How to Make Friends with the Sea

by Tanya Guerrero

  The dust. The feathers. The whimpering. The BOCK, BOCK, BOCKing wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. I pulled Mamá’s hand, but she yanked it away. She glared at Basketball Shorts Man as if she were an angry bull about to charge.

  “Well? Do you know something or not?”

  Basketball Shorts Man pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his sweaty forehead. “Ma’am, they talk, konti lang. Small talk. The girl not go to school, not go to town so much, because her face … She stay home, sa bahay. She help with work. Take care of chicken, sell egg, look after her lolo.”

  Mamá frowned. She smoothed the stray hairs from her temples and pulled her shoulders back. Her hand, she squeezed it, as if to grip one of her calming crystals. I knew she was about to do something.

  My itchiness suddenly went away. Only prickles remained—prickles of excitement. I watched her approach the girl.

  Squish. Squish. Squish.

  The sound of Mamá’s boots spooked the chickens; they scattered in different directions.

  BOCK! BOCK! BOCK!

  And then it got quiet. Only gecko feet pitter-pattered on the walls and the roof above us. The girl seemed even smaller without the fortress of chickens around her. Even though she was huddled into a ball, I could make out a pair of pink shorts with faded stripes, an inside-out T-shirt, and flip-flops a couple of sizes too big.

  Mamá kneeled on the floor. “Shh…,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl twitched. Clumps of her black hair moved, revealing one eye and a cheek streaked with tears. Mamá moved toward her. The girl’s body tensed.

  “Shh…,” Mamá whispered again, and then she reached her arms out.

  The girl stopped whimpering. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Her face. I could see it. All of it.

  I sucked my breath and looked away. But the image was still there. I couldn’t stop seeing it—the crack from her lip to her nostril, like a crack in a rock, or a cracked vase with a missing piece. Her teeth and gums were partially exposed, and there was a dark hole that seemed to go deep into her head.

  “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”

  I peeked. The girl flinched. Yet despite her stiffness, she was able to sort of, kind of lean into the space near Mamá’s shoulder.

  The crack was gone. Not really gone, but gone so I couldn’t see it anymore.

  Phew.

  Mamá hovered by the girl for a long time. As if she was trying to reassure her, make her feel safe. Eventually, though, she turned and glared at Basketball Shorts Man. “But where is her mother? Her father? All her other relatives?” she asked with a croaky voice.

  Basketball Shorts Man shook his head. “The record, sa munisipyo. It say her nanay, her mother, die of dengue, already two years. We not find other relatives, ma’am,” he said.

  “And the government? Social Services? Aren’t there orphanages for children like her?”

  He exhaled. “Opo, ma’am. But the owner of the land, Sir Luis, he not want the government, the pulis. He want private. No questions … That why you here, ma’am.”

  I glanced at Mamá. There were tears dropping down her cheeks, perfectly round, glistening tears that reminded me of her favorite moonstone earrings. “How about doctors? Has she seen a doctor yet?”

  “No, ma’am. I not think so.”

  “I guess we’ll start there, then … the hospital. After that, I’ll have to figure the rest out,” Mamá said softly.

  I stood there not knowing what to do. Not knowing if I should move, or say anything, or say nothing at all.

  But one thing was for certain—I believed her.

  I believed Mamá was going to figure it out.

  And I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.

  SIX

  On the way to the hospital, I sat in the front seat. I had to.

  The girl smelled like barnyard—like chicken feed, manure, straw, dirt, and whatever else that made barnyards stink. But Mamá didn’t seem to mind. She held her on her lap the entire time, whispering, “Pobrecita, chiquita.”

  Poor little girl.

  She certainly was a little girl. Skinny too. Not lanky skinny, but the kind of skinny that made someone look frail and unhealthy. To be honest, I was kind of relieved she was behind me. I didn’t want to stare. I didn’t want her to notice me trying not to stare either.

  That crack on her lip wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. Normally, I couldn’t stop myself from tracing shapes and patterns, following lines, analyzing cracks to see if they could somehow be fixed.

