Ghosts, nails and doors

My short story for ENG101.

***

Without a sound, I closed the small wicker chest that holds more than a dozen paint pots, and pushed it towards the corner where it originally stood. I picked up the pocket knife on the floor, wiped it clean with my handkerchief, and replaced it on the counter. Looking back, it sure was entertaining to see that much red oozing out, only it stains everything. I tried putting the whole place back to its original state, like nothing happened, but it proved to be difficult. Traces of scarlet were everywhere, despite my constant wiping and scrubbing. Even with expert air-conditioning, sweat beads formed on my forehead and upper lip. A few wisps of hair fell over my eyes. Damn these bangs. I never should have gotten them in the first place. They always get in the way, and I’d have to push them back or pin them every time. I thought I’d look nice with them, but I figured that I looked like a total idiot. I’ve got dog fur all over, and I’ve been sneezing since I came in. Absentmindedly, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. It left a streak of crimson on the bridge of my nose, and in minutes it dried up into a nasty brownish color I would not notice until a lot later.
I checked my mobile phone for messages or missed calls. Nil. Nada. Zilch. My phone’s clock reads a half past five o’clock. I’ve been inside for more than four hours so I decided to step outside to get a decent breath of fresh air. Swirls of color are on display outside. It’s the magic hour, when the sky boasts of its spectrum of hues while the sun lowers itself in the horizon. I remember the last time I watched the sky at this hour. Everything was tinged with tangerine, and the firmament seemed to be on fire. This afternoon, I witnessed a lilac dusk, and the sunset spewed pinks, blues and oranges across the widest canvass there is: the heavens. After the spectacle, I stepped inside once again, determined to finish what I started. I walked over to the sink and desperately tried to scrub the stains off my hands, my fingers, and ultimately, my nails. Notwithstanding the amount of time I wasted on scouring them, they remained filthy. The undersides of my nails were the grimiest, and vexed at seeing no other solution, I walked over to my bag which I left hanging on one of the wall hooks randomly skewered on the wall. I took out my nail grooming kit, a compact version of my nail grooming set back at my apartment.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

One by one, I watched the minute crescent moons tainted with red fall from the ends of my fingers. It will be a long time before I get to do anything with them again, their growth rate relatively slower now than before. There they mingle with the paint chips, dust and unrecognizable clumps of hair. I’ll just sweep them off afterwards and maybe the whole place. No matter how many times he says he’s cleaned this studio, they’re still there, those infuriating rainbow-coloured specks and hair strands that I find almost everywhere. I almost slipped when I squished a half-eaten burger stashed near the door when I came in earlier. I’m not sure who munched on it, his Alaskan klee kai or him. I wonder how he finds inspiration to work in this enclosed, chaotic space. He calls it his Igloo of Art; I call it an animal cage.
I took the metal pusher and routinely scraped the undersides of my nails for leftover dirt. I wonder what shade I should put on next time. No, definitely not red. I’ve seen too much red today.
I looked at my nail beds, and I found myself thanking Dad for slapping my mouth and hands when I acquired the propensity to put them together. Had he not, I would have bitten my nails off without second thought, damaging the soft tissue underneath. I used to gnaw at my then tiny claws when they get long enough for my teeth to nibble. Dad would yank my hand away from my mouth’s damp warmth, and clout them repeatedly with his. Sometimes, a newspaper would come in handy, and my little digits would suffer the wrath of Dad-god. My hands were not the only victims of his temper. There’s my leg, my bottom, or my mother, my poor mother. She has an unusual beauty underscored by the mysterious air that surrounds her. Holding her own aching jaw, she would take me to her room after the painful spanking. There she would cut my nails so vehemently, unintentionally wounding me in the process. It dawned unto me that whether I have my nails cut properly or not, I would still get hurt. She told me once that her fingernails stopped getting longer when she met my father, a phenomenon she took as a sign that her destiny had come for her. I watched her cry, her teardrops merging with sweat running down this side of her cheek where an angry dark purple spot is starting to appear. There were times when I’d come real close to her, almost tasting her tears. She’d wipe them off and smile at me weakly.

“I love your father so much,” she would say.

“But Mom, does he love you too? Does he love us too?”

“He does, honey.”

“How come he doesn’t come home, and when he does he hurts us?”

“You have to understand that love entails pain. When you grow up you’ll meet men, dozens of them, and you will fall in love with more than one. But love doesn’t stop at falling. It’s making him a part of you. It’s not like your nails that’ll grow and then you have to cut them when you start scraping yourself. It’s the fact that a part of him will keep growing in you and it will never go away.” One day, Dad never came back. I haven’t seen him since.

I was roused from my reverie by a sharp pain in one of my fingers. The metal pusher slipped from my hand and landed with a loud clang on the wooden parquet. Turns out, I pricked the soft tissue under the nail and now an almost imperceptible red vertical pinstripe ran up the nail bed. It was painful. It seems like the smallest things hurt us the most. I picked the metal pusher from the floor and proceeded with the next finger, taking care not to let my thoughts drift again, lest I inflict another, more detrimental injury upon myself.

