It takes me a long time to fall asleep. When I do, I dream what I think is a memory. I am ten and back in the Philippines. I have spent the day at school with Jun, and now we are walking back to his house. Everyone’s wearing the slacks and short-sleeved Barong of their school uniform, even me since I borrowed Jun’s clothes. We’re laughing because one of his classmates looks like a giraffe when he sticks out his neck, then everyone goes their separate ways at an intersection. I try to follow Jun, but he tells me I can’t and picks up his pace. I try to follow him through the afternoon streets, which are crowded with people and cars and jeepneys and motorcycles. It’s not long before I lose him.
* * *
We arrive at the airport in a predawn hush. My parents wait with me in a long line of Filipinos, each bearing their own balikbayan boxes. When it’s my turn to check in and my boxes get weighed and tossed onto the conveyor belt, it strikes me that even though Dad took care of them up until now, I’ll have to claim the boxes by myself in Manila. They’ll be my responsibility.
I hug my parents. Dad holds on to me longer than I expect, and when we separate it looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself. I say good-bye and head through security without looking back, relieved to be on my own at last but also feeling kind of adrift thinking about the long journey ahead. Detroit to South Korea, then South Korea to Manila. Almost twenty hours in all.
My flight is one of the first of the day, so the airport is still waking up. The terminal’s halls are filled with bright, fluorescent light, but more workers than passengers. Most of the shops and newsstands are closed. The only place with a line is Dunkin’ Donuts.
I find a seat right next to my gate. Through the windows, I watch the crew get comfortable in the cockpit and the flight attendants start to prep the plane. The handlers load the luggage into the cargo hold, my boxes somewhere in there. The sky lightens, but with the clouds I can’t distinguish east from west.
The gate gradually fills with people until it’s standing room only. As we begin to board, the knot in my stomach tightens. And as I make my way down the ramp, onto the plane, and into my seat, Jun’s ghost follows like a fog.
THE STRENGTH OF MY CONVICTION
I wake up certain I am about to die because an alarm is blaring in my ears. But when my eyes fly open, nobody else is panicking. All of the other passengers are sleeping or reading or talking softly. Yet, the alarm is still blasting, a shrill, urgent pulse drilling into my brain.
Finally, I realize the sound is coming from my headphones. It’s some sound effect in the movie I fell asleep watching. I tap pause on the seat-back screen, and the alarm is immediately silenced. I laugh to myself and slip off my headphones. Relieved I am not about to die, I stretch in my seat a bit and rub my eyes, then I navigate to the flight map. The little plane symbol is partway across the Pacific Ocean. Four more hours to Seoul, where I have a layover, and then, for the first time in almost eight years, I’ll be in Manila. No parents or brother or sister. Just me.
I try to look out the window, but I can’t see much from my middle seat except for the blue of the sky. An old Filipino man sits in the window seat to my left. He’s staring straight ahead with his eyes open, but his screen is blank. This is the same position he was in when I fell asleep, making me wonder at his ability to do nothing for hours on end. No book. No in-flight movies. No small talk. Just a rosary clutched in his hands. Maybe he’s sleeping with his eyes open. Dude does look pretty old, so I guess he could be thinking back on his life.
A middle-aged white woman was to my right—the kind who seems like she probably posts a lot of photos of herself doing yoga on social media alongside inspirational quotes—but her seat’s empty at the moment.
I consider resuming my movie or playing some game, but I don’t really feel like doing either. I cycle through some of the available TV shows and movies, but the only thing that catches my attention is Hitch, starring Will Smith. I hit play, even though I’ve already seen it. I’ve seen all of Will Smith’s films since Chris was obsessed with the guy when we were growing up. According to my brother, the first Bad Boys is the man’s finest work, followed closely by Independence Day. It was mostly downhill from there. If you tell Chris After Earth is a great film, he will slap you, even though he saw it on opening day.
It’s not too long before Hitch loses my attention. I dig through my bag and pull out Jun’s letters. I’ve gone back and started rereading them chronologically, so I take out the next one. I lower the tray table, smooth the paper flat, and take a deep breath. I read.
29 September 2013
Dear Kuya Jay,
Did you know that if you eat mango and chocolate you will have to go to the bathroom so much? It is true. Just ask Grace!
Sorry if that was a gross way to begin my letter, but I thought you might find it interesting. It could also be useful to know if you are ever having trouble with your bowel movements.
Anyway, I need to tell you about this thing that happened yesterday after Mass that is bothering me. Our family went to the mall—the big one we took you to when you were here? The driver dropped us off in front of the entrance like normal. It was very crowded and as we walked toward the door, this woman approached us. She was very dirty and smelled bad, like all of the other street people who beg. Except instead of holding out her palms for some coins, she held out something to my nanay. At first, I thought it was just a bag or a bundle of rags, and I wondered why she would be trying to give that to Nanay.
But then I looked closer and saw it was a baby, Kuya Jay.
A baby.
Except it did not look like any baby I had seen before. It was so thin, and its skin was a weird color. Not really pale, but almost. Closer to gray, maybe. Anyway, it could not have been more than a few weeks old. It was not even crying.
“Please, ma’am,” the woman said, and then coughed a few times.
My nanay kept walking. Everyone in my family kept walking. Everyone around us kept walking as if this woman were a ghost, as if she did not exist.
Except for me, Kuya. I stopped and looked at the woman’s face. Her eyes were yellow. Her cheeks were hollow. Her teeth were crooked and incomplete. She held out her baby to me. “Please,” she said again.
I reached to take the child—but then a hand clamped my arm and dragged me away. Away from the woman, past the security guard, through the open glass doors, and into the mall. In a flash, the woman was gone, replaced with the bright lights and bright smells of a thousand stores.
“Stay with us,” Tatay said to me, still dragging me to catch up with my sisters and Nanay, hurting my arm.
“But that woman . . .” I said.
“What about her?” he said.
“She was trying to give me her baby.”
“And what were you going to do, eh? Raise it?” He laughed.
I thought of the sermon we had just heard at Mass that morning. It was about the Good Samaritan. You know the one? I think everyone does. Or, at least, everyone has heard it. Every time I do, I think, surely, if I were in that situation I would be like the Samaritan and help the man in need. But how many times have I instead walked past?
And so I did not say anything, Kuya. I stayed silent. I let Tatay drag me through the crowd of shoppers until we rejoined Nanay and Grace and Angel. And when he finally let me go, I did not try to return to her.