by Oz Mari G.
Veren straightened when she moved. His hand loosened, but he didn’t remove it, anchoring her to him still.
“You awake now, little one?” He asked over his shoulder.
“Yeah—Sorry. You were right. I needed the sleep …” She straightened up. Her legs were wooden. She gasped when the rush of returning sensation attacked her limbs. Veren looked back at her in alarm. “Pins and needles,” she muttered.
“Don't move,” Veren said.
He manoeuvred his long legs off the bike, removed his helmet and then hers. The strap had left a mark on her chin, and Veren massaged it away. He then grasped her by the waist, lifted her, and set her gently on her feet.
She winced as the painful sensation of recirculating blood flowed to her veins, making her hop on each foot. Veren's hands remained on her waist, steadying her. Soon the prickles faded, allowing her to stand on her own. Veren's gentle fingers combed through her hair, ruffling it.
By instinct, she touched his hand, but before she could ask him what he was doing, he said, “Helmet head,” and his hands dropped away.
“Thanks.” Her hair must have looked like a bird’s nest. “I think it’s time to hit the shower. I’m starting to stink…” She needed a brief respite from her rioting emotions. Her resolution to treat him like an older brother was melting like ice cream in the midday sun.
“Yeah, me too. It's a wonder you were able to fall asleep on me like that. You must think I smelled like hell and the devil’s ass combined.” He ruffled his own helmet-flattened hair.
“No, the helmet was on the way,” she blurted.
Veren laughed. She felt her cheeks heat up.
“Okay, so that redeemed this helmet from its hair flattening flaw.” He chuckled.
“I guess,” she said. “Are we going somewhere else later?” she asked to divert him from the reddening of her face and neck.
It was mid-afternoon. There was still the rest of the day, and Veren might have other plans for them. She needed re-energising. She felt lethargic.
“None for the day, but I’ll meet you here later at six. Let's go out to dinner,” he said.
“All right, I’ll see you later …” She proceeded to her room. She had a ton of things to do and so little time.
Her clothes needed to be washed, or she would have nothing to wear tomorrow. She had worn her two t-shirts, and if she wore this pair of jeans one more time, it might grow its own culture. Perhaps she would have enough time to go to the town centre and get a dress. She could afford one if she didn’t spend over five hundred pesos.
As she got into the bathroom, she realised she was still wearing Veren's long-sleeved shirt. She rushed into the shower for a quick rinse. She wanted enough time to wash the clothes, go out to buy a dress, and come back in time for dinner.
To save time, she washed her shirt, underclothes and Veren's shirt under the shower using the hand soap that was provided in the room. It took a while as the soap wasn’t foamy or meant for washing clothes. But it was all she had. She hung them on the verandah of the room to ensure that they would dry by morning. She would return Veren’s shirt clean.
With her wet hair combed into place, she rushed out. She needed to get to the town square as fast as she could. It would be a good fifteen-minute walk, and she had about three hours to get ready for dinner. She wanted to have as much time as possible to make herself presentable.
Veren jogged down the stairs, checking the piece of paper he had and the written instruction on it. The front desk staff had given him directions to the town centre's best shop. He wanted to get Anza her own jacket. As he got out of the lobby and turned left, he saw Anza up ahead, hurrying towards somewhere.
Where is she going?
He followed her.
She might get into trouble.
Three blocks on, Anza turned left to the main street. The shop he meant to visit loomed over the horizon. He had kept the one-block distance between him and Anza, but lessened it as he realised he might lose her inside.
She just entered a clothes outlet when he got to the entrance. Anza disappeared through the door. He stayed out of sight and watched through the windows as she flicked through the hangers in the clothes rack. The racks were shoulder-height, and he could see every expression that crossed her face. There was an impatient frown on her forehead.
She was looking at dresses.
He realised Anza was a dress-wearing kind of girl, even if he hadn’t seen her wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt since he met her. He supposed that, when she came with her parents for their holiday in their log cabin up in the mountains, a dress would have been inappropriate.
