by Erwin Cabucos. Appeared in A La Carte: Food and Fiction, Edited by Cecilia Brainard and Marily Orosa, Anvil Publishing, Manila, 2007. ISBN 971-27 18779.
Read on air, the Queensland Storyteller, Radio 4RPH, Brisbane. 5 November 2007.
Her hand still holds the telephone handset. The sound of it dropping onto its base seems like a closing door, banging and locking her into her guilt and uselessness. The clear blue skies outside her Armidale window seem to have turned overcast like the grey skies of her General Santos town in the Philippines. She cups her mouth as she lowers herself to the floor and feels the tears roll down her cheeks. Her mother's cry on the phone keeps playing in her mind.
‘Inday, it’s too late. We tried, but Nene didn't make it to the hospital.’ The old lady's controlled voice shows the sincerity of their endeavours to save her sister despite their poverty. ‘We could have saved her if we’d known beforehand.’
Melissa, or Inday to her family in Gen San, knows that her sister and her sister's baby could have been saved had her sister been admitted to the lying-in clinic. There, midwives would have been able to determine her state of pregnancy earlier and prescribe a caesarian procedure at the hospital. But Melissa had insisted that giving birth at home with the assistance of a midwife would be okay. This is what most women do in the Philippines, and Nene agreed. Now of course everyone disagrees with the decision. A member of the family has fallen victim to the idea, and it was Nene, the one Melissa had wanted to come to Australia to join her. It was Nene who Melissa had periodically tried to gather cash for - from delivering pamphlets to washing dishes casually at the bistro, to shelving at her local supermarket — just to be able to help her sister out as she struggled to complete a nursing degree. Being the only one overseas, Melissa feels she has the opportunity and responsibility to alleviate her family's poverty in the Philippines. Her mum always mentions the inadequacy of the income they get from selling dried fish in the market. The very family income that had helped raise her and her two brothers and sister from a shanty house.
When Melissa married Ted, an Australian council worker whose name she first saw in a local magazine and to whom she started writing, she imagined sending lots of money home. Her mum could start making renovations to the toilet, perhaps changing it from an out-house to one that'd actually be located inside the house. Those boys who used to peep at her as she was doing her business would all be gone and sorry. Then she'd be sending more money to buy clothes for her parents and her nieces and nephews, or simply to add capital to her parents' business. She knew that they'd been wanting to buy an extra-large fridge to store smoked fish. She even imagined giving her younger brother capital to start a poultry business. However, all these dreams had slowly faded through the years with the nearly retiring Ted. For her to work full time would mean killing Ted's pension money off, which he always detests. So what's the point of looking for full time work? Casual work here and there within the area of this small NSW country town has been a consolation for her. Her dreams have been shrouded with the thick blanket of sadness and frustration.
So, she hasn't been able to send the cash needed for the costs of Nene's ultrasound and admission to the lying-in clinic. At that time though, she thought, Nene's husband could get by. Besides, her main concern was really only to send Nene to school and she had done that. She graduated. The next thing in her mind was Nene's application for a nursing job. So she had saved nearly five hundred dollars for it already, but what's the point when the intended person has already gone?
‘What's the point!’ she mutters. ‘What's the bloody point!?’ she yells. She feels the firm lump forming in her throat, seemingly choking her. She bangs the floor with the side of her curled palm. She lowers her head, her chin touching her chest. She closes her eyes and breathes in as she feels the tears that go past her stretching lips. She pinches the collar of her shirt to wipe the saltiness of her tears. She thinks the salt is because her soul has been inadequate and she has been frustrated in making things a little sweeter for her family.
She breathes in, trying to contain the emotion. But she can't. She has to let it out. ‘Diyos ko po,’ she bursts out like a calf mooing for its mother in the field. ‘Oh my God, help us.’
She hears a knock at her door.
‘Melissa, is everything all right?’ It's the next door neighbour, Mary, who might have been alerted by Melissa's outburst. Mary is slow in many ways but she's alert to times of distress. Melissa suspects the old lady is in her early seventies and she seems to know many things about the neighbourhood, such as Ted being gone fishing near Ebor Falls.
Melissa pinches her collar again and wipes her face with it. She clears her sinuses, gets up and drags her feet to the door.
‘Mary, my sister passed away this morning,’ Melissa croaks while pushing the screen door to let the lady in.
Mary quickly clasps her fingers around Melissa's arms. ‘Oh, and the baby?’
Melissa nods. ‘Yes, it died, too.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mary holds Melissa's hands, slightly pulling her towards the couch. ‘What happened?’
‘The baby was breach, Mary, and it was all too late for everyone back home to save her. Imagine my father's tricycle taking a woman in labour to the hospital, how uncomfortable it would be.’
‘Wasn't there supposed to be a midwife?’
‘Obviously, she wasn't much help, was she? Not when she’s not equipped with resources like a hospital. It's really different and difficult over there.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Mary looks on the floor, showing a sense of disappointment in her face. ‘I wish I can understand the ways things are in the Philippines, Melissa. I should visit it one day with you.’
