BOTTLED BITTERNESS

A Short Story by Ian Martinez

SCENE1

A passenger jeepney that was half-empty with children turned into a street while its load shrieked
and laughed. It stopped in front of a red rust-proofed gate and rumbled, while it waited for one of
its passengers to alight.

Earlier, while the jeepney arrogantly negotiated its way through grade school parking lot, its
horns gave what turned out to be its last sickly howl. Gagged into meekness, it waited without
complaint while a rather chubby boy hopped out dragging his stroller that was loaded with a
heavily stuffed bag.

The boy stood under the noonday sun with his glimmering stroller while the jeepney attempted a
U-turn on the narrow road. After a few short and groaning attempts, it succeeded and began to
speed away. Within earshot, a bony boy with unkempt hair popped his head out and shouted,
“Oy! Oy! Bye Baboy!”

The object of insult rushed to the middle of the road and waving his fist to the air, yelled back,
“Squatter! Go find something to eat…” It was futile; he burned to throw more insults but the
jeepney had just turned into a corner.

He rapped impatiently at the gate while the sun bit the tips of his ears. Through the worn heels of
his shoes, he could feel the heat of baked concrete.

Jollibee, their black mongrel dog, was sniffing and whining at the space underneath the gate. He
patted the hot gate and called out the dog’s name, which the dog acknowledged with a yelp and
impatient scratching at the metal panel.

“What’s taking Tessie so long?” he wondered. It’s supposed to be routine: the school service will
drop him off at around 12:45, honk its horn, and then Tessie will come rushing out with Jollibee
to open the gate for him. But of course, the service’s horn was broken and Tessie probably didn’t
know he was baking under such a hot sun.

He grabbed the gate’s ring handle and struck it sharply against the metal panel. “Tessie!” he
yelled out, calling out to their maid.

After a few moment of waiting, he grew impatient and decided to scale the chalky white concrete
that bounded their yard. He walked straight to the other end of the fence and brushed aside the
branches of a thick bush. He stepped into the green and disappeared from view. His head
suddenly popped on top of the bush and wavered as he struggled to clear his trousers from the
sharp barbed stakes that lined the top of the fence like teeth.

After a heavy thud, the boy ran across the yard with Jollibee barking at his heels. He opened the

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gate and dragged his stroller in.

He came into the shade that the covered garage offered and sighed heavily. He stood still for a
while, noting the quiescence of the yard, while Jollibee, looking distressed, sniffed the space at
the foot of the heavy door. He banged on the door which sent Jollibee scampering away—but
after the dog realized it was only him, it rushed back to its anxious sniffing. No one answered or
stirred inside the house, which made him wonder.

His mother usually sits around the orchid-bedecked veranda at this time of the day, enjoying the
warm breeze that the trees and their flowers had filtered and perfumed sweetly. Being warmed by
dappled noonday sun usually made her pale complexion shift to a shade of pinkish rose. It made
her lively too, feeling more part of the colorful garden than her ill body.

Tessie must be in the kitchen, he thought. She must be preparing him something to eat. He
walked briskly to the backyard, leaving Jollibee to sniff the foot of the door by himself. He
kicked open the wrought iron gate that lead to the backyard and walked through the ankle-deep
grass.

The eerie inactivity bothered him. It was unlike their house to be so quiet at midday. He was used
to coming home to the sound of urgent but lively cooking, cleaning, laundry washing and
hanging. In the middle of the green yard he stood still, feeling small because of the empty
clothes-lines.

He was nudged from his anxiousness by Jollibee who sniffed at his heels. He crouched and took
the dog’s heavy jaws between his palms, “Come on Jo’bee, where’s everyone?”

The dog pried its jaws away and hurried back to the front yard.

“Dumb dog,” he mumbled.

While he walked around the house towards the kitchen, he became aware that all the windows of
the house were closed, except those in his mother’s room. Alarmed, he rushed to the window’s
grills and pulled himself off the ground to see through the slats of jalousie. His mother was not
on her bed. The sheets were folded neatly and the numerous amber and orange bottles of her
medicines were set on a neat row on top of her vanity table. Her pink satin robe that was usually
strewn at the foot of her bed was folded and tucked neatly beside the pillows. The room was
pristine, except for the dark spots on the bed sheets that was caused by his father’s clumsy
administration of his mother’s medicines.

