Chapter 9
OF ALL THE bullies who scarred my childhood, Billy Tugade was my favorite. Dan Hernandez may be public enemy number one in the playground. He did shove me into the gravel, made me eat so much sand I feared I would die from early onset kidney stones. But, no, Billy Tugade had a special place in my heart. We hung out often. Not by choice, mind you. I wouldn’t choose Billy, even if it were between him and a rotten corpse on a post-second rapture wasteland. It just so happened that his mother was Dada’s spiritual counselor. This was way back when he needed to ‘rehabilitate’ and ‘stay away from temptation’.
On this particular play date, Billy was on a mean streak. Only half an hour in, he managed to break my crayons in half as a show of disrespect, crumble a chocolate-chip cookie between the folds of his belly as a show of strength, spit milk into his glass only to drink it back up again as a show of intestinal fortitude.
“Why is your hair like that? You’re not a boy.” I happened to like my bowl cut. The wind whistled at your nape and tricked you into thinking the weather is cooler than it is.
“You don’t know how to do anything without boys telling you what to do!”
“That’s not true! I can draw and sing and recite the whole Genesis!”
“Mommy can’t even eat if Daddy doesn’t eat. Mommy can’t go to the market if Daddy doesn’t give her money. Mommy can’t buy me toys, Daddy always does.” He stuck his tongue out before adding, “I bet you want to be a boy because girls are weak and boring.”
I was still years away from acquiring the skill set of snappy retorts. So, the best I could do was stab him on the arm with a freshly sharpened Mongol Number Two pencil. The pencil broke skin and dangled on his arm for a bit before completely falling to the floor. Whoever said boys don’t cry should have seen Billy the Bully wake the whole neighborhood with his wails. He ran downstairs and it didn’t take long before Mama summoned me. In front of Billy and Mrs. Tugade, Mama forced me to admit to my sin.
“It’s fine, Cynthia,” Mrs. Tugade reassured. “We’ll just continue the session next week. I’m afraid we have to cut this one short, given the circumstances.” Mrs. Tugade threw me a look, that I-will-hunt-you-down-and-kill-you hyena glare that all the suburban mothers have perfected.
When the visitors left, the real penance began. Mama ordered me to stand in the corner with the Bible on one hand and a dictionary on the other. I stood there for so long I could map out the different shades of brown on a dead cockroach. Mama and Dada were murmuring while I carried out my punishment.
“I can’t do this, Mama. She’s in pain enough as she is.”
“Be the man of the house. Isn’t that what Sylvia just said? Be a man, Ed. Be a man!”
“I can’t.”
“‘Hebrews 12:7. It is for discipline that you have to endure. God is treating you as sons. For what son is there whom his father does not discipline?’”
Three solid whips of the belt crumpled my face to sobs. I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Dada looking as stern as a school principal. But, it was Mama who did the whipping. Dada stood a few paces behind, his face turned away. Thinking the punishment was over, I made my way upstairs with my head bowed and my behind stinging like all hell. Mama clicked her tongue at me.
“Where do you think you’re going? You haven’t asked for absolution yet. Kneel in the garden and pray to our Lord.” I didn’t understand why I had to be punished like this. It was Billy who started it. It was Billy who wasted a plate of milk and cookies, picked on my haircut and told me I was a weak child because I wasn’t a boy. It was unfair, but I was too tired and just did as I was told. I apologized, asked for absolution and accepted my penance without a peep.
Apologize, ask for absolution, repent.
Mama hasn’t said a word to me since the whole mess with Clara. Dada told me to wait, just give it time, Mama will come around. I wonder if Mama ever will. Still, she declared ceasefire just so we can observe the Lord’s Day.
The church is packed as usual, but the front row is empty. Dada is telling me to keep calm. We walk down the side aisle. Every time I catch someone glancing at me, they throw me a sad smile. Even our seating arrangement is strange. The regular was Mama-Dada-me. Today, it’s Dada-me-Mama. I shake my head and keep the worries at bay. After the fight with Mama, I may just be reading too much into things.