Anza had picked up a beautiful light and flowy, grey sleeveless summer dress with a tank top bodice and soft pleats under the breast. It had a profusion of tiny red, yellow and blue flowers embroidered on the hem that looked like it spilt from a basket.
Her eyes sparkled as she held it against her to check the fit. It was in her size. Then Anza looked at the tag. Her face fell. With a sigh, she put it back on the rack and walked away, but she glanced back with longing at the dress one more time. In her characteristic grit, she squared her shoulders and continued on to the rack closest to the wall.
He watched her pick up a short, blue eyelet blouse and a skirt set. She held it against herself and examined her reflection in the mirror. She asked for another colour. The saleslady informed her there were three choices—blue, yellow, and green, then came back with what looked like a sea-foam green pair. The lady pointed to the dressing room to her left. Anza walked over and disappeared inside.
I should let her shop in peace and not spy on her like this.
Yet, he was compelled to keep watching. But his vantage point was bad. He couldn’t see her well from this location. He entered the shop and headed towards the male section, then navigated between the racks of clothes for women and children. The shop was crammed and dusty. Grimy, beige linoleum covered the floor. The place smelled of plastic, floor wax, and packaging. The men’s section was a little further at the back, close to where various shoes were on display.
“Good afternoon, Sir. How can I help you?” An eager saleslady approached him.
“I want to browse first. Can I go around for a bit? I’ll call you when I need you.” When the saleslady didn’t respond, he asked, “Is it all right?” while exerting his charm. The saleslady blushed, nodded, and left him.
He positioned himself among the hanging clothes. Not looking, but waiting with bated breath for Anza to come out. To his disappointment, she wasn’t wearing the new dress when she got out. She smiled at the waiting service staff and confirmed that she would get the set.
After she paid, Anza walked out, but not before throwing one last longing glance at the grey dress she had looked at earlier. With a sigh, she left the shop.
With her gone, he bought what he came here for—something warm for Anza to wear. He found a blue hoodie with a zipper closure on the front. It was the thickest he could find. On impulse, he bought the dress that Anza liked.
Satisfied with his purchase, he tucked the shopping bag inside his jacket and got out of the store. He hurried back to their inn, and within minutes, from a distance, he spotted Anza going the same direction.
He remembered the blouse and skirt pair she bought and wondered if she would wear it at dinner.
An hour and a half later, he sat in the lobby, waiting for Anza to show up. He was looking forward to seeing her in her new purchase.
Ten minutes in, he wondered what was taking her so long. She was uncharacteristically late. He approached the counter to call her room, but no one answered.
She could be on her way down now. It's a pity that she’s not using her cell phone.
After another ten minutes without her, he got worried. He knocked on her door. There was no answer. For a moment, he felt tempted to kick the door in. Instead, he got the lock picking set that he always carried with him. A remnant of his childhood and a reminder of his troubled past, of
what he had escaped from, what he overcame.
Every time he looked at it, it made him grateful for what he had, where he was, what he had achieved and the people who helped him. Today, he was grateful for it for a practical reason.
Within a minute, the door opened. Anza was lying on one of the two beds in her room, curled on her side like a child. Asleep. He felt a quick rush of relief to find her safe, but he saw the flush on her cheeks and realised she was running a temperature. He approached her and touched her cheek. Her fever was high. Heat emanated from her body.
She had laid out the clothes she bought at the edge of the other bed, and beside it were the jeans she wore earlier. She was wearing the same oversized T-shirt. It must be the one she borrowed from her cousin. It was a good thing, as it was long enough to cover her. She was lying on the top of the sheets, shivering.
He whipped the cover from the other bed and draped it over her. He was tucking her in when Anza woke up, disoriented. She looked confused when she saw his face. Her eyes darted around.
Alarmed, she rasped, “Am I late?” She tried to get up but swayed even in a seated position.
