Wedding Belles

It will take an eighteen-minute jeepney ride, a twenty-minute train ride, a five-hour bus ride, and a thirteen-minute walk under the harsh afternoon sun, to tell my mother that I am engaged.

I add all of this up in my head as I press my nose to the bus’s grimy, fingerprint-stained window, watching the rice fields pass me by in a brown and green blur. My legs stick to the hard plastic covering the maroon velvet seat, and the overnight bag I’d packed with two shirts, a pair of jeans, and an old cardigan with a missing button rests on top of my sneaker-clad feet. Pins and needles now, a heavy numbness later. So far, the bus has driven past three gasoline stations, two convenience stores, and a herd of carabaos, black fur shiny and faces menacing. Back in the city, we passed five homeless men before reaching the tollgate, each staking his claim on a street corner, a rusty can, and some discarded newspaper. I’ve been trying to count red cars and blue cars, but it isn’t quite as fun when you’re on your own.
I don’t mean to do this—compute the amount of time I spend on my relationship with my mother, as opposed to the amount of time she spends on her relationship with me—but the numbers are there, plain as day, and the sum total is front and center in my mind, flashing like a cursor against a blank white document on a computer screen. It will take three hundred and fifty one minutes to reach my childhood home, where my mother still lives, around seven minutes of polite, perfunctory small talk to build up to the big news, and approximately two seconds to actually say it out loud: Mom, I’m engaged.

Nicholas, being Nicholas, offered to come with me. “We should tell her together,” he said, pulling a blanket over our bare legs, our faces bathed in the artificial glow of the massive television set in his family’s recreation room. “It’s the proper thing to do.” It is just like Nicholas to believe that I am a good enough person to care about doing the proper thing. “I can manage on my own,” I told him, closing the door—gently, but closing it nonetheless—on his concern. His face fell, and I took his hand, squeezed his fingers, and said, “I’ll be fine. I swear.” He smiled, a bit dreamily, like he still couldn’t believe we were getting married. On the television screen, a brunette in a white lace dress rides a horse off into the sunset, a look of fierce determination hardening her pretty face.

The man beside me should have paid for half of my bus fare. He spills over from his seat to mine, and I edge as close to the window as I can, my arm touching the sticky wall. I don’t want to know why it’s sticky—orange juice? Soda? Something else entirely? The man, overweight and middle-aged, is sweating buckets, typing something furiously into his phone, teeth gritted and nostrils flared. When he is done, he rests his phone on his belly, which jiggles every time the bus swerves or brakes or goes over a pothole. So far he has eaten a cheeseburger, a hotdog on a stick, a bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips, and a cup of instant yakisoba. In the seat pocket in front of him, there is a 1.5-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He takes a swig out of it every now and then, the lemon yellow liquid dribbling down his chin and onto his tissue paper-thin white shirt.

He opens a second bag of chips and holds it out to me. I can smell the powdered cheese, almost taste the MSG on my tongue. His fingers are stubby and greasy, and there are perspiration marks on his armpits. I pretend not to see him. He clears his throat. “Miss?” he asks, peering at me as if he were checking for signs of life. I glance at him and give a slight shake of my head. He shrugs, looking a bit offended. I don’t even say thank you.

I’m marrying Nicholas. I haven’t told anyone. I have to tell someone. I’d tell my best friend if I was certain it wouldn’t upset her or make her feel any lonelier than she already does. I’d tell my cousin Annie, but I don’t think she ever got over Nicholas completely, or forgave herself for introducing us to one another at her birthday party three years ago. I’d tell her if we were still friends, if we could go back to the time we were teenagers giggling over prom dates and first kisses. I’d tell her if we still spoke to each other regularly, if we still spoke to each other at all. I’d tell my father if I knew where he was or why he left or how to reach him; I’d tell him if I didn’t hate him so much. So I’m telling my mother. Even if it means enduring this god-awful bus ride. Even if it means sitting beside this man, listening to him typing and crunching and slurping away for two more hours. I’m telling my mother—I have to. Even if it means breaking her heart.