  But this was different.

  There was nothing I could do. No amount of superglue or grout or putty could fix what was wrong with her.

  When we finally got to the Southern Luzon Medical Center, I stood at the entrance. Petrified. The itchiness was back. Not only that, but my throat was throbbing. It felt like hundreds of invisible insects were crawling all over me. Hospitals were the worst. They were illusions of cleanliness. All that sterilization was to fool people into thinking there weren’t any germs. But there were. How could there not be, with so many sick people inside?

  Mamá carried the girl so close, so tight, it appeared as if she had a giant tumor growing out of her. She paused and looked at me with tired eyes. “It’s almost dinnertime. You must be hungry, mi amor. Why don’t you and Zeus get something to eat at the hospital food court?”

  “A food court in the hospital?” I croaked.

  “Yes. It’s just through the doors, next to the reception area,” said Mamá, gesturing at the sign by the entrance with her chin.

  I glanced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My vision blurred, but still, I could see a green Starbucks sign. Frappuccinos. Germs. They didn’t belong together. Not one bit. I froze. My insides convulsed. My ears got hot. My tongue felt like it had swelled out of my mouth. I was sweating everywhere.

  Mamá had no idea.

  But it wasn’t her fault.

  It was mine. I hadn’t told her yet about the dirt and germs and viruses. About how they made me want to stay in my room and hide. Most of the time.

  But the right moment had never come. She was always so busy, so tired, so stressed out.

  “Um … I’d like to walk, actually. My legs are kind of stiff from the long car ride. Maybe there’s something nearby,” I mumbled.

  “There is a Pizza Hut around the corner,” said Zeus.

  Mamá leaned to one side, adjusting the half-asleep girl on her hip. “Perfect. I’ll see you later, then.”

  I nodded and watched her and the girl disappear through the revolving doors.

  * * *

  We were at the Pizza Hut and I still couldn’t get over it.

  Food courts in hospitals.

  “But why wouldn’t a hospital have a food court? Filipinos love to eat!” said Zeus.

  I sat there in shock, as if Zeus has just told me the world was about to end. Food courts had zero business being anywhere near hospitals, but apparently in the Philippines, hospitals might as well be malls.

  Geez.

  I spotted a glass jar of red pepper flakes.

  One, two, three, four, five …

  Zeus started tapping the table with his long pinkie nail.

  Don’t say anything. Shut your trap, Pablo, I told myself.

  The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was weirder than I already was.

  Laughter—I heard laughter nearby. I squirmed and looked around. A group of teenage girls, two tables away, was staring at me with their hands covering their mouths.

  Was it my pointy nose?

  My big feet?

  My unusually large earlobes?

  Mamá said it was because I was a guapito—a handsome kid. But I wasn’t so sure that was it. In fact, I was quite certain that wasn’t it.

  “Your mother is an amazing lady, Sir Pablo,” said Zeus out of the blue.

  “Thanks.”

&
nbsp; There was an awkward silence. I think he was waiting for me to say something else. Something meaningful. But all I wanted was to eat and go home.

  “Yeah. My mom … she’s like the Wonder Woman of animal rescuers,” I said. “She just loves saving the day.”

  Zeus nodded in agreement. “She is a superhero. You are a very, very lucky boy … to have a mother like her.”

  I stared at the table, not wanting him to see the disappointment in my eyes. Because the truth was, I didn’t really feel all that lucky. Sometimes I wished I was an injured bird or a deer with a broken leg. Then, maybe, Mamá would come and save me too.

  “You do not need to worry.” Zeus leaned over, so close I could see his nose hairs. “I think the girl will be okay. Her life has been very hard. But with you and your mother helping her, for sure she will be better soon.”

  I coughed. “Um. Uh. I hope so.” The words stumbled out of my mouth. Zeus smiled. I guess my vague reply fooled him.

  Then the pizza arrived. Thank god. No more talking. Just eating.

  “Sarap. Looks delicious,” said Zeus as he grabbed a slice.

