They didn’t break her thumbs until more than a year later; they gave her that long, to give something or someone up. After the year, they moved her, put a hood over her head and shoved her in the back of a van, where she felt, heard, smelled, the presence of at least two other people, another woman, from the sound of it, much older, crying and pissing herself. The ride was long, long enough to go all the way to Manila, which was where Hero correctly assumed they were going, and the whole time she tried to think of something to say to the woman. When she opened her mouth she realized she couldn’t talk. She was crying, too.
She was kept in a private quarter that looked more like a stripped-down locker room than a cell, never once saw any other prisoners in the camp—already then she was fairly sure the second location was a camp, not a safe house—though she. Heard. There was a regular rotation of guards, men in T-shirts, flip-flops, and machine guns, who gave her thin rice gruel that occasionally stank of fetid water and once, when she’d been especially uncommunicative, of semen. One of them had an Ilocano accent when he ordered her to eat, so a few days later she wrote down with the paper and Crayola stub they’d left her with: Awan libég a di aglitnáw. A proverb. There’s no such thing as cloudy water that cannot become clear again. He read the words, looked at her, and hit her across the face with the back of his hand, fist closed.
By that time, she knew they had taken her because they thought she was Teresa. They thought Geronima was another of Teresa’s code names. A year and a half in, starving, her thumbs useless, she was still insisting that she was just a countryside doctor. Her persistence, and the fact that she spoke Ilocano, was what got them worrying. From the beginning there had been rumors about who she was; those rumors were, undoubtedly, what had prevented them from raping her, never mind killing her altogether. They’d had reports of a cadre doctor, Ilocana, who might be the missing Geronima De Vera, former medical student at UST, daughter of Benjamin De Vera, niece of Melchior and Apolonio De Vera, friends of Marcos.
In the meantime, her thumbs started to heal, badly, though she’d tried to splint them by tearing off strips of her shirt with her teeth to create small slings for the appendages. If she’d still had the Crayola, she could have used that. She was ashamed, in a professional capacity, of her poor work.
She turned thirty in the camp, just before her release. It was Soly who told her, that first month in between lives, that Ninoy had been assassinated, Marcos had been deposed, Cory was president—not that Hero believed it made any material difference when it came to the military and the NPA. It was Soly who told her about what had happened at EDSA, the streets full of protestors. Epifanio de los Santos. Perhaps that was why the guards had been scarce, toward the end; she couldn’t know.
Were Teresa and the rest of them still alive? Hero didn’t know how to find out. The whole point was for their location to be difficult to find, but she’d never expected to be on the other side of that wall. And if she did make it to their hideout, if by chance they were still staying there, or if someone told her where they’d moved to, she didn’t know what she would encounter once she arrived. If Teresa, Eddie, and Amihan would still be there, or if just—just—one or two would be missing. Or if everyone, everything would be gone. She’d lived ten years of her life on that mountain face and now she had to admit that she didn’t know her way back. The only way to find out anything for sure would have been to get in a car and drive from Soly’s, back up to Isabela province, try to remember where to begin the three-day hike, where to turn left, find the village they’d last stayed at and ask the locals if they had any idea at all where the cadres might have gone next. The first time she thought about it, she’d barely been able to bathe herself, let alone drive.
She tried it finally, just once, shortly before leaving for America. Got into Soly’s car, put the key in the ignition. She didn’t even make it out of Caloocan, her hands freezing on the wheel so that she was stuck in the middle of the road, surrounded by honking, until some young man on a scooter pulled up next to her, and instead of shooting her clean in the head as she’d expected, knocked on the window and called, Hoy, ate! Okay ka ba?
The next time she drove was when Pol and Paz asked her to drop off Roni at school. Then, she hadn’t time to be afraid of whether or not she could do it. She’d been asked to be useful, there was no way of refusing. Her hands worked. She wasn’t afraid.
* * *
At the front of the buffet line was a woman Hero recognized, even though she was absolutely certain she’d never met her. It was only upon seeing Paz approach her, saw the two of them embrace, that she knew it had to be Carmen, Paz’s older sister.
