by Zoe Daniel
Angel reaches for a towel and quickly pats herself dry so that she can start helping her mother.
Juan places his hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘I have something to give to you.’ The boys crowd around as he extracts a small box from his pocket and hands it to his daughter.
Generally, birthdays don’t involve extravagant presents in their family, but Angel is turning thirteen, and Juan has been saving this gift for a long time. Veronica dries her hands on a cloth and moves over to stand by her husband.
For a moment, the family is silent, and the only sound is the rain pounding the roof. They all wait expectantly for Angel to open her present. She turns the tattered little box over in her hands. It looks old. It’s made of faded jade-green paper, tied with a frayed golden ribbon.
She looks at her parents, unsure.
‘Open it,’ urges her father softly.
Obediently Angel unties the ribbon and lays it carefully on the kitchen table. She slowly opens the lid. Inside, nestled on a piece of soft, white cotton, is a single, silvery pearl on a sturdy golden chain.
‘I saved every month from my work on the cargo ships, and bought that pearl for your mother as a wedding gift,’ Juan tells her. ‘But she asked me to give it to our firstborn daughter instead. She said, “Save it for the day when she is old enough to take care of it.” I have carried it with me ever since and now it’s that time.’
Angel has never seen anything so beautiful or owned something so valuable.
‘Oh, Papa.’
‘Wear it always, my Angel, and you will know that I am with you.’
Three
The rain has stopped and the clouds are slinking away across the evening sky.
‘Only a rainstorm after all,’ says Angel, relieved. She is outside with her father, helping to string the rainbow party lights along the roofline.
‘There she is!’ someone shouts and the two of them turn around.
Staggering down the road is a tall skinny man with a shock of white hair and a short plump woman in a bright headscarf. The elderly couple is laden with plastic bags and all smiles. Angel runs to her grandpa, Pedro, and reaches up to kiss him on the cheek. Then she hugs her grandma, Gloria, and takes the bags that are weighing her down.
‘Look at this young lady,’ chuckles Pedro. ‘I swear she is three inches taller.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ says Gloria, shaking her cramped arms. Despite their advancing years, Pedro and Gloria are very healthy for their age. A lifetime working the farm has made them strong and fit.
Inside, Veronica fusses around her parents, drawing up chairs and bringing them cups of tea. Their farm on the island of Samar is only about forty kilometres away, but travelling the rough, bumpy roads by jeepney can take a couple of hours, especially in heavy traffic. Before the San Juanico Bridge was built they would cross the strait by boat. The sea was far less reliable, but on a good day the journey would take half the time. Now they have to travel all the way up to the bridge, cross the two-kilometre span, which is usually bumper to bumper with jeepneys, cars and motos, and then catch another bone-jarring jeepney all the way down to Barangay 74. It’s a sweaty, cramped journey at the best of times, but quite an ordeal at their age.
Angel is opening the plastic bags and marvelling at the variety of food that Gloria and Pedro have brought with them. Her mouth waters as the delicious smell of baduya nga pasayan wafts up. Angel loves her grandmother’s shrimp fritters and is excited to see that she has also made lumpia rolls and light, buttery corioso cookies. The family’s wooden table is crammed with dishes for the guests to help themselves to. There are platters of fresh fried fish and shrimps and bowls of pancit, with delicious morsels of chicken and seafood peeking out among the slippery noodles. In the centre is a mountain of fragrant rice with crunchy vegetables, a pile of fried chicken and Gloria’s spicy lumpia rolls. Afterwards, Veronica will put out plates of sweet taro pudding.
‘What a feast!’ exclaims Cristian and he manages to snatch a lumpia before Veronica can shoo him away.
‘Maupay nga gab-i, good evening. Any room on that table for more?’ Their neighbour, Mrs Reyes, stands in the doorway holding a plate of fried bananas sprinkled with sugar.
‘Maupay nga gab-i to you, Mrs Reyes. Let me help you with that,’ says Veronica. She takes the plate and sniffs appreciatively. ‘Marasa, salamat! Delicious, thank you!’