His heart raced from a sharp realization that made him jump from the window’s grills sending
flakes of rust and paint flying like a swarm of flies.

“God,” he pleaded as he raced towards the back door while his chest filled with dread. Scenes of
past funerals-- which he attended with his mother-- flashed in his mind. She would tell him to
behave to show the unknown relative who lay inside a garish box, his utmost respect and
reverence towards a life well lived. Well lived—well made; just like a school project: once it’s

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finished, you shove it into a box with drawings of scrolls and swirls, hand it to your teacher to
never see again—except probably after the semester.

He remembered his dead relatives—how they looked after life finished with them and shoved
them into cake boxes with windows. He remembered them—well painted and perfectly stiff.

How could his mother so soft become stiff as those unknown relatives? How could life finish
with her when she is so beautiful? Shouldn’t he be informed first?

Ridiculous, he breathed in. He shook his head while he steadied himself on the back door’s knob.
Before he left for school, he kissed his snugly sleeping mother goodbye. He felt her warm cheeks
on his lips, and saw her chest rise and fall before he left. She was breathing strongly, though she
was tired from retching all night from her restless stomach. She was alive, though she smells like
an empty medicine bottle. She was probably watching television and he chided himself for
thinking otherwise.

SCENE 2

He knocked heavily on the back door. “Tessie! Tessie! Open the door!” He kicked the foot of the
door. “Tessie!”

He heard a muffled reply.

“Tessie!”

“Teka muna!” a voice yelled deep within the house.

“Tessie!”

“Ay naku! Benjamin, is that you? Wait, I have my hands full….”

“I said, open the door! Where’s mommy?”

“What? Wait a moment. Stay there, I’m on my way.”

From across the house he heard the heavy front door close and Jollibee’s incessant high pitched
bark. He wondered what could be happening at front.

“Just wait there Benji, I’m on my way,” Tessie called out nervously.

He heard urgent approaching footsteps through the thin boards of the back door. Suddenly, bolts
clicked and the door swung open.

Tessie stood awkwardly at the door frame, looking down at him uneasily. She normally wore her

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kinky hair tightly tied down, but this time she wore it loose and somewhat disheveled. Her skirt
was put on clumsily, and he noticed heavy creases running across her hips.

He walked past her and two dark notches in front of her shirt caught his eyes. He looked back
questioningly, which she answered by folding her arms, then briskly walking past him and gently
slapping his cheeks.

“Wait! Where’s Mommy?” Benji called out after her.

She rushed to her room ignoring him, and when she reappeared, the two dark notches were gone.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Where’s Mommy?”

“At the hospital,” she said easily. She turned to the stove and lifted a lid from a large stainless
pot. “I hope you like miso,” she smiled.

He stared at her dumbfounded. He could not settle in his mind the contradiction of her
complacent smile, and the horror of what she had just told him. Hadn’t his mother been in and
out of the hospital? Could his dread entice nightmares out of their hole of inexistence, and have
them materialize on a hot day?

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Huh?”

“Why was Mommy rushed to the hospital?”

“Rushed?” she stared at him quizzically while she carried the pot of miso to the kitchen’s
counter. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on!” he called after her while pulling her skirt.

“Hoy! If I drop this….”

“What happened to Mommy?”

“You’re so makulit. This is heavy, wait for me to put this on the counter—and let go of my
skirt!” She sets the pot on a small straw mat, and then brushed herself off some imagined dust.

“Tessie?”

“Oo na. Ma’am left with Sir.”

“Why?”

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“What why? They have an appointment with the doctors.” She smoothed the creases on her skirt.
“What’s wrong with you?”

He sulked in front of a lump of rice. The bowl of miso stood squat and steaming on the dining
table, while Tessie rushed through the sign of the cross across the table. She snatched a serving
spoon then scooped the pale ochre soup. Tasting it, her face tightened and she smiled in relish.

Noticing him all of a sudden, she stopped in mid-sip and slowly put the serving spoon down.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

“I don’t feel like eating.”

“O! You don’t know what you’re missing,” she said, and emphasizing, disposed of another
spoonful of soup.