Carmen rarely came to the house in Milpitas. Occasionally she would drop off some of Gloria’s food while Gloria herself was at work, and on those rare evenings, Roni would be holed up in her parents’ bedroom, electing to watch television in bed, refusing to come down. Hero assumed that Roni simply didn’t like Carmen. From Paz, Hero knew that Carmen was also undocumented, but unlike Hero she’d been living in the States before 1986 and was thus eligible for amnesty, which was the reason Paz was currently paying for an immigration lawyer.
It was plain to see that Carmen had been a stupefying beauty in her girlhood, and now, in her late thirties or early forties, she was still staggering. She wasn’t mestiza, which added to the marvel; all it took was to be a little mestiza to be considered halfway pretty, at least. If anything, she was quite a bit darker than Paz, just a bit darker than both Hero and Rosalyn. More than that, she was tall, taller than all of the women at the party and most of the men. Carmen’s mouth was heart-shaped, even without lipstick. She looked a lot, in fact, like her possible namesake, Carmen Rosales. There was the high hairline and high cheekbones, the laughing, upturned eyes, the narrow nose. Carmen Rosales would have had to have plastic surgery for that kind of nose, but this Carmen had been born with it, like a royal but illegitimate foundling left at a church door. When she smiled back at someone who was greeting her, a single large gold tooth on the right side of her mouth glinted back.
Hero couldn’t imagine the effect such a smile might have had on someone when Carmen was younger; the smile appeared to be designed specifically to bring people to their knees. Carmen didn’t have any of Paz’s clenched, straining beauty, the way Paz’s beauty was an argument, requiring daily proof to secure renewal. Carmen had the calm, easy demeanor of someone who didn’t know she’d been born poor, someone who had been protected from knowing it; she’d been the favored daughter, raised like a rich girl.
The closer Hero got to Carmen and Paz, the more she saw of Carmen’s face, especially when Carmen finally turned slightly so that she was no longer just in profile. It was only then that Hero registered that the entire left side of Carmen’s face was paralyzed. Carmen’s left eye and the left side of her mouth drooped downward, the hungry pink of her inner lip gleaming with wetness. Abruptly, Hero remembered that one afternoon, when she and Roni had come home to Pol putting artificial tears into Paz’s red, unmoving eye.
When Paz saw Hero staring at the two of them from across the room, she lifted a hand to wave her over. Hero, flustered, hurried toward them.
As she approached, she saw that two young men, handsome, younger even than Jaime and Rosalyn, were standing behind Carmen, both of them in jeans and T-shirts; one shorter, skinny moreno with a patchy beard, the other taller, with a build similar to JR’s, not quite mestizo or chinito but still notably lighter, baby-faced. When Hero reached them, Paz was saying in English, with an almost brutal hospitality,
What, you’re not hungry? There’s plenty of food! Go eat! Jejo, Freddie, you’re not hungry? There’s everything! May lechon, may pancit, may lumpiang shanghai, may—!
Then Paz stopped, remembering. That’s right. Roni hasn’t eaten pancit yet.
Carmen’s eyes fell on Hero, greeting her first. You’re Pol’s niece, right? Nimang? I’ve heard about you. From Vigan, ’di ba?
<
br /> Ah—yes. From Vigan. Nice to meet you, po, Hero said, wondering why she felt so nervous. It was just the quality of Carmen’s stare. Carmen was staring at her so openly that Hero felt as though she couldn’t move.
Paz blinked, seemed to remember that she’d been the one to beckon Hero over in the first place. Oh—Nimang, this is my sister, Carmen. Carmen, this is Nimang.
We introduced ourselves, Carmen laughed. She turned back to Hero. And how do you like California?
She gestured to one of the windows in the hall, where rivulets of rainwater streamed down the glass in a curtain. It’s not as hot as you imagine, right?
Oh, uh. No, Hero admitted. I thought it’d be, ah, sunnier.