I reached for the file, and with a force that spells experience, I started chafing the edges. I have nine simple steps in nail filing—
Step 1: Hold finger against light.
Step 2: Close one eye.
Step 3: Examine fingernail.
Step 4: Rub edges the same number of times.
Step 5: Hold against light again.
Step 6: If one edge is too high, return to Step 4.
If edge is just right, proceed to Step 7.
Step 7: Hold against light once more.
Step 8: Check for uneven edges.
Step 9: Wipe nail surface with wet tissue.

I took a look at them again. They’re of the just the right shape and length, at least in my opinion. I sighed, contented. They’re definitely my unique selling point. They’re beautiful, the only part of me that I can boast of. I’ve subscribed to the idea that the epitome of beauty is a doe-eyed woman with glossy lips, straight jet-black hair and side-swept bangs, fair skin and slender physique. I am nothing of that sort. With brown hair which is somewhere in between curly and straight, big eyes that have the tendency to water and go red when I get drunk, and a body that is a little too flabby around the arms and middle section, I’m not exactly what you’d call beautiful. Or at least, that’s what I believe. I guess I was misled early on in life with this notion. As I was looking at my nails, an episode from my distant past came cruising back to my memory. I was three years old, running around and minding my own business when this huge macho gay wielding a fan looked at me and told my aunt, “Is this your niece? How ugly she has become. With a face and skin color like that, I bet she’ll grow up into a homely girl that the boys will ignore at the prom.” And then a chorus of laughter, the macho gay’s horsey cackle ringing clearest above the rest. The vision ended, and I shook my head in an attempt to unsettle the sickening feeling of self-pity rising in my throat.

Much to my consternation, the prophecy rang true. I was resigned to thinking that I’d end up a spinster at some point. It was prom night. The moon was glowing with its mysterious allure, set against the dark sky interspersed with pinpricks of light; I was stuck to the wall, watching my classmates’ figures dance in pairs. Their shadows fell upon me, and for what felt like an eternity, I stood there feeling the weight of solitude on my chest that was already heavy with despair. I kept looking at my fingernails to look bored, to look like I didn’t care. They were groomed in French tips tonight, squared and stunning. Too bad no one would care to touch them, how much more look at them, but me. Towards the middle of the night, while my female friends’ legs were already tired from dancing and mine from standing, one of them, a boy I often see in one corner of the classroom playing his guitar while surrounded by other band enthusiasts, came up to me and asked for a dance. He was quiet, and in a class dominated by jocks, he stood out. I took the hand he offered, and with my taffeta dress rustling for the first time, we danced the way they described it in novels and fairy tales. All throughout our first dance, I kept stealing glances at him amid the awkward silence, but it was difficult because he was tall and all I could see was his tie. I knew what I was doing is laughable, so I gathered the courage to look up beyond the buttons of his shirt, to his proud chin, his shapely mouth, his moderately aquiline nose that was just attractive, and his soft brown eyes that seemed to gleam with mischief. He was staring down at me too, and for a few seconds our eyes met, just like in the movies. We smiled, and somehow the huge iceberg lodged between us diminished in size. We went on slow dancing into the evening, with bits of small talk and a few laughs in between songs. He’s pretty interesting, unlike the other boys who could only hold my attention for a maximum of three minutes, not that they really talked to me anyway. Talk about short attention span. Just before the last song, he took me to one corner of the dance floor, and eventually led me out into the open air. The February breeze was bitingly cold, but I felt him put his arms around my shoulder.

“I’ve been watching you since the second half of this school year,” he said as he turned to face me. I looked around nervously, scouting for people who could be eyeing us.

“Really?”

“Yeah, because you’re not like them.”

“Like who?”

“Like those girls who have more make up on their faces than what’s inside here,” he answered, tapped his temple with a finger then traced a circle on his chest and added, “And here.”

I was taken aback by such straightforward words. I never thought I was being watched all this time. Could he have seen my humungous zit two weeks ago? Did he see me all sweaty and haggard, not to mention sunburned, after PE class? And my hair, did he notice its capability to make me look like Tarzan? Before I could recover from what I heard and what I was thinking, he took a step forward, bent down and touched his lips to mine. All that was left for me to do was close my eyes and cling to the lapel of his suit. I thought it was picture perfect, like that scene from The Princess Diaries. I was silently reveling in the feel of his mouth, feeling my knees go weak, when he went and spoiled it all by grasping by bottom. My eyes flew open, and instinctively like an animal when threatened by danger at hand, I clawed at his face with my French-tipped nails.