“Tessie, they’ve been going out to the hospital almost every week now.”

She swallowed. “Yes,” she said, in a tone like that of a newscaster, “the hospital people are doing
their best to make Ma’am feel better again.”

“I don’t think she’s getting any better. She’s still throwing up at night.”

Tessie glared at him with a look of distaste on her face, as if the soup had become too sour.

“Oops! Sorry Tessie,” he excused himself.

She placed the spoon on her plate. “Listen Benjie. Trust me, she’s getting better.”

“But…”

“No, no, no. No buts.” She pushed her plate away from her as she leaned forward. “Don’t you
know? Haven’t you noticed?”

“What?”
“Sure you won’t notice. Naku, how could you when you’re always in front of the television.”

“Noticed what?”

“For your information little señor, Ma’am had made it a point to cook lunch and dinner. I bet you
didn’t know she cooked this,” she flicked her finger at the bowl of miso.

He looked at the bowl. “Do we have anything else? Like hotdog?”

She bit her lips then sighed. She raced through three spoonfuls of soup, stood up and went to the
kitchen. “Sorry, no hotdogs. But we still have leftover longganisa,” she called out.

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“Do we have tosino?” he called out to her.

“Tosino? No, but the longganisa looks like it anyway. Do you want it? I’ll heat it up for you.”

He cringed in his seat while he imagined the torn redness of the sweetened meat. “No.”

She did not hide the look of displeasure on her face when she came out of the kitchen. “Why
don’t you just try what’s on the table” Just taste it and I’m sure you’ll like it. Ma’am made it for
you; and I never knew she could cook so well.”

“Do we have Maggi? I think I’ll just have that.”

She sighed and walked back to the kitchen.

Feeling alone all of a sudden, he followed her to the kitchen leaving the soup to the company of
flies. “Tessie,” he softly called out after her. “Mommy’s been going to the doctors for a long time
now and they can’t seem to make her feel any better.”

“What are you talking about? She’s getting better,” she said matter-of-factly. “Haven’t we talked
about this just then” She’s getting better and that’s it.”

“Then how come she hasn’t stopped throwing up every night?” he demanded.

She clicked her tongue a few times. “Naku Benji, you think too much, and ask too many
questions. Too bad you know nothing about what you’re saying. You know why? Because you
don’t listen to us. And, and… Stop that!” she tapped his hand away from the faucet. “You’re
wasting water. If we were in the province, I’d have you fetch water everyday to teach how
valuable it is.”

“She’s getting worse, Tessie.”

“Stop saying that. If anything happens to Ma’am, oooh, you’ll regret everything you’ve said,”
she cautioned. “Little boys like you should keep in their minds to listen to older people. We’ve
lived longer than you and have gone through more; that’s why we know more.” She paused for a
while, deep in her thoughts.

“There was this boy in the province….”

“Tessie,” he whined.

“O! I had just said earlier why little boys should listen…”

“But the stories you tell me always end with the boys in the province drowning, disappearing and
being kidnapped by the Bumbays!”

“You seem to know the stories so well, I’d guess you’d stop being so makulit.”

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“I just want to know why she’s not getting any better like what Daddy promised.”

Tessie propped herself against the sink, as if the question that desperately wanted an answer
drained her.

“It’s just a side-effect, Benjie,” she said finally.

He looked at her uncertainly.

Sensing his suspicion, she added, “They’re using very strong medicines this time around.” Her
eyes suddenly lit up. “Remember when you threw up because you took three tablets of your
vitamins... uh, was that Unicap-M? Anyway, you thought it’d make you healthier and taller if
you took more,” she giggled.

“Why does she have to take stronger medicines?”

“To make her well,” she pointed out with a confidence that didn’t match the twitch in her eyelids.

“What’s wrong with the other ones? If she’s taking stronger medicines to make her well, then
that means she’s getting worse.”

Her jaw muscles tightened. Suddenly, her face lightened and she brushed what he said with a
carefree flick of her hand, “Don’t be silly.”

She turned around and faced him square-on with her hands on her hips. “Well now my little
señor, what was it that you wanted to eat?”

“Tessie!” he cried.

She shook her head in exasperation. Then, glancing around as if what she was about to say
should not be heard by anyone other than him, she motioned him to come closer. “Come, I have
a secret to tell you.”

