Weathering

Diane woke up as the dream slipped from her hands. She was relieved that her bag remained on her lap. Outside the bus windows, rain had streaked the world with blue monotony. Wheels and wipers worked relentlessly under the downpour. The bus carried her past a green sign that said “Bocaue.” It had been a decade since she last saw the jagged skyline of her hometown. Her mother should still be living here: she didn’t have anywhere else to go. The bus stopped at a red light. She opened her bag and brought out the gift she bought yesterday. It was wrapped in red and green. The tape had peeled, and it barely stuck to the seams. She hated the off-season color, but she hoped the holiday spirit would help.

Yesterday, like her other Saturdays, she found herself lifeless on her bed. The fragments of the past poured out of the orange walls. Ball games. An afternoon stroll. Dinner outside: her mother complained that the adobo was too greasy, the stew too sour, and the leche flan too sweet. Her father pinched the flab of her right arm. He rubbed her swollen belly and talked to the baby inside. She slapped him and laughed. Midday peered from the blinds of her apartment and warmed her legs. The movie stopped. The ceiling failed to rewind the scene. The drone of the highway intruded into her room. Her brother’s face was a blur. She last saw him ten years ago. All she had was a phone number on her Nokia. Unable to bear the calm, she decided to call him. “Ate.” “Herbert. I want to ask you something.” He waited for her. “Come with me.” “Where?” “Home.” The pause stiffened her arm. She knew the answer, but she just had to try. “You asked that a week ago.” “It’s been ten years. Aren’t you curious?” “No. I left and I won’t be coming back.” “I know. I’m sorry.” “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I just can’t stand it.” “I understand, Herbert.” She didn’t know where he lived. She assumed he was staying in Manila, but he could be anywhere. It was a miracle he held on to his number. If he lost his phone. If he didn’t have a copy of her number. She got dressed and headed to the mall. The endless flow of strangers jostled her left and right. No one knew her. No one cared. She feared that she would lose her definitions one day. She searched for a gift for her mother. She didn’t see a way out of it.

She alighted at a bus stop near the market. The smell of butchered meat and brine greeted her. Fruits and vegetables sagged in baskets. A man looked at her from head to toe, guessing if she was real and not a specter of the daytime lull. She lit a cigarette and stood at a corner that used to sell toys and newspapers. She had her umbrella. She had time. She joined the smoke and retreated into formless comfort. She dialed her brother twice before he answered. “Hello, Herbert.” “Ate.” “I just wanted to hear your voice.” “I’m in the middle of work, ate.” “I’m at the market a couple of minutes from home. I don’t see the old stores. I don’t recognize the vendors.” “Maybe we never knew them. How could we?” “Something has to stay.” “Why did you come back?” He was the first one to leave: he packed his clothes and left without asking for money. Her mother hid in her room. Her father drove to the nearest Meralco branch to pay their bill. She turned over his bedsheets. She slammed open his cabinet, hoping her anger would bring him back. She flipped his sketchbook. Sketches of hers and their mother’s faces unfolded from outlines into realistic drafts. She remembered that he tried to draw his father's face, but he couldn’t finish it. Their eyes and noses were different. When she left, after her four years in college, she felt powerless to change her mother and the ghost of her father. “I want to know that myself.” “Call me once you remember.”

She waited for too long. The rain and the wind had grown stronger. The sky had dimmed and the streetlights were coming to life one by one. She braved the weather with her umbrella. The wind drove her forward, rushing her through the puddles in a frenzy.

She reached the front gate of her childhood home. A small light emanated from the kitchen window. She was about to yell her mother's name when she saw that the hasp was unlocked. She let herself in and took shelter under the alcove of the front door. Her clothes were soaked and the contents of her bag were ruined. She brought out the gift. The wrapper was still in good condition except for the tape. She caught her breath, knocked on the door, and prepared to perform a script she cobbled up on the bus. She knocked again, but no one answered. She entered and, out of habit, flicked the switch on the wall. The living room was barely changed. The television was still facing the couch. A menagerie of swans and birds crowded the dresser’s surface. The picture of her father was gone. In its place was a rusted keyring. Tattered magazines and self-help books were stacked on the coffee table. As she leafed through the pages, she stepped on a puddle. Then she looked up and saw brown stains on the yellow ceiling. Rainwater had rotted the panel. She noticed a damp and moldy smell in the air. She let the door stay open. The half-lit kitchen drew her closer. Her mother was there, sitting before the table. Her hands held an empty glass with a dull shimmer. Her eyes were closed and her face bore no trace of emotion or pain, just wrinkles and vacancy. Diane was late, not by hours, but by days. Maybe more. She sat across from her mother and placed the gift in the middle of the table. She didn’t notice that the rain had stopped. The clouds had parted and revealed a starless sky. She heard dripping, but she couldn’t tell if it was inside or outside the house. What would she say to Herbert? Fatigue caught up to her. She dropped her head and closed her eyes.

…on the street, she heard her parents talk in a hushed tone. She didn’t know where they came from. They reached their house. Under a weak light, Diane played with her shadow. She didn’t want to see them. Her father tried all his keys, but he couldn’t open the gate. He searched his pockets for the right one. “Can't you see I’m trying?” her father said calmly. Her mother wept. A baby cried from her womb…

She woke up to the rain. The city was warped by the deluge. A dream escaped from her fingertips. Words jammed her throat and refused to make a sound. Her bag lay still on her lap, but it felt as if someone had touched it. The windshield wipers swept left and right as the bus passed the green sign. Bocaue.