“What— didn’t you like it?” he asked. What was I thinking? I never should’ve let that asshole kiss me. I turned and ran, all the while hearing loud masculine hoots and titters behind me. I’ve become the latest victim of a prank. In tears, I took the route to the loo where I cooped myself up in a cubicle for the rest of the evening.
That moment, I came to the conclusion that all men are the same. They only want one thing: the body, this mortal shell that will eventually dry up and wither. They want it for sport too. They are slaves to their libidinous agitations, and they want nothing more than the famous three-letter taboo word – sex.
I’ve had relationships with them, but they were short-lived and pretty unsatisfying. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. One wants to go too fast, wanting to take me to bed at the first date. And then there was the other who was too slow that I wondered if he wanted a woman or a man. Others, they were too needy and then there were those who were undecided, my pseudo-boyfriends who are there one instant and gone the next. Some I left because I had to, and some others I left because they “had two”. I couldn’t stay in a relationship for too long, either because I’m afraid of getting the other person into my system or the person doesn’t want to be part of it. None lasted for more than a couple of months up until I met him.

Why him? Even I don’t know the answer.

Everybody knew who he was, the famous artist/poet with the impish schoolboy smile, happy-go-lucky disposition, a history of drug use and no apparent future. The death of his wife, an avant-garde artist pretty much like himself, came as a wake-up call. He found her dead in their studio, drug paraphernalia scattered across the floor along with her art materials. She was trying to finish a painting under the influence but she overdosed and died in the night. Her dog, who was with her, was the sole eyewitness. After the incident, people said that he was never the same and he never will be. He voluntarily went to rehab, underwent counseling. He got out just fine, but his eyes lost their original luster, and his usual melodic laughter was gone. His paintings and sculptures weren’t selling like they used to, in spite of the fact that the public pitied him. His works just won’t sell. And now he has a dog to take care of, much like a child she left behind. They say he’s living a half-life, because when his wife died, a part of him died with her. As quoted in one of the few magazines he honored with an interview, “It will take him a long time to get over everything, and only a great woman can make him forget.”

I met him in an art show I was assigned to cover. Sparks flew, so they say, and we saw each other more than twice a week after the first formal date. He invaded my life with her annoying pet and I took them in without hesitation. I’m not a firm believer of ghosts, but sometimes I feel like she’s hounding us through the dog, stirring our serene pond with paws. Master and pet are both getting on my nerves, although the former is already dead and the latter can’t do much but roll over and bark. The more time I spent with him and his art, the less time I had for my obsession, my nails. They oddly grew slower than usual, so I can’t do much but wait for them to get long enough to experiment with. There were days when I felt like my nails have stopped growing. But on the other hand, my world expanded to unbelievable proportions as I learned from him and his quirky ways. He is irritatingly sweet, and he’s not afraid to show it. He is deathly honest, and has always been since the beginning. What is there to hide? I am challenged by that fact that he has a part of him that is not mine, and it’s a chase I’d gladly take part of. A woman is entitled to her bouts of insecurity too, and that’s when I contemplate on what strategies to use. She sure is beautiful, something I don’t have anything to contest with. But she’s six feet under, and I’m here alive and smashingly active. I content myself with the fact that I am with him and she’s not.

I walked to the small grey fridge in one corner of the room. The fridge door was decked with colored Post-Its and photos from places we’ve been. I’ve been trying to eradicate the memory of her in this place, although I can’t say I’m successful in doing so since the Alaskan klee kai has been asserting its rights over the place. I peeped into the interior and picked out a soda in can. I cracked the nail of my index finger in process of opening it. How lucky. With my nails growing like seeds in the absence of sunlight and water, it sure looks like it’ll take months before I see my hands in their former glory. I sat down on the futon couch just nearby, kicked off my shoes and put my feet up. I finished the soda in no time, and then I lied down.

“Igloos don’t have windows.”

“This is not an igloo. It’s a studio, a workplace. Your brains need oxygen to work.”

“It has enough oxygen, thank you,” he answered sarcastically.

“With air-conditioning like that plus your filthy dog’s fur balls everywhere, how do you expect to live? You can’t even get it a leash!”

“Leave my dog out of this. What’s gotten into you? You have been nagging me about this subject for way too long. This is my studio, and I will run it as I see fit.” His voice was beginning to lose its usual cool.

“It’s not even your dog. It’s your wife’s dog! For all we know, she possesses that animal to ruin your life! Can’t you see? I’m the one who cares for you here. Why can’t you take her off your system? Haven’t you gotten over her yet? Am I not good enough? Sure, she’s beautiful and talented. I got to give it to her. But I’m here right now. You could at least listen to me.”

“And leave my wife out of this.” His tone was dead serious, but the heat’s settling on my head and I have no other option at the moment but to let it all out.

“She’s not even your wife any longer. She’s dead, and it’s frustrating to know that she’s still hanging around in this space because you won’t let her go!”

“We were together for six years, six years! Nothing can replace that. Now if you can’t live with that, then I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I’m not the kind who flits from one relationship to another without really getting the essence of things. There will be no windows installed in this studio and that is final.”

“What— are you trying to tell me that I’m too flighty? You’re always sorry. You and your sorry life. See here, no one’s really sorry for you. Look at your works. They’re not even selling.”

“Oh come on! Do we really have to get into that?”