  I stared at the cheese pizza. I mean, how could they have possibly screwed up the simplest item on the menu? The crust was stained with tomato sauce and it was baked in such a way that only half the slices browned. Not only that, but the six slices weren’t evenly cut at all. It was pretty much the saddest pizza I’d ever seen.

  Sad. Wrong. Pathetic.

  The girls laughed again.

  But I kept on staring at the monstrosity.

  “Sir Pablo?”

  That pizza was like a mirror. I was staring at myself.

  Sad. Wrong. Pathetic.

  SEVEN

  After our so-called dinner at Pizza Hut, we swung by the hospital to fetch Mamá. Apparently, the girl was extremely dehydrated, so she would have to be confined for a day or two.

  Phew.

  I was relieved.

  On our way home, I passed out. I must have been exhausted because I couldn’t even remember how I got into my bedroom, much less how I got into my bed fully clothed.

  I bolted awake in a sweaty panic. My pajamas. Where were my pajamas? It was Thursday—spaceships and aliens’ day. I shuffled toward my dresser. But then I noticed a faint light streaming in through the bottom of the door. There was a sound. Something clinked from the kitchen.

  Mamá was still up.

  I couldn’t sleep. Not anymore. I tiptoed down the hall. But it took a while because I had to stop and count the shadows—the zebra-striped ones—zigzagging across the walls. There were 108 striped shadows. Each set of window blinds cast thirty-six lines. It was actually kind of mesmerizing.

  In the kitchen, Mamá was stirring her tea in a trance. I could tell from the aroma that she was drinking the Ajiri black tea she’d hoarded in Kenya. It seemed like eons ago that we’d lived there. But it wasn’t. I was eleven, same as I was now. In just one year we’d moved from Kenya to Indonesia to the Philippines.

  “You’re awake.” She patted the seat next to hers. “Come. I’ll make you some warm milk and honey.”

  I sat and watched her heat the milk on the stove the old-fashioned way. We didn’t own a microwave. Mamá said they were useless pieces of junk. I was glad about it anyhow. The last thing I wanted was food nuked with radiation in a plastic box teeming with germs.

  Once the milk was steaming, she poured it into my favorite cup, the one with a smiling moon and sixteen stars. Then stirred in a few teaspoons of Manuka honey. She sat back down and handed it to me.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I just can’t stop thinking about the girl … How hard it must have been for her when her mother died, when her grandfather died. Being alone with no friends. All she had were those chickens … Poor Chiqui,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Chiqui?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot to mention it. The hospital needed a patient name, and since she still won’t speak, I made one up. Chiquita … Chiqui. It’s the only thing I could think of.”

  Small. Tiny. Little girl.

  “Oh,” I replied.

  Mamá sipped her tea, fiddling with the teaspoon on her saucer. “Like I told you earlier, she’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days. But then—”

  “But then what?” I said, sitting up straighter.

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  She kept fiddling with the teaspoon.

  I knew she was thinking. She had this look on her face—the same one she had every time she was hatching a plan.

  “We were supposed to talk about it tomorrow. Since you’re awake, though … we might as well discuss it now.”

  “Discuss what?”

  The teaspoon finally stopped clinking. Mamá gazed at me. I gazed at her. It felt like I was staring at two giant green peas. “Chiqui is going to have to be in and out of the hospital. She has what’s called a complete unilateral cleft lip. The doctors want to do the first corrective surgery as soon as possible. But she’s got some malnutrition-related deficiencies. They want her to go to a home first … to get stronger. They feel she’ll heal faster, mentally and physically, if she’s with a family.”

  “A family? Like a foster family?” I asked.

  For some reason, our neighbor Ate Lucinda and her four kids popped into my head.

  A family.

  Mamá nodded. “Yes. Exactly. I thought, well, maybe she could stay here … just until we figure out a more permanent solution.”

  “You want her to stay here … with us?” I gasped.

  It was as if the air in the room were being suctioned out by a vacuum cleaner. It was hard to breathe. My skin tingled and the tips of my fingers and toes were numb.