‘Waray sapayan, you’re welcome,’ says Mrs Reyes and smiles at the compliment. She is a tiny woman with twinkly brown eyes and a small round bun permanently fixed on the top of her head, like a bread roll. No one knows exactly how old she is, but it seems like she has always been in the neighbourhood. She can often be heard singing along to the radio at the top of her crackly voice and she wears brightly coloured shirts and baggy knickerbocker shorts tied at the knee. The children giggle at her antics; once she chomped her way through a whole fried chicken even though she has lost almost all of her teeth! But Veronica won’t hear a word said against her. ‘She’s just lonely. Her husband died years ago and her children all left to work in the city and on the cruise boats. She scarcely ever gets to see her grandchildren.’
Mrs Reyes is a good friend and neighbour and the family includes her in all its celebrations and activities. Sometimes Juan helps her fix things around the house, but she is fiercely independent and proud that she is still so self-sufficient.
‘Pedro and Gloria! How lovely to see you on this happy day. You are very brave to take a chance on the weather,’ observes Mrs Reyes.
‘We wouldn’t miss this birthday for the world,’ replies Pedro. ‘It’s not every day your beloved granddaughter leaves her childhood behind.’
Angel ducks her head shyly.
‘Don’t worry about us. We will leave for Samar first thing tomorrow and be home in plenty of time!’ says Gloria.
A young man with spiky gelled hair, beefy arms and a huge grin comes in lugging an impressive karaoke machine.
‘Where shall I set this up?’ he booms.
‘Sebastian!’ shout Cristian and Carlo together.
Juan has arranged for their neighbour to play music at the party. Sebastian works as a fisherman to support his wife and baby son, but he loves pop music and enjoys DJ’ing for a small price at local celebrations. It’s a wonderful surprise for Angel and her friends, who love to sing and dance.
A few minutes later Issy arrives and at the sight of the microphones and flashing lights she claps her hands in delight. ‘Woo-hoo! Let’s get this party started!’
‘Just a moment,’ announces Veronica firmly. ‘Before we begin the festivities, let us give thanks for all the good things that we have here tonight.’ Obediently, everyone bows their heads and Veronica utters a short prayer.
Her eyes tightly closed, Angel reaches up and lightly touches the pearl around her neck. Her lips curl into a smile of pure happiness.
When they arrive at school the next day, Angel and Issy are full of chatter about what a great party it was. The little house was bursting with friends and neighbours and there was plenty of food for all. The best part, though, was the karaoke.
‘Sebastian is such a good DJ!’ says Issy.
‘And he’s got great moves too. He can really dance,’ says Angel.
‘Hey, I didn’t know Carlo had a good voice!’ says Issy.
‘I know,’ replies Angel. ‘He’s always singing. He wants to be a popstar like Jireh Lim. Not so good with the words though.’ They laugh, remembering Carlo making up his own lyrics when the ones on the screen flashed by too fast for him.
‘What about you?’ says Angel. ‘You did a great version of that Katy Perry song.’
‘Ha!’ laughs Issy. ‘It was only good because Mrs Reyes joined in at the end!’ And together the girls roar the chorus.
When they finally control their giggles, Issy asks quietly, ‘Are you wearing it today?’
Angel glances around at the other students streaming by and turning her back on them she carefully lifts out the pea
rl on the chain that has been concealed beneath her school shirt.
‘A real Filipino pearl,’ sighs Issy. ‘It’s beautiful.’
Angel smiles proudly as she tucks it back out of sight. She won’t be showing it off very often; it’s too precious.
‘I better go. I need to finish that homework,’ says Angel. ‘I didn’t get a chance to do it last night and I’m worried that Mrs Fernandez might spring a test on us.’
‘Oh come on, Angel,’ scoffs Issy. ‘You’d breeze through a test even if you hadn’t done the reading. And look, here’s Nadia and Jasmine …’
Angel waves as the other girls approach. ‘Catch you later,’ she calls as she heads into the school building. There’s still time before the bell rings and Angel enters the quiet classroom and takes a seat at the back.
