All my life . . .ah, Dan the man singer, won’t you help me out?
Seek inspiration in daily affairs
Now your soul is in trouble and requires repairs
And the voices you hear at the top of the stairs
Are only echoes of unanswered prayers . . .
OK, silly woman vendor. Here’s the real story. The one you’ll never know . . .
Pointing the light to her left, her mind’s eye went past the rotted staircase to the railing they used to slide down. She remembered the time her younger sister, Magda, accidentally shot her in the arm with a BB gun. She touched her left arm, as if the pain was still there. Right there, at the top of the stairs. That’s where you shot me, Sis.
It was her sister and brother, Magda and Robbie, who bore the brunt of it all — the sadness, shame and embarrassment. They were the last to leave the country. There was no time to store possessions or entrust them to anyone, not even to their father who had started a second family. The precious memories left behind to be picked and looted by scavengers.
Magda and Robbie had to break the news to our youngest sister, Celeste that she had to stay behind. The sister our mother should have legally adopted so she could be with the rest of the family. It was the same for our youngest brother, Leon, but he fared better than Celeste.
Oh, Mommy, why didn’t you think of it? Was there not enough money left to take care of the adoption papers? Were your heart and soul so shattered that you forgot you had two other children?
I know, Ma. To this day, Celeste is a huge thorn on your side that will never go away, no matter how many times you apologize to her.
She turned off her Ipod and gripped the railing. Her hand swept years of accumulated dust as she climbed the stairs, praying she didn’t smash a foot on the rotted, worm-eaten steps.
She thought about what a friend said about Feng Shui and how a staircase shouldn’t be positioned in the middle of a home.
Lola had this duplex built for our mother and aunt. The staircase on opposite sides of the wall that separated the two families, and a door that was always kept locked separated the two homes.
She heard footsteps going up and down the stairs on the other side. Her abandoned home was dark and foreboding while next door had occupants.
Ah, yes . . . that’s what started it all, her aunt’s jealously and resentment of the beautiful younger sister, my mother. Who was to blame for the raging anger buried in the depths of the older sister’s soul for so many years, biding time, finally boiling to the surface and spilling over to her children, teaching them to mistreat their aunt and cousins?
I love you, Tita, no matter the emotional damage you inflicted on my mother, on us. Lola, are you responsible?
She looked up and asked her question in the empty darkness.
Lola, was it your fault? Did you favor the younger daughter and neglected the needs and affections of the older one?
She turned her back from the wall that divided the two families and faced her past.
The door to her parents’ bedroom wasn’t there. She peeked in and found nothing but the huge mirror. It was cracked right down the middle, a sign of the sadness the house endured. The built-in vanity dresser and the drawers where she and her siblings rummaged through their mother’s handbags for change to buy treats from the street vendor; the rocking chair that lulled so many babies to sleep; the bed they used to jump up and down and snuggle against pappy when he came home from the farm — all gone.
The mirror must have been too heavy for the bloodsuckers to rip off the wall. Where were the old wooden chests that used to belong to Lola with all our baby stuff and linen inside, all the photos, jewelry and all the things that were precious to my mother? She didn't bring any of those things with her when she was forced to start over in New York.
My mother, once a woman of means, reduced to working for a living at some department store in the U.S., catering and kowtowing to shoppers. Well, at least it was swanky Saks Fifth and not K Mart. Cold comfort.
Her focus turned to the center of the room, where the huge bed crammed with fluffy pillows used to be.
Most of us were conceived in this room when my parents were still as one. Pappy loved her until the day he died. He just couldn’t remain faithful to a strong woman. The Filipino man’s pride when ruffled will wreak havoc, so I was told.
Her father was the reason she swore off Filipino men.
Why did you cheat on our mother? Weren’t you happy to be with just one woman? Your siblings’ warped advice and your constant cheating finally made her turn against you, pappy. Even her own sister joined in my mother’s persecution. Her pride couldn’t take you back and all she had left was the anger and determination that pushed her inner strength to the limit. She got through it with stoicism inherited from the women in her family. She gained her freedom, but the price she paid was crueler than hell and higher than the heavens.
You know that, don’t you, Pappy?
The Chronicler spoke aloud as if her parents were in the room. She needed to blame someone for her fears, the hidden contempt for men and the hurt that was bursting at the seams of her soul.
Yes, ma. We inherited the trait from you. The show of strength and no emotional outbursts; we acquired it all. We didn’t learn to say I love you until we were adults. Did I fake my emotion for others all these years? Well, maybe so. It’s heavy stuff to ponder, don’t you think?
Good thing Pappy was around for the occasional hugs and embraces when he took a break from his carousing, while you were out making a living. You didn’t have a lot of time for us either, Pappy.
She stared into the darkness until her eyes watered. She brushed the unwanted tears away. She kept talking to the walls she once considered sacred.
I know you both loved us in your limited capacity, I know that. Yes, we were once a happy family. It’s just that it would have been nice to hear the words and to feel real, honest to goodness love, you know? More often than not, you guys were too busy doing what you were doing to give us the notice that would have made us whole. You winged your love for us, and now we’re lacking.
I’m in big trouble, can’t you see? I need enlightenment, something to go on, please?
The Chronicler jumped when she turned around and a figure stared back at her. Her heart felt like it would burst.
She stared at her image on the mirror where she used to lose herself going to her special place when she didn’t have a book to read or playmates to find, when no one was looking — where she could be alone, do anything and be anyone she wanted to be. She still did that — her robust imagination was her safety zone these days.
When her heart stilled, she turned away. There was nothing in her parents’ room, only emptiness.
The room next to her parents’ was the boys’ dormitory style bedroom with the bunk beds. Years of dust covered the floor and the windowsills. The windows were black with dirt and grime.
She thought about one of her brothers’ favorite sick amusements. She and her sisters used to crowd by their parents’ window to view a parade or church procession that passed by the house. A special invite from the boys always got the girls’ attention and coaxed them away from the safety of their parent’s room.
The bad boys had slingshots at the ready with piles of meticulously rolled-up paper bullets used for weapons. They waited for their mark and took aim. The window afforded a vantage view when several unfortunate kids dressed as angels or members of the band, all cried out in pain at the same time. They all ducked when fingers pointed at the boys’ window.
It came to an end after a visit from the local priest. The brothers and their equally evil boy cousins found other targets. They rode their bikes to their parents’ farm, not far from town, and aimed their hurtful weapons at small animals by the creek where the family used to have Sunday picnics.
What a bunch of nasty boys you were!
The boys’ room was strictly taboo to the girls, but when their parents weren’t around, she and her sisters stupidly wandered in at their own risk, for a round of taunting and torture. The noise, laughter and banging around, the teasing and ensuing tears had one or both of her parents rush in to see if anyone was hurt.
She mouthed off her brothers’ names:
Morris, Lawrence, Miguel, Roberto, Mark and Leon. All brave and strong boys then, but now we girls defend you from your women. Funny, huh?
She walked through the small hallway that connected to the other room. She entered the bedroom she and her younger sister, Magda shared with her two older sisters, Isabela and Ramona. The older girls shared a queen size bed in the center of the room, while she and her younger sister shared a double bed by the window.
Yvonne, the youngest sister slept in their parents’ bedroom. She was my parents’ birth control, but it didn’t work.
Our last sister, I’m so sorry you didn’t make it, Maria Theresa. Pappy said you were a beautiful baby, more so than the rest of us girls. Ma brought home the Chihuahua puppies in your place as if they made up for your absence.