An elderly man in a wifebeater climbs aboard the bus, carrying a basket of red apples. His nose is big and crooked and peppered with liver spots, and he has a black towel slung over his shoulders like a cloak; he reminds me of the evil queen in Snow White. He’s devised an entire spiel about how fresh and sweet and juicy and crisp his apples are, and in spite of myself, I smile. He flashes a toothy grin and approaches a pretty girl two rows in front of me. She asks him how much half a kilo would cost, then wrinkles her nose in disdain at his answer and shoos him away. The man looks defeated, but not the least bit surprised. I wonder how many people have said no to him today.

With a five-peso coin, I knock on the rusty front gate at half-past one. “You’re early, Nala,” my mother calls out to me as she fiddles with the two locks and jangles her bunch of keys, and I think early for what? When she finally pushes the gate open, she hugs me like she hasn’t seen me in years. I try to remember how many months it’s been since I last went home. Three? Four? Wait, six? Not seven, surely. Seven months seems a bit too long, a bit too unkind. She smells like shrimp paste and citrus dishwashing liquid. I recognize the shirt she’s wearing—she used to reserve it for special occasions but now the fabric is faded in parts by bleach stains and the sleeves are all stretched out and the neckline curls like a deep-fried strip of bacon. Her hair, though, is braided expertly, perfectly, down to the brown elastic band holding it in place. She wipes sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. “I’ve been cooking and cleaning all day,” she says, by way of apology. “No,” I say, a bit too quickly. “You look great, Mom.” I follow her inside the house and notice that she is barefoot, and in need of a good pedicure. There are veins on her legs, and a mole on her shoulder that I have never seen before.

She ushers me into my bedroom, the contents of which she has kept intact all these years. It’s been almost eight years since I moved away, and still she keeps the Blink-182 and Seth Cohen posters on my wall, the batch T-shirt I wore to PE class every Friday, the box of letters from my high school senior year retreat, my very first CD player that has long stopped working. The sheets are the same lavender paisley ones we picked out together at a department store when I was fifteen; the pillows are the same ones I’d bury my face in when she told me I couldn’t do something or go somewhere on a weekend. A stuffed bear from my first boyfriend still sits on the top shelf, beside all the books I used to love, looking like it is guarding something precious. A no-nonsense study table, a mirror now blurry with age, a drawer filled with dried out perfume bottles, faded gum wrappers, and discarded pens. The ridiculous leather jacket I insisted on wearing for months, clothes that no longer fit me—that will probably never fit me again—hanging in the closet, as if they were waiting to be rescued. On the doorframe, if you look closely, you can still make out pencil marks tracking my progress in height through the years. I imagine her coming in here to sweep the floors or dust the shelves, careful not to change the order or position or balance of anything, putting everything back right where I would hope to find it. I know this room is supposed to feel warm and familiar and comforting, supposed to feel like home, but the lavender paisley sheets nauseate me, and my heart no longer jumps at the thought of Seth Cohen, or that first boyfriend. Sometimes I step into this cramped room and feel like my mother is trying to preserve all of me in this small space, a museum of everything she has left of the daughter who is now all grown up. Sometimes this thought fills me with remorse. But most of the time, I just feel like an intruder, and it takes an ocean of resolve to pretend that this place is still mine.

Today, however, this place is my sanctuary. I kick my shoes off and sink into the bed, letting the laundry detergent softness envelop me, clutching a pillow to my chest like I am fourteen and swooning over Travis Barker again. I’m marrying Nicholas. I don’t want to tell my mother—I am terrified of telling my mother—but I have to. That’s why I’m here. I stay in bed for what must be more than an hour, listening to my mother clattering around the kitchen, lifting pots and pans, opening and closing the refrigerator door, setting out plates and our good silverware, emptying ice cubes from a plastic tray. I should at least ask if she needs any help, shouldn’t I? When the whirring sound of the blender subsides, I get out of bed, change out of my commute-scented clothes, and head down the hall to meet my mother for lunch.