  Mamá smiled and caressed my hand with hers. “Miguel has offered to sponsor all of Chiqui’s medical needs. He thought it would be for the best if we could keep an eye on her. It’s not as if it’s forever. It’ll be like that time we had Milo in the house with us.”

  I coughed.

  Milo—the orphaned sun bear Mamá rescued in Indonesia. I couldn’t believe she was making the comparison.

  “Milo was a bear,” I said flat out.

  “I know that.”

  “But she’s a girl. A child. Not a bear,” I said.

  Mamá’s smile was gone. “Of course. Don’t you think I know the difference? Don’t you think I’ve tried to think of another way?” She stood and placed her teacup in the sink. “It’s all set … I’m sorry, Pablo.”

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Over the years, I’d lost track of all her I’m sorrys.

  And even though I’d come to expect them, every single time she uttered another I’m sorry, it felt like she was punching me in the gut all over again.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. The room was spinning slowly.

  Talk to her, Pablo!

  I wanted to. I really wanted to.

  But it just wasn’t the right time. The right moment.

  Not yet.

  “Good night, Pablo. Try to get some sleep.” Mamá disappeared through the doorway.

  I closed my eyes so the spinning would stop. In my mind I pictured the creamy-colored tiles beneath my feet. I knew exactly how many there were—ninety-six tiles, six of them cracked.

  But it wasn’t those cracks I was worried about.

  Chiqui.

  Mamá.

  Me.

  The tiles.

  I arranged them row by row, one by one until it was still again.

  EIGHT

  By the time I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, Mamá was already gone. In the kitchen I found a foil-wrapped plate with a note on it.

  Pablo, I left early so I could visit Chiqui at the hospital. Grace will be here at her usual time. If you need anything, just call. Love, Mamá.

  Chiqui. I almost forgot.

  I slumped into a chair. My stomach growled. Breakfast. I needed food. Underneath the foil I found a big piece of tortilla de patata and
a slice of crusty bread with a smear of tomato and olive oil. It was my favorite. I could eat potato-and-onion omelet all day, every day.

  The utensils were arranged and there was a napkin folded just right. Mamá was doing her best. But it didn’t even matter. I was so hungry, I didn’t care. The food got into my mouth somehow. Fork. Knife. Hands. Everything was soiled, smeared, crumbs everywhere by the time I was done. I never felt more satisfied, more disgusted. I cleaned up the mess and washed my hands three times just to be sure. I needed to get out of the kitchen. I needed fresh air.

  I stumbled outside and sat on the front steps. It was already too hot and too humid. All the houses looked as if they were huddled together under the shade of the massive narra trees. Even the birds didn’t seem to be singing. The only thing I could hear was music—a cheesy-sounding Filipino ballad, coming from somewhere across the street.

  “Taho! Taho!” It was the Taho guy. Every day he would walk down our street carrying a stick with two metal buckets across his shoulders. Ms. Grace always got super excited, dashing out with an empty coffee mug and then coming back with what resembled a steaming cup of tofu snot and jelly boogers in brown sugar syrup. Gross. I had no idea why she would drink something so revolting.

  Ms. Grace. Where was Ms. Grace anyway? How could she be late for our last lesson before summer break?

  Sweep. Sweep. Sweep.

  Across the road, Happy was sweeping leaves off the sidewalk. She was the second-oldest of Ate Lucinda’s kids, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. It was hard to tell, though, because she was so petite.

  Sweep. Sweep.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  It was like my breathing and her sweeping were in sync.

  Sweep. Breathe. Sweep. Breathe.

  She looked up and smiled at me. My breath halted. I coughed and looked away. But I could still feel her eyes on me.

  Ms. Grace was late. I wished she would hurry already.

  “Hi.”

  I couldn’t ignore her. Happy was in front of me, holding the broom. It was like a witch’s broom without a handle. She must have noticed I was ogling it because she held it up. “It’s a walis tingting. A broom for sweeping outside,” she explained.