FIFTEEN
The House My Father Built
I feel the walls of my heart quake as we stand in front of the old house—the house our father built—the house that had stayed in the family for almost four decades.
The house, or what is left of it, sobers me for a long moment. I stand motionless, staring silently at the structure that was once my world, where many dreams were woven and made me into what I am today. All that has remained is a shell of a house with a few useless remnants of the past.
Johnny and I ascend the stairway—the top three steps of what had been about twenty wooden steps before lahar buried the first floor of the house where all the bedrooms used to be. Johnny unlocks the door with a key and pushes it hard with his forearm to open. I stay in the doorway for a while, not wanting to go in.
“Are you all right?” Johnny asks.
I nod only, afraid that if I speak, the tears that I am suppressing will break loose.
“You’re going to have to enter sometime,” Johnny says.
I take a few steps. My feet feel leaden. For a moment I can’t catch my breath. The air is stale and stifling. I shake my head and walk on, pausing in the middle of the room that was once full of life. I examine what used to be the living room. Now it’s empty, and all that’s left are broken frames all over the floor;` cobwebs, dust and grime everywhere, and curtains weighted of dried mud from lahar.
I continue to move slowly like one through a dreamlike melancholy. I look up at the shattered mirrors on the wall, and gaze at the heavily soiled jacket still draped over a chair. The books, pencils, notebooks and other school materials glued onto the coffee table by lahar conjure up images of Lisa’s children studying here when Pinatubo exploded.
I walk into the family room where images of my brothers and sisters playing games, watching TV or chatting with friends flash before me; their voices competing as to who can talk and laugh the loudest. Situated at the center of the wall is a tall nine-drawer chest, three drawers on each row, with beveled edges and carved detail around the base. I remember Pa buying the chest unfinished, which he then painted in ivory and decorated with rustic handles. He was so proud when he finished it. “Nine big drawers,” he announced to his family, his arm circled around Ma’s shoulders. “One for each child. See . . . I even painted your names on them, so you don’t place anything in the drawer that doesn’t belong to you. That way, you always know where your things are.”
The chest is heavily damaged and probably not worth fixing. I try to rub the dirt off my name on the drawer—the one right smack in the middle—but the grime is too thick, I manage to expose only the R on my name. I used to keep my drawings and my writings and miscellaneous mementos in this compartment when I was young. I feel a strong urge to see what’s inside it now. I pull on the drawer, but to my disappointment it’s stuck. I try the other drawers and they all open after several tries. They contain only unimportant items such as old clothing, school supplies and other miscellaneous objects. I don’t know whether my drawer has been stuck for a long time, or just corrupted by lahar. I pull on the handle again, this time much harder, but it only pulls me back. I try again but it doesn’t budge.
“What are you trying to do?” Johnny asks.
“Open this drawer.”
“What for?”
“What do you think? This is my drawer, remember? Don’t just stand there. Help me open it.”
“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t think you’ve even checked this drawer in years.”
“Exactly. Now, just open it, please?”
Johnny tries a pull and tug maneuver to no avail then his cell phone rings. It’s his wife. He steps away and talks to Clara. I continue to pry the drawer open by shaking, kicking and pounding on it with my fist.
“I’m sorry, but I have an urgent business call,” Johnny says. “A customer is demanding to deal with me or no deal.”
“That’s fine. I’ll stay here,” I say, breathing hard from all the pounding and kicking.
“Sure? You think you’re going to be all right?”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead and take care of your business. Pick me up whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay.” Johnny gives me a hug. “I know it’s hard. I’ve been here several times; still, it gets to me.”
“Yes. A lot of memories in this house.”
“All right, gotta go. Call me if you need someone to pick you up sooner.”
“No need. I’ll be fine. I can wait for you.”
“I’ll bring a crowbar when I return,” he says then swings his feet toward the door. Before I could say: Never mind, I think I got it, he has closed the door and locked it behind him .
On my knees, I take a few more hard tugs and the drawer comes loose and is now about an inch open. I clamp the top and bottom edges with my hands, inhale deep, and as I exhale, I pull on it with all my strength.
The drawer opens halfway. Catching my breath, I peer inside and am instantly assailed by the musty order. Excitedly, I reach in and start pulling things out. My heart races as I realize that the treasure contains old memorabilia: my drawings, cartoons, poems, short stories, diaries, letters and other souvenirs from my childhood. “Oh, my God!” I squeal jubilantly. “They’re still here!”
I wonder if anyone even knows that these things are in this drawer. Probably not, and even if they did, it probably didn’t interest them at all. I examine the sketches and the comic illustrations and I am amused by their lack of artistry and sophistication. The short stories, written in Tagalog—the country’s national language, read like they were penned by a young girl trying to sound like an adult.
