Space For Breathing

by I. K. Velasco

  "Why do you call him Mr. Owen?"

  "You mean, instead of Robert?"

  "Yes, or even 'Dad'?"

  "I don't know. I guess that's what I've always called him, ever since I was a little girl. And 'Dad' or 'Father' is such an empty term. Calling someone that doesn't give the person any more right or responsibility."

  As I said the words, it suddenly struck me how different our worlds were. There were so many things in his world that was foreign to me--feelings and problems that I would never experience, and things that I felt that Jacob had never known. Jacob had never and would never feel the insecurity that I felt about this thing called family.

  I felt Jacob shift beneath my fingertips. I backed away, allowing him to slide into the water. He ducked his head under and emerged, wet and dripping, his hair a mess of yellow curls. He waded to me slowly, his face expressionless, but his eyes shining in the moonlight. He wrapped me up in his arms. When he kissed me, the differences didn't matter so much.

  * * *

  Afterwards, we lay naked, entwined around each other on a narrow patio chair. Jacob's hand was tangled in my wet hair, rubbing gently on the base of my neck. I mimicked his movements, my hand circling across his middle. We were quiet for a long time, just watching the heavens smiling at us from the clear black sky, the stars winking mischievously.

  "Have you ever thought about leaving here?" he whispered.

  I thought about my answer carefully. For some reason, I felt like what I was about to say would mean everything to whatever was between us. But I couldn't be anything less than honest with him.

  "I guess everyone thinks about where they are and where they'd like to be," I began. "But honestly, I haven't thought about it. Not really. I'm content."

  Jacob sighed, and I didn't miss the lingering disappointment in his tone. I hated that we were still like this, our conversations filled with veiled comments and careful questions, but I wasn't brave enough to change that.

  "You know, a wise man told me once that being content and comfortable is not always the best place to be. Sometimes you must go somewhere different, somewhere so foreign that you end up finding what you need most, " he said, his tone completely inward, contemplative.

  "And have you done that?" I ventured.

  "I've found you, haven't I?"

  Thirteen

  Pangasinan, Philippines-Owen Estate 9:27 pm

  Jacob

  "Mr. Jacob?" Rosalita's lilting voice followed her knuckles softly rapping on my bedroom door.

  "Come in, Rosa," I called out, laying my guitar flat on the bed.

  Her face was shiny and smiling, cheerful as always. She came into a room in a flurry, handing me an envelope. "This just arrived by courier."

  I returned her smile, and she left just as quickly, leaving me warm with her friendly presence. I looked at the manila envelope, my full name scrawled neatly on the back in black ink. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It was strange to me how important the contents of that envelope were at that moment. It represented a choice, something that was going to affect a lot of things.

  I slipped my finger into flap, the paper ripping slightly as I tugged it open. The cardboard inside was printed in bright colors, the airline's logo across the middle. I double-checked the departure date. Five days. Just like I asked for.

  I thought about what it would be like to tell Maeva goodbye. I quickly pushed the thought away. The threads of longing creeping around my heart scared me. I tucked the ticket back into the envelope and hid it in the drawer of the bedside table. Avoidance was much easier.

  * * *

  Pangasinan, Philippines-Owen Estate 2:27 pm

  We didn't even get out of bed that morning. I woke up to her soft fingertips dancing across my stomach, and we spent the whole day tangled in each other, making love until I was shaking and heady from the taste and essence of her. Then we'd start again. We talked very little. The touches, the gentle caresses and the torrid grasps were already too much to take in.

  She had fallen asleep again. Catching a little nap after I held her small body quivering in my arms. Her raven hair was splayed on the pillow, the black strands looking even darker against the stark white sheets. Her lips were softly parted, her breath coming in and out in soft gasps. She was positively glowing, radiating with an inner light that made my heart ache.

  All of this just felt too good. So good that it felt wrong somehow. Because I knew that I didn't really deserve it. Guilty pleasure. I remembered a conversation that I once had with my mother. She used to say that people can't take too much happiness. Whenever things seem completely content and harmonious, we inevitably do something to mess that up.

  There was something else tugging at me. Images, feelings, ideas milling around in my head. I thought about this trip and what it meant. I thought about everything that happened between Maeva and I. I thought about what I was discovering about myself. Or if it was just making me more confused and lost than I had been. I thought about my brother. How he would react after he heard all the songs I had written. It felt amazing to create, to have the art and ability back. But it wasn't the same. I knew there was something was missing. I wondered how Riley would contribute to the music. Which melodies would get him all excited? So excited that his enthusiasm would be bubbling out of him, lighting up his eyes and making him itch to play for people. Which songs would he hate? I laughed to myself, thinking about the thousands of lyrical concepts we scrapped because Riley thought they were stupid and too emotional or whiny. I wondered if he'd even want to hear them.

  I wished that I could sleep. Then maybe there wouldn't be so many rampant things running around in my head. I wanted unconsciousness, velvet darkness to hide everything I was worrying about.