“You must be starving,” she says, and before I know it, I am face-to-face with a mound of steaming rice and a clay pot of kare-kare. She pours me a tall glass of pomelo juice; the pink liquid looks as light and sweet as cotton candy. She watches me eat, studying the way I chew and bite and swallow. I’d never let anyone else do this; I’d tell them to stop being creepy, or I’d put down my utensils and claim a sudden loss of appetite, but today, I just don’t have the energy to do so. There is a convincing smile waltzing across her face, but she picks at her cuticles and drums her fingers on the table, nerves getting the best of her. She can tell what’s coming. I know she has half a dozen tin containers of leche flan stashed in the fridge. She knows it’s my favorite. I also know she’s hoping this gesture—this sweet, thoughtful, maternal, home-cooked gesture—will fill the house with joy and make it seem less desolate. Deep down, she knows otherwise.

My father left us eight years and six months ago during typhoon season; he ended everything with a phone call one stormy day. It was right after dinner, and I was still in my school uniform because I’d gotten home later than usual—the streets were flooded, and my backpack, temporarily rid of its textbook burden and hanging from the back of a chair in front of the electric fan, was still damp with rain water. I remember tugging on my plaid tie and fiddling with the straps of my black patent Mary Janes as I watched my mother’s face run through a gamut of emotions: confusion and shock and shame and anger and a deep, deep sadness that flew across the room and hurt in every part of my body. I remember knowing, even before my mother said, “So it’s over?,” that it was. I remember picking nervously at a scab on my knee—remnants of a volleyball game mishap a couple of weeks earlier. I remember knowing the exact moment my father had hung up, despite the fact that for a few minutes, my mom held on to the receiver, pressing it against her ear as if this would bring her marriage back to life. I remember wondering what my father’s last words to her were, whether his voice changed when he told her he wasn’t coming back, whether he ever told her he was sorry, and if he said it out loud or in a barely discernible whisper. I remember the urge to pat her shoulder, or remind her that the wound on my knee, the one that had me screaming bloody murder when she was dousing it with hydrogen peroxide and poking at it with a cotton bud dipped in Betadine, was almost healed. I remember praying she wouldn’t cry in front of me—I had never seen her cry.

“It’s just the two of us now,” she told me after finally putting the phone down, and I knew I was supposed to feel some sort of relief at the worst being behind us, some sort of comfort at the fact that we were going to take care of each other, some sort of gratitude that at least I had her, and we had one another. Good riddance, Dad. We don’t need you: that’s how a strong, loyal daughter would feel. But as my mom pulled me to her chest and stroked my hair to the majestic surround sound of thunder rumbling, all I could feel was the panic forming a large, sticky lump in my throat. All I wanted to do was seek solace somewhere else.

Months after my father left her, I did, too. “Mom, it’s just four years,” I told her as she sniffled into my shoulder when we said goodbye. It was two days before my college orientation seminar, and my stomach had been strange and fluttery all week. “I’ll move back in after graduating. And I’ll visit every month. And you can always come and see me anytime you want.” The first statement, we both knew was untrue. The second, I meant at that moment. The third, she shook her head at. “You know I hate the city,” she said. My face must have fallen, because she immediately backtracked: “But don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll be great. You’ll have the time of your life there. It’ll be great.”

I had heard all the horror stories. College bullies in chunky six-inch heels, snooty professors who don’t give a shit if you were the high school valedictorian, guys who are experts at making you believe hooking up was your idea in the first place, those wild parties where bad decisions are made at an alarming rate of five per minute. A girl from my high school, two batches older, got pregnant before the end of freshman year. Her father literally dragged her into the car and drove her home.

I tugged at my collar, my insides coiled tight. It struck me that I was never going to need my mother as much again. She rubbed my back, telling me once again how it will be great. I would call her after all the academic firsts: first day of school, first A, first F, first big report. But the other things, I would keep to myself. In high school she knew all my classmates and their parents, but in college I would meet too many people, make too many fleeting connections. I would catch myself screening every piece of information I passed on to her, distilling the truth as I saw fit. Nicholas and I would have been together for months before I even mentioned his name. She wouldn’t press me for details. By that time, she would have learned not to.