Pastor Paul nods at me. I smile and nod back. “Brothers and sisters, our gathering today is for a unique and pressing intervention. At the request of esteemed members of our community, we will be holding a prayer of absolution for our sister, Mrs. Clara Alves, who has done our Lord a grave mistake. She sinned, brothers and sisters, and today we start her out on the right path.”
My body goes rigid as a lamp post at the sound of her name. My heart jumps to my throat and stays there. It’s a tiny cough away from spilling out. The whole congregation looks like a crowd of mannequins from here. Without feeling, without a word, all staring in one direction. My stomach burns with acid and fire, as I watch her walk down the aisle, as it dawns on me what’s about to unfold. She walks, humbled and bowed and defeated. She looks pale. She’s been crying. Grayish circles ring around her eyes. Mama’s hands are strong and rough, holding me fast by the shoulders. It’s a warning. It’s an order. Endure this. You had it coming, Mama seems to say. This is Billy Tugade all over again, minus the heavy books and the leather belt. This is Mama trying to teach me a lesson.
Apologize, ask for absolution, repent. Earn the good graces of the Lord and His Church. Maybe someday, I could live like Dada with his secret transactions and deleted photos and late-night emergency meetings. The world is big enough to buy my own little corner to hide in. Who knows? I’ll have a husband and a kid. It doesn’t have to be a bad life.
Pastor Paul lays a hand on Clara. She flinches and shrugs it off. Pastor Paul fires the first question. The inquisition has begun.
“Do you admit to having feelings for your own sex?”
Just say no, Clara. Say no and the world will go back to normal. We’ll make arrangements, work around schedules, scout weekender cottages. Just say no and we’ll figure it out. Together, just like you said.
“Yes.”
The whole congregation buzzes with excited chatter. There has never been a scandal like this since Christina’s teen pregnancy had all the mothers on a chastity-ring buying spree. Pastor Paul calls order and resumes his interrogation.
“Do you promise to turn away from the sin, ask for the Lord’s forgiveness and live the Gospel?”
“No. I cannot turn my back on that which is not a sin. Only sins are up for the Lord’s forgiveness. I have done no wrong.”
“Do you understand that this unnatural kind love cannot co-exist with your love for the Lord?”
“I love them both.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. And I do.” She looks my way. With pursed lips, she beckons me to come up there and fight this. She gives me time to gather my resolve and stand up. I stay in my seat and shake my head. My resolve has slipped away completely. There is no fighting this. She nods and mouths “As you wish.” before walking out. Pastor Paul is in a rage. Disobedience is alien to such a proud and holy man. Not even the most rebellious, anti-Christ-ish, goth-wannabe teenagers dared cross him. His face reminds me of a rotten tomato, one that I would splatter on the sidewalk if given the chance.
He brings his face back to a healthy shade of pink, and starts on a hateful tirade. “This is what happens when you let the devil in, brothers and sisters. Your mind becomes weak. Your heart loses faith. You fall victim to sick passions. Harboring for a woman the love reserved for a husband.” He literally spits those last words out. A tiny bubble of saliva falls on my arm.
“1 John 4:18-19”, I whisper. Mama shushes me and orders me to listen.
“She is sick, I tell you, brothers and sisters. She is a disgrace. She lives in fear, for she has lost the Lord. She has surrounded herself with material wealth. Encouraged maligned a
ffections to rot her spirit. She represents what is wrong in our community, a stain that must be washed away. We cannot watch her destroy herself. But, to work back to the Lord’s grace, she must be punished—”
“1 John 4:18-19,” I say it loud enough that my echoes have third-degree echoes. My voice reaches the dome of the church, where the mural of Jesus in open arms watches over us. I swipe away Mama’s hands and stand up. Some of the members gasp. Some click their tongues in disapproval. Some are still mannequins. I am beyond caring. I am beyond cowering behind Mama and doing as I’m told. “1 John 4:18-19, Pastor Paul.”, I repeat. He looks at Mama and begs with his eyes to control me. Mama starts weeping, her face hidden beneath her hands in shame. I might as well be the anti-Christ.