Silly dogs named Peanut and Popcorn, yipping and snapping at our ankles all the time. I hated those dogs! They became so obese that the drunken fools hanging around the corner by the movie theater snatched them, roasted and ate them. Yuck! Ma was so upset. Pappy was amused.
She looked at the corner window where she and Magda slept. They took turns wetting the bed, and when the older sisters were sent to Madrid, they took over the big bed and wetted that one too.
There used to be a mirror here just like in our parents’ bedroom, and a glass cabinet where Ramona kept the dolls mommy brought back from her travels to other countries. Nothing left here, only broken pieces of glass stuck to the wall. My thieving cousin must have tried to pry the mirror from the wall and it shattered to pieces.
Ah, my older sisters. Ma said Isabela and Ramona were spared the humiliation of losing the family’s respectability. They partook of the feast while the rest of us suffered the famine. They will never quite understand that their hardship at least was endured in foreign countries where no one gave a shit about who you were. It’s different here; people will whisper about your misfortunes with obvious hands covering their mouths and staring in your direction.
Comparing notes as to who suffered the most and whom pappy loved best was a favorite form of masochism for the girls, especially Isabel, who in her mind, endured the most tragedy in her life. We will always have unresolved issues, won’t we, sisters? Best not to dwell on them or resentment might take over and we repeat history, like our mother and her sister.
She walked outside and passed the bathroom where she banged her forehead on the porcelain sink, and bled like a stuck pig. She still had the scar.
She stopped at the little nook where the library used to be. The shelves were still there.
Ah, my little space . . .
She spent a lot of time reading in the dark corner with only the light from the glass-paned door to the fire escape — her older sisters would sneak out there to smoke cigarettes — in the afternoons and a small desk lamp at nights. She stayed there until she had to be called for meals or if her mother needed to inspect her fingernails.
Remember that time you put on a brand new white dress for your first Holy Communion? You were playing outside and got carried away creating mud pies until it was time to get dressed. You refused to take a shower. You were so filthy with dirt caked on the creases of your fat neck and under your nails. Ma was really angry and scolded the maid for neglecting her duties. The dress shone white and I looked angelic, but my body was grimy with dried mud like an imp!
Small wonder no communion photos of you are displayed in the family album. There was no time to go to the studio. Ma had to scrub the filth from your body!
The Chronicler’s eyesight went bad from reading in the dark. She hated the thick lenses of her glasses and had to suffer the endless teasing of her siblings. She took them off when she first started noticing boys. The eye squinting became a habit even when she started to wear contact lenses.
She looked fondly at the small space, thinking back to when she invented characters and scenes from her made up stories. Later, she joyfully acted out the lead parts in front of the mirror in her parents’ room. She had her world and it was uncomplicated; no one else was allowed to join her. Once in awhile, when she was particularly caught up in an interesting scene, one or two of her siblings tiptoed from behind. Hushed giggles turned to roars of ridiculed laughter that sent her looking for a corner to hide and cower from embarrassment at being caught unawares.
She turned away. Resignation, emptiness and bitterness like bile stuck in her throat.
Face it, you’ve always been on the outside, looking in. You’ll remain on the outer fringes until the day you die, girl. Ah, these thoughts going around in my brain. I can’t turn them off.
The pervasive feeling of nothingness prevailed; there was no revelation to be gleaned up here.
Move on.
She went down the stairs and walked through the large bathroom and through the hallway connected to the kitchen that was only used when entertaining guests. Liquor and fine china were kept in the glass cabinets and silverware and table linen in drawers. The marble counters were used to place platters of mouthwatering food brought in from the real kitchen outside — they called it the dirty kitchen — before being served. She wondered why her mother even bothered to put a stove here.
People talked for days about the endless flow of delicious foods and fancy alcohol beverages when her parents entertained.
She walked out to the dirty kitchen and stood in a dark, empty space where the stone counter that was wide as a small house used to be. All the hustle and bustle of cooking took place there. No household could ever compare with the dishes her grandmother and her helpers laid out for the town fiesta.
She later found out that her fat, evil cousin had Lola’s stone counter removed and installed in her house in Manila.
Must have taken a huge truck for dipshit to transport lola’s counter.
The sunlight peeked through the old balete or banyan tree by the old driveway shared with her aunt. Amazingly, it still stood, barely gasping to survive the elements. She smirked at the endless superstitions told her as a child. The townspeople, remote rural residents, even the educated and sophisticated believed it was bad luck to cut down a tree inhabited by spirits of folklore legend.
There used to be a pen to keep animals before they were slaughtered for the town fiesta. I remember loving and caring for that one sweet, unsuspecting lamb before they chopped it up to pieces. Probably why I’m reluctant to eat lamb. The grunting pigs and cackling chickens instinctively knew they were doomed to be food for the countless visitors that trooped in and out of this house, but that poor lamb didn’t.
Her memory wandered way back, as far back as it would take her. She was the youngest child then. Magda was waiting in the wings, ready and raring to be born, and her grandmother had only months to live.
She whispered into the emptiness.
Lola, I remember we used to sweep the floor together. I counted coins with you and declared I would be a billionaire. You listened while I tried to utter words from a dictionary. I remember you going to market, talking to so many people while collecting money owed to you. You had such a kind and gentle face.
You made your famous tamales on the stone counter in the dirty kitchen with mommy and pappy by your side, helping with the pounding of peanuts in a pistil, wrapping the delicious ingredients in banana leaves. People wished they were on your tamale gift list. The old timers still yearn for them. Mommy made them once and it was a hit, but it was too laborious to prepare in a small kitchen in San Francisco.
The day we lost you, I went downstairs and saw you sweeping out here. You had your back turned to me. You wore a dark blue dress with white floral design and your hair was up in its usual bun. I called out to you, but you didn’t turn around. That’s what I remember of our short time together.
When mommy was by your hospital bedside wishing you had more time on this earth, she said you made her go watch a movie. Later, she used to go the movies with Magda to relieve the stress of raising all of us, especially when she hit rock bottom and had nowhere to turn. She was devastated when she lost you. You were always there to rescue her and champion her causes. She grieves for you even now.
Your older daughter must have really resented you and my mother. When you died, it signaled the beginning of the end for my family. It was payback time for the family next door. It took some years yet, but the good times of our being a happy family were numbered.
A smidgen of awareness fluttered inside her, but she couldn’t place a finger on it. The Chronicler shook her head to brush it away.
She looked over to the house next door, now a hardware store. She waved at a male employee having a smoke break, surprise and fear clearly registering on his face. He quickly returned inside. She laughed out loud.
He must think I’m a ghost. Well, maybe so.
She went back inside to avoid the employee returning with a co-worker to confirm he didn’t see a ghost. She didn’t want to have to answer questions. She turned to look over her aunt’s old house one more time.
Aside from the fear her grandmother’s room instilled in her as a child, the dark, dingy and faded feel of that house made her want to leave it right after she stepped through the door that separated the two households.
We were never welcomed in Tita’s house. I was only in it once when I had to give my aunt something. She and my mother were hardly on speaking terms by then. I always had the feeling something evil would reach out and snatch me and keep me prisoner inside the walls forever. My parents would never find me. That was creepy.
She laughed at her wild imagination then and now. But all her siblings agreed that their home was always bright and cheery compared to the darkness and heavy feel that permeated the walls of that house or any of her aunt’s homes, here and in the U.S. All were unwelcoming and devoid of character. It was as if there was no permanence or happy memories attached to the homes, just a stepping-stone to bigger and better properties they procured, honestly or not.