The cane blinds are up and there’s a breeze wafting through the barred windows, ruffling the papers of her maths book. Angel hears the heels of her teacher, Mrs Fernandez, clicking in the concrete hallway as she approaches the classroom. Mrs Fernandez pauses to say hello to Mr Mercado, who teaches in the classroom next door, and Angel can hear the pair talking quietly. Their urgent tone makes her tilt her head and shuffle a bit closer to the open window.
‘There were back-to-back bulletins on TV this morning,’ Mr Mercado says. ‘Sounds really bad. Overseas they’re calling it Typhoon Haiyan instead of Yolanda.’
Mrs Fernandez sighs, ‘Yolanda is far too pretty a name for a storm.’
Mr Mercado grunts in agreement. ‘Well, the storm with the pretty name is headed this way. We will have to close the school and the government wants everyone to evacuate. Above all, we must try not to worry the children. They say it’s a super storm.’
Mrs Fernandez scoffs at that. ‘“Super storm”? That sounds like something made up by the cable news channels to me!’
Mr Mercado laughs.
Angel leans away from the window and presses her back against the cool, damp wall of the classroom. Another storm, and a super storm at that. What’s a ‘super storm’ anyway? We have typhoons every year, how bad can it be?
As Mrs Fernandez comes in followed by Angel’s classmates, Angel looks out the window and up at the heavy, grey sky. Where are you, Yolanda? What have you got in store for us?
At lunch break Angel tells her friends what she heard the teachers say about the storm.
Nadia’s father drives a jeepney and she says the storms are good business for him because of all the people rushing to evacuate. On the other hand, Jasmine says that this morning after they heard the reports, her father announced they would be going to stay with his sister’s family, who live further inland.
‘We are going to leave first thing in the morning so no more school for the rest of the week!’
‘Is that your aunty with the big television?’ asks Issy.
‘Two televisions and only one kid!’ sighs Jasmine, who has five noisy brothers and sisters and no television. ‘I love staying with them!’
Issy doesn’t know yet what her parents are planning, but Angel knows what her family will do.
‘My mum will go and stay with my grandparents at the farm. She worries about them. I think she should take the boys this time, too.’
‘What about you?’ asks Nadia. ‘Don’t you feel a bit scared with your house right on the seafront?’
‘Papa and I will stay here to take care of things. We’re a good team!’
‘Angel, look!’ Issy is pointing behind her and Angel turns to see her mother hurrying towards her with Carlo and Cristian close behind.
‘What are you doing here, Mama? School hasn’t finished yet!’
‘That storm we heard was coming? It’s a big one and we need to get ready. I thought I’d pick you and the boys up early. I’ve told Mrs Fernandez.’ Veronica smiles at her daughter’s friends. ‘Don’t worry though, girls.’
She puts an arm around Issy and gives her a reassuring squeeze. ‘Everything will be okay. We’re used to big storms around here, aren’t we?’
Angel hugs her friends. It’s strange to be leaving school before lessons are finished. ‘I’ll see you in a few days when this is all over …’
Four
Outside the school Veronica flags down a bright-green jeepney bus and the four of them climb aboard. They squeeze together on the hard seats, sweating freely as they cram in skin-on-skin with the other passengers. The boys grip the window bars tightly as the jeepney weaves through bikes and motos and cars. The air is filled with the sound of honking and beeping and the acrid stench of hundreds of vehicle exhausts alongside the occasional whiff of freshly peeled fruit at a roadside stall. The city streets are full of buildings jammed together higgledy-piggledy. Then the scene opens up as they pass the town hall with wide green lawns flanking the stairway leading up to its grand square entrance. Angel imagines it is cool and spacious inside and everyone speaks in hushed tones as they conduct their important business.
The four of them clamber off the jeepney at the street corner where the Santo Niño church with its tall steeple and orange walls has towered proudly over the ever-expanding town for almost 175 years. The church is surrounded by carefully tended gardens, and the sweet scent of dozens of frangipani trees fills the air.
