Mango Seasons

by Michelle Cruz Skinner

  “Only a week?” Papa says, as if this is a joke.

  Mama won’t look at him. We can tell she’s not happy, so none of us say anything. She pulls the bedsheet and blanket up to our chins, straightens the stuff on top of the dresser. “Less if you’ll help them find that Carlos.”

  “OK, OK,” says Papa. “I’ll ask around.”

  “Ask your friend, that Captain what’s-his-name.” She sounds angry.

  “All right. I will,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

  Mama walks out of the room and everything’s quiet for a moment. Then Papa, who’s left behind, tells Emil to put away the magazine. He turns off the light as he leaves. Mama and Papa don’t really want Lola Auring and Elena to be here and neither do I. I hope the two of them leave soon.

  Last night when we were lying in the dark talking, Emil told me about Elena.

  “You know why she’s here, don’t you?” he said.

  “What?” asked Gemma.

  “I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to Marisa.”

  “But I’m here,” Gemma insisted.

  “I’m not talking to you. Forget it.”

  I said, “Just tell me.” But Emil was quiet for so long I thought he wasn’t going to tell me. “Come on,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Who?” asked Gemma.

  “Get your leg off me,” I told her.

  I know I’m not supposed to know. This morning when I ate breakfast, I couldn’t look at her.

  * * *

  I’m glad I’m not Elena. I wonder if I ever could have become like her, so serene and cowlike. Truly she doesn’t belong among us. Instead I imagine her in a forest full of enkantadas. She is that far removed.

  Even the children can tell she’s different somehow. Marisa wouldn’t even look at her this morning when we were having breakfast. I watched Elena pour milk in her coffee and stir it and realized I had not heard her say anything except some whispered “Opo’s” or “Hindi po’s.” Her eyes never left her plate with the rolls or the cup of cashew-colored coffee beside it. Her fingernails are clipped short like a child’s.

  Elena is not someone one can pin a medical definition on. She’s content, as if she decided long ago to simply accept everything that comes her way. The why is unimportant to her.

  This I suppose is what makes her impossible to me. I can’t imagine not being angry with Nick when he forgets for the fifth time to take care of the matter with the savings account. All he has to do is fill out some forms at his own bank. I can’t imagine allowing my father and brother to rent out Lola Ofelia’s house to someone else. They’ll do it anyway if they truly want to, but only after hearing all my objections, which they never listen to.

  Marisa is too much like me in this way. Everything is why why why not. She insists on wearing shorts underneath her school uniform because the boys look up the girls’ skirts. Nothing I tell her will make her stop wearing the shorts. She knows her why and sticks to it.

  I suppose it’s just that she desires to have everything her way, especially against Emil. They’re only one year apart and the slight difference grates against her. When she found out that Emil was going to a movie after dinner this evening she immediately asked to go too.

  Emil forced a laugh at her. He likes that he has privileges she doesn’t.

  She came into the dining room to find me. “I’m only one year younger than Emil,” she said. “Less.”

  “Less by a month,” Emil yelled. “Eleven months younger.”

  She ignored him. “Why can’t I go out to a movie?”

  “Because you’re too young,” I tried to explain. “You’re too young to go out alone. Just one more year, iha, and then you can go. Even Emil couldn’t go until this year.”

  I actually hope she doesn’t remember what I said because I know Nick will disagree. She’s a girl and he’ll treat her differently. Not that I can blame him. It’s not fair, I will have to explain to her, but it is necessary.

  I know already that drunk at the sari-sari store makes comments about her when she walks by. I heard him when I let her out of the car to buy a liter of Pepsi and I know he says the same to the other girls. He doesn’t say anything filthy. He just makes stupid remarks they don’t yet know how to respond to. Whether or not to say anything, I never know. I think perhaps I should let her handle it although I’d like to see him punched in the face someday. Marisa doesn’t know I’ve heard and it would embarrass her more to know that I know.