All those homes were probably built from ill-gotten wealth, most likely from my mother’s share of her inheritance. Karma plays a role, Tita. All that wealth never did you or your family any good. It eventually brought you a whole lot of misery, didn’t it? Your family gave the semblance of normalcy, of warmth and happiness, and all the while you were plotting the downfall of mine. That fat daughter of yours turned out to be a right snake.
Why did you take it out on us?
Christ, when our mother was counting centavos and we were missing a father, you ordered your fridge chained when my sister, Magda and I came around, as if we would eat you out of house and home. Your idiot daughter, Lita, would show off a suitcase full of candy and chips brought back from a recent visit to the U.S. The stupid twit enticed us with bags of goodies, but first we had to get a slap in the face before she threw us a morsel. And that nasty, evil to the core, youngest boy of yours, Lex, stood by snickering. Like dogs we were, wagging our stupid tails for a meager bone to fetch.
It was you who was responsible for my departure. You made my parents paranoid with your prediction after the last school expelled me. You said I would end up joining the rebels or worse, become pregnant at a young age. So I was shipped off to fend for myself in two strange continents.
The Chronicler’s bitter thoughts turned to her religious upbringing. In most religious countries where the biggest sinners are the regular churchgoers, like her aunt and her brood. All reverently bowing their heads after receiving Holy Communion. As soon as they stepped outside the church, after they were absolved of their sins and received the body of Christ, the culprits continued with their evil, as if they had license to do it all over again.
Hell, she was at least honest with the priest when she returned to her religion after being absent for twenty years. She remembered going into St. Olaf Church in Minneapolis, frozen tundra of the Midwest, on a colder than a witch’s tits in a brass bra day, a favorite term of Nathan’s when they lived in Alaska.
She thought about her face-to-face confession of her sins to Father Harald, the longhaired priest she fondly called her father confessor. The priest who didn’t judge her and laughed deliciously when she told him that it wouldn't it be better instead of going down the list of 20 years spent in sin, that she committed all the sins listed in the commandments, except for the part about Thou shalt not kill.
So, why in the hell, dear Tita, if you hated us so much, did you and your family follow the rest of us, illegally I might add, to the U.S., and when our mother returned here to retire, you were not far behind? Afraid we might discover your deceit? We did, didn’t we?
She shook off the bad energy and quickly went into what used to be the living room.
She and her siblings stood in line here and endured their mother’s clipping their fingernails. Clothes were inspected when important visitors came to call. It was also their mother’s strict orders to the maids to keep them quiet. Children were seen but not heard when company was around.
The living room was also where their mother meted out punishments while their father looked on, trying to wipe off the amusement from his face, pretending to be stern like his wife.
She remembered the day their sister, Celeste, became a member of the family. Her parents were poor immigrants from China. The wife fell ill and they didn’t have money to buy her medication. The couple came to the house, sat in the living room, seeking help. They heard the woman of the house had a generous heart. They left their infant daughter as collateral with their mother, and never returned for her.
The last place in the house for her to check was the patio. Many happy memories born were made here, and just like the cracked mirror in her parents’ bedroom, the thieving vultures didn’t or couldn’t take down and haul away the large mosaic mural of tropical design, created by an artist from many tiled pieces of soft hues of green and blue.
If only walls could really speak.
She touched the mural that witnessed birthdays, happy celebrations and parties. She remembered how they went to church with their parents, sleepy children in tow to attend Christmas Eve masses. Later, sleepiness was shaken off and replaced with eagerly anticipated feasting at Noche Buena and finally, tearing open the wrappers from the many presents scattered underneath the Norfolk pine their father brought home.
While going through the meager collection of photos her mother had somehow managed to salvage, she had come across a small snapshot of her brothers on the patio. It was of Larry with a gleeful and slaphappy face, gyrating to the twirling movement of a Hula-Hoop. His arms were inside the plastic ring, holding on to his khaki shorts threatening to fall. Morris was dancing a jig, grinning wide at the camera and pointing at his brother’s predicament.
Again, that sinking feeling — there was nothing here, only the bittersweet past glaring back at her.
The stark reality of dealing with disappointments, hurt, damaged loves and insecurities returned in full force. She had to go back out there to face whatever might come.
On her way out, she glanced at her grandmother’s door. She proceeded to the front door, but a tug in her gut made her turn around. The dim awareness she felt earlier returned, screaming at her senses now to turn back.
She turned the knob of her grandmother’s bedroom, took a deep breath as if to muster all her courage. She pushed the creaky door open.
The sun’s light sliced through the clapboards nailed to the windows. She shone the light. There, incredibly still there, after so many years.
The light illuminated the face of her grandmother’s portrait hanging on the wall. She approached the portrait and began to wipe off the shroud of dusty cobwebs.
Suddenly, the earphones still stuck in her ears blared out and in full force Fogelberg’s Part of the Plan.
Your conscience awakes
And you see your mistakes
And you wish someone
Would buy your confessions
The days miss their mark
And the night gets so dark
And some kind of message
Comes through to you
Some kind of message
Shoots through . . .
She stepped back and stared at her grandmother’s face, the smiling eyes, the quiet demeanor emanating from the portrait.
She pressed her fists against her temples. The Chronicler wailed her grief, sorrows, disappointments at what she should have been, sobbing uncontrollably before her grandmother’s portrait.
She thought of the life she had after she was forced out of the country of her birth, carted off to the U.S. by a strange uncle, as if a stolen child forced to travel with gypsies. Only as an adult, did she bitterly relate to her mother how this uncle entered her room and tried to seduce her. He left her alone when she threatened to tell the men in her family. She was thankful then for the strength inherited from her mother and all the family women before her.
The first to emigrate were her older brothers, Morris and Larry. They couldn’t take care of her in Palo Alto. They were going to school and their free time was spent working at some fast food restaurant at the Stanford University shopping mall.
Her mother took her to Germany and left her with her oldest sister, Isabela. Their mother had to return home to take care of immigrant visas for her other children, and Isabela had her own life and family to take care of. The teenage girl was stranded, robbed of her childhood.
The Chronicler did a lot of growing up at a fast and furious pace. She took on the adventure, didn’t think of the painful separation from loved ones who many years later would become more strangers to her than family.
The girl had to go about learning the business of living on her own. She chronicled everything in her head: the places she’d been, friends she made and the men and women she loved and lost, good times, bad times.
She thought of her handsome, kind and lovable father whom she never saw again after she left, she only had the few letters he wrote, her most priceless treasure from him. His heartfelt signoffs always made her weep.
Ang saiyo nagmamahal (one who loves you), Pappy
The pain shot through her whole being and she sat on the filthy floor. She remembered uncontrollably weeping and rocking back and forth in Alaska when she learned of his death.
Her thoughts turned to her aged and sick, but still beautiful mother. Her sobs racked her as she pictured the hardships and sacrifices the fiercely proud and independent woman had been through. She lost her fortune, forced to seek help from an unfeeling sister, ridiculed behind her back by the cruel cousins and suffered the gossips of a small town.
She said it was mostly her fault that so much was lost or taken from her. She used to be a woman of means but was reduced to working in a foreign country so she could feed the family. She did it for all for her children.
I owe you my life. I can never repay you for the sacrifices you made, the cruelty you endured and the pride you had to swallow to give us a life. All I have to offer is the love and respect you deserve.