‘Yes,’ Melissa mumbles, thinking that it would be quite hard at her age to go out and about town let alone visiting her poor place in the Philippines. The smell of the dried fish would surely revolt this old lady. Melissa remembers the first day she cooked some dried herring and how Mary sprayed her whole house with toilet spray even her garage. Ted was later convinced to buy a round Weber.
‘So, are you going home?’ Mary looks Melissa in the eye. ‘I think you should. It's not even a question to ask. She is your only sister. I think it's just right for you to go home.’
Melissa bites the tip of her forefinger and crosses her legs. She should go home, really, she thinks. She hasn't been home even once. Things have been tough for her. Every time she has the chance to go home - like when her pocket allows her to - she's faced with a dilemma about rather sending the money home. It was usually for Nene's course requirements, textbooks, excursion or things related to her studies. Now, the situation is no different. She's only got to add a little bit more and she'd be there in time. She'd be there seeing all her family again after ten years. She'd be seeing all the nephews and nieces she hasn't seen since birth, or her friends since growing up. How things would have changed in Gen San. If she goes this time it will be to a funeral, the funeral of the sister she loved and worked for. And if she goes, she might need more money to help with the burial: the interment, the catering, and other stuff.
‘Ahhh,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t have anything to add to my current savings. I might be able to borrow a little bit from my friends, but that's it. But enough to reach two thousand would be impossible. I'd be dreaming. I might not go home, Mary. I wouldn't have enough.’ Melissa mumbles.
‘Surely, you and Ted could come up with something.’
‘No, I think I'll stay.’
‘Would you be happy about that, though? Obviously you wouldn’t want regrets lingering in your mind ever after.’
Melissa is unable to continue. She knows she can't go. The money she'd be spending would be better spent if sent to her family. But she feels she should go because Nene would have wanted her to go. Melissa knows her presence would be much appreciated by her sister. With this reunion, her sister would be saying to forget about expensive burial. I just want to see you in person. But Melissa consciously knows her sister is dead now. Does it really matter what the dead thinks? Does the dead really think? It does matter, though, how the living thinks about what the dead might think. This is based on the knowledge and feelings we have of the dead before their passing. And that's what matters with us living. That's what makes life meaningful. It encompasses death. We love the person whether he or she is present or absent.
‘Would you like some tea, Mary?’ Melissa stands, composing herself as if nothing has happened. It's the usual thing she'd say when Mary visits her house.
‘Don’t worry, dear. I don’t want to be a bother to you, especially at this time.’
‘Oh, that's nothing, Mary. That's life.’ Melissa walks to the kitchen to make a cuppa. Mary follows.
Melissa continues: ‘I suppose we have to take into consideration that death is just a part of life. Also, for me living so far away from the Philippines is like death, too. And what's killing me is the lack of funds to be able to travel over there to see them.’
Mary looks at Melissa's face intently.
Melissa remembers when the Australian embassy twice rejected her brothers’ and parents' application to visit her in Armidale. ‘In a way,’ she adds, ‘the toughness of immigration against Filipinos visiting their families in Australia adds to my death in living away from home.’
‘I suppose you have to accept the fact that you are living in Australia now and your family is really in another part of the world. Whether you like it or not your worlds are kind of divided.’ Mary sips her tea and puts the cup down on the bench.
‘I don’t really like to think of it that way, Mary, I'm sorry, but I feel that it is our deep human need, and a part of our human dignity to have no restrictions to seeing our family as often as we can. If we as humans built aviation technology and then developed immigration policies only to restrict families from getting in touch with each other, then I think we got it all twisted. We're missing the point.’ Melissa shakes her head while nesting her cup in her palms.
‘I'm sure there'd be reasons behind restricting Filipino visitor visas. One of them perhaps is the number of Filipino visitors overstaying their visas.’ Mary blinks her eyes as she looks in the sink, her face showing her disapproval of the situation.
‘But they should think of wiser solutions for genuine family visitors who stick by the law.’
Mary sighs, looking at the sky, which is now turning overcast. ‘Here is what the forecaster is talking about,’ she says. ‘I'd better head home and collect my washing.’
Melissa watches Mary waddle to the door, waving goodbye. She straightens her feet on the two adjoining chairs and gulps her remaining tea. She drops the cup on the table strongly the way she dropped the handset.
She was sad, but now she's angry. She should voice what she really wants. Over the years, she has been quiet about being able to earn lots of money to help her family survive, and to be able to see them in person. That isn't much to ask, she thinks. She wants to go home! She wants to attend the funeral of her sister. She wants to see her family again! She should tell Ted. She'll tell him when he comes home.
Ted is still munching the last pasta he has shot into his mouth. He stares at her intently and raises his brow, as if he's asking if anything's wrong. She's not been saying anything much throughout the meal and she's only been speaking intermittently since he arrived. ‘Have I told you this pasta is delicious?’ he mutters.
‘Thanks,’ she says, folding her arms.
He shrugs his shoulder, tips his bowl a little, twirls the pasta with the fork, and stuffs the last noodles into his mouth. He smiles. ‘That was divine, honey, thank you.’ He grabs his lemonade, pulls out his chair and walks straight to the lounge where the sounds of the Australian Open are heard. ‘Would you care to join me after the wash up?’