“You’re fevered. We’re not going anywhere, so you’re not late for anything.” He pressed her back to the bed with gentle force and tucked her in.
“Give me a few minutes' rest, then I’ll be fine,” she said weakly, her eyes already closing.
“Have you taken any medicines?” He prodded her.
She shook her head. Her body trembled.
He phoned the reception and asked for some fever medicine. He didn’t carry any—something he must rectify in his first aid kit. While he waited, he lay down behind her and pulled her close, infusing her with his warmth to stop the tremors that wracked her body.
The doorbell rang. It was the front desk clerk, with two paracetamol tablets in hand.
“Sir, these are the only two tablets we have. Do you need more?” the clerk asked.
“Yes, please,” he said, giving a nod. “Can someone buy them for us?” He didn’t want to leave her. The clerk nodded. “Is there a doctor on the island, just in case?” He didn’t want to think about it, but it was best to be prepared.
“Yes, Sir. Should we call him?” The clerk peeked over his shoulder to ogle Anza.
Veren moved to block his view. He felt protective, and … possessive.
“Not yet. Let's see first if the medicine works. If we need to call him, how soon can he come?” He wanted to plan, to prepare.
“If he’s not at another house call, around ten minutes. His home clinic isn’t very far from here.”
“Okay. Thank you very much.” He dismissed the clerk. Anza needed the paracetamol in her system as soon as possible.
He lifted Anza's upper body and slid behind her, leaning her back on his chest. Her body was scorching.
Holy Prometheus, she's on fire! This medicine better work.
He roused Anza with a gentle shake. She blinked up at him, her lids heavy. “Take this, Anza. It's for your fever.”
He pushed the tablets through her lips. She complied, but it seemed to have taken most of her strength. She could barely swallow the tablets and the gulp of water.
He kept her pressed close to his chest until her shivering subsided. But her fever was still raging. He eased out from behind her. His body heat was adding to her temperature. She needed to cool down.
He realised she had unplugged the air conditioner in her room. No doubt—she didn’t want to use it to save money. He turned it on to full blast, hoping it would help cool her down. He toed off his shoes and sat on the other bed, to stand guard and watch over her.
This was how it was to be someone's keeper—to be in charge of their physical, mental, and emotional welfare. It was such an enormous responsibility; he was unsure if he wanted it, but at that moment he had no choice. And, if he was honest with himself, he would have no one else care for her but himself.
For half an hour, he waited for the medicine to take effect, to control her fever.
Anza twisted in a sudden movement and flung the covers off. A long moan came out of her mouth. Fear struck his heart. He tried to rouse her, but she was insensible. She was close to convulsing. He picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder to keep one hand free.
He went to her bathroom, turned the shower on and tested the water. She was burning up to a dangerous level, but the water couldn’t be ice cold, just a few degrees cooler than her core temperature. He let her slide down his body until she was on her toes and anchored against him, his arm around her to support her limp body.
Heedless of his own clothes, he stood with her under the shower. The water flowed over both of them for a few minutes. One big hand held her head by the neck, so the cooling liquid could cascade from her crown to her feet without getting into her ears.
The water drenched them both, clothes and all. But it worked—Anza's fever abated, although she remained unconscious throughout. He reached behind her and turned off the shower. Still clasped against his chest to keep her upright, he pushed the hair off of her face. Anza stirred and briefly opened her eyes.
“Veren,” she mumbled, then fell back into unconsciousness.
He walked her out of the stall where her towel hung. Beside it was the bathrobe provided by the inn. He took both. He wrapped the beach towel around her, and laid her on the bed. Her feet dangled over the edge. He knew he would have to get her out of her wet shirt. While he was concerned about her sensibilities, right now it was more important to keep her dry.
Without a second thought, he took the damp towel from her body, revealing the soaked T-shirt that was almost transparent. With his eyes averted, and with quick movements, he pulled the shirt off of her, and her underclothes followed. Her wet clothes landed on the floor with a splat. With determination, he pushed away every thought that had nothing to do with Anza’s welfare and covered her with the dry bathrobe.