And she thought about the long letter her aunt wrote her years ago, before her first-born son, the Chronicler’s first cousin, passed away. Somehow she knew then that her aunt was reaching out to her, explaining her side.
She had lived and traveled halfway around the world and now she was home, communing with her grandmother’s portrait.
When the tears finally dried, only the rapid rising and falling of her chest remained to be calmed. Completely drained, she stood up and held her breath to stifle the hiccups.
She wiped her hands and reverently took down her grandmother’s portrait. It needed a new home, a bit of cleaning and it will be good as new. Her grandmother didn’t belong here anymore.
I don’t wonder my cousins didn’t take you home with them. Tita, I’m certain, never painted a pretty picture of you. They must have been afraid to touch your portrait, Lola. Afraid that something bad would happen to them, like when Mommy used to threaten to say a novena for her sister.
She finally had a crystal clear understanding of what her whole family had to go through to get back to here. Her other siblings were returning to their roots, and so was the Chronicler.
They were gravitating to that one point that always brought them together, their mother. After years of living and working in the U.S., the woman subjected to a harsh existence finally headed back home, proud of her achievements. There were no more embarrassments and no shame.
And whether we like it or not, our mother is the center of our universe. She kept us together, made us survivors, made us somewhat whole again. No one can ever take her place in this family. Make her happy while there’s still time.
She resolved to read through and between the lines of her aunt’s letter to her. Her aunt’s side of the story would teach her to accept and understand the past.
She walked out the door with her grandmother’s portrait, wrapped the chain around the iron gates, inserted the key and clicked the padlock shut. The noise outside was deafening and the hot midday sun was bearing down on the pavement and streets. She put on her shades, and crossed the street.
The Chronicler smiled at the toothless twit of a vendor woman gaping at her as she approached. She held up her grandmother’s portrait.
“This is your ghost. Now you can add to your tale and say you’ve seen her. I hope you sell a lot of bananas!”
The Chronicler hailed a tricycle to take her to the house she and her siblings built for their mother. It wasn’t a grand house, but it belonged to her.
Menopause? Bullshit, I can conquer this. A bit of yoga and meditating, and busy fingers banging on the keyboard can control these crazy emotions. I come from good stock, don’t I? Whether or not I reach that mountaintop of so-called goals or pipe dreams, I can at least give it a try.
Rise and shine, sweet pea! Pick up the pieces and go for the rest of your life. This long and strange trip isn’t over yet, girl, and there’s John to see to.
Thanks, lola, for the message.
And it says to you . . .
Love when you can
Cry when you have to . . .
Be who you must
That’s a part of the plan
Await your arrival
With simple survival
And one day we’ll all understand . . .
There is no eden or
Heavenly gates
That you’re gonna make it to
One day
But all of the answers you seek
Can be found
In the dreams that you dream
On the way
It’s all part of the plan. Dan, you’re the man.
The Chronicler sat in the tricycle, tightly holding on to her grandmother’s portrait, as it awkwardly maneuvered through the streets of her hometown.
We’re now here for you, mama.
She thought about the story of the two sisters, her next writing project.
© Patricia Laurel
by Patricia Laurel
A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket. ~ Charles Péguy
Author’s note: At the time of this writing, my life as I knew it, broke loose and went all to hell. I observed the character transformation with a horrified fascination as it wreaked havoc in my life, to others and a person I valued in particular, and for that I am heartily sorry. When the fog of changing years finally cleared and Mother Nature mercifully intervened, I became quiet and retreated to my mother’s house in the province of Laguna.
I gathered the shattered pieces, and like a puzzle I figured it out, and hopefully I have progressed onto a more peaceful and happier phase.
Thankfully, Oscar Wilde, Rainer Maria Rilke, Ayn Rand, Ernest Hemmingway and so many other brilliant writers helped to get me back on track with my writing.
Don’t believe everything you read. Writers tend to embellish their words, and imagination has a great deal to do with the telling of the story.
The Chronicler gazed at the house on the corner that now resembled a hastily put together clapboard box, a fire hazard. Rusty nails clumsily held together sheets of plywood covering what used to be the beveled glass front entrance.
She stood across the street and overheard an invented tale of the history of the house and its residents. A woman peddling boiled bananas at the corner introduced her version to bait curious passers-by.
“Ay, ma’am, so many sad and tragic things happened in that house,” the vendor said, pointing her puckered lips in the direction of the house. “Only snakes now live in it and a ghost is always seen wandering around the house,” the woman related with relish. “An old woman with her hair in a bun and wearing a house dress.”
Beaming her toothless grin, the vendor handed over the bananas. Pocketing her sale, the woman continued her tale, pleased that she found a good corner to peddle.
The Chronicler cringed at the fabricated story. But the description of the ghost intrigued her. Lola?
She kept her anger in check. The woman was trying to scratch out a living, and it was a good marketing ploy.
She thought about the anger she tried to control these days, but sometimes inadvertently released like a giant tidal wave. It was usually a loved one on the receiving end. Vile words spewed out of her mouth like red-hot lava.
You idiot! How do you undo your stupidity?
She approached the house and peeked through the small gap of the rotting massive wooden gates leading to the patio and saw grass growing from the planter box in front of the huge tiled mural.
The boarded-up window of her grandmother’s room on the ground level looked sinister. She remembered her brothers enticing her inside Lola’s room, shutting the door and pulling on the knob, wildly giggling and hooting as she struggled to pull it open from the inside, heart racing, trying to get out.
Once again, the rage threatened to overcome her at the state of neglect and abuse the poor house suffered from the people who took over. Strangers who could care less about the history of the side-by-side duplex her grandmother built to house her mother’s and her aunt’s families.
Looking up and down the street, the Chronicler saw many changes. Nick’s beauty salon where she was subjected to her first and last perm was no longer there; the movie house that showed Filipino movies from her youth; the vendors selling roasted or steaming boiled corn on the cob, grilled or boiled bananas, salty tamarind balls and garlic peanuts.
The old market a block away had burned down long ago along with the corner store where she bought her favorite chocolate-covered M&M peanuts.
An old pump-water fire truck, a throwback from before WWII, was the only firefighting vehicle available then. All of these were now missing from what used to be a lively mix of residences and small businesses.
Her mother’s favorite first cousin lived a few houses down. His home/pharmacy nearby with the pigsty out in back made visitors and customers wrinkle their noses from the stench. His wife was her godmother who always protested being greeted with an embrace. The woman with the huge smile said she smelled like the pigs. The Chronicler used to chase her godmother around, not minding wrapping her arms around the thick waist. She was gratefully rewarded with sweets. They were buried in the old cemetery.
She remembered the clackety-clacking of lazy hooves of the horse-drawn calesas meandering down the street in search of passengers. She used to sit on the pavement eating ice cream, and watched with crinkled nose as the driver climb down and scoop up the curly clomps of horse manure.
Now the street of her youth was grimy, rundown and crowded with jeeps and tricycles forming three lanes out of a one-lane street.
When did I start feeling this way? Is it a sign of discontent at being back home? Where is the comfort of home these days? Oh man, at this age, one would think I’d have my ducks all in a row. Yeah, right.
The writer spent huge amounts of time talking to herself, sitting in the office of the rent-free house of a cousin’s widow. The house in Manila was offered to her to live in exchange for looking after it.
When she did get out and about, she felt like a caged animal on the loose. She used to offer her opinion when asked. These days she was overbearingly opinionated.
I used to be rational and pretty much on the sane side. What happened?
