America Is Not the Heart

by Elaine Castillo

  Am I wrong? Rosalyn asked.

  Hero tugged again, so Rosalyn loosened her grasp, reluctantly letting go at last, but that wasn’t what Hero was after. She brought Rosalyn’s hand over to her own lap so that it was in her line of sight when she said,

  You’re not wrong.

  Then Hero was quiet for long enough that Rosalyn nodded to herself, seemingly content to leave it there for now, and pulled the car keys out of Hero’s hands. I’ll drive you home, Rosalyn said, opening the passenger door again and getting out.

  At first, Hero thought Rosalyn was going to drive them to Ed Levin Park, which was usually what happened when Rosalyn said she would drive Hero home, and was surprised when Rosalyn, true to her word, drove them back to Paz and Pol’s. She turned the engine off in the driveway, bringing the keys out of the ignition and gripping them in a fist on her knee. Hero wondered dumbly for a minute if Roni was still awake, then remembered. It was past midnight, but it didn’t look like Paz was home yet; probably she was working a night shift again, another twenty-four-hour day, which had become more and more frequent. The house looked big, parked there in front of the driveway, and Hero had to remind herself again, as she always did, that it was just average-sized for one of the newer-built homes here in the South Bay.

  Teresa was the kumander of our group, Hero said.

  Is, she corrected herself, then didn’t know if that was right, either.

  Rosalyn turned, so she was facing both Hero and the direction of the streetlamp, her shocked face glowing amber. The pad of Rosalyn’s middle finger was stained red with pigment, the way it usually got from dabbing color onto a client’s lips. Hero forced herself to focus on that rosy middle finger as she took a breath and said,

  I joined around March 1976. I was twenty, going on twenty-one. She came with her second-in-command, Eddie. They were recruiting college students, people who were participating in the demonstrations. I’d been studying to be a doctor at the University of Santo Tomas. I’d just finished my first year. I said I could help with field medicine.

  To be honest, I wasn’t all that good at first. I had very little practical knowledge. I had to learn a lot as I went. I don’t know if I was a good doctor, really.

  Hero stopped. Do you even know what the NPA is?

  Rosalyn nodded minutely, like she was afraid if she made any sudden movements, Hero would stop talking.

  I heard about it on the news and people talked about them sometimes, Rosalyn said. I thought they were.

  Terrorists? Hero finished. Rosalyn shrugged.

  I didn’t kill anybody, if that’s what you’re wondering. But Teresa did. Eddie did. Many people did. The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t usually accompany them on the raids to stock up on supplies or weapons, or the assassination missions, things that targeted local government officials, landlords, military personnel. I stayed in the village and waited for everybody to come back. I patched people up. I treated people in the village. It worked well. To gain people’s trust. We weren’t just asking them to hide us, or join us. We were offering our services, too. Trying to improve conditions. That was the foundation. Safer, freer lives. That was what Teresa always said.

  Rosalyn asked, How old was she?

  Older than me. By twenty years or so.

  So, what, was she like a mom figure to you?

  No, Hero said, too fast, too low.

  Rosalyn blanched. Were. Were you in love with her?

  No, Hero said again, still too fast, but louder.

  Rosalyn leaned her head against the headrest, twisting her leg up so it was tucked under her. Her voice was painstakingly even when she murmured, Are you sure?

  Don’t reduce it to that.

  It’s not that small a thing.

  It wasn’t anything you’re thinking.

  Hero stared at the dashboard, gathering herself. They were my family, she managed. But it wasn’t family. It wasn’t—it wasn’t anything you’re thinking.

  She turned her head to look at Rosalyn, saw that was a bad idea, and turned her head back to the dashboard.

  I spent ten years of my life there, Hero said, throat tight. It was my home.

  Rosalyn rested her chin on her raised knee, chewed on the inside of her lip, then looked over at Hero.

  Do you miss it?

  What, Hero said, even though she knew what Rosalyn meant.

  Living there. Teresa. Your friend Eddie. That life. Them.

  Hero didn’t meet Rosalyn’s eyes. Nodded once, jerky.

  Do you hate it here? Rosalyn whispered.