  Watching Elena eat her meals, her hair tucked behind her ears, I wonder what embarrasses her, what is necessary to her. I cannot imagine her lying with Carlos or any man and enjoying it. I can’t conceive of her feeling any differently than she always does. I’m ashamed for thinking this, for imagining her, but I believe in what I have imagined.

  Her face, when she sits back from her plate, or her bowl, or her cup of coffee is moist and somehow blurred. Sometimes passing her in the kitchen or living room or hallway, I feel I’m looking into the same blurred and indistinct face, as if she carries that face all the time.

  I understand Marisa’s desire. It’s Elena’s total lack of it that I cannot comprehend.

  * * *

  I hope Elena and Lola Auring go home soon. I don’t like not having my room and not sleeping in my own bed. If they mess things up too much, I won’t be able to find anything.

  Right now I just feel tired and mad. I want to be sleeping, but instead I have to sit on the stupid toilet waiting for Gemma to finish her bath. It’s still dark out. Mama’s making her bathe because she wet the bed again. I’m wet too and all our clothes smell like pee. I wish she wouldn’t take so long because I hate the stickiness of my back.

  The scent of Dial soap fills the bathroom and pricks my nose. Elena always smells of flowers. I wonder if it’s her soap or her perfume. The smell goes everywhere with her, like the soft-colored dresses she wears. Anywhere I walk in the house I can smell her flowers and sometimes the milky scent of babies.

  When it’s my turn for a bath, I make sure to get the soap white and foamy so I smell sharp, like Dial.

  I can’t get back to sleep and Emil’s awake so we sit on the porch in the rocking chairs. It’s raining and the morning is still dark. “You smell like cigarettes,” I tell him. Emil’s staring at the rain, but I know he doesn’t see it. “What movie did you see last night?”

  “A Bruce Lee movie,” he says. “Return of the Dragon.” Emil karate chops the air.

  “He doesn’t really do all of that stuff in the movie,” I say. “He’s got other people to do it for him.”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “Yes he does.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Someone told me.”

  “Who?” asks Emil.

  “Someone.”

  “You don’t really know that.”

  “You don’t know everything,” I say. “You don’t know about Elena. You don’t know for sure that she’s pregnant.”

  “Yes I do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard Mama tell Papa.”

  “Not true.”

  “Ask Mila if you don’t believe me,” Emil says.

  Mila comes to the door and says it’s time for breakfast. I wonder if she’s heard anything. Emil nudges me.

  “Ask her,” he says.

  “No.” Looking at Emil’s smile I feel embarrassed. I don’t want to talk about Elena like this.

  “Go ahead,” he says.

  “Shut up.”

  Mila is watching us. “What are you two arguing about?”

  “Marisa wants to know,” says Emil, “if it’s true Elena is pregnant.”

  “No I don’t. Emil said it. Not me.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that,” says Mila. “Come in and eat your breakfast.”

  “I told you,” says Emil.

  “Shut up.”

  “Don’t talk to your kuya like that,” says Mila.

 
Emil smiles the kind of smile that makes me want to hit him. He’s only my kuya by one year.

  * * *

  Carlos was not what I had expected. I had imagined some scoundrel type, but of course he’s not that easily defined.

  He came with Nick to the Dragon Inn, where we had agreed to meet. Driving over there with Elena and Auring and the children, I wondered if Carlos would show up at all. The rain was falling heavily and I had difficulty seeing the road ahead. All together, bad signs. I fully expected Carlos to ignore Nick’s phone call and explanations. I imagined Nick waiting outside the bank, pacing and pacing, waiting for the mysterious Carlos who would never show up.

  It was this apprehension I suppose that made me decide to bring the children at the last minute. At least with the children I thought we wouldn’t look so expectant, as if we were waiting for someone who would never show up. We would just look like family out for merienda, or dinner if we had to wait that long. So I made the children hurry up and change out of their uniforms to come with us. Besides they would have been cooped up inside the house because of the rain.