The Chronicler felt she needed guidance to remold her character. She had to learn to tone down what people here considered abrasive behavior. It helped her survive in Europe and the U.S., but it wasn’t going to go over well with her people. She had forgotten how to read between the lines. Being open and direct was never the norm here. A stranger in her own country; she’d been gone too long.
She had asked and was finally granted permission from the owner to visit her old house. She’d tried many times before during a visit in the past, but never received a reply. This was an opportunity that could not be missed. The Chronicler approached the house.
The woman vendor hollered at her.
“Ma’am! What are you doing? There are snakes and a ghost roaming the house. You might never come out! Buy my bananas instead and I will tell you the story of that house.”
Dan Fogelberg’s song, Part of the Plan, blared in her ears. She crammed the earphones of her Ipod to her ear, and sang softly to herself as she reached the padlocked gate of the front door.
I have these moments
All steady and strong
I’m feeling so holy and humble
The next thing I know
I’m all worried and weak
And I feel myself
Starting to crumble
The meanings get lost
And the teachings get tossed
And you don’t know what you’re
Going to do next
You wait for the sun
But it never quite comes
Some kind of message comes
Through to you . . .
The Chronicler turned the key to the padlock, loosened the chains and swung the old, rusty iron gates open. She pushed the makeshift door and peered in the old house to make sure there was no nasty slinking surprise to greet her and pounce on her leg. She hated herself for listening to the banana vendor’s nonsense.
She held her breath and walked in. Lola’s bedroom door was immediately to her right. The fear of seeing her grandmother’s ghost played around in her head as she gingerly tiptoed toward the foyer, placing a hand on her fast beating heart.
Better not invite trouble . . . did I just say that? What a wimp. Sorry, Lola. Maybe another time, I’ll come by and say hi.
She shrugged off the thought, bypassed the room and entered the gloomy foyer.
She stood in the dark and another Fogelberg song came on. She started to hum Heart Hotels and conversed with herself. She did that when she was nervous, her way of turning the volume down of the ever-increasing and unending noises in her head.
You may have been a bit on the sappy side, but you’re hitting the mark today with your words. Rest in peace, Dan F. Your troubles are over.
Her mind wandered to Boulder, Colorado, when she saw the singer in someone’s ranch outside of town. She was with Nathan then . . . Nat, how are you?
Well there's too many windows in this old hotel
And rooms filled with reckless pride
And the walls have grown sturdy
And the halls have worn well
But there is nobody living inside
Nobody living inside . . .
A screen of memories flashed of their time together . . .
Our most precious time together, what was it? Ah, yes. We crammed our green ’51 Chevy full of our belongings with a carrier on top packed with cases of Coors beer, and headed out of Denver to the last frontier, Alaska. We needed to see if we could pick up the pieces of our damaged relationship.
We didn't quite make it, but we sure sold all the Coors beer and made a killing, didn't we, Nat?
She stood there unsure of what to do, where to begin looking for her past. She fished the flashlight out of her bag, trying not to think about any movement she might glimpse in some dark corner.
OK, nice little flashlight, please don’t shine on rats and cockroaches, heaven forbid a frigging snake!
Why the hell am I on this fool’s errand? Am I here to recapture my stolen youth? To reminisce on happy times before everything came crashing down, before the whole family shattered into so many Humpty Dumpty pieces?
She shined the light on her feet to adjust her sight. She should have brought someone with her; too late for that now.
Gonna pull in the shutters of this heart of mine
Roll up the carpets and pull in the blinds
And retreat to the chambers that I left behind
In hopes there still may be love left to find
Still may be love left to find.
Do I seek redemption? Will this heal my wounded soul? Maybe penance for my sharp tongue and misplaced pride I inherited from the women on both sides of my family? How stupidly masochistic is that?
Move on with your life and live out what’s left of it, you dolt. This old house won’t come alive with visions of when you were happiest. You’re not your children’s book character little Sammy who can time travel. You are time’s prisoner.
The Chronicler laughed out loud. Her delightful lead character, Samantha, in her as yet unfinished third book of the young adult fiction trilogy she was trying desperately to finish writing. She didn’t know why she bothered. The second manuscript was still unpublished, buried somewhere in her Mac Book desktop. She thought about self-publishing, but nixed it. She was never any good at selling herself.
My editor should have backed me up. Jesus, compromise my writing by deleting pages? Damn marketing department. I don’t think so.
Oh yeah? What about the other writing projects glaring back at you everyday when you turn on the screen.
How long have you been in trouble? All my life . . .ah, Dan the man singer, won’t you help me out?
Seek inspiration in daily affairs
Now your soul is in trouble and requires repairs
And the voices you hear at the top of the stairs
Are only echoes of unanswered prayers . . .
OK, silly woman vendor. Here’s the real story. The one you’ll never know . . .
Pointing the light to her left, her mind’s eye went past the rotted staircase to the railing they used to slide down. She remembered the time her younger sister, Magda, accidentally shot her in the arm with a BB gun. She touched her left arm, as if the pain was still there. Right there, at the top of the stairs. That’s where you shot me, Sis.
It was her sister and brother, Magda and Robbie, who bore the brunt of it all — the sadness, shame and embarrassment. They were the last to leave the country. There was no time to store possessions or entrust them to anyone, not even to their father who had started a second family. The precious memories left behind to be picked and looted by scavengers.
Magda and Robbie had to break the news to our youngest sister, Celeste that she had to stay behind. The sister our mother should have legally adopted so she could be with the rest of the family. It was the same for our youngest brother, Leon, but he fared better than Celeste.
Oh, Mommy, why didn’t you think of it? Was there not enough money left to take care of the adoption papers? Were your heart and soul so shattered that you forgot you had two other children?
I know, Ma. To this day, Celeste is a huge thorn on your side that will never go away, no matter how many times you apologize to her.
She turned off her Ipod and gripped the railing. Her hand swept years of accumulated dust as she climbed the stairs, praying she didn’t smash a foot on the rotted, worm-eaten steps.
She thought about what a friend said about Feng Shui and how a staircase shouldn’t be positioned in the middle of a home.
Lola had this duplex built for our mother and aunt. The staircase on opposite sides of the wall that separated the two families, and a door that was always kept locked separated the two homes.
She heard footsteps going up and down the stairs on the other side. Her abandoned home was dark and foreboding while next door had occupants.
Ah, yes . . . that’s what started it all, her aunt’s jealously and resentment of the beautiful younger sister, my mother. Who was to blame for the raging anger buried in the depths of the older sister’s soul for so many years, biding time, finally boiling to the surface and spilling over to her children, teaching them to mistreat their aunt and cousins?
I love you, Tita, no matter the emotional damage you inflicted on my mother, on us. Lola, are you responsible?
She looked up and asked her question in the empty darkness.
Lola, was it your fault? Did you favor the younger daughter and neglected the needs and affections of the older one?
She turned her back from the wall that divided the two families and faced her past.
The door to her parents’ bedroom wasn’t there. She peeked in and found nothing but the huge mirror. It was cracked right down the middle, a sign of the sadness the house endured. The built-in vanity dresser and the drawers where she and her siblings rummaged through their mother’s handbags for change to buy treats from the street vendor; the rocking chair that lulled so many babies to sleep; the bed they used to jump up and down and snuggle against pappy when he came home from the farm — all gone.
The mirror must have been too heavy for the bloodsuckers to rip off the wall. Where were the old wooden chests that used to belong to Lola with all our baby stuff and linen inside, all the photos, jewelry and all the things that were precious to my mother? She didn't bring any of those things with her when she was forced to start over in New York.