“Look here mister. What I’m trying to say is why don’t you try something new with your life, get a move on, a jumpstart? Start off with something fresh!”

“And you think I’m not trying to do just that? Why don’t you try something new too, like stop obsessing with your nails and get a real hobby? Why don’t you paint, or bake, or something?”

“What do my nails have to do with this?”

“You are accusing me of things you’re guilty of! You’ve always been stuck with your nails, and now that they’re not getting any longer, you’re pissed and you’re taking it out on me.”

“Some defense you have there.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“What?”

“You’re expecting to have all of me, but you’re not getting it no matter how hard you try. It’s all but a conquest to you. How about you? Have you ever tried giving me a teensy-weensy part of yourself?”
I fell silent. He continued.

“See what I mean? You can’t keep shoving people off. You have to let me in.”

“And what, get hurt like my mother? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“There you go. You’ve admitted to your own crime.”

“Men. You’re all the same.”

“’Frailty, thy name is woman!’” Sensing that this conversation was over, he turned away and left.

All because of a window, he stepped out of the door. It’s been a week since and I’m afraid I have another abandonment issue to add in my portfolio.

As I was lying down, I looked up and watched myself from the mirrors attached to the ceiling. I saw my reflection, and that brown streak on the bridge of my nose. I wonder when he’ll come back. I absentmindedly brought a thumb to my mouth and began sucking. If he comes back, I’ll be ready to give him what he wants. Or will I be? What if Dad never left? What if he never beat us up like he did? Could I have fared better in relationships? What if they never played a practical joke on me on prom night? Maybe God is one big practical joker, and I’m his favorite victim. Maybe his dead wife’s ghost is orchestrating all this. And that blasted dog. He could’ve been cute and cuddly, had he not acquired the habit of snacking on newspapers and canvasses left lying around. We could compromise, but I’m not willing to give my individuality up, not that I really have to. I got up, remembering that I haven’t checked my phone for an hour. I have two messages, one from an anonymous number, and the other one from him.

“Wer r u?”

I replied with a short “Studio.” I went back to the couch, almost knocking off the large decorative martini glass filled with shells. I knew he was coming back. My heart throbbed in rhythm with my temples. I guess Mom knew that Dad wouldn’t return. Perhaps it’s what she felt. She believed what her fingernails were telling her. Are my fingernails telling me the same thing too? In a matter of minutes, the door flew open. He stood there by the doorway, staring at me. Then he walked towards me, and looked to the far side of the room. He saw it. Now he’s coming towards it. It’s my drawing, a huge red door left ajar on the wall of his studio, like a mirror image of the real door. “I’m letting you in,” I said. At almost the same instant, the dog came dashing in, and jumped at me. I hit the floor hard, and it started licking my face. He walked over to me and helped me up. His eyes were shining as he unfastened the little box tied around the animal’s neck. Inside was a ring that twinkled as the light hit its surface. Right then, I knew my fingernails have indeed stopped growing.

Eh Kasi Lalaki.

This was my entry in the recently concluded Pasikathaan short story writing contest sponsored by PANTAS UPLB. It didn’t win, but it’s okay. It’s my first try anyway. I’ll keep on writing, that I am quite sure of.