“‘There is no fear in love. But, perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he first loved us.’”
Pastor Paul points his finger at me. He invokes all the Bible verses on obedience and complete surrender. He keeps on about the devil’s work inside me, that there is hope for me yet if I repent. Apologize, ask for absolution, repent. This is not Billy Tugade all over again.
“It is you, not her. It is you who lives in fear of people different from you. It is you who is swift in punishment of things you do not understand. You are the unenlightened. You claim to live in Christ, but you are quick to self-righteous anger and slow to compassion. Tell me, Pastor Paul. Who is the disgrace?” A hard slap starts a ringing in my ear. The mannequins come alive to breathe a collective gasp, before falling dead silent again. I wait for Mama to come to my aid. She’s a mannequin, too. I lick the blood on my lips. I smile through the sting. Their protests and threats fall on deaf ears as I chase after Clara.
I find Clara loading her emergency bag in the trunk of the Mercedes. She’s too preoccupied to notice me slip past the gate. Either that or she’s bearing a grudge that I just watched Pastor Paul throw stones at her. I nip at the dried-up blood on my left cheek, where Pastor Paul’s ring scratched me. I decide not to tell her what happened when she left.
“You’re leaving?”
“What does it look like?”
“You’re leaving me?”
“I don’t have to if you come with me. Sam, do you want to stay here all your life? Surrounded by people who can’t accept you? You can’t even say a word in my defense! What makes you think you can fight all these people?”
I stop her from loading another bag, another part of her life into the trunk. “Clara, look, stay with me. We can fight this. We can win them over. Mama will come around. When she does, all the other mothers will, too. Even Pastor Paul.”
“Fight? Win them over? Do other people have to live like that? Or is it just us?”
“Clara, please. We have a chance here to change the world, to change how people see this and people like us. Imagine the people we’re going to touch. They don’t have to go through this. Please, Clara, please stay.”
She shuts me up and pulls me to her. She kisses me in the light of day, like I wanted. But, she kisses me in a way that means goodbye, like she’s going to lose me, never to see my face again. No more knocks on the door and fainting on the porch. Wherever she’s going, there will be no Sunday School sessions, no “Just Dance”-offs until midnight, no races around the park. I hold out hope that I am enough to change her mind. Any minute now, she’ll pull the LV emergency bag out of the trunk and return it to the bedroom.
“Tell me you’ll stay.”
She shakes her head. Her eyes cloud with hurt and tears. She holds my cheeks and brands my face to memory. I have no choice but to do the same. She leaves me with the chess set and nothing else. “Come find me when you’re ready.”
It takes two minutes from the driveway to freedom.
Chapter 10
IT WAS RAINING that day—Christina and I were the only ones in our whole block allowed to play outside. The rest of the kids looked on with envy, peeking behind blinds and curtains at the two little girls having the day of their life. We were having so much fun catching the raindrops in our mouth that I must have missed the mosquito bite that did me in. After that, I was in bed for days. I couldn’t even enjoy having to skip school, drinking Sprite every two hours, having Mama at my side the whole time. The doctors said it was dengue, and it was as bad as it sounds. My skin broke out in rashes. My fever went up and down like a politician’s approval rating. When blood came gushing out of my nose and I cried in a panic about not being able to see, one of Mama’s friends suggested she call the healers.
The healers are a gang of old people from Intsikan. They came smelling of wood and candle wax. Their paraphernalia consisted of stainless steel tubs, rosaries, yellowed prayer pamphlets and more yellowed dentures. They were a gang of Lilia Cuntapay look-alikes. They never bothered with names, so I named them all Lilia. Tita Gina showed me a photo of Lilia Cuntapay in costume, and I slept with the lights on for a month. I was 8 years old and delirious with dengue. This was one of those traumatizing childhood stories. The healers knew nothing else but the art of healing. They were called to heal. I don’t think it mattered if I was a kid with cancer, a dog with a bum leg or an expired can of tuna that just won’t open. As long as they could heal me with the power of God vested on their arthritic hands, case closed. The healers win! God over science!