My mother, once a woman of means, reduced to working for a living at some department store in the U.S., catering and kowtowing to shoppers. Well, at least it was swanky Saks Fifth and not K Mart. Cold comfort.
Her focus turned to the center of the room, where the huge bed crammed with fluffy pillows used to be.
Most of us were conceived in this room when my parents were still as one. Pappy loved her until the day he died. He just couldn’t remain faithful to a strong woman. The Filipino man’s pride when ruffled will wreak havoc, so I was told.
Her father was the reason she swore off Filipino men.
Why did you cheat on our mother? Weren’t you happy to be with just one woman? Your siblings’ warped advice and your constant cheating finally made her turn against you, pappy. Even her own sister joined in my mother’s persecution. Her pride couldn’t take you back and all she had left was the anger and determination that pushed her inner strength to the limit. She got through it with stoicism inherited from the women in her family. She gained her freedom, but the price she paid was crueler than hell and higher than the heavens.
You know that, don’t you, Pappy?
The Chronicler spoke aloud as if her parents were in the room. She needed to blame someone for her fears, the hidden contempt for men and the hurt that was bursting at the seams of her soul.
Yes, ma. We inherited the trait from you. The show of strength and no emotional outbursts; we acquired it all. We didn’t learn to say I love you until we were adults. Did I fake my emotion for others all these years? Well, maybe so. It’s heavy stuff to ponder, don’t you think?
Good thing Pappy was around for the occasional hugs and embraces when he took a break from his carousing, while you were out making a living. You didn’t have a lot of time for us either, Pappy.
She stared into the darkness until her eyes watered. She brushed the unwanted tears away. She kept talking to the walls she once considered sacred.
I know you both loved us in your limited capacity, I know that. Yes, we were once a happy family. It’s just that it would have been nice to hear the words and to feel real, honest to goodness love, you know? More often than not, you guys were too busy doing what you were doing to give us the notice that would have made us whole. You winged your love for us, and now we’re lacking.
I’m in big trouble, can’t you see? I need enlightenment, something to go on, please?
The Chronicler jumped when she turned around and a figure stared back at her. Her heart felt like it would burst.
She stared at her image on the mirror where she used to lose herself going to her special place when she didn’t have a book to read or playmates to find, when no one was looking — where she could be alone, do anything and be anyone she wanted to be. She still did that — her robust imagination was her safety zone these days.
When her heart stilled, she turned away. There was nothing in her parents’ room, only emptiness.
The room next to her parents’ was the boys’ dormitory style bedroom with the bunk beds. Years of dust covered the floor and the windowsills. The windows were black with dirt and grime.
She thought about one of her brothers’ favorite sick amusements. She and her sisters used to crowd by their parents’ window to view a parade or church procession that passed by the house. A special invite from the boys always got the girls’ attention and coaxed them away from the safety of their parent’s room.
The bad boys had slingshots at the ready with piles of meticulously rolled-up paper bullets used for weapons. They waited for their mark and took aim. The window afforded a vantage view when several unfortunate kids dressed as angels or members of the band, all cried out in pain at the same time. They all ducked when fingers pointed at the boys’ window.
It came to an end after a visit from the local priest. The brothers and their equally evil boy cousins found other targets. They rode their bikes to their parents’ farm, not far from town, and aimed their hurtful weapons at small animals by the creek where the family used to have Sunday picnics.
What a bunch of nasty boys you were!
The boys’ room was strictly taboo to the girls, but when their parents weren’t around, she and her sisters stupidly wandered in at their own risk, for a round of taunting and torture. The noise, laughter and banging around, the teasing and ensuing tears had one or both of her parents rush in to see if anyone was hurt.
She mouthed off her brothers’ names:
Morris, Lawrence, Miguel, Roberto, Mark and Leon. All brave and strong boys then, but now we girls defend you from your women. Funny, huh?
She walked through the small hallway that connected to the other room. She entered the bedroom she and her younger sister, Magda shared with her two older sisters, Isabela and Ramona. The older girls shared a queen size bed in the center of the room, while she and her younger sister shared a double bed by the window.
Yvonne, the youngest sister slept in their parents’ bedroom. She was my parents’ birth control, but it didn’t work.
Our last sister, I’m so sorry you didn’t make it, Maria Theresa. Pappy said you were a beautiful baby, more so than the rest of us girls. Ma brought home the Chihuahua puppies in your place as if they made up for your absence.
Silly dogs named Peanut and Popcorn, yipping and snapping at our ankles all the time. I hated those dogs! They became so obese that the drunken fools hanging around the corner by the movie theater snatched them, roasted and ate them. Yuck! Ma was so upset. Pappy was amused.
She looked at the corner window where she and Magda slept. They took turns wetting the bed, and when the older sisters were sent to Madrid, they took over the big bed and wetted that one too.
There used to be a mirror here just like in our parents’ bedroom, and a glass cabinet where Ramona kept the dolls mommy brought back from her travels to other countries. Nothing left here, only broken pieces of glass stuck to the wall. My thieving cousin must have tried to pry the mirror from the wall and it shattered to pieces.
Ah, my older sisters. Ma said Isabela and Ramona were spared the humiliation of losing the family’s respectability. They partook of the feast while the rest of us suffered the famine. They will never quite understand that their hardship at least was endured in foreign countries where no one gave a shit about who you were. It’s different here; people will whisper about your misfortunes with obvious hands covering their mouths and staring in your direction.
Comparing notes as to who suffered the most and whom pappy loved best was a favorite form of masochism for the girls, especially Isabel, who in her mind, endured the most tragedy in her life. We will always have unresolved issues, won’t we, sisters? Best not to dwell on them or resentment might take over and we repeat history, like our mother and her sister.
She walked outside and passed the bathroom where she banged her forehead on the porcelain sink, and bled like a stuck pig. She still had the scar.
She stopped at the little nook where the library used to be. The shelves were still there.
Ah, my little space . . .
She spent a lot of time reading in the dark corner with only the light from the glass-paned door to the fire escape — her older sisters would sneak out there to smoke cigarettes — in the afternoons and a small desk lamp at nights. She stayed there until she had to be called for meals or if her mother needed to inspect her fingernails.
Remember that time you put on a brand new white dress for your first Holy Communion? You were playing outside and got carried away creating mud pies until it was time to get dressed. You refused to take a shower. You were so filthy with dirt caked on the creases of your fat neck and under your nails. Ma was really angry and scolded the maid for neglecting her duties. The dress shone white and I looked angelic, but my body was grimy with dried mud like an imp!
Small wonder no communion photos of you are displayed in the family album. There was no time to go to the studio. Ma had to scrub the filth from your body!
The Chronicler’s eyesight went bad from reading in the dark. She hated the thick lenses of her glasses and had to suffer the endless teasing of her siblings. She took them off when she first started noticing boys. The eye squinting became a habit even when she started to wear contact lenses.
She looked fondly at the small space, thinking back to when she invented characters and scenes from her made up stories. Later, she joyfully acted out the lead parts in front of the mirror in her parents’ room. She had her world and it was uncomplicated; no one else was allowed to join her. Once in awhile, when she was particularly caught up in an interesting scene, one or two of her siblings tiptoed from behind. Hushed giggles turned to roars of ridiculed laughter that sent her looking for a corner to hide and cower from embarrassment at being caught unawares.
She turned away. Resignation, emptiness and bitterness like bile stuck in her throat.