But she was right. It would be great. It should be. It was a change, a chance to escape. Our fingers touched when she handed me a wad of fifties and hundreds, my allowance for the week plus a little extra for a nice dinner that night, and I realized she was giving me the choice to write my father out of my life for good. If he ever asked where I was, she could refuse to tell him. She had every right to. Even if he tried, he would probably never find me.

My father, who grew up with five sisters, was hoping for a baby boy. He wanted someone he can play basketball with, someone he can build a tree house for, someone he can talk to about sports and machines. He would have taught a son so much: how to drive a stick shift, how to hammer a lopsided chair’s legs back into place, how to pitch a tent, how to swim, how to fix a broken radio, how to shoot a three-pointer. A son would have taught him so much: patience and kindness and strength. When my mother told him she was pregnant, he scooped her up in his arms and spun her around, just like they do in the movies.

But then they had me, and he didn’t know what to do with a girl. I was born on a Wednesday. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. In the nursery he held me gingerly, a fragile little bundle swathed in fuzzy pink cloth. I had his lips, they told him, but everything else belonged to my mom: my eyes and my nose and my thick, jet black hair. He wanted to name his son Alan, after his great-grandfather, but what he got was the opposite. He didn’t even particularly like “Nala”; it just made sense, perhaps even seemed clever, at the time. Parenting books often advised prospective moms and dads to say the potential names out loud before deciding on one, so he tried to imagine calling my name from the other end of the hall, or introducing me to people. This is my daughter Nala. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about me.

He would never be sure. And this uncertainty manifested itself in an aloof distractedness, one that was around so often I had to get used to it at a very young age. It was around during my birthday parties and school programs and commencement exercises. It was around when he was tired and when he was relaxed, on busy weekdays and slow, steady weekends, first thing in the morning and before going to bed. I wouldn’t learn how to shoot three-pointers, pitch a tent, fix a broken radio. I wouldn’t be worth building a tree house for. Instead, I would get straight As, join the debate team, star in a play, be elected vice president of the student council, graduate grade school valedictorian. Still, he would never stop wanting a son. Over the years, I would discover how no achievement, no amount of success, would ever be enough for him.

In the second grade, I made the volleyball team. My excitement barreled all over the place, crashing into walls and furniture, words pouring out of my mouth—I couldn’t wait to tell him I would finally be doing something active and athletic; it wasn’t quite basketball or swimming, but I was confident it was something we could talk about. But all I got from him was a half-hearted, “Have fun.” Then he went back to his newspaper, his lukewarm cup of coffee, more important things. I guess I should be thankful to him for teaching me early on that, no matter what I do or what I become, the world will never revolve around me. Eventually, I got tired of thinking up ways to warrant his attention. Whereas the tiniest accomplishment would merit a big congratulatory hug and a kiss from my mother—crayon drawings plastered proudly onto the refrigerator door—my father would barely even look up when I walked into the room. Even as we were eternally bound by the threads of family, we were always weaving in and out of one another’s life, and I was never assured of my place in his.

A couple of years after he left, I ran into one of his old friends at a Christmas bazaar. They weren’t exactly buddies anymore, but they kept in touch. The last time he’d heard from my father, his new wife had just given birth to a boy. They named the baby Alan.

Once the typhoons stopped, the three of us were supposed to go to the beach. My mother had it all planned out: months in advance, she’d already booked the plane tickets and the boat ride, purchased two bottles of sunblock from the supermarket, researched Cebuano delicacies she’d like us to try, and asked friends for directions to which places served the best lechon. She reminded my dad to file a vacation leave from work. “It’s been so long since we went on a vacation,” she told him. She bought herself a new swimsuit—a red-and-white striped one piece that made her look like a ‘50s pin-up girl. She was supposed to wear it with a wide-brimmed straw hat and Jackie O sunglasses. My father never got to see her in it. She hid the plane tickets in her bottom drawer; I wasn’t sure if she wanted to keep them safe, or if she just wanted to keep them out of sight.