He didn’t realise he held his breath while undressing her with averted eyes until he had to inhale. The air conditioner was blowing fiercely at him and sent shivers up his frame. He also needed to get out of his own sodden clothes. He peeled them off and pulled on the second bathrobe that was hanging in the wardrobe. It was thin, but it would do.
He collected their soggy clothes and dropped both sets on the bathroom floor. He towelled Anza’s hair dry and ran her comb through the wet tresses. Tangled hair would greet her in the morning, and he was sure she wouldn’t like that.
He fit her properly into the bathrobe, lifted, and placed her back on her bed. He pulled the covers over her and spread her damp hair on the pillow. She still had a mild fever, but her temperature was under control.
Thank Prometheus for that!
He was on his way to her bathroom to take care of their wet clothes when the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Bassig, and she looked scandalised when she saw him in a bathrobe.
“Please, don't jump to conclusions, Mrs. Bassig.” He stepped aside to let her in.
Mrs. Bassig walked in, speechless. She looked at him from head to toe, the raised eyebrows laden with questions and judgmental thoughts she dared not voice out for fear of having it confirmed.
“No doubt you came here because you heard Anza is sick.” He glanced at Anza, still deep in slumber on the bed. “Her fever spiked so high, she was a second away from convulsion. I had to put her under the shower to lower her temperature.”
Mrs. Bassig continued to stare at him. He could tell that she was trying to curb her own initial assumption. The older woman's considerable bosom heaved.
“Mr. Albareda, as far as I know, you just met Anza the other day in my lobby. Why are you suddenly so close to each other? What are your intentions towards this little girl?”
Mrs. Bassig's questions were direct. His impression was that she would not swallow a lie, and nothing would get past her sharp eyes and instinct.
“Mrs. Bassig, my intentions are pure. I assure you, I have done nothing, nor will I do anything that would harm he
r. All I want is to protect her and keep her safe.” He infused his truth with as much sincerity as he could.
“But why are you doing this? What are you to her?” Mrs. Bassig asked.
“I’m her keeper.” His reply was quick, automatic.
He could utter no truer words at the moment. And no one could make him unsay it.
Not Mrs. Bassig. Not even Anza’s father.
7 The Revelation
“Who are you, really, Mr. Albareda?”
Mrs. Bassig’s tone told him she wouldn’t leave the issue alone until he answered all her questions to her satisfaction. At his hesitation, Mrs. Bassig’s hands went to her hips. She bristled with authority.
“And don’t tell me you’re her keeper. I can take care of our young patient. She’s staying in my inn. I have offered her employment, she’s more my responsibility than yours.”
Alarm streaked through him at her words. She threatened to cut his access to Anza if he didn’t tell her the truth of who he was, why he was here, and what his connection to Anza was. He needed to tell her an acceptable variance of the truth.
He sighed. “Okay, Mrs. Bassig. You win …” He sat down so he was at eye level with her. “My name is Veren Albareda. Anza’s father, Manuu Soledad, sent me to find her, watch over her, and convince her to go home.”
“Her father sent you?” Mrs. Bassig raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “How come she doesn’t know you? She told me she met you here when you first checked in.” Her tone sounded thick with suspicion.
“Because we have never met before.” He glanced at the bed to check if Anza was still asleep. He didn’t want her to overhear anything.
“Why send you? Are you a private investigator? You look too young to be one,” Mrs. Bassig questioned.
“Do you mind if we move outside to talk? I don’t want to disturb Anza.” he said.
Mrs. Bassig gave his attire a pointed look. He shrugged. His clothes were wet, and he couldn’t care less if people saw him buck naked.
After some hesitation, Mrs. Bassig nodded and opened the front door. He followed, barefoot and in a bathrobe. They stood in the hallway.