His eyes lit up and he eagerly came close enough to smell the scent of men’s cologne on her. He
learned long ago that things were said by people who did not know he was within earshot,
contained information that usually made his heart race and mind swirl in imaginative
anticipation. Secrets were not meant for his young ears. Now, here is one being offered to him!

What is the secret that Tessie will share? Will it be something shocking about his mother? For a
moment, he hesitated and feared what she was about to say. Will she tell him the horrible truth
that he suspects about his mother’s condition? But he remembered other secrets—funny ones;
like that what his mother traded with Tessie: news about his Uncle Lito sleeping with a big
carabao named Lando, for the gossip about their neighbor who got pregnant by someone who
happens to be a fast runner. He can’t understand entirety of the secrets that was revealed to him
through carelessness, but knowing they were kept from him excited him and tickled his

7
imagination to absurdity.

“Well?” he urged.

In thoughtful pause, she crouched and motioned him closer. “Benjie, I don’t know how to say
this, but, the reason why Ma’am’s not getting better is —“

She’s got an incurable disease! That cancer dooms all its victims to certain death – painful,
retching death! His mind screamed in dreadful anticipation.

“— is because the doctors who Sir brought to her to before were quacks!” she said gravely.

“Huh?”

“Yes, poor Ma’am; and poor Sir! They paid good money thinking those doctors were expertly
doing what they had to do to make her feel better. But they didn’t know what they were doing;
they were only interested in Sir and Ma’am’s money.”

She continued, “But Sir caught up to their dirty tricks and had them arrested. Hah! Those quacks
are now rotting in Bilibid. Sir’s not an accountant for nothing.”

Tessie stood up and looking the entire bit pleased with herself added, “Ma’am is now in good
hands. Sir’s been taking her to Medical City.”

“Tessie, I mean... are you sure?”

“Sure! Oh you won’t believe all the imported medicines that they are using, and those super
machines to really see if the medicines are burning what they are supposed to be burning. All
those germs haven’t got a chance.”

Suddenly, she reached for him and stroked his hair. “Benjie, believe me. You, Sir and Ma’am will
be on your way to Villa Christina before you know it. You can all go swimming until your skins
turn red from sunburn, and you’d probably not remember Ma’am ever becoming sick. Always
keep this in mind.”

He wanted to believe her. He nodded and hugged her, but his chest felt heavier than before he
learned of the secret.

SCENE 3

He sat in the veranda chewing candy sticks, while he waited for the headlights of his father’s car
to burst through the gaps in the metal gate. He kept patient while he waited for their car’s horn to
pierce the nocturnal silence.

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Jollibee lay sprawled across the driveway, blending with the numerous oil spots and stains on the
dusty concrete slab. In the darkness, Jollibee seemed less like a creature, and more like shadow
—shifting, effervescing, merging with other formless entities that frolic at night.

He called the dog towards him, but it lay still. He stared at it in exasperation while its blackness
oozed in his mind. Suddenly, he felt goose bumps.

“Jo’bee!” he called again; but the mongrel continued to ignore him. Frustrated, he turned his
attention away from the yard and towards the distant shadows of coconut trees, whose fine dark
fronds reached up from their restless shadows and played their mute sonatinas on the ebony of
the night sky. It reminded him of his mother’s bony fingers. Fingers that cast ephemeral shadow
against the white keys of their piano during brownouts. These were the only times when she
would coerce music from the stubborn wooden box that stood heavily in their living room.

On such nights, he remembered the candles that flicker meekly at the intensity of her music that
would radiate from the living room and into the thick darkness that engulf their house.

He tried to recall the numerous sonatinas, while he patiently sucked on another candy stick.

Even before the headlights of his father’s car illuminated the trees lining their street, Benji
already knew that his parents were plying the road to their house. He knew it took twenty
seconds from the time Jollibee jumps to his feet and gambol everywhere across the yard, up to
the time his father’s car stop in front with its piercing headlights.