Even though the children have been to Santo Niño countless times, they are always slightly awestruck when they walk through the wide entrance doors. The interior has a calm serenity about it, with its stone-tiled floors, long, polished timber pews and soaring ceilings. It’s a welcome escape from the frenetic traffic and the heat outside. The three children sit on a pew near the front, quietly gazing up at the stained-glass windows, their saintly occupants brightly backlit by shafts of afternoon sun.
Veronica and the children aren’t the only ones who’ve come to church on this weekday afternoon. Many members of the congregation have gathered to discuss the incoming storm and to glean whatever information they can from their friends, and from the Catholic priest.
Father Jose is at the front of the church, robed in white, calmly explaining the situation to the throng of parishioners. He has been at the church for more than ten years and is much loved by his loyal flock. He wears very thick glasses and they make his kind brown eyes even larger as he peers at the worried faces before him.
‘Yes, I’m afraid that it is very serious. They’re saying it may be the strongest storm the world has ever seen,’ he tells one. ‘You must prepare as best you can,’ he tells another. ‘The government is recommending that you secure your valuables and move to high ground. There are schools and churches and community halls where you will be safe.’
Veronica has been coming to Santo Niño since she moved from Samar to Leyte to marry Juan. As an active member of the church she knows Father Jose very well. Angel watches as her mother pushes her way to the front. The priest beckons her forward and puts his cool, dry hands over hers. ‘You must make plans to keep all your children safe, Veronica,’ Angel overhears him telling her mother gently. ‘Are you going to go to your parents again? I know it is inconvenient, but I think that everyone should be moving away from the coast. Perhaps you should take all the children. This one is not like previous typhoons.’
Angel listens intently from where she sits in the pew, while the boys wander off to chase a small bird that’s doing a loop-the-loop through the church’s cavernous arches.
‘When will it come, Father?’ Veronica is speaking quietly but Angel can still make out her question from where she sits silently on the hard wooden seat.
‘They are telling us it will make landfall in two days’ time, on Friday morning, early.’ Father Jose shifts his gaze to Angel and meets her eyes across the crowd. ‘Tell Juan there is room here if he and the children need it. Now I must prepare to shelter our people. There is a great deal to do.’
He pats Veronica’s hand and turns, his long robes swirling across the tiled floor as he exits the church through an arched doorway into the back garden.
Veronica sits down next to
Angel, the two of them savouring a moment of quiet. Angel watches as her mother tucks the two wings of her chin-length bob behind her ears; her pretty, heart-shaped face is creased with worry. Angel can imagine the thoughts racing through her mind. Should the family evacuate from their home? What if people steal their few precious belongings while they are away? Where should they take the children?
Angel knows her mother is worrying about Gloria and Pedro, too. They are frail. They won’t be able to weather such a storm on their own and Veronica’s brother lives too far away in Malaysia to be of any help. Veronica sighs heavily.
Angel understands that her mother is worried about what might happen in Tacloban, but she knows that she and her father could evacuate with the boys while their mother is away. They could take a few basic items from the house and move to the church, or even the convention centre on the way to the airport. It’s quite a distance to get there, but it’s solid and strong so they should be safe. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving their home unprotected though. Her father has worked his whole life for all that they have.
‘We better get prepared, Mama,’ she says, turning to Veronica. ‘You should pack and go to Samar. Grandma and Grandpa will be waiting for you – they need your help. Papa and the boys and I will make the house ready for the storm.’
She stands and straightens her school skirt. ‘Our home will weather this typhoon, just as it always has before.’
Veronica regards her daughter appraisingly. Drawing her into a quick embrace, she whispers into her ear: ‘I am so very proud of you.’ Together they follow the boys, who have chased the little bird out the front doors of the church. The tiny creature soars on a light breeze across the street and heads towards the sea, which shimmers flat and glassy in the distance. It’s hard to believe a storm will soon be here, let alone a super storm.