For raisin-skin and brittle old ladies, the healers packed some superhuman strength in their hands. It was God working through them, they said. They took turns laying their hands on me, pressing my skull deep into the pillow. They surrounded my bed, linking hands, making howling sounds and calling them prayers. They anointed me with oils and dried leaves. It was to drive away the evil spirits, they said. The smell made my head swim. When I threw up, they clapped their hands and rejoiced. It was God purging the illness out of the body. That is, by far, the best description for vomit I have ever heard in my life.
“Praise Yahweh! Praise Yahweh!” said the eldest Lilia.
The sickness left me days after. Thinking about it now, it must have been the antibiotics that saved me. But, Mama was convinced that it was God acting through the healers. She called it a second life. She held on to the belief that I was saved for a higher purpose, just like her and Dada.
What is that stench? Is the house on fire? The thought jolts me right out of sleep, and the sight before me made me wish I hadn’t woken up. The house is not being licked to the ground by a fiery blaze. It’s under the spell of something much worse.
The healers have filled the room with their super special, stink-blend incense. One of the Lilias – I still call them that – is reading candle wax floating on a tub of water. Yes, do sum up my history and fate on the effects of gravity on a dripping candle. I know Mama called them. Whether out of peer pressure or free will, I don’t know. Not that it matters. They’re here and they must go. Should I pretend to be possessed by demons and shake in my bed until the headrest breaks? The door is open. Should I make a break for it? I guess I could laugh in their faces and say that no herb in the world can cure me. You can’t pray this away. Go play with another nut case. But, if I anger them, they’d just keep coming back and torture me with their empty incantations and foul-smelling herbs and spices. I resign myself to the ritual. Better get it over with once and for all. I let them touch me, lay their hands on me, blow smoke and bad breath all over me. They surround my bed as the candle-reader drips a red candle into the tub. Whatever form she saw there satisfied her. She smiles to bare her brown gums and piss-yellow teeth. She nods and the group erupts in celebration. At their age, erupting celebration is between a groan and a mouse’s yelp.
“Praise Yahweh! Praise Yahweh!” the eldest cries, her voice broken and cracked like the skin on her face.
Broken and cracked.
Like me.
They pack up their paraphernalia and go. They didn’t even bother to look at me or ask how I feel. Does my head hurt? Do the herbs make me want to throw up? Do I fe
el changed? Nothing. They just walk out in a single file to report to Mama. I could care less what they said. I am just relieved that they are gone.
Dada enters the room. He finds me huddled in a corner, knees pulled close, behind a fortress of pillows. I am staring blankly out the window. The smell of decay lingers in the air. His nose scrunches up when he takes a breath.
“How are you feeling, dear?”
“I pretended to be healed because I know they’ll just keep coming back if I fight.” I straighten up my shoulders and try to show a brave front. But, then, I remember why the healers were here. Mama thinks I’m sick. Who I am, who I have become, is nothing but a sickness. It is abnormal and foreign. It will pass like some flu. I cling to Dada and grit my teeth and press my tongue against my palate. I must not cry. I must not give Mama the satisfaction of victory. “Why is Mama doing this, Dada?”
“Mama is having a hard time understanding all this, Sam. She’s stubborn, you know that. She is loyal and faithful to what she believes is right. But, Mama loves you. She loves no one more than you. She just—”
The door opens wide and Mama comes in to steal Dada away from me. “Eduardo, out. I need to talk to Samantha alone.” Mama clicks the door. I am Daniel trapped in the den, without the bravado and without an angel to tame the lions for me.
“I’ve had it up to here with you, Samantha. What’s gotten into you? We worked hard to make sure you don’t end up like the other kids. Now, look at you, look at the abomination you have become. You lied to your mother and used my kindness and compassion against me. You brought that filth into our home, paraded her to our friends and relatives. Worst, you angered Pastor Paul, a man of God, and for what?”
Don't Tell My Mother Page 8