Face it, you’ve always been on the outside, looking in. You’ll remain on the outer fringes until the day you die, girl. Ah, these thoughts going around in my brain. I can’t turn them off.
The pervasive feeling of nothingness prevailed; there was no revelation to be gleaned up here.
Move on.
She went down the stairs and walked through the large bathroom and through the hallway connected to the kitchen that was only used when entertaining guests. Liquor and fine china were kept in the glass cabinets and silverware and table linen in drawers. The marble counters were used to place platters of mouthwatering food brought in from the real kitchen outside — they called it the dirty kitchen — before being served. She wondered why her mother even bothered to put a stove here.
People talked for days about the endless flow of delicious foods and fancy alcohol beverages when her parents entertained.
She walked out to the dirty kitchen and stood in a dark, empty space where the stone counter that was wide as a small house used to be. All the hustle and bustle of cooking took place there. No household could ever compare with the dishes her grandmother and her helpers laid out for the town fiesta.
She later found out that her fat, evil cousin had Lola’s stone counter removed and installed in her house in Manila.
Must have taken a huge truck for dipshit to transport lola’s counter.
The sunlight peeked through the old balete or banyan tree by the old driveway shared with her aunt. Amazingly, it still stood, barely gasping to survive the elements. She smirked at the endless superstitions told her as a child. The townspeople, remote rural residents, even the educated and sophisticated believed it was bad luck to cut down a tree inhabited by spirits of folklore legend.
There used to be a pen to keep animals before they were slaughtered for the town fiesta. I remember loving and caring for that one sweet, unsuspecting lamb before they chopped it up to pieces. Probably why I’m reluctant to eat lamb. The grunting pigs and cackling chickens instinctively knew they were doomed to be food for the countless visitors that trooped in and out of this house, but that poor lamb didn’t.
Her memory wandered way back, as far back as it would take her. She was the youngest child then. Magda was waiting in the wings, ready and raring to be born, and her grandmother had only months to live.
She whispered into the emptiness.
Lola, I remember we used to sweep the floor together. I counted coins with you and declared I would be a billionaire. You listened while I tried to utter words from a dictionary. I remember you going to market, talking to so many people while collecting money owed to you. You had such a kind and gentle face.
You made your famous tamales on the stone counter in the dirty kitchen with mommy and pappy by your side, helping with the pounding of peanuts in a pistil, wrapping the delicious ingredients in banana leaves. People wished they were on your tamale gift list. The old timers still yearn for them. Mommy made them once and it was a hit, but it was too laborious to prepare in a small kitchen in San Francisco.
The day we lost you, I went downstairs and saw you sweeping out here. You had your back turned to me. You wore a dark blue dress with white floral design and your hair was up in its usual bun. I called out to you, but you didn’t turn around. That’s what I remember of our short time together.
When mommy was by your hospital bedside wishing you had more time on this earth, she said you made her go watch a movie. Later, she used to go the movies with Magda to relieve the stress of raising all of us, especially when she hit rock bottom and had nowhere to turn. She was devastated when she lost you. You were always there to rescue her and champion her causes. She grieves for you even now.
Your older daughter must have really resented you and my mother. When you died, it signaled the beginning of the end for my family. It was payback time for the family next door. It took some years yet, but the good times of our being a happy family were numbered.
A smidgen of awareness fluttered inside her, but she couldn’t place a finger on it. The Chronicler shook her head to brush it away.
She looked over to the house next door, now a hardware store. She waved at a male employee having a smoke break, surprise and fear clearly registering on his face. He quickly returned inside. She laughed out loud.
He must think I’m a ghost. Well, maybe so.
She went back inside to avoid the employee returning with a co-worker to confirm he didn’t see a ghost. She didn’t want to have to answer questions. She turned to look over her aunt’s old house one more time.
Aside from the fear her grandmother’s room instilled in her as a child, the dark, dingy and faded feel of that house made her want to leave it right after she stepped through the door that separated the two households.
We were never welcomed in Tita’s house. I was only in it once when I had to give my aunt something. She and my mother were hardly on speaking terms by then. I always had the feeling something evil would reach out and snatch me and keep me prisoner inside the walls forever. My parents would never find me. That was creepy.
She laughed at her wild imagination then and now. But all her siblings agreed that their home was always bright and cheery compared to the darkness and heavy feel that permeated the walls of that house or any of her aunt’s homes, here and in the U.S. All were unwelcoming and devoid of character. It was as if there was no permanence or happy memories attached to the homes, just a stepping-stone to bigger and better properties they procured, honestly or not.
All those homes were probably built from ill-gotten wealth, most likely from my mother’s share of her inheritance. Karma plays a role, Tita. All that wealth never did you or your family any good. It eventually brought you a whole lot of misery, didn’t it? Your family gave the semblance of normalcy, of warmth and happiness, and all the while you were plotting the downfall of mine. That fat daughter of yours turned out to be a right snake.
Why did you take it out on us?
Christ, when our mother was counting centavos and we were missing a father, you ordered your fridge chained when my sister, Magda and I came around, as if we would eat you out of house and home. Your idiot daughter, Lita, would show off a suitcase full of candy and chips brought back from a recent visit to the U.S. The stupid twit enticed us with bags of goodies, but first we had to get a slap in the face before she threw us a morsel. And that nasty, evil to the core, youngest boy of yours, Lex, stood by snickering. Like dogs we were, wagging our stupid tails for a meager bone to fetch.
It was you who was responsible for my departure. You made my parents paranoid with your prediction after the last school expelled me. You said I would end up joining the rebels or worse, become pregnant at a young age. So I was shipped off to fend for myself in two strange continents.
The Chronicler’s bitter thoughts turned to her religious upbringing. In most religious countries where the biggest sinners are the regular churchgoers, like her aunt and her brood. All reverently bowing their heads after receiving Holy Communion. As soon as they stepped outside the church, after they were absolved of their sins and received the body of Christ, the culprits continued with their evil, as if they had license to do it all over again.
Hell, she was at least honest with the priest when she returned to her religion after being absent for twenty years. She remembered going into St. Olaf Church in Minneapolis, frozen tundra of the Midwest, on a colder than a witch’s tits in a brass bra day, a favorite term of Nathan’s when they lived in Alaska.
She thought about her face-to-face confession of her sins to Father Harald, the longhaired priest she fondly called her father confessor. The priest who didn’t judge her and laughed deliciously when she told him that it wouldn't it be better instead of going down the list of 20 years spent in sin, that she committed all the sins listed in the commandments, except for the part about Thou shalt not kill.
So, why in the hell, dear Tita, if you hated us so much, did you and your family follow the rest of us, illegally I might add, to the U.S., and when our mother returned here to retire, you were not far behind? Afraid we might discover your deceit? We did, didn’t we?
She shook off the bad energy and quickly went into what used to be the living room.
She and her siblings stood in line here and endured their mother’s clipping their fingernails. Clothes were inspected when important visitors came to call. It was also their mother’s strict orders to the maids to keep them quiet. Children were seen but not heard when company was around.
The living room was also where their mother meted out punishments while their father looked on, trying to wipe off the amusement from his face, pretending to be stern like his wife.
She remembered the day their sister, Celeste, became a member of the family. Her parents were poor immigrants from China. The wife fell ill and they didn’t have money to buy her medication. The couple came to the house, sat in the living room, seeking help. They heard the woman of the house had a generous heart. They left their infant daughter as collateral with their mother, and never returned for her.