  On the way over Auring chattered about Marisa and Gemma becoming pretty young ladies. I saw Marisa’s eyes in the rearview mirror looking like she wanted to be saved. She looked away quickly when she noticed me. Even in here while we were waiting, she wouldn’t look at me or at Auring and Elena. Today she’s moody and kind of jumpy. Outside when the sailor said hello she jumped. He smiled at her although I think he was saying hello more to Elena who doesn’t look pregnant yet.

  I think Auring is right. Marisa is going to be a pretty young lady. I think she’ll be OK though. She smiled back at the sailor then turned and walked into the restaurant, ignoring him.

  When Carlos finally showed up with their father, she did look at us, especially at him, the mystery man. Carlos lingered behind their father, trying to hide while Nick kissed me and the children. Finally Nick dragged him forward by saying “this is Carlos” and introducing everyone.

  He’s not remarkable in any way, certainly not the scoundrel I’d imagined. He looks quite ordinary with black hair and eyes, wearing a faded blue navy uniform. Those blue uniforms always look faded. When he smiled during the introductions, it was an uneasy smile. He’s sitting in the chair next to Elena, but he’s not close to her at all and he has his hands on his lap. We’re all eating the lumpia shanghai I ordered for merienda and he’s sitting with his hands on his lap looking ill.

  Elena never says a thing although she has a small smile on her face. It seems right, that smile so slight. Barely a disturbance.

  Looking at her, I’m glad for Nick’s and my arguments and long silences. I’m glad for any mistakes I’ve made, for Reuben. I think of all the kisses, but I get them mixed up and my stomach twists. I don’t believe Elena will ever know the extremes of life and I would rather have pain and sadness than her smile.

  * * *

  Elena should know better. Carlos will be as he’s always been. Anybody can see that. But she’s happy anyway and I just can’t see why.

  She’s been sitting in the living room all morning, smiling and looking down at her hands. She’s looking at her ring, the little gold ring I saw this morning at breakfast. She brings her hands together so her fingers form a web, then moves her thumb back and forth against the new ring on her finger.

  She and Lola Auring are leaving this morning. Lola Auring brought out all her presents to give to us. Mama and Papa and Emil each got a box of coconut candy. She gave Gemma and me handkerchiefs that she and Elena embroidered.

  We’re all standing and sitting in the living room, waiting until it’s time to go. “Carlos will be back from sea in four months,” Lola Auring tells Mama and Papa.

  Four months. I look at Elena who’s smiling her dreamy smile and rubbing her thumb against her ring. Doesn’t she know how long that is? Doesn’t she know how far away? I get up for some water because her flower smell is bothering me.

  Finally Mama says it’s time. If they go now, they won’t have to wait too long at the bus station for the bus to leave. Elena and Lola Auring hug us goodbye. The way Elena walks to the car, I think her feet hurt.

  I remember that lady yesterday, outside of the Dragon Inn. Her hair was curled and she wore tight shorts and too-sweet perfume. She walked around on her black high heels like her feet hurt. Elena walking to the car looks like she’s teetering a little, as if her feet hurt or she can’t quite walk on the ground.

  * * *

  The children and I wave from the porch at Auring and Elena and Nick who’s driving them. Even after they’ve gone, we stay there looking at the empty carport and the open gate. I think we’re all glad they’ve left. I tell Emil to close the gate. The house is quiet if a little warm already.

  The children are still on the porch when Nick gets back. I hear him talking to them and I can tell Gemma’s showing him her new stickers. He walks in and smiles. “They only had to wait five minutes for the bus,” he tells me.

  “That’s good,” I say. I go into the kitchen to get us both glasses of water.

  Outside I hear Gemma coughing. She coughs several times and the last few sound a little ragged. I hear Marisa and Emil talking to her.

  I give Nick both glasses and go to the door. “Are you OK?” Emil and Marisa are kneeling around her and Marisa’s holding out kleenex.

  Gemma says she doesn’t feel good so Marisa and I take her into their room and turn on the fan. Nick hovers around, not knowing what to do. He finally helps tuck her in and gives her a kiss. He’s funny sometimes, so helpless.

  “What’s that smell?” he asks as we’re leaving the room.