My mother will not leave this house. In my sophomore year of college, after a bad week in school and an even worse Saturday night date, I called her in tears, holed up in my room, a blanket over my head. “Move closer to me,” I begged her. “I miss you.” It would be the only time I ever told her I missed her. I heard a sharp intake of breath, heard her voice crack, but her tone was firm when she said, “I can’t, sweetie. I’m sorry. This is my home.”

She says she stays here because it is reassuringly familiar, because she has known and loved this place for years, but I know the real reason and I know that deep down, she knows too: she stays because she wants to be right here, waiting, in case my father decides to return.

It is hard, being my mom. I know this. I know the pain, I know the humiliation, I know the exhaustion burrowing deep into her bones. I know that she wants my father back and doesn’t want my father back in equal measures, and I know that this tug-of-war saddens her when she wakes up in the morning, and when she prepares a meal for one, and when she sees old couples in church. Often, I am angry at my father for doing this to her, for using his power to hurt her, to weaken her, to make her feel this way. But sometimes, I have to try really hard not to think, You brought this upon yourself.

I finish my lunch in silence. Mealtime was always quiet in our house, even when my father was around. There were few stories to tell, and my father hated gossip of any kind. We never asked one another how our day went. It was a given that the answer would always be “okay.”

I scoop the last piece of leche flan into my mouth, and my mother stands to clear the table. I help her do the dishes; it is automatically understood that I will scrub and she will rinse. The sponge is soft and cool in my palm. The water from the sink pours onto the plates and glasses and spoons and forks, running over her thin arms. Everything is squeaky clean in less than five minutes—it doesn’t take a lot to clean up after two people. My fingers haven’t even wrinkled yet.

She hands me a paper towel and says, “So, what’s the big news?” I make a production of drying my hands, lingering on the spaces in between my fingers, inspecting my cuticles. She looks at me patiently. She can wait. I tell her, finally, “Mom, I’m engaged.”

I had the advantage of an eighteen-minute jeepney ride, a twenty-minute train ride, a five-hour bus ride, and a thirteen-minute walk under the harsh afternoon sun to build this scene in my head. I wasn’t expecting her to swing violently towards either end of the emotional spectrum—I wasn’t expecting hysterical crying, nor was I expecting cartwheels and jumping for joy. I don’t know what I was expecting, exactly. But I certainly wasn’t expecting her usually gentle face to toughen in sheer resolve. There is a frosty layer all too suddenly between us, and I just want to take it back. I try to remember the last time my mother was angry, really angry, at me. It comes to me at once and I cringe at the memory: A younger me wrinkling my nose at obvious disgust over a set of ugly, frilly pink underwear one of my godmothers had given me for my tenth birthday. My mother gritted her teeth and calmly told me to apologize, but I had been wishing for an expensive new dollhouse and a flashy pair of sneakers that lit up when I walked, and I’d had enough of the disappointing presents—a coin bank, a notepad from a hotel, a bar of soap that smelled like the old ladies in church, a box of floral handkerchiefs, and a picture frame made of cheap purple plastic. I was cranky and frustrated and did not want to hear about how I had to plaster a smile on my face and say thank you every time I opened a gift I didn’t like. “Your godmother will be upset if you don’t apologize,” my mom said in her warning voice, and I snarled, reckless and rude, “I don’t care.” When all the guests had cleared out, she made me lie face down on the newly polished living room floor. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again,” she growled, reaching for my father’s heavy black leather belt; it made a distinct snapping sound every time it landed on my behind. I still remember how my forehead felt against the cold, hard floor.

That was fourteen years ago. I am twenty-four years old now, too old for expensive dollhouses and flashy sneakers, too old to be afraid of a heavy black leather belt, too old to effectively be served discipline in that form. I have only been grounded twice in my life: once at thirteen, for sneaking out to a party, and then at fifteen, for sneaking a boy into my room. I add all of this up in my head; surely, my mother can see that I am not ten or thirteen or fifteen years old anymore.

I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I don’t mean to upset her. But I recognize the look on her face—it is not anger at all, or at least not anger towards me. It is a look of fierce determination, not unlike that pretty girl on television’s. She is happy for me, of course she is, but first she must bubble-wrap this happiness, shield it from the outside world, protect it so that nobody takes it away from us.
Her face springs into a smile. “That’s wonderful, Nala,” she says. Then she declares, “I’m walking you down the aisle,” and her tone said, And that’s that.