***

Dalawang bagay lang naman ang ayaw ko: pakikipagsagupaan sa mga gagamba at paghihintay ng matagal sa pilahan ng jeep. Yung una madalas mangyari pero hindi ibig sabihin nun na nasasanay na ako. Ayaw ko pa rin sa itsura ng mga eight-legged freaks na ‘yan. Yung pangalawa, madalas din mangyari pero awa ng Diyos hindi naman tumataong ang klase na papasukan ko ay kay Binibining Iscala Ochoa. Kilala siya ng mga estudyante sa tawag na Biscocho, ang propesorang terno palagi ang bag at sapatos. Bespren ko ‘yon, alam na alam niya na kung kailan ako tatawagin. ‘Yon yung ‘pag natutulog ako o ‘pag hindi ako nakapagbasa ng readings niya na gabundok sa dami. Naaamoy niya kung kailan ako handa o hindi. ‘Pag nagtataas naman ako ng kamay, hindi niya ako tinatawag, nagkukunwari pang hindi ako nakikita. Alam ko banlag siya, hindi bulag. Kaya harap-harapan ko siyang ginegiyera lalo na ‘pag nagsisimula na naman siyang mag-homily tungkol sa ugali ng mga kabataan ngayon.
“Kayo talagang mga kabataan, hindi na uso sa inyo ang kasipagan,” sabi niya, may matching duro-duro pa gamit ang lapis sa mga nakaupo sa unahang hanay. “Noong araw, hindi kami ganyan sa inyo na pahataw-hataw lang. We didn’t even have the conveniences you have right now, the technology, but we managed. Masusuwerte kayo at nandiyan na lahat para sa inyo, your parents give you everything you could possibly need. Nagpapakahirap silang magtrabaho para sa inyo. Pero anong ginagawa niyo, tine-take niyo for granted!”
Hindi ko alam kung anong nagtulak sa ‘kin pero nagtaas ako ng kamay. Tumingin silang lahat sa ‘kin.
“Yes, Mr. Salazar? What have you to say? Para bang caffeine boost ang sinabi ko at nagising ka diyan?” Pinag-ekis niya ang mga braso niyang dambuhala sa ibabaw ng kanyang dibdib. Sa isip-isip ko lang, pwede siyang magkaroon ng career sa wrestling. Walang kalaban-laban si John Cena sa mga brasong ‘yon.
“Well Ma’am—“
“Call me miss,” sabay taas ng eyebrow pencil niyang kilay na kulay brown.
“Okay, miss. What made you so sure everyone has those conveniences you’re speaking of? Hindi nga rin kayo sigurado na may magulang pa lahat ng nandito eh.” Yung isang kaklase naming madalas na tahimik at nakayuko napatingin kay Biscocho. Alam ng lahat maliban na lang yata sa propesor na working student siya at wala na siyang magulang. Umalingawngaw ang bulungan sa kwarto. Hindi pa rin siya natinag sa podium kahit halata namang hindi na siya kumportable. Binuka niya ang bibig niyang mala-Steve Tyler.
“How very polite of you, young man. The point is you, young people, have become very irresponsible and indolent. You show neither shame nor gratitude to the older people nowadays. Nasaan na ang pag-asa ng bayan kung ganyan kayo?”
“Miss hindi ba pag-asa rin kayo ng bayan dati? Anong ginawa niyo nung panahon niyo? ‘Di ba dapat kayong matatanda ang dapat sisihin kaya nagkaganito dito sa Pilipinas?”
Sa sinabi kong ‘yon, nagpalakpakan silang lahat. Ang prof namumula na, hindi ko lang alam kung sa galit o sa hiya. Nagpatuloy pa rin ako.
“Isa pa Miss, sayang naman yung pinaghirapan ng mga magulang namin kung hindi namin pakikinabangan. Para silang nagsaing ng kanin na hahayaan lang naming mapanis. Para sa’n pa yung pinagtrabahuhan nila kung hindi naman namin gagastusin, ‘di ba classmates?” pabiro kong sabi. Malakas na tawanan at hagikgikan ang sagot nila sa ‘kin, kasabay ng pailan-ilang “oo nga naman!” Kinamayan ako ng katabi kong Fine Arts at sinabing, “’Stig ka tsong! Rakenrol!” Sa kalagitnaan ng gulong sinimulan ko ay nandun si Biscocho na mukhang puputok na. Biglang nawala ang ngiti ko nang makita kong naputol na niya ang hawak niyang lapis sa sobrang gigil.
“Philip Salazar, I will see you in my office right after this. Class dismissed.”
Napalunok ako. Ano na naman kayang gagawin nitong barakudang ‘to sa ‘kin? Nung huling beses pinaghintay ako ng matagal sa opisina niya. Matapos ang dalawang oras, dumating siyang may bitbit-bitbit na malaking bag. Pauwi na pala siya, naiwan lang niya ang susi ng kotse niya sa opisina kaya bumalik. Nakalimutan na kakausapin pala niya dapat ako nung hapong ‘yon. Naku, hindi niya pwedeng gawin sa ‘kin ‘yon ngayon, lalo pa’t sabay kaming uuwi ni Jessica. Matagal-tagal na rin kaming mag-M.U. pero hindi pa rin niya sinasabing kami na. Ilang buwan na rin kaming paganyan-ganyan. Minsan nakakainis siya, masyadong demanding. Pero isang kahong tsokolate lang naman ang katapat nun. Alam ko namang gusto niya ko. Siya na rin ang nagsabi no’n. Alam niya rin namang gusto ko siya pero hindi ko pa rin alam kung ano ba talaga kami. Mahirap yung ganito – alanganin.