  I watched Maeva stirring. She stretched languidly, then wrapped her arm around my waist. She didn't even open her eyes. Instead of feeling the warmth of contentment that having her body so close, a nervous fluttering invaded my stomach. Her hands gently caressed my middle and wandered lower. I grabbed her wrist, gently pushing her hands away.

  "Please, Maeva. I have to tell you something."

  Her eyes shot open. A look of panic flashed dark across them, then something else--grief, perhaps. Though both emotions were fleeting, disappearing as she blinked to be replaced with the acceptance and serenity that always seemed to hover over her.

  "I know," she said, quietly. She wiggled out from beneath our embrace, and I shuddered at the cold she left behind. She went to the chair in the corner of the room and found her kimono, draping the silk around her shoulders. "You don't have to say it."

  "But I do," I replied, quietly. "It makes it more real that way."

  She nodded solemnly, sitting down at the wicker chair in front of the mirrored dresser. Her dainty fingers clasped the handle of the silver gilded brush. She began to brush her hair, working through the tangles; the long locks falling like black water, glossy like the silk of her robe. It hurt to look at such beauty.

  "I'm going home," I said.

  She placed the brush back on the dresser, the clink of the silver against wood echoing through the tension. I could hear her even breathing, hitching at the end when she spoke, "When?"

  "Four days. I arranged for my flight."

  "I see," she replied. The statement was so empty, just as acknowledgement that she heard me. I wanted to know that she felt something. Anything. Anger, longing, melancholy or dare I think...relief?

  "I want you to come with me."

  She folded her hands in her lap and turned in her chair. Her gaze traveled out the window to the balcony. A little brown bird flew up and landed on the railing, tilting its head to the window. It paused for just a second, and then escaped into the wind.

  "I can't," she said, quietly.

  I closed my eyes. I already knew that that's what her answer would be. But that didn't make it hurt less. I breathed deeply, willing the pounding in my head to ease. I stood up and came up behind her chair. I could almost see th
e tension knotting the muscles in her neck. I reached up to touch her shoulders. She flinched. The reaction wasn't apparent. She hid it well. But I saw it.

  "There's something here, Maeva. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that I can't let it go. I've abandoned enough for more than one lifetime. I need you to be with me."

  Her shoulders hunched and tensed under my fingertips as I said the words. Before I could say anymore, she drew up, turning around and taking my hands in her dainty ones. For the first time, I could see emotion swimming in her glossy black eyes, and I felt like dying.

  "I won't go with you, Jacob," she said. She said the words with such conviction, they closed, vice-like around my heart.

  I released her hands and ran my fingers through my hair. I didn't want to feel anymore. It was easier to be numb.

  I found some pants and slipped them over my legs. I could sense Maeva's gaze on my back, boring into me.

  "Where are you going?" she asked quietly.

  I found a t-shirt and pulled it over my head, slipping my sandals on my feet. I couldn't look at her. "I don't know," I replied. I opened the bedroom door and walked swiftly down the hall.

  * * *

  Pangasinan, Philippines-Village 7:25 pm

  I've always believed in the power of words. They have the power to uplift, to heal, to inspire. But they also have the capacity to hurt, to maim, to destroy. Maybe more so than physical blows.

  It amazed me how six little words could affect me so harshly.

  I wasn't sure how long I had been wandering around the countryside. The sun had long since disappeared into the horizon, and the waning light and my aching feet was a clear indication that it had been for quite some time. I could barely remember what I even saw that day or if I even spoke to anyone as I strolled aimlessly along the village streets.

  Uproarious cheering pulled me from my cloud of self-pity. My ears perked, and I managed to forget about myself for long enough to investigate.

  I came upon a large building with a line of men waiting outside. Curiosity got me, and I joined the end of the row. As we waited, the cheers from inside the building grew louder and louder with each passing second until it erupted to a fever pitch. The excitement seemed to spill from inside the building, thick and palpable to everyone waiting outside.

  An old woman sat on a tall stool in front of the building's entrance. She had three wooden crates arranged in front of her to make a makeshift table. Bills were entwined around her fingers and a roll of tickets trailed from the table, almost touching the dirt.

  She opened her mouth and a stub of a cigarette folded out between her lips. She sucked hard on the brown stick, holding her breath for a few seconds. When she exhaled, the billowing smoke filtered out of her nose and mouth, making my eyes water.

  "How much?" I asked. I empathically gestured, hoping I was effectively communicating my question.

  She mumbled some indiscernible amount. I pulled out the roll of bills from my pocket and held it out to her. I watched her fingers, cuticles cracked and nails grimy with dirt, grab hold of a bill and pull it out, placing it in her cigar box. It didn't surprise me that she pulled out the largest bill. She handed me half of at ticket stub and gestured for me to go inside.