I giggle merrily as I continue to peruse my childhood’s treasure chest. My diaries reveal names of childhood friends, my teachers, the boys I liked, including Dado. My most recent diary before I migrated to the States is here, too. I check the last entry and I am transported back in time when I was about to leave for the airport to begin a new life in the States. I was packing then when Ma came into the room and gave me a big manila envelope.
“You don’t have to open this now,” she had said, her voice throaty. “It contains some of your school records, sketches and other things that you may cherish many years from now. I’ll put it in your drawer.”
“Thank you, Ma,” I said and hugged her tight.
Ma is a woman of a few words, not that she has a limited vocabulary because I’ve heard her rattle on extemporaneously a few times. I remember one time when she was arguing with one of my godmothers. She just went on and on, saying words that I’ve never heard her speak before. I never really found out what that was all about or what was upsetting my mother. I was about twelve then, and we also never questioned our parents about anything. She rarely has ever shown extreme emotions as well. The most emotional I’ve seen her was when Pa died. She stayed in her room most of the time and cried there. We could hear her sob through the night.
I spot a large brown envelope at the bottom of the materials. It must be the one Ma gave me when I was leaving for the airport. I pull it out and blow away the dust. It’s really thick but I think nothing unusual about it. “Mary’s Art and Writings,” it says in fancy lettering on the front of the envelope. Is this Ma’s chirography? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ma’s script before. I am impressed.
I open the paper and turn it upside down to release the components of my past that had been incarcerated in this paper jail for too long. As the parcels of my life come cascading down and settling on my lap, I see the various drawings and pen and ink portraits I’ve done of my family. I don’t remember ever giving these to Ma nor to any one in the family. And Ma kept them. I never thought she appreciated them this much.
Oh, my God, here’s a sketch of my Kuya -- older brother Narcing. He must have been about twelve or thirteen years old here . . . before he got sick. This means that I did his portrait when I was only four or five. Did I really draw this? Yes, I did, noting my signature at the bottom. I can’t believe it. What a talented kid! Kuya Narcing looked just like Johnny without . . . without the bulge on the side of his face and neck. Finally, we have a remembrance of our Kuya other than the one and only faded picture we have of him with the bloated face and neck.
And here are drawings of Ma and Pa. Ma, even with the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth looks serious but beautiful and elegant in her wedding dress. Pa looks happy and so young in the picture. He was three years Ma’s junior and it shows in the drawing that I only copied from a photograph. I caress the artwork with the tips of my fingers when a teardrop falls to my surprise and lands on my father’s face. I wipe the tear away from my father’s face with my forefinger then from my face.
I still can’t believe that my mother kept these all those years that I thought she didn’t care about them at all. I never heard her praise me or encourage me like my father did. Oh, Ma . . . why didn’t you tell me. You don’t know how much it hurt me to think that you didn’t appreciate my talents.
I continue to peruse the items on my lap: my grade reports, the glowing comments from my teachers about my excellent grades, a lock of my hair in a tiny plastic bag, the poems I wrote about my family, and the birthday cards and anniversary cards I hand made for Ma and Pa . . . and many more.
And what is this? Another envelope. It’s a thick one. I hold my breath as I open it. What I pull out of it stuns me. A copy of the comic magazine that printed my story when I was only fourteen. The only copy I have because I gave away all the copies I had till there was nothing left. How smart of Ma to keep this copy. Why didn’t she say anything? She knew that I tried to obtain copies from the publisher who informed me that they were out of print. I flip to the two pages of my story with my own illustration. Not bad at all. I wonder if they retouched my work. Probably. I clutch the magazine to my chest. Thank you, Ma . . . Thank you.
Lastly, what is this? A manuscript? The top page has a note from my mother, in her less fancy penmanship that I recognize more. I feel my heart jump in my throat when I start reading. It says: Mary, I made a copy of your story before I mailed it to PBC as you requested. I kept it because I didn’t want you to lose it. Congratulations in getting it accepted. I am proud of you. I’m so sorry your Pa didn’t get to see your story on TV. But he’s very proud of you. He made sure all his friends saw it.
Oh, my God, Ma. How come you never showed me this side of you before? My eyes grow dreamy and faraway as I remember that night when the whole family, minus our Pa, gathered around the television to watch my teleplay breathe life on that magnificent tube. All the while I kept my ears cocked toward the door for the sound of my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs, but the TV drama ended without him seeing it. I wished, more than anything, that he could have heard his wife and children jump and cheer when the credits rolled and saw my name in big print: “Story by Mary Concepcion."
I flip the cover page of my manuscript and there it is . . . my first big success in fiction writing. Sign of great times ahead with the written word? Regretfully, all the dreams of literary accomplishments by an up and coming teenage writer came to a quick halt as fate would curtail the life of my father.
--o0o--
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