The last place in the house for her to check was the patio. Many happy memories born were made here, and just like the cracked mirror in her parents’ bedroom, the thieving vultures didn’t or couldn’t take down and haul away the large mosaic mural of tropical design, created by an artist from many tiled pieces of soft hues of green and blue.
If only walls could really speak.
She touched the mural that witnessed birthdays, happy celebrations and parties. She remembered how they went to church with their parents, sleepy children in tow to attend Christmas Eve masses. Later, sleepiness was shaken off and replaced with eagerly anticipated feasting at Noche Buena and finally, tearing open the wrappers from the many presents scattered underneath the Norfolk pine their father brought home.
While going through the meager collection of photos her mother had somehow managed to salvage, she had come across a small snapshot of her brothers on the patio. It was of Larry with a gleeful and slaphappy face, gyrating to the twirling movement of a Hula-Hoop. His arms were inside the plastic ring, holding on to his khaki shorts threatening to fall. Morris was dancing a jig, grinning wide at the camera and pointing at his brother’s predicament.
Again, that sinking feeling — there was nothing here, only the bittersweet past glaring back at her.
The stark reality of dealing with disappointments, hurt, damaged loves and insecurities returned in full force. She had to go back out there to face whatever might come.
On her way out, she glanced at her grandmother’s door. She proceeded to the front door, but a tug in her gut made her turn around. The dim awareness she felt earlier returned, screaming at her senses now to turn back.
She turned the knob of her grandmother’s bedroom, took a deep breath as if to muster all her courage. She pushed the creaky door open.
The sun’s light sliced through the clapboards nailed to the windows. She shone the light. There, incredibly still there, after so many years.
The light illuminated the face of her grandmother’s portrait hanging on the wall. She approached the portrait and began to wipe off the shroud of dusty cobwebs.
Suddenly, the earphones still stuck in her ears blared out and in full force Fogelberg’s Part of the Plan.
Your conscience awakes
And you see your mistakes
And you wish someone
Would buy your confessions
The days miss their mark
And the night gets so dark
And some kind of message
Comes through to you
Some kind of message
Shoots through . . .
She stepped back and stared at her grandmother’s face, the smiling eyes, the quiet demeanor emanating from the portrait.
She pressed her fists against her temples. The Chronicler wailed her grief, sorrows, disappointments at what she should have been, sobbing uncontrollably before her grandmother’s portrait.
She thought of the life she had after she was forced out of the country of her birth, carted off to the U.S. by a strange uncle, as if a stolen child forced to travel with gypsies. Only as an adult, did she bitterly relate to her mother how this uncle entered her room and tried to seduce her. He left her alone when she threatened to tell the men in her family. She was thankful then for the strength inherited from her mother and all the family women before her.
The first to emigrate were her older brothers, Morris and Larry. They couldn’t take care of her in Palo Alto. They were going to school and their free time was spent working at some fast food restaurant at the Stanford University shopping mall.
Her mother took her to Germany and left her with her oldest sister, Isabela. Their mother had to return home to take care of immigrant visas for her other children, and Isabela had her own life and family to take care of. The teenage girl was stranded, robbed of her childhood.
The Chronicler did a lot of growing up at a fast and furious pace. She took on the adventure, didn’t think of the painful separation from loved ones who many years later would become more strangers to her than family.
The girl had to go about learning the business of living on her own. She chronicled everything in her head: the places she’d been, friends she made and the men and women she loved and lost, good times, bad times.
She thought of her handsome, kind and lovable father whom she never saw again after she left, she only had the few letters he wrote, her most priceless treasure from him. His heartfelt signoffs always made her weep.
Ang saiyo nagmamahal (one who loves you), Pappy
The pain shot through her whole being and she sat on the filthy floor. She remembered uncontrollably weeping and rocking back and forth in Alaska when she learned of his death.
Her thoughts turned to her aged and sick, but still beautiful mother. Her sobs racked her as she pictured the hardships and sacrifices the fiercely proud and independent woman had been through. She lost her fortune, forced to seek help from an unfeeling sister, ridiculed behind her back by the cruel cousins and suffered the gossips of a small town.
She said it was mostly her fault that so much was lost or taken from her. She used to be a woman of means but was reduced to working in a foreign country so she could feed the family. She did it for all for her children.
I owe you my life. I can never repay you for the sacrifices you made, the cruelty you endured and the pride you had to swallow to give us a life. All I have to offer is the love and respect you deserve.
And she thought about the long letter her aunt wrote her years ago, before her first-born son, the Chronicler’s first cousin, passed away. Somehow she knew then that her aunt was reaching out to her, explaining her side.
She had lived and traveled halfway around the world and now she was home, communing with her grandmother’s portrait.
When the tears finally dried, only the rapid rising and falling of her chest remained to be calmed. Completely drained, she stood up and held her breath to stifle the hiccups.
She wiped her hands and reverently took down her grandmother’s portrait. It needed a new home, a bit of cleaning and it will be good as new. Her grandmother didn’t belong here anymore.
I don’t wonder my cousins didn’t take you home with them. Tita, I’m certain, never painted a pretty picture of you. They must have been afraid to touch your portrait, Lola. Afraid that something bad would happen to them, like when Mommy used to threaten to say a novena for her sister.
She finally had a crystal clear understanding of what her whole family had to go through to get back to here. Her other siblings were returning to their roots, and so was the Chronicler.
They were gravitating to that one point that always brought them together, their mother. After years of living and working in the U.S., the woman subjected to a harsh existence finally headed back home, proud of her achievements. There were no more embarrassments and no shame.
And whether we like it or not, our mother is the center of our universe. She kept us together, made us survivors, made us somewhat whole again. No one can ever take her place in this family. Make her happy while there’s still time.
She resolved to read through and between the lines of her aunt’s letter to her. Her aunt’s side of the story would teach her to accept and understand the past.
She walked out the door with her grandmother’s portrait, wrapped the chain around the iron gates, inserted the key and clicked the padlock shut. The noise outside was deafening and the hot midday sun was bearing down on the pavement and streets. She put on her shades, and crossed the street.
The Chronicler smiled at the toothless twit of a vendor woman gaping at her as she approached. She held up her grandmother’s portrait.
“This is your ghost. Now you can add to your tale and say you’ve seen her. I hope you sell a lot of bananas!”
The Chronicler hailed a tricycle to take her to the house she and her siblings built for their mother. It wasn’t a grand house, but it belonged to her.
Menopause? Bullshit, I can conquer this. A bit of yoga and meditating, and busy fingers banging on the keyboard can control these crazy emotions. I come from good stock, don’t I? Whether or not I reach that mountaintop of so-called goals or pipe dreams, I can at least give it a try.
Rise and shine, sweet pea! Pick up the pieces and go for the rest of your life. This long and strange trip isn’t over yet, girl, and there’s John to see to.
Thanks, lola, for the message.
And it says to you . . .
Love when you can
Cry when you have to . . .
Be who you must
That’s a part of the plan
Await your arrival
With simple survival
And one day we’ll all understand . . .
There is no eden or
Heavenly gates
That you’re gonna make it to
One day
But all of the answers you seek
Can be found
In the dreams that you dream
On the way
It’s all part of the plan. Dan, you’re the man.
The Chronicler sat in the tricycle, tightly holding on to her grandmother’s portrait, as it awkwardly maneuvered through the streets of her hometown.
We’re now here for you, mama.
She thought about the story of the two sisters, her next writing project.
© Patricia Laurel