The dog’s uncanny ability mystified him. He had once thought Jollibee was just keenly aware of
time, and would always rightly estimate the moment the car would arrive. But Jollibee had been
correct even when his father comes home unexpectedly. One time, eager to learn of the dog’s
amazing trick, he had come down on all four beside the sprawled animal, and tried to press his
ears on the ground. He figured that since the dog was very close to the ground, it might be able to
hear something that would have signaled the arrival of their car, or any car at that. But the
experiment only yielded gritty ears. Maybe it only worked with trains, like what an afternoon
science program on television once demonstrated.

He wanted to ask his father, who before his mother got sick was an eager and veritable
encyclopedia of amazing and often gruesome facts. But lately, he had become aloof.

He swung the two heavy panels of the gate wide open and sure enough, the street began to glow
pale yellow, while Jollibee darted in and out of their neighbor’s shrubs like a bandit from a
cartoon show.

The car swerved into the driveway, while Jollibee pranced ahead, flagging the car to its place
with its tail.

The car settled in the garage, its brake lights flared and the hum of the engine died. A moment
passed before the driver-side door clicked and swung open. His father stepped out, walked
around to the passenger side and gently opened the door.

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He stooped towards his passenger and they talked solemnly for a moment, while he threw a few
glances at Benji as he closed the gate.

After a while, he called Benji over.

Benji rushed to his father and peered into the car. His mother was reclining on the seat with a
series of white oval patches on her arms.

“Help me,” his father motioned while wrapping one arm around his mother’s waist.

“What happened? Mommy, are you all right? What did the doctors….”

“Shh… Not now. Your mother’s tired. Where’s Tessie?”

Tessie suddenly bounded out of the veranda with her fingers stiffly held up and wide apart in the
air.

His father stared at her severely.

“Sorry Sir, sorry,” she pleaded, while shaking her glossy fingers in front of her.

“I think it’s becoming a habit.”

“No, no Sir! I was putting on nail polish when… I didn’t hear….”

“Never mind. Get your Ate’s things in the trunk. There’s watermelon in there — make her juice
later.”

Benji took his mother’s hand bag and held her clammy hands. There was a pained smile on her
face when she looked at him. He felt her squeeze his hand while they walked slowly into the
house.

His father laid his mother on the bed like a porcelain doll. The bed was not new, but it refused to
swallow his mother even partly. She had lost so much weight.

Benji tried to remove his mother’s cloth shoes, but was distracted by the oval patches on her
arms. Inadvertently, he set ladders climbing from her heels up to her knees.

He stood agape at the foot of her bed—more shocked that she did not react, than the irreparable
damage he had rendered to her stockings.

She lay, eyes half-closed while his father kneaded her pale hands.

“Popoy,” she whispered to his father. “My body feels like…”

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His father placed a finger across her thinly lip-sticked lips. “Later; now, I think you need a little
rest.”

“But Popoy,” she insisted.

“Later.” His father turned to him, “Benjamin, why don’t you leave us for a moment and… ah…
remind Tessie of the watermelon juice.”

“Now?”

“Yes son, now. And give your mother a hug. She may feel like sleeping earlier tonight.”

He stood stooping between the couple. He leaned on the bed and meekly embraced his mother.
From her neck, he could discern the bitter scent of medicines nudging behind the scent of her
jasmine perfume.

He wanted to embrace her tighter, longer, despite of the bitterness. But bitterness draws people
in, with their brilliant yellows, orange and greens like that of deceitful medicines. They hide
within their colored shells and seem sweet and delicious, like rainbow milk candies that they sold
in most corner stores.

“Benjamin,” his father reminded.

Benji nodded and walked out of the room, hesitating. In the middle of the hallway, he saw his
father closing the door from the corner of his eyes. He suddenly felt light, because he had just
been torn from the family portrait that hung in the hallway.

SCENE 4

He found Tessie hauling the large watermelon into the kitchen’s counter-top. She wore pink,
loose pajama pants and a worn white shirt that fell like a furniture sheet over her bony frame.
Her frizzly hair was tied down tightly and neatly.

He liked Tessie. She was the only maid that he could remember to have lasted more than a year
with them. Then again, maybe she lasted so long because he never bothered to give her too much
trouble.

Her hands were clumsy, but her smile held all the grace to make up for her lack of dexterity. This
was probably the reason why he liked her—she worried more about her dropping the plates than
him dropping them.