Nauna na si Biscocho papuntang opisina niya. Doon inabutan ko siyang nakaupo sa mesa, may sinusulat na kung ano. Ganong-ganon pa rin ang lugar na ‘yon, parang hindi dinaanan ng oras. Amoy ospital pa rin ang de-aircon niyang silid. Hindi pa rin niya binabago ang posisyon ng mesa niyang nasa may bandang kaliwa pagpasok ng pinto. Nandun pa rin ang sandamakmak niyang mga libro sa literatura kung saan niya malamang kinukuha ang mga readings sa klase, mga Western classics, mga diksyonaryong Ingles, Pranses at Espanyol, at mga folder na nakasalansan ng maayos sa pinakaibabang shelf. Parang hindi sila nagalaw mula noong isang buwan. Yung halaman sa ibabaw ng estante sa sulok parang hindi rin lumaki. Sa totoo lang, hindi ko alam kung lumalaki ba ang mga ganong halaman. Ang water dispenser at mga pakete ng kapeng 3-in-1 mukhang hindi nabawasan ay nakapatong pa rin sa ibabaw ng isang maliit na mesang kahoy sa kabilang gilid ng silid. Bilib din naman ako sa S.A. na naka-assign dito, buti at natatagalan niya ang ganito ka-grabeng ka-OC-OC-an. Pati ang mga dilaw na kurtinang ubod ng tingkad hindi pa rin pinapalitan. Tumingin ako sa relo ko. Alas tres na ng hapon. Isang oras na lang at tapos na ang klase ni Jessica. Sana hindi ako magtagal dito kasi ‘pag hindi ko siya nasundo sa klase niya, tatarayan na naman ako nun.
“Take a seat, young man. I have something of great magnitude to tell you.”
Umupo ako sa isang silya sa harap ng mesa niya at ipinatong ang clutch bag ko sa kabilang silyang nakaharap sa akin. Lagot. Of great magnitude na. Seryoso na talaga ‘to.
“Hindi ko nagustuhan ang pakikitungo mo sa ‘kin kanina sa klase. I found it rather impolite for you to respond to me like that.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”
“Miss. I said call me miss.”
“Yes, I meant miss.” Sa isip-isip ko, pambihirang anak ng tinapa ‘yan. Hindi pa rin kinakalimutang isa pa siyang binibini. Hindi kaya siya nase-senti ‘pag naiisip niyang wala pa rin siyang asawa sa edad niyang ‘yan? Pero teka, ilang taon na nga ba siya?
“This is not the first time you displayed such behavior, Mr. Salazar. But I am telling you, this will be the last. You might want to choose to keep silent the next time you want to give me smart Aleck answers in class.”
Nagpatuloy siya sa pagsasalita. Parang continuation lang ng leskyon sa klase kanina. Hindi ko na lang pinag-iintindi ang mga sinabi niya. Halos pareho lang din kasi ng laman yung sinasabi niya at ng nanay ko ‘pag ginagabi ako ng uwi, yung ngayon nga lang mas scholastic ang dating dahil Ingles. Hindi ako sangayon sa lahat ng sinasabi niya pero hindi na rin ako sumagot at baka lalo akong magtagal dito. Nakatuon ang pansin ko sa orasan na nakasabit sa ibabaw ng pinto. Akalain mo nga naman ‘yon. Kalahating oras na ang lumipas. Hindi ba siya nauubusan ng sasabihin?
“…you give in to your passions easily…you do not practice self-control…”
Naalala ko bigla si Kate, ang ex-girlfriend ko. Dalawang taon ko na rin siyang hindi nakikita. Wala rin akong balita sa kanya. Medyo matagal din kaming nagkasama, isang taon din ‘yon. Akala ko hindi na kami maghihiwalay. Isang gabi sinama niya ako sa apartment nila. Huling araw na ng klase para sa semestreng ‘yon. Wala ang mga housemates niya, nagsiuwian na kaya solong-solong namin ang bahay. Siyempre, ano pa nga ba? May nangyari sa ‘min. Hindi ako nagsisisi dahil ginusto ko naman ‘yon. Hindi naman siguro siya papayag na gawin namin ‘yon kung hindi niya rin ginusto. Kinaumagahan, mga alas nuebe, nagising ako. Wala na siya. May iniwan siyang sulat na nakakabit ng magnet sa pinto ng ref. Nakalagay dun na kagabi ay ang huli niyang gabi dito sa Pilipinas. Alas otso ang flight niya papuntang Canada ngayong umaga. Hindi niya daw alam kung paano magpapaalam kaya hindi niya na lang ginawa. Mahal niya daw ako, at iiwan niya daw sa ‘kin ang isang bagay na napakahalaga sa kanya: ang virginity niya at alaala ng nakaraang gabi. Napakamot na lang ako ng ulo. Ano naman ang gagawin ko sa virginity na ‘yan? Makakausap ko ba ‘yan ‘pag bagsak ang midterms ko sa Math? Mayayakag ko ba ‘yang manood ng sequel ng Transformers? Maisasama ko ba ‘yan sa bahay namin para maka-bonding si Mommy? HINDI. Umuwi ako sa ‘min at dumiretso sa kwarto. Humiga ako sa kama kong nangulila sa ‘kin sa loob ng isang gabi. Pagtagilid ko, nakita ko sa nightstand, katabi ng electric lamp, ang litrato naming dalawa sa Banahaw. Nakangiti, masaya, nag-iibigan. Noon ko lang naramdaman ang sakit. Isang saglit pa ay humagulgol na akong parang tatlong taong gulang na batang nalaglag sa bisikleta.