Carmen remembered the two men behind her. Oh—you haven’t met my brothers. Our brothers, she said, glancing briefly at Paz. This is Jejomar, Jejo, she said, pointing to the taller one with the baby face. And this is Freddie, she finished, pointing to the shorter one with the beard.
Nice to meet you, Hero said to them. The taller one gave her a meek smile, the oil on his face gleaming in the hall lights. Hero saw another tight, falsely calm look pass over Paz’s face.
Sorry, you couldn’t meet our mom, ha? Carmen said. She wasn’t feeling that well tonight, so she couldn’t make it. Sayang naman, to miss her granddaughter’s birthday.
Paz spoke up again, this time in Pangasinan. It sounded like she was still telling them to go eat, because not long after she finished, the two men started making their way to the buffet table.
Carmen squeezed Hero on the shoulder just before she left and smiled, the same smile as Jejo’s, only made slightly crooked from the palsy. Good to meet you, ha?
Good to meet you, Hero said, and watched her walk away. When she turned to look at Paz, Paz was watching Carmen walk away, too. Pol was approaching, holding a plastic cup of what looked like Coke.
Have you seen Roni? Paz asked him, refusing the cup when he offered it to her.
He shook his head. Then he put his cup down on a nearby table and extended his arm out in a flourish and took Paz’s hand, pointing his chin to the dance floor, where Ruben was starting to play a Sharon Cuneta song Hero didn’t recognize.
Paz frowned and tugged her hand out of Pol’s grasp. I’ll just go ask Belen.
Naglalaro sila, Pol said, reaching for her hand again. Let the kids play.
Just for some pancit, Paz said. She pulled away again and stalked across the dance floor, dodging bodies.
Pol sighed, met Hero’s gaze, and lifted the side of his mouth in a not-quite-smile. Hero felt embarrassed for him, embarrassed that she’d witnessed him being rebuffed. To change the subject, she said, I didn’t know Paz had two younger brothers.
Pol leaned in, as if he hadn’t heard correctly. She doesn’t, he said.
I just met them. Jejo and. Freddie, I think.
Pol took a sip from the cup. He looked to be debating something to himself. They’re Carmen’s sons, he said finally. From when she was in college. Grandma Sisang adopted them as her sons, but alam sila ngayon that their mother is Carmen. They didn’t know growing up, but they know now.
Hero’s face must have been the picture of confusion, because Pol took pity and continued,
Carmen used to live with Paz, when Roni was still a baby and I was still in the Philippines. She left when the police came looking for her, so then of course, tago ng tago siya. She went back to San Francisco for a while. She’s in Burlingame now with her boyfriend, the puti. Amerikano. But Jejo and Freddie are legal. They’re registered as Grandpa Vicente’s sons, so they’re sons of a U.S. citizen.
They were the ones who used to babysit Roni, when Paz and I were working. Along with Auntie Carmen and Auntie Gloria and Uncle Boyet.
Pol smiled at Hero, the smile she’d known and loved since she was a child.
That was before you came along, he added. He made the words sound final and full of solace, like the last lines of a fairy tale. Happily ever after, the end.
* * *
It’d been so long since Hero had been to any party of this scale, let alone a Filipino party, and she was exhausted. There was a reason she’d run away from the De Vera parties, hid in her room or in the library, only opened the door when she heard Lulay’s distinctive knock, bringing her a plate of food and a disapproving glare. In the hall, guests more than twice her age were still on the dance floor, shouting out requests; even Boy and Adela were amidst the dancers, holding each other close.
Ruben and Isagani looked increasingly harried. They’d just had to play a full album of Anastacio Mamaril’s cha-chas, each identical-sounding cha-cha met with unflagging enthusiasm from the crowd, from Maharlika Cha-Cha to Barkada Cha-Cha. Now they’d been browbeaten into playing Amormio Cillan Jr.’s Besame Mucho on a loop for what felt like half an hour, until Isagani visibly couldn’t take it anymore and put on Rhythm Nation, which sent the adults to get more food.