  “What smell?”

  “That sweet smell.”

  “It’s Elena,” says Marisa.

  We drink our water in the living room and I ask him, “Do you think they’ll make it, Elena and Carlos?”

  “I don’t know.” After a while he says, “Yes. I’m not sure why, but I believe so.” He looks at me. “I don’t think Carlos could ever leave her anymore or hurt her. I just don’t think anyone could in that situation.”

  I believe this too. Whatever she may be later, Elena will always be too small and precious. Carlos could never leave her. Whatever he may do away from home, he could never leave her.

  Nick and I sit in the living room drinking from the cool water.

  Pneumonia

  and

  Other

  Injuries

  My baby Gemmita coughed for three days and I thought it was only a cold. Nick said so too until her eyes grew hot and Marisa said “she’s sick.” Doctora Campos said we should have brought her earlier. Her ribs, Gemma’s ribs poked against her skin and my hand went to my mouth, I couldn’t say anything. Black spots swam in my eyes, but I could not keep from watching the doctor, and Gemma lying on the white-papered table. Nick held his hands to his head, his head between his knees.

  The day Gemma started coughing, the rains began again. She became sick in September, the time of year when the rains should end. But she got sicker and the rains came harder. We drove through flooded streets to take her to the clinic, and from the clinic to the hospital next door. Thirty-one days and nights the rain fell. We should have done something earlier.

  Gemma stayed in the hospital for weeks because the doctors wanted to monitor her. “The pneumonia makes her very susceptible to other illnesses,” Doctora Campos said.

  I felt every hour of those weeks in the rosary beads between my fingers. Twice every day I prayed the rosary, centuries-long. Tatay wanted us to bring Gemma to a hospital in Manila, but I said “she’s too sick.” He had Father Bernardo pray for her. Our lives hung with all those drops falling forever out of the sky.

  One day, Emil, looking up from his breakfast, said, “Our old house is probably flooded.”

  “Maybe,” Nick said.

  “It always flooded at this time of year.”

  Nick was quiet and I didn’t say anything.

  “Do you think it’ll flo
od here?” Emil asked.

  “Emil,” I said. “Finish your breakfast. We have to leave soon to see Gemma.”

  Nick had loved the house in Manila. When he and I bought it, we didn’t know about the floods. Every year the water came and when it left, the floor was covered in mud. The water wasn’t much, just a few inches. After five years of living there, with my feet muddy from cleaning, I yelled at him that I hated the house.

  But I agreed to buy it. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

  Of course, Emil doesn’t understand any of this. He doesn’t understand he could start something, and since Gemma got sick, Nick and I have been tired. Sometimes the children push us too much with their questions.

  Gemma slept most of her first weeks in the hospital. Every day I visited and some nights I slept there, on the hospital cot I set by her feet. That’s where I prayed every morning, next to her, in front of the carved Jesus I brought to set on the night table. I was scared to see her sleeping so much, her eyes always closed as if she were dead.

  I wanted to touch her cheeks and hold her hands, but I was afraid they would be cold. Gemma’s hands have always been cold and I couldn’t bear the thought of touching my fingers to hers and looking into her dead face. This is not the way a mother should be, I know. Still, I tried to think of other things. Nick and the children held her hands and talked to her in between her sleeping and waking. I sat at the foot of the bed and tried to imagine other things, anything. But the more I tried, the more I looked at Gemma’s white, closed face.

  The days were gray. The mornings were light gray and the evenings dark gray, like winter, which I saw once when Tatay brought us to the States, to New York City. I was seven and we went to visit Tita Puring. Her apartment was small, but full of paintings, and baskets, and bright fabric from the Philippines and Mexico and Guatemala. Her apartment was warm as our home, not like the hotel or the streets where I was always stamping my numb feet. Our first day in New York, Gil read a newspaper article about a family trapped for days on a snowy road. We were eating breakfast when he read it aloud to us. Their daughter’s feet had to be amputated, he said. I was afraid our entire visit and kept stamping my feet.