“…it is the folly of youth, the incapacity to admit mistakes…”
Tumingin ako sa kurtinang nakasisilaw ang pagka-dilaw. Naisip ko ang damit ni Mommy, yung bestidang ginagamit lang niya kapag may espesyal na okasyon. Mamahalin daw ‘yon kaya para hindi maluma agad, isusuot lang niya kapag may importanteng pupuntahan. Natatawa ako dahil halos lahat ng litrato niya ‘pag nag-aanak siya sa kasal ay iisa lang ang suot niyang damit. Parehong ngiti rin, parehong ayos ng buhok at kolorete sa mukha. Parang kinopy-paste kumbaga. Tinatanong ko sa kanya kung bakit ayaw niyang bumili ng bago. May sentimental value daw ang damit na ‘yon. Nang tanungin ko kung bakit, nangilid ang luha sa mga mata niya. Hindi ko na kinulit, baka umiyak pa kasi. Isang umaga naisipan kong maglaba. Gusto ko lang naman tumulong. At isa pa, malapit na rin ang birthday ni Jessica noon. Baka sakaling makahingi ako ng pang-date o pang-regalo man lang. Hinanda ko na lahat ng gagamitin: sabon, batsa, fishnet pang-kuskos ng damit, yung tablang pinagkukuskusan at siyempre bangkito. Nilapag ko sila sa semento. Uupo na dapat ako para magsimula nang maalala ko na hindi ko pala nakuha ang bleach. Naglakad ako pabalik sa kusina. May mga parteng basa ang sahig kaya maingat ko silang iniwasan. Nakita ko ang dilaw na bestidang nakasampay malapit sa silong. Sigurado ginamit ni Mommy ‘yon kahapon sa kasal ng anak ng ka-opisina niya. Kinuha ko ang bote ng bleach na nakalagay sa kabinet sa ibabaw ng lababo. Tinanggal ko ang takip nito at inamoy. Amoy ospital. Ayaw ko ng amoy na ‘yon. Hindi ko alam kung bakit inamoy-amoy ko pa ‘yon. Natanaw ko muli ang bestida. Naisip ko madadagdagan na naman ang mga copy-paste na litrato ni Mommy. Buti hindi siya tinatawag na Hepa ng mga tao. Napatawa ako ng malakas nang maisip ko ito. Tawa ako nang tawa, tawa nang tawa. Hindi ko nakita na basa pala ang sahig malapit sa mga nakasampay na de kolor, malapit sa bestida ni Mommy. Nadulas ako, at tumilapon ang bukas na bote ng bleach. Nangamoy ospital sa paligid. Ang mga damit parang nagka-an-an. Ayon at nagsusumigaw ang mga patsi-patsing puting mantsa sa mga de kolor. Napuruhan ang damit ni Mommy. ‘Pag minamalas ka nga naman o.
Hinarap ko ang galit ni Inang Reyna noong hapon ding ‘yon. Nagkasagutan pa kami. Sabi ko ako na nga ang nagmagandang-loob na maglaba, magagalit pa siya. Sabi niya naman ang punto daw dun nasira ko ang mga damit, lalong-lalo na ang bestida. Sabi ko hindi ko naman sinasadya. Dapat daw hindi ako aanga-anga. Bigla na lang siyang umiyak at sinabi na galing pa kay Daddy ang damit na ‘yon, binili sa Genoa nung huling sakay niya sa barko. Huling sakay, kasi namatay siya ilang araw lang bago siya sumakay ulit. Inatake sa puso. Naitakbo pa siya sa ospital pero hindi na rin siya nakaligtas. Kaya pala ganon na lang ang pagpapahalaga ni Mommy dun. Wala na, hindi ko na maibabalik sa dati ‘yon, hindi ko rin naman kayang pumunta ng Genoa para palitan ‘yon. Hindi ko talaga sinasadya pero sa huli, ba-bye date, ba-bye extra allowance. Hello grounding of the century.
“…I hope this is the last time I will call you here in my office.”
“Ma—miss?”
“I said I hope this is the last time I’ll call you to my office. Did I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, you may go, Mr. Salazar.”
“Thank you po.” Sa wakas, nakaalpas din. Tumingin ako sa relo ko. Alas kwatro-singko na. Malamang sa alamang, magkasalubong na ang kilay ni Jessica nito. Kumaripas na ako ng takbo, lumiko pakanan sa dulo ng hallway at umakyat sa hagdan. Nandun siya, nakaupo sa pangalawang baitang ng hagdan paakyat sa third floor. May hawak siyang ceramic na plorera. Kalahati pa lang ang napipinturahan pero mukhang maganda naman. Mas maganda siguro ‘pag natapos.