  Hero still didn’t meet her eyes, but this time she shook her head. Okay, Rosalyn said softly.

  * * *

  Hero didn’t tell Rosalyn everything that night, or even a week later, or even a month later, or even years later. It was only that a small, small door inside of her had been left ajar, not thrown open, and things started to emerge, sluggish and night-blind. Rosalyn started to ask things; in bed in the afternoon or up in the foothills, gazing down at Milpitas. Never big things, but things like, How tall was Teresa, and How long were you and Amihan fucking. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, but there was a newfound resonance to their silence.

  A week or so after their conversation, Hero bought a phone card at Ruby’s. Now that Roni wasn’t around, Hero’s purchases had simplified; no more renting anime movies, no more after-school snacks. Hero bought a single five-dollar phone card, good for Southeast Asia, Hong Kong, and Taiwan. The austere purchase seemed to inspire respect in Ruby; there was a hush of duty when she rang it up, the way she insisted: Scratch it here and try it out on the phone, make sure it works. Sometimes they don’t work. If it doesn’t work, come back, we’ll get you a refund.

  But the card worked. What didn’t work, often, were the numbers she called. Hero tried Soly’s at first, but she’d gotten the time difference wrong. She thought the Philippines was sixteen hours behind California, but it was the opposite; the Philippines was sixteen hours ahead. It was with an inchoate shame that she realized she thought the Philippines was behind California because she—well, because she thought that California must be in the future, ahead, and the Philippines in the past, behind.

  When she finally figured it out, she called at midnight in California, alone in the house. Four o’clock in the afternoon in Manila; Soly would just be waking up from her siesta. Maybe her kids would be home from school, maybe she’d be busy—but there wasn’t time for another maybe, because Soly picked up the phone.

  Hello?

  Tita Soly, Hero started, trying to stick to the script she’d written in her head.

  Hel—Nimang?

  Siak datoy, Hero said softly. It’s me.

  Nimang!

  Hero thought she’d never in her life tire of the sound of that, Soly’s cry of recognition. It wasn’t the same tenor as that first day after so many years, in Caloocan, but. It was a worldly sound. The sound of being called into the world. Hero closed her eyes to it.

  It’s good to hear your voice. Soly’s own voice was small as she said it. You should call more often.

  Hero pressed her face into the phone, her eyes still closed. She saw it, Soly’s kitchen, the chairs covered in plastic, the washed blankets on the sofa waiting for one of her sons to bring them upstairs to the cupboards. The smell of Johnson and Johnson baby cologne and Arpège, the sheen of eggplants on the table, Soly’s favorite food, despite the fact that a doctor had told her it was aggravating her arthritis. Hero was going to back out; she wasn’t ready to do this. Then Soly said,

  You’re calling about Manong Pol.

  Hero’s throat ached. Did he come to see you?

  Soly didn’t say anything for a while.

  Then at last: She looks so much like you when you were younger. Singkit. Chinese eyes. Like nanang. She’s a papa’s girl, Soly went on. Just like you were with Ma
nong Pol.

  A thin needle of horror knit its way beneath Hero’s skin. For years she thought she’d never reach the limits of Soly’s charity, but just at the sound of Soly’s voice, she knew: Soly wasn’t going to betray her brother for Hero. Soly wasn’t going to help her.

  She’s happy here, Nimang, Soly continued, her voice rising. She’s happy to live with her father. He showed her a school in San Fernando—

  San Fernando, so they were in San Fernando, Hero told herself, manic, fraying.

  —next to Lorma Medical Center, and she liked it. She’s young. She’ll learn the language. He’ll take care of her. You know that. You don’t have to worry about her.

  I’m not worrying about her, Hero said.

  Oh, Soly said. That’s good.

  I just want her to come back home.

  Soly went silent.

  She’s not at home there, Hero said, her own voice growing louder, encouraged by the silence. If you met her, then you know. Tito Pol knows. Her home is here. Her mom is here. She has friends here. I’m,

  Hero started, then had to swallow. I’m here.

  Soly ventured, You could come back—

  I’m not coming back, Hero said, the first time she’d ever admitted it to anyone, let alone herself.