  I tugged on the rope that held the door closed and opened it. A pungent smell filled my nostrils, earthy and unpleasant, but after the initial shock, it was tolerable. I entered an open lobby area. The space wasn't very large, perhaps fifteen feet by ten feet. Five or six tiny booths were set up, guarded by peddlers selling cigars, fruit, little spits of roasting meat and cold drinks.

  My eyes widened when I saw what else was in the lobby. There were roosters, rows and rows of them, tied to the ground with cords fastened by wooden nails. But these weren't ordinary farm birds. They were extraordinarily large, proud animals with bright, colorful plumage that were very well taken care of. Warriors. Fighting cocks.

  Milling around the lobby were groups of men and boys. There was intensity in their interaction, a sense of anticipation and nervousness, as they talked animatedly, the foreign language falling off their tongues and unintelligible to my ignorant ears.

  In one group, I saw two young boys. One of them was holding his father's prize cock as his parent discussed something with a nearby official. The boy held the bird with reverence, with affection akin to that of a pet, as he carefully stroked its feathers. His brother stood beside him, holding his father's hand and looking very uneasy. His eyes darted around the lobby and fell on me, pausing for an extra-long moment on my face. The little boy had a tension in his shoulders belaying experience a child shouldn't have.

  Another man brushed by me. His gaunt face was clearly distressed, as if he was holding back the bubbling frustration behind dark and glassy eyes. He was holding a dead bird, it's bright feathers falling to the ground and leaving a rainbow trail behind him.

  I suddenly felt heady and dizzy, briefly wondering what the hell I was doing in this place. I wandered to the side of the ring, trying my best to keep from getting trampled by all the activity. The next match was about to begin. Two handlers introduced the birds to the ring, holding them close together and allowing them to peck. I noticed something glinting in the harsh lights of the arena. Both birds had sharp metal spikes tied securely to their claws. Suddenly, the activity in crowd of gamblers rose rapidly as they all placed bets on their chosen competitor. I watched all this activity, strangely detached, but fascinated.

  Finally, the fight began. The cocks were released. The birds stalked each other, circling, dancing deadly around each opponent. The crowd didn't breathe. The birds flew at each other, their cowls rising, the claws raised. They attacked ferociously, in a flurry of bright plumes and scratching claws.

  The sounds of giggling drew my attention from all the excitement. The laughter wasn't filled with pleasant joy. Instead, there was an underlying malice behind the guffaws and snickers. The sound sent shivers clambering up my spine.

  I looked to my left and saw a cackle of Asian beauties, whispering and giggling to each other. I was surprised because they were clearly the only women near the building, save for the old woman selling tickets at the front door. Their clothes were just a little too revealing, a little too tight and a little too provocative, as if they'd spent hours primping and putting themselves together. Despite this, I could tell they were all beautiful underneath the layers of skimpy clothing and thick make-up. The costumes were important, though. Something to hold them together.

  One of the girls separated from the group, approaching me. Her wide-toothed grin was lined in chunky, ruby-red lipstick, making the pout on her lips unnatural.

  She stood close, almost draping her small body onto mine, but not really touching. She hovered, the grin on her face growing wider. There was a false friendliness in her tone as spoke.

  "You looking for fun?" she yelled above the shouts of the crowd.

  I examined her face for a good long minute. Long black hair, pixie eyes, a wide mouth, almost too wide for her small features.

  She held her hand out to me, and I looked at it, my gaze moving from her small fingers to her face and back again.

  Before I could decide, she took my wrist and pulled me out of the arena. I could hear her companions shouting and laughing after us.

  I couldn't think, couldn't resist. She led me outside. I breathed deeply, my head clearing a little. The night air hit my heated skin and cooled the sweat. I hadn't noticed just how hot it was inside.

  My feet stumbling over cardboard boxes and wet pavement, we passed what looked like a kitchen. The back door was wide open, propped by stacks of plastic milk crates. I could hear several deep voices, some arguing unintelligibly, others laughing uproarious. A peek inside the door revealed steaming pots of stew or boiling water and the crackling sizzle of deep fryers.

  Rows of dead birds were scalded and left to drip dry in the tropical heat. Their carcasses hung on rows of clotheslines, skin puckered and grayish from being recently plucked. Piles o
f feathers swirled in the tropical heat, whirlwinds of color that made me faint and shaky.

  A man wearing a bloodstained and filthy apron came outside the alley, holding a dead rooster. Ashes from the cigarette dangling in his mouth fell onto the bird's feathers, dirtying the bright plumes. He placed the head on a large wooden chopping block and quickly decapitated the animal, its head rolling off and across my path.

  I cringed. The coppery tainted smell of blood seeped into my nostrils, making my chest heave. Fighting back the bile bubbling into my throat, I gripped the girl's hand tighter as she pulled me past the kitchen and through to an intersecting alley.

  The sky protested with the loud clap of thunder. I looked up to see ominous, black clouds rolling in from the west. The wind picked up, blowing the girl's long hair across her face. She looked up at the sky too and gave me a worried look. "Sky is angry," she murmured.