“Ano ‘yan?” tanong ko sa kanya, sabay upo sa tabi niya. Umusod siya, lumayo sa ‘kin.
“Bakit ka late?” Halatang-halat ang inis niya sa ‘kin.
“Kinausap ako ni Miss Ochoa sa opisina niya.”
“Ano na naman ang ginawa mo?”
“Wala naman.”
“Hindi ka naman siguro ipapatawag nun kung wala kang ginawa ‘di ba?”
Medyo matagal bago ako nakatugon sa tanong niya. “Sinagot ko lang naman siya kasi parang hindi na tama yung mga sinasabi niya.”
“Bakit ikaw, alam mo ba ang tama at mali?”
“Naman, Jessica. Sorry na kung nahuli ako.”
“Sorry your face.” Tumayo siya at naglakad ng mabilis. Alam ko namang nagpapahabol lang siya kaya tumayo na ako at ‘yon nga ang ginawa ko. Lagi na lang kaming ganito, naghahabulan. At ako na lang palagi ang naghahabol, ang under. Nang abutan ko siya, inabot niya sa ‘kin ang bag niya. “O ayan, buhatin mo.” Muntik ko nang maihulog.
“At eto pa.” Bigla niyang inabot ang plorera. Hindi ako handa kaya dumulas sa kamay ko at nalaglag sa sahig. Nakita ko ang pagbagsak nito sa paanan ko, ang pagkalat ng mga pira-pirasong seramiko sa lapag. Iba’t-ibang laki, samu’t-saring hugis. Parang mga parte ng katawang nagkalasog-lasog matapos bumulusok paibaba mula sa tuktok ng gusali, pabalik sa lupang siya niya ring pinanggalingan. Galit na galit si Jessica sa ‘kin. Project niya raw ‘yon, bakit ko hinayaang malaglag. Alam ko raw ba kung gaano kahirap buuin ‘yon? Alam ko raw ba kung ilang gabi niya ‘yon pinagpuyatan?
“Sorry na, hindi ko naman sinasadyang ilaglag. Bigla mo lang kasing inabot sa ‘kin. Hindi rin naman magaan ‘tong bag mo.”
“Sorry na naman? Kelan ka ba gagawa ng tama? Lagi ka na lang ganyan eh! Break na tayo!” Hinablot sa ‘kin ang bag niya. Tinignan ko siya ng mabuti. Nanlalaki ang butas ng ilong, nanlilisik ang mga mata. Nasa’n ang maganda at matalinong babaeng nakilala ko? Hindi na siya yung nasa harap ko ngayon. Ang nakikita ko na lang ay isang babaeng banidosa, makasarili, madaling mapikon, walang bukang-bibig kundi ang pagiging walang kwenta kong lalaki. Noong oras na ‘yon, naisip ko na ang dapat kong gawin.
“Break na tayo?” sabi ko sa kanya.
“Oo! Bakit? May angal ka?” sagot niya, sabay hawi ng bangs.
“Bakit, tayo ba?” Hindi na siya nakapalag. Pagkatapos no’n ay iniwan ko na siya. Natuklasan ko sa sarili kong hindi ko naman pala talaga siya gusto. Gusto ko lang na masabing may isang taong may pakialam kung humihinga pa ako, kung kumain na ba ako o kung nakauwi na ako sa bahay. Gusto ko lang na may maka-date, maka-text, makayakap. Pero napagisip-isip ko na hindi din naman niya ako binibigyang-pansin. Napuno na rin siguro ako. Hindi niya ako personal alalay, lalong hindi niya ako utusan. Wala siyang karapatang tapak-tapakan ang pagkalalaki ko. Nakakailang hakbang na ‘ko nang may naalala ako. Naglakad ako pabalik. Nandun pa rin si Jessica, pinupulot ang mga labi ng plorera. Tumingala siya.
“O, bakit bumalik ka pa? Hindi na kita tatanggapin ‘no.”
“Hindi naman ikaw ang babalikan ko eh,” sabi ko nang mapadaan ako sa harap niya. Narinig ko ang sigaw niya na nauwi sa malakas na pag-iyak. Napahiya siya. Malamang nasaktan din. Hindi ko na mababawi ang mga nasabi ko. Wala din naman akong balak bawiin ang mga ’yon. Hindi ko lang alam kung naglupasay pa siya dun pero nakakatawang isipin kung ginawa niya nga.
Sayang ang ma-drama kong exit. Nakalimutan ko kasi sa opisina ni Biscocho ang clutch bag ko. Sa lahat naman ng pagkakataon, bakit ngayon ko pa naiwan yun? At bakit dun pa? Sandali lang ay nasa harapan na ako ng pinto niya. Kumatok ako. Walang sumasagot. Patay kang bata ka. Nakauwi na yata. Kumatok ako ulit. Wala pa rin. Isa pang katok, ‘pag wala pa rin, tatawag na ‘ko ng janitor. Pagtaas ko ng kamay para muling kumatok, bumukas ang pinto at ang tumambad sa ‘kin ay ang mukha ng S.A. ni Biscocho. Saktong tumapon ang sikat ng araw sa mga mata niya. Mahahaba ang pilik-mata at pumipitik-pitik habang kumukurap siya. Matangos ang ilong, mapupula ang mga labi. Tinititigan ko ang mukhang ‘yon ng matagal.
“Ano po ‘yon?” tanong niya sa ‘kin, sabay taas ng kilay.
“ A-a-ako si Philip, estudyante ako ni Miss Ochoa. Naiwan ko yung bag ko sa loob kanina.”
“Ah, ikaw pala yung sinasabi niya. Pasok ka. Nandun ang bag mo sa may gilid.”
Hmm. Pwedeng-pwede. Mukhang mapapadalas na ako dito ah.