I used to lie on the Persian rug, wide-eyed and curious, watching her weave the intricate patterns of her masterpieces as she spun doilies upon doilies of Thomasite stories, Gen. Douglas MacArthur and his perfect nose, and how her man got lucky because of the Japs.
Her stories always made me hungry. The dragon in my tummy would start grumbling whenever she got to the part where MacArthur-with-his-perfect-nose would drop by the 126th Infantry with his chocolates and butter cookies, or where she and her friends had to cross rivers and pass through secret caves, eating stale bread and whatever looked edible enough; barely escaping the godless Japs who pillaged town after town, sinning the old sins with the poor, helpless virgins (who unfortunately had no make-believe husbands) in every horrid, inhuman way they fancied. And that's how her man, who was then just her make-believe husband, got lucky when (after all those months in hiding) she finally got convinced it wasn't all just make-believe.
I could almost taste the free Hersheys the Thomasites gave the gradeschool children whose textbook grammars, she was certain, were far better than the broken English this poor generation boasted of.
She'd hear the dragon in my tummy growling, of course, and she'd gently lay down her crochet, carefully marking the #4 needle lest she forget what she was using and resume with a #9; and wouldn't that be a disaster because of the dragon in my tummy. Shame on my belly for not having manners like a lady should. Off hides the #4 needle into the purple Danish butter cookie can that was probably the last of MacArthur's pasalubongs before he took off with his perfect nose, promising to return... and I'm sure I hear the #4 needle swearing that it, too "shall return".
She'd playfully tug at a pigtail and point me to the kitchen, where she'd let me mix the right drink as she whipped the right snack to match our conversation: orange juice for salad and sonoches (if it was American day), sikwate and puto maya (when it was Leytena-Boholana), or rice coffee with estrelladong itlog for the hungry Tagalog.
She'd call me her estrella bonita, and she'd vigilantly scrub my head with her famous concoction of gugo and sabila -- my weekly dose of her icky, gooey, hair-raising love -- as we sang Visayan-English-Tagalog ballads that often challenged the social divide, gave solace to broken souls, and bore testament to true love and faithful hearts. She laughed hard when I cried because I didn't like being called a cracked egg, and said i was indeed a bit pretty cracked. Later she explained that estrella bonita meant that I was the pretty little star that would guide mother (and who knows, maybe even father) back home.
If there is love in my heart, it is because she put it there.
I knew; was convinced back then that I was, in fact, an estrella bonita. Pretty little star. Her walking sunshine. But that was all waaay back then. Back when my naivete was still considered cute. Adorable.
Now, let's just say I've heard enough Jap and Thomasite and MacArthur-with-his-perfect-nose stories; sang too many love songs.
When she got back from the US, I was already too old for the weekly scrubbing of gugo and sabila on her lap. She'd still call me her estrella bonita, but something in the way she'd say it tells me that something is missing. Or is about to be missed. I'd come home from school and she'd be sitting in the living room after her long afternoon naps, crochetless and storyless, staring out the window. Sometimes I'd wonder if she sees MacArthur ashore, somewhere beyond the dusty horizon... Or if she sees him walking to our front yard with his perfect nose and chocolates and butter cookies, like a lover fulfilling his promised return. Sometimes she'd tense up as if she were pricked, vexed at whatever she was staring at... and I'd wonder if it was father she saw docking on some seaport. The Captain of promises who would never return. Her beloved daughter's thorn. This silent routine becomes her daily program. As certain as daybreak and nightfall.
Almost like a ritual.
I find her staring out the living room rather window early one morning. I decide to break the silence, wondering why her program was moved to an earlier timeslot. I tell her I miss hearing the #4 needle swearing its return. She smiles; explains it was getting old and stubborn, never doing what she wanted it to do. So she locked it up forever in her trusty old baul with all the doilies and Jap and Thomasite stories. I tell her she's a murderer burying MacArthur under a pile of old centerpieces and sepia portraits. She laughs at the idea of her decorated war hero complaining, perfect nose all wrinkled up: it smells like mothballs in here..
She is unhappy however, that she still hears the dragon growling in my belly; by the Good Lord hasn't it learned its manners yet; so would I please be a lady and whip up our nice little conversation with some salad and sonoches because the sun was already setting (though it was just barely after breakfast) and we both might end up in the dragon's belly instead, haha.
We giggle as she recalls her youthful adventures over salad and sonoches, but as I bite into my share, it starts tasting like blood..
***************************************************
I look down and see blood all over; taste blood all over. I am wearing a hospital gown. I look up but am blinded by bright white lights. Someone is shouting, "Doc! Nagising!"; someone is pinning me down. I realize I am in an operating room, battling with the dragon in my belly. Someone took the oxygen off. The rude awakening makes me very, very angry. I bite my lower lip again. Everything's a blur.
I may have just been dreaming. Remembering, perhaps..
I remember hearing an old woman whimpering at five in the morning... and then zonking out. It is my mother, crying by my bedside.
I remember a ticklish touch on my toes. Sherryll, the sister I have always wanted to have, smooths out the blanket by my feet. "Nagkutkot pa talaga sya ng kuko, Nay?"
"Anak talaga ng lola nya yan", says mother. "Di magpapa-opera ng madumi ang paa, hindi magpapalinis sa iba. Kahit sa 'kin."
I remember waking up to DingDong Dantes holding my hand, whispering "Wag mo kong iwan"... and then zonking out. He is wearing my bestfriend's favorite shirt. Helleeooww, morphine.
I remember reading a message from Inspector Gadget on my cellphone: "Stop thinking too much. Forget about your worries for now. Just focus on getting better. You need to be strong. For your nanay."
I remember.
I struggle to get back. I need closure. I need to say goodbye. I zonk out again.
She smiles when I get back, and pushes a salad plate towards me. You've got the salad and sonoches figured out now, bonita. About time. But you gotta learn how to tame that nasty dragon in your tummy. Take the good with the bad without much grumbling. Now go, be a lady.
Go... and be happy.
***************************************************
Beep..
Beep..
I wake up to the bleep of the morphine regulator and hushed, grieving whispers. Someone is asking if I already know. I mumble under my breath.
I know. Nagpaalam na si lola.
Her sun has set. As mine singed the moon across a starless, bruised horizon. Just before daybreak. The day I battled with my dragon.