‘I'm not washing the dishes tonight,’ she says, looking down, still with folded arms.
‘Beg your pardon?’ Ted's brows draw together.
‘I think it's time for you to give a bit of help here.’
‘Since when did the flow of the tide change?’
‘I'm tired tonight. I don’t feel like washing and someone has to do it.’
‘What's up yours?’
Melissa suddenly freezes and feels the tears nearly escaping her eyelids. ‘My sister died and I want to go back to the Philippines!’
The cup in his hand nearly falls as he tips backwards. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, darling. Goodness me, what happened?’ His eyes look sincere as he is getting up and walking towards her.
Melissa sighs. ‘Childbirth. Got no money. Died. Gone. Life sucks.’ She has been strong in withholding her emotion, but this time, she just can’t control it. She stares at one spot of the room while her tears flow. ‘I want to go home. I've never been home and it’s been ages.’
‘Could you afford it?’ His brows meet again and he sits back in the dining chair. ‘How could you do it if you don’t have the money?’
She hates that 'you' thing all the time. For many years now, she holds her contempt about the 'you' and 'me' things in their marriage. 'His mails', 'my mails'. I am not allowed to open his mails, as he is not allowed to open my mails. But we're married. It's bizarre. Isn't it togetherness in sickness and in health, and in having mails from anywhere around the world? She remembers her parents back home. Things are always 'ours' in marriage. ‘Our children', 'our house', 'our lunch', 'our rice'. Here in Australia, 'his privacy', 'my privacy'. What privacy? I already know how wrinkly your balls are and how lumpy your thing is. That's why we can't have kids.
‘I'm asking you, Melissa. How can you afford it?’ Ted wakes her up.
‘I'll manage, Ted. I've already got nearly enough. Just a bit more and I'll be swaying my tails off Armidale Airport, past Sydney Airport, to General Santos City Airport, down to our front door. I'll be there hugging my mother and father and brothers.’
‘I think you better wake up, Melissa. I don’t think you can ever do that. And if you are thinking of being able to borrow money off me, forget it. You know I have saved all my life to prepare for this retirement and now is my perfect chance to tour around Australia. I don’t want to postpone that simply because of an unexpected thing in your family. You know we're leaving in four months time. Things have been pretty much set up for that. The campervan is already smiling with welcoming arms for us.’
‘Ted, I can't bear to think about the pleasure-seeking lifestyle we have here in Australia and the survival lifestyle my loved ones have to endure over there. It's weird. It doesn't feel right.’
‘Darling, you cannot solve the poverty of the Philippines. You simply have to accept the fact that it is a poor country, a third world country. And if everyone is struggling over there, then, so be it. Maybe they are destined to do so.’
Melissa feels sick. She doesn't know what to say. They didn't choose to be poor. They don’t love nor want to be poor. She feels that she probably doesn't know many things about world poverty, economics and that sort of thing, but she does know she's happy every time she sends money home. She feels she's done her bit to make things a little bit better back home.
‘Darling, you'd be better off sending your money. You can’t make your sister alive, that's for sure. She'd probably appreciate it better if you spend it towards the funeral and the needy family left behind than having to see your sorry face.’
She snorts, bawls and runs to the bedroom. There's a heat running along her back, feeling like thorns, pricking her. She suddenly feels exhausted, too tired to say something back to Ted. There's no point arguing with him. He's never been to the Philippines. His narcissism is overpowering. It always dominates their talk. From his superannuation, to his savings, to his financial advisers to investment options. It's all about him and his investments and his pension. It's all about his pensions that hamper her to move and work in Brisbane or Sydney. She's only in her late thirties. What's stopping her? She sighs.
She shakes her head and thinks that there's no point crying over spilled milk. She allows silence to take over everything she feels now. Everywhere she looks seems cloudy and overcast. She just wants peace and nothing to think about. That is what she has learned in the process of being resilient for so many years: silence of the mind. She closes her eyes and lets the sounds of the TV go along with the breeze that fans and cools her this summer night. She hears Ted's footsteps coming towards her, perhaps to check how she is. She hears him leaving and slumping his bottom again on the couch in front of the television.
She breathes in. She feels her heart racing. She imagines her blood rushing. She tells them to slow down. A church lyric lulls her:
Peace is flowing like a river;
Flowing out to you and me.
His peace is flowing like a river;
Flowing out to you and me.
She hears the train, chugging its way back to Sydney. The wind slowly fades the sound and turns it into only a momentary ambience, making her angry, frustrated — a disappointed soul wandering through rolling hills. What if she leaves him and moves on her own to Brisbane or Sydney or anywhere? She doesn't need to be with him. He can look after himself with his investment options and his travel around Australia plans. She can just be a dressmaker, in the shopping centres, maybe. That's something she's good at. She can do it. And why not? ‘Thank you Melissa for mending the hem of my work skirt. You do an excellent job.’ That would be a delight – a recognition of her individuality. ***
Copyright: Erwin Cabucos 2007. Brisbane, Australia. erwincabucos@yahoo.com.au.
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