  Soly didn’t say anything, but scratchy, muffled sounds traveled across the line. She was crying. Hero swallowed again, the skin around her fingers tight and itchy where she’d been holding the phone, sweat making her grasp slippery.

  Nimang, I know what you’re trying to say, but Manong Pol can give her a good life here. Try not to think badly of him—

  I do think badly of him.

  Hero could hear Soly on the other line, exhaling heavily. He’s not happy there in California, Nimang.

  So fucking what, Hero said, knowing she sounded like Rosalyn and clinging to that knowledge, drawing strength from it like a well. He can join the goddamn club.

  Nimang—

  Roni’s family is waiting for her. Tell him to bring her back before then.

  Nimang, Soly tried again. Her family is here, too.

  It might have been true, in a purely biological sense, but Hero wasn’t interested in truth, in the pure or biological sense. For the first time since leaving the camp, she felt like the person she’d been in Isabela for all those years, the person she’d become beneath the aegis of Teresa’s care and tutelage, the person she’d become sucking at the hair of a mango seed next to Eddie, the person even someone like Amihan had been grudgingly intimidated by and infatuated with—the person she thought she’d lost, not even in the camp, not even in the years of recovery, not even in California, but that very first afternoon, in the pulled-over jeep, her hair in the only unloving fist she’d known for ten years. Now clipped, coiled, feet on the ground, pouring alcohol over a gaping wound with a steady hand. That person was still there. I know her family, Hero barked, like asking Jon-Jon for her knife. Her family is here.

  Soly didn’t reply.

  If he doesn’t bring her back, Hero said coldly, then tell him he’s no different from his brothers.

  Nimang, Soly breathed out. I’m sorry.

  You don’t have to be sorry, Hero said. Just tell him to bring her back. Then she pressed her finger down on the hook, ended the call.

  * * *

  There was only one family eating beef kaldereta in the restaurant on Thursday afternoon. Adela was sitting at her customary table in the back, having already done all the cooking for that day, and Hero expected her to leave early, as usual; go home with a plate of pinakbet and rice that she would put in front of the framed picture of Boy that Rosalyn and Rhea had set up on the altar in their house’s entrance hall, red Virgin Mary candles burning on either side. Every time Hero had come to the house since Boy’s death, a full plate of food was in front of the picture, always fresh.

  But instead of getting up to make that plate and then leave, Adela called from her seat:

  Hero. Halika dito.

  Hero clambered off of her stool and approached Adela’s table. Po?

  Adela gestured for Hero to sit down. She’d been eating tamarind candy again, and there were several yellow cellophane wrappers lying in front of her, next to a bottle of Efficascent oil. From what Hero remembered, Adela never used Efficascent oil on Roni during their sessions; Hero had thought, privately, that the fact that Adela hadn’t been using the oil meant that she was the real deal, not a quack like all the rest.

  Adela opened the bottle and rubbed some into her palms, the cool hit of the camphor and menthol briefly clearing Hero’s sinuses. Then she gestured with her chin. Give me your hand.

  Hero gave it to her, saying, You don’t have to—

  Adela lifted Hero’s hand, poured some of the grass-green oil into the center of her palm, and started rubbing, smoothing the thin grease all the way up to Hero’s inner elbow. Hero winced instinctively, though the pressure was mild at best. Then Adela took one of the cellophane wrappers and started rubbing the yellow plastic over Hero’s palm, her fingers, her wrist, up her forearm, into the crook of her elbow. She did the same to Hero’s other hand.

  Hero only vaguely knew what Adela was doing, had never seen her perform this procedure on Roni, though she could guess what the cellophane was supposed to find. Sites of sala, sites of malady. The places where the cellophane stuck were the places where a faith healer had to place the most attention. The cellophane stuck to the meaty part of Hero’s hands, just beneath her thumb. Adela began to massage there.

  You don’t have to do this.

  Adela didn’t look up at her, kept massaging. You know what I was treating Roni for, when she was here? Hero’s fingers flexed, making to close into a fist, but Adela kept them outstretched.

  May tinik sa puso. You know what that means? Like she has a fishbone in the heart. She’s angry about something. Galit sa puso niya, she’s angry in her heart.