In the living room, my mother keeps a framed photo from her wedding day. She and my father are walking out of the church after the ceremony, arms triumphantly in the air, mouths slightly open, Hey, everyone! She is thinner than I ever remember seeing her, but her cheeks are round and her eyes are bright. Her wedding gown is beautiful, cream lace and gold trimmings. The photo hangs at the center of the wall, beside my two diplomas on display, as if it were still something to be proud of.
I’ve been wanting to take this photo down for a long time, smash it on the ground perhaps and grind the broken pieces with my foot, but I know this will never be my decision to make. My mother will take the photo down someday. I have to believe that she will.

For breakfast, my mother is serving me cake. Coffee is brewing in a pot next to the kitchen window, and there are fresh fruits on the table—bananas and oranges and red, juicy apples. Sunlight streams in, lighting up her face as she hums along to the radio; it sounds like Cyndi Lauper, or early Madonna. Yesterday was a good day, and I have been brave enough to tell her what I have come to tell her. Today will be even better; tonight I can curl up on the couch with Nicholas and inhale the sweet scent of his shirt and skin. His arms will feel strong around me.

It has been eight years, six months, and three days since my father left. There are only two of us, but we’ll be all right, my mother and I. This family will be fine.

“The fudge cake is from Don,” she says, setting down a thick slice in front of me with a flourish. “He baked it himself.” Who’s Don? I have no idea who Don is. I take a bite. It tastes amateur, a clumsy culinary attempt, and the chocolate is cheap. I have no idea who Don is, and already I dislike him. Who’s Don? Is he sleeping with my mother? Is he in love with her? Is she in love with him? It is difficult to imagine her being in love with anyone else, yet as I chew on this idea now, I find it strangely appealing. There should be some form of balance, if not justice, embedded in the satisfaction she will derive from showing my father that she can move on. Does it even matter who Don is? I take another bite. This seems to make her happy.

On the bus going back to the city, the seat beside me is empty. In front of me, there is a young mother with a two-year-old son. Her hair is in a thin, tiny ponytail; her son’s is wild and curly, bouncing all over the place. The little boy can’t quite talk in complete sentences yet, but he keeps peeking at me from between the seats and giggling, as if he wants to start a conversation but is too shy to make the first move. He has nice eyes and a charming face—he’ll be handsome when he grows up. When he gets tired of our little game, his mom takes out two small plastic trucks. “Vroom vroom,” the boy growls. “Vroom vroom vrooooooom!” His high-pitched voice fills the bus, and other passengers turn to look. Most parents would have been embarrassed, would have scolded him or snatched his toys away, would have told him to please keep quiet, would have threatened him with monsters or security guards or evil policemen. But the young mother with the thin, tiny ponytail just smiles at the little boy, a bit dreamily, like she still can’t believe she has a son this beautiful, that her life is this hopeful and promising and true. Three stops later, a man in dark brown slacks and a short-sleeved barong boards the bus and sits beside them. “Daddy!” the little boy exclaims, climbing onto his lap. The man kisses the top of his son’s head. His wife loops her arm around his, and they stay that way for a while. They get off the bus one stop ahead of mine. The little boy skips down the aisle sandwiched in between his parents, his red backpack slung over his shoulders, his curly hair bobbing up and down.

I compute everything in my head. I don’t mean to, but I do. I am twenty-four years old. Eight years and six months ago, my father left home. Half a year later, I did too. My mother has been unhappy for almost a decade. I have known Nicholas for a little over three years, and we have been engaged for seventy-two hours. My mother has met him less than five times. It took me two seconds to say it out loud—I’m engaged, Mom—and less than a minute for her to give me her blessing; I didn’t even notice I’d been holding my breath, waiting for it. Before I left this morning, she hugged me for seven seconds. I would have let her hug me for seven more, no questions asked.

I add all of this up carefully, as carefully as I can. I do the math once, twice. The numbers are there, plain as day.