“Tessie,”

“Ay!” she gasped. “What do you think you’re doing! You almost made me drop this… this

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melon,” she said, tapping the large gourd.

“Daddy wants you to make juice out of that.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I’ll help you?”

“Naku, no. You’ll just mess up the kitchen. Go, go watch T.V.”

“Nothing’s on.”

“Go play then.”

“With what?”

She laughed. “With what?” she mocked. “What do you think all your Transformers are for? It’s
not like Ma’am bought it to decorate the insides of your closet.”

“I’m tired of them.”

“Tired? Sleep then.”

“Tessie, it’s too early. I just want to help out.”

“No. Wait, why not keep Ma’am company? Stay with her. You should be with her all the time…
ah… to watch her and bring her what she needs.”

“Daddy told me she had to rest.”

“Oh,” she paused for a while. “Benji,” she started, “I don’t want to be in for a long lecture. You
know Sir will have highblood if he sees you slicing watermelons at night and dirtying yourself.
Naku, I don’t want to sit through an hour-long sermon, so just run along and… and do something
else—like your homework.”

“Tessie,” he begged.

“No. Go and I’ll even bring you a glass of watermelon juice.”

“Tessie, Daddy will allow me; I’ll only operate the food processor.”

“No.”

“How could I dirty myself?”

“No.”

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“Please, Tessie.”

“No.”

“How come you let me do anything when Mang Hector is here?”

Tessie froze.

“Like this afternoon…”

“Shhh!” Tessie motioned urgently for him to stop talking.

“Why? He was…”

“Shhh! What are you talking about? Quiet, Sir might think something if he hears,” she whispered
urgently.

“Why did you smell like his cologne earlier this afternoon?”

“What?” she quickly sniffed both of her sleeves. “Don’t be silly.”

“Yeh, he’s been coming over a lot lately; I’m used to his cologne, and you smell like him…”

“Stop! Come here, help me with this watermelon—and get the food processor over there in that
cabinet.”

Tessie turned the watermelon a few times on the chopping board, peering at its curved edge as if
she could discern some written message on its surface. She picked up a large knife and carefully
made its tip play on the gourd’s shiny green skin. With a slight nudge, the sharp tip sank into the
gourd; and with a shove that carried the weight of her bony fame behind it, sank the broad
stainless blade into the round victim.

He thought of asking her for the knife, but he decided not to interfere with the seemingly serious
transaction between her and the gourd. Instead, he busied himself in preparing the grey machine
that will make juice out of the red fleshy innards of the watermelon.

Though he had helped on a few occasions in assembling the food processor, his fascination
towards the variety of parts that makes the whole never faded. He arranged the parts in neat rows
and groupings in the counter-top. He wanted to witness how his own hands would bring the parts
into their unity.

As he tried to fit a gasket between the pitcher and the blade housing, he heard the distinct and
urgent sound of the toilet lid slapping against the water closet, followed by deep and hollow
retching.

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His fascination for the machine parts in his hands suddenly faded. He looked at Tessie, who
continued to slice the flesh of the watermelon. Her dispassionate eyes told him that she had been
across the neighborhood with Mang Hector, hugging and kissing like how he caught them once.

The retching continued, drawn and deep, even as he placed the last of the food processor’s parts
in its place. He dumped the red watermelon flesh into the pitcher and turned the machine on. The
roar drowned the sound of the retching and, for a while, he stared at the red swirl.

Tessie began to tremble slightly, and the restlessness in her eyes supposed a greater quake inside
her. She rushed to the glass rack, filled a glass with water from the faucet.

As she rushed out with the brimming glass, Benji cut into her path and took the glass from her
hand. He thought she would protest, but she acquiesced and turned to continue what she was
doing.

With each step that he took towards the bathroom, the muffled sound became clearer and
undeniable. He regretted taking the glass when the horrid sound of regurgitation became distinct
from the groans and desperate gasps.

He stood at a corner half-revealing and half-concealing his chubby frame, seeing the actors that
stood on a set resembling their bathroom.

The actor suddenly burst out of a room and walked briskly across the hallway carrying a carton
of orange juice. The actor stooped and offered the carton to the actress, who continued to gag
over the toilet bowl. She shook her head violently and shoved the carton away. The actor reached
for the sink with the carton, and laid it there; but the sink refused the burden and hurled the tall
container into an orange explosion on the clean tiled floor.