Roni was still nowhere to be seen, and nobody seemed to miss her, which was no surprise—the celebrant was little more than an excuse, a starting point. She couldn’t see Paz or Pol in the crowd, either; they were probably looking for Roni.
Man, they pushed the boat out on this, Jaime said, looking around at the hall. Ten thousand, easy.
It’s tradition, Hero said, but she thought of Paz, working three shifts in a row for months, the credit card bills she left unopened. How she would come home in the afternoon when Hero and Roni were back from the restaurant and stare at them with a glassy, vacant look, like she’d worked for so long she didn’t recognize the people she’d come home to. The expensive clothes Hero herself was currently wearing, the silkiness of the new fabric on her skin.
She turned to Jaime. Is your mom here?
Nah, he said. She doesn’t really come out to these things. She has a different group of friends. She, uh. She and Rosalyn’s mom used to be friends, but. He made a vague motion with his head, tilting it back and forth. He had some frosting on the corner of his mouth. They kinda don’t talk anymore.
Why, Hero said, but knew the answer.
Uhhhhh, Jaime said.
Because you guys broke up?
Jaime stared at her. Who told you about that?
Hero shrugged, casual. It seems like everyone knows about that, she said. Janelle was talking about it at the New Year’s party.
Okay, Jaime said slowly. So you know, what. That we used to go out.
For a long time, Hero said, surprised at how easy it was to say.
Jaime paused. For a long time, he repeated. Yeah. You—and they told you why we broke up?
Hero shrugged again, shook her head. She didn’t know why she’d been putting off talking about it for so long. Talking about it made it real, made it immutable.
Janelle and them think you guys should get back together, Hero added, playing with the tablecloth and then stopping herself.
Jaime didn’t respond, but kept chewing on his cake, one cheek puffed up like a chipmunk so Hero couldn’t tell if the shape on his mouth was a smile or not.
Rosalyn came back from the dance floor, hair matted to her head with sweat, eye makeup creasing across her lids. Jaime accepted with equanimity the sloppy kiss and punch she gave to his cheek and upper arm.
Lowme, you got shit all over your face, Rosalyn was saying. She smeared at his mouth with her thumb, deforming his lips with the strength of her gesture, obviously in the throes of a massive sugar high.
A jerky beat of silence passed, then Jaime said, Drink some water before you have a heart attack, while wiping at his mouth with a napkin.
Some of the older adults who had taken a break to eat and drink were now clustered at the edges of the dance floor again, clamoring for another dance number, something new to cha-cha to, and then somebody yelled out, I—play mo Boystown Gang!
Hero saw both Jaime and Rosalyn tense at the same time; even
JR, who’d been silently playing his Game Boy all night, looked up at the shout.
When the Boystown Gang cover of Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You began, the crowd of hecklers cheered, rushing the floor. Isagani clambered back up onto the stage to get away from all the bodies, leaving Rochelle to stumble to safety, looking annoyed but laughing through it.
Hero knew the song itself, but like many of the songs they’d played during the party, this was a different, disco version of it, one she’d never heard before, the perfect rhythm to cha-cha to. Jaime and Rosalyn were looking at each other.
What passed between them would have been plain to anyone who saw it, and Hero—saw it. She saw it as if she’d been there, as if she’d grown up with them, as if she’d been there to witness them send cassette tapes of the song to each other, dedicate it to each other on the radio, run to find each other whenever it came on at a house party. Rosalyn was staring at the dance floor, but Hero knew her gaze was really on Jaime, felt the trajectory of that internal gaze like the windtrail of a bullet not meant for her.
Jaime sighed. Got up, jerked his head to the floor.
Rosalyn covered her eyes with her hands, then slid the hands down and looked up at him, her nose and mouth covered.
Jaime didn’t say anything, but started doing the cha-cha steps in place, just in front of Rosalyn’s chair.
Rosalyn snorted, then stood up. Without looking back, Jaime turned and started making his way toward the crowd, movements already in beat with the song. Rosalyn followed for two steps, then turned back to Hero.
You coming?
America Is Not the Heart Page 26