  About what? Hero asked, trying to keep her voice level.

  She doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s allergies, maybe it’s what she eats, but with skin disorders ganyan, a lot of the times it’s psychological. Some kids are just like that. Rosalyn was like that, too, when she was a kid. Sometimes you grow out of it. Sometimes not.

  Hero was subdued for a moment, just at the mention of Rosalyn’s name. So what did you do to fix it?

  Adela looked up at last. You know, your thinking is wrong.

  Hero was stung. That’s why I’m not the healer.

  Adela laughed, then leaned back, finally letting go of Hero’s hand. You were a doctor, ’di ba? Na sa Pilipinas.

  Hero’s hand felt loose, warm, unfamiliar. She closed her fingers into a fist so the dull ache would rush back into the flesh, and become her hand again. It didn’t.

  Did Rosalyn tell you that?

  I can just tell. You have a harder time with albularyos and faith healers. Doctors do. More than nurses, so I can tell you weren’t a nurse.

  Hero frowned. Roni was coming to you for months. I just wanted her to get better. I didn’t want to see her in pain.

  Yan, Adela said, voice clear as a bell. That’s it.

  She paused, then said: If she never got better, then what? If I couldn’t fix her. Tapos? Ano?

  It doesn’t matter what I think, Hero said, instead of saying, It doesn’t matter anymore.

  What did I say to you? Adela asked, indignant. Your thinking is wrong. According to you, healing is a relationship between doctor and patient. ’Di ba? Pero you’re wrong. Alam mo, healing? Ay mundo yan. It’s a world. So what you think about it matters. You’re involved.

  Hero went silent, then finally said: I don’t understand what you mean.

  Yeah, alam ko, you don’t understand, Adela said, her stare fixed. So then tell me. If Roni came to you now and said, Ate Hero, ako ang sira? Am I sira? Then? Anong sasabihin mo sa kanya? What would yo
u say to her?

  Sira was too big a word, there wasn’t even really an equivalent for it in Ilocano, or at least Hero couldn’t remember what it might be. Sira was—broken, damaged, defective, once good but left in warmth to rot, now covered in fine mold. A car’s engine could be sira, a week-old adobo could be sira, a torn shirt could be sira, a future could be sira, a village after a typhoon could be sira, a young girl with pus-leaking eczema and a penchant for throwing punches could be sira.

  Was Roni sira? Roni in tank tops and flip-flops and covered in scars, Roni eating microwave pizza, Roni still with a gap in her teeth from that early fight, a tiny chip of adulthood just starting to jut out from her gum. Roni the warmth at Hero’s hip, Roni the lingering smell in the living room, on the couch, in Hero’s car—the smell hadn’t gone away.

  Roni growing up a playboy surgeon’s daughter in Vigan. Roni, spoiled and imperious, treating her yayas badly. Roni using bleaching creams and kojic acid soap. Roni going on vacations in Cebu. Roni going to the University of Santo Tomas. Roni in the Philippines; Roni in the Philippines, forever.

  Hero buried her face in her hands. The thin layer of Efficascent left on the palms made her cheeks burn icy-cool, then sting and flush with heat where the tears spilled freely over them. She hunched into the table and sobbed.

  After a moment, Adela’s hands came up to touch the crown of her head, the place where she’d once been soft when she was a baby, like everybody else.

  Then she said the words that Hero had heard her say to Roni, that first day in the restaurant. Only now, Hero didn’t have to strain to hear them. This time, the words were for her.

  Huwag kang matakot. Ligtas ka dito, Adela murmured. Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.

  * * *

  Teresa never said anything like, Don’t be afraid. Never said anything like, You’re safe here. At the time, Hero had admired and cherished the restraint—the fact that Teresa refused to make grand promises when it came to the lives in her hands. For reassurance Hero had to rely on her senses, on what she saw and lived, from one full stomach to the next. She’d had to know without being told that the way Amihan drove slightly less maniacally when Hero was in the car was a kind of rampart; that the way Eddie would tease her from morning until evening but then still make sure she had enough on her plate even when their rations were low, having wised up to Hero’s habit of giving away two-thirds of her plate to anyone who looked hungry, was also a kind of rampart.