The actress continued to gag and retch, while the actor engaged in a somewhat comic act
drawing lengths of tissue paper, in a race against the actress’ bathrobe to soak up the orange spill.

“Pop… Popoy, make it stop!” the actress rasped during a calm in her convulsions.

The actor looked at her confused, still clutching the dripping tangle of tissue paper.

“Popoy, make it stop, please,” she coughed. “Ayoko na! God, please. Stop it!” A series of spasm
caught her shoulders and racked her back again and again over the toilet bowl. “Popoy,” she
cried with tears streaming down on all four corners of her eyes.

The actor rushed out of the bathroom accidentally kicking the empty orange juice carton across
the hallway. He disappeared into a doorway, and after a while, came out with an assortment of
medicine bottles that he clutched close to his chest. But he stepped on the carton and slipped,
falling into his side and sending the bottle crashing to the floor.

The actor seemed unperturbed, as he got up on all four and collected the scattered bottles. A
while after his comical act, the actor stood up, limped towards the bowed woman and offered her

14
the bottles of medicines.

“No, no more! Not this!” she cried. “I want to die, let me die!” she screamed and knocked away
the bottles from the actor’s hands. “Let me die,” she sobbed. The slight respite that tears afforded
her did not last, and she began to retch and render her life once again onto the white toilet bowl.

Benji stood in darkness, contemplating the scenes as they unfurled before him. He felt satisfied
of their performance, as the expected ending held true to the usual of endings. Every night, the
actress will tire herself and sleep with her cheeks clinging on the white brim of the toilet bowl.
The actor will then clean up around her and carry her to their room.

The night’s performance had begun to end in its usual manner. The actor took a handful of tissue
and started dabbing around the sleeping actress.

Benji gave an irresistible yawn. The night was wrapping itself up with routine. Routine, after all,
makes life habitable by wearing away the sharpness of the mind to perceive bland realities or
dismal truths. Most of the time, it’s what makes people sleepy.

The actor then stood straight and allowed the soaked ball of tissue to drop to his feet. Benji’s
attention was suddenly awakened.

The actor bowed slightly and gently stroked the sleeping actress’ hair. He sat down on the tiled
floor beside her and rubbed her back gently, as if lulling her to a deeper sleep. His father then
clutched the bridge of his nose, while his shoulders quivered at each sob that he kept hidden deep
beneath his large chest.

Benji cowered in darkness, shivering at the sharpness of what he saw.

Reality’s vitality had shed the cloak of television acts and scenes. No longer did he saw actors.
He saw his father’s tears flow for his mother, who sat on the bathroom floor, embracing the
immaculate whiteness of the toiled bowl. He saw his mother’s vein-studded hands clutch the
white brim of the toilet as if it was a miraculous porcelain saint in a grotto. Such scenes were
wanting of a miracle; it clutched desperately on the imaginary hem of an imaginary savior.

He knew what his father’s tears meant. They were like whispered secrets that course through the
air, when people think that children are not around to overhear. But he wanted to deny the
shimmer of defeat on his father’s chin; he wanted to deny what they meant.

SCENE 5

He lay uneasily in bed while the past’s dead sounds and sights lingered in his mind. For a
moment, he thought he heard his mother retch in the still darkness, but he knew she lay
unmoving with the weight only exhaustion from living can haul onto someone’s chest.

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Behind his eyes waited dreams of sparkling pools in Villa Christina; but he was afraid to dream.
They will do nothing but release more tears, as if his eyes were the pool’s drains.

Did he really believe Tessie’s reassurances? For so long, people had been deceived, or they are
out to deceive. They have always claimed that the cures were working. But it is not their fault.
Just like the way the lively colors of his mother’s medicines hid their bitterness, so does the hope
in cure do much to deceive.

He curled himself in a corner of his bed and found comfort and warmth in the cupped
hemisphere of an imagined womb.

His mother wanted to die, and his father had finally allowed her to. Tomorrow, the school service
will arrive and haul him to a crowded world where green taste like mint; and violet, ube; and
brown, chocolate. But he knew they will all taste bitter in his mouth.

-end-

3rd Draft. 07/27/2000

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