The Light in the Wound (3 page)

Dressing up for church was symbolic of the life we lived in those days. My sisters and I were like triplets, each only a year apart and dressed in exactly the same clothes, down to our shoes and socks. We were like my mother’s little dolls, perfectly matched and coordinated. When Evie had a red, white and blue outfit on, mine would be white, blue and red and Alicia’s would be blue, red and white. It was that orchestrated, that polished.

“Hurry girls, let’s start walking over to your grandma’s house now, they must already be waiting for you,” my nanny ordered as she turned around and started walking across the tiled path. We arrived back from church just in time to find lunch being served on the veranda by the pool. It was a normal hot and sunny afternoon in May. This was Cebu, after all — a comparatively tiny, bustling city in the heart of Southeast Asia. A beautiful island enclosed between transparent seas and sugar white beaches. It was also a third world country where the pace of life was easy and unhurried. There was no middle class, just the rich who owned everything and the poor who worked for the rich. This was the only life that I knew. It was a tropical environment with sweltering heat during the summer season and warm humid rains during the fall.

Memories of these happy times are permanently etched in my mind. That one Sunday afternoon was like any other as we swam for hours under the watchful eyes of my grandparents on my father’s side. Our abuelo and abuelita. They came over every weekend to have lunch with us whether or not their son was present at home. Abuelo strictly enforced his “Spanish only” rule whenever we were with him. He refused to answer or converse with us unless it was in Spanish.

“Isabel, you promised you’d try to jump in from the diving board!” Evie the fish egged me on, as she did a breaststroke and then a backstroke and finally a freestyle all the way to the other side of the pool.

“Evie, I’m not ready to swim in the deep part yet!” I cried.

“Look at me, look at me!” Alicia yelled as she jumped from the opposite side of the steps.

“Abuelo, did you see what Ali did?” I shouted out to him.

“Heh? No le entiendo hija. Espanol por favor.”

Evie, Alicia and I have him to thank for growing up in a trilingual family. While our first language was always English, we spoke our native dialect as well as Spanish quite fluently.

As the afternoon wore on, I splashed around in my rubber tubing, edging my way toward the line separating the five foot depth and the gradual descent into ten feet of water. This was me. Cautious, methodical. Afraid of the unknown. Always.

“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there
was within me an invincible summer.”

—Albert Camus

I remember the day that it happened so vividly in my mind. It was the beginning of the end for our family, as we knew it. It started out like any normal day, the three of us sisters trying to find something to fight about.

“Isabel, guess what I did? I drooled on Pinky,” Evie announced annoyingly.

“You what?” I demanded, as I protectively clutched my baby pillow.

She took the pillow from me and said, “I drooled on it, just like this!” She tilted her head and allowed a sliver of spit to fall on my freshly washed pillowcase.

Alicia grabbed Evie by the arm and screamed, “Evie, why would you do that?”

I didn’t wait to hear her reason. I ran over to Evie and bit her.

“Girls! Girls! Stop it right this minute!” My nanny rushed in as she tried to pull us apart. Evie cried, I furiously washed Pinky and Ali ran off to hide behind the door. “Your parents have decided to go to church with you today. Let’s stop fighting and start getting changed before you all have to stand in the corner!”

Several minutes later, the incident had been forgotten and we were all ready to leave the house. I was wearing a pink dress underneath a pink coat with shiny white tights and white shoes. My Cat Woman glasses were lopsidedly perched on my nose as I linked arms with my sisters and we skipped down the winding driveway.

My mother had little nicknames for the three of us; sometimes they were funny, oftentimes they were just made up words that she treated as her terms of endearment for us. She was in a good mood, ushering all of us into the car.

“Let’s go,” she started, “my brownie, my whitie and my chubby babies.”

We all giggled and walked down the driveway toward the chauffeur who had opened the door for us, welcoming us into the car with a big smile. All of a sudden from out of nowhere, I caught sight of my father as he stormed past me and pushed through my sisters to get to my mother.

“You don’t call the children those names!” he yelled as he delivered a flying kick to her stomach, the sound of which I will never forget. It was a thumping sound on impact, but I swear I heard a crack right as my mother slumped against the wheel of the car.

Everything turned into a blur, as the maids rushed to my mother and people were running to get my grandparents. Shortly after, my nanny picked me up and carried me across the garden to my grandparents’ home, which we called the big house. When I asked what happened to my mother and father, they only told me that my mother was recovering from a ruptured spleen and that my sisters had gone to live with my father. My nanny said that I would be living with my grandparents for a while. I wasn’t sure what “for a while” meant because I ended up staying there for what seemed like forever. I think this marked the first time that I knew what true loneliness felt like. Little did I know that this would be a normal part of my everyday life from then on. I was torn away from Evie and Alicia, and at that age, I didn’t really know how to come to terms with it. My grandparents tried to replace their presence with toys and books. Lots of them.

Pictures don’t lie; they actually remind you of the memories you push to the back of your mind because you would rather not remember. There is one of me at my piano recital. I wasn’t laughing. I wasn’t smiling. I was clutching my nanny’s hand and staring out into space. I didn’t look upset or sad. I just looked really lonely.

The next time I saw my sisters was outside of a courthouse on the way to my parents’ custody hearing. It was a major circus, the news media everywhere and photographers lurking in every corner. I heard when I was older that my mother and father were represented by the two most prominent lawyers of that time. As I walked down the never-ending hallway to the courtroom holding my grandmother’s hand, I saw two tiny heads on the other end. My sisters! I screamed their names and we all broke through the crowd and met in the middle, hugging and kissing and chattering like we had never been separated.

“Isabel!” Evie whispered cautiously. “Why haven’t you called us?”

“Nanny said that you and Alicia were busy with schoolwork,” I whispered back.

“Isa, I don’t think they want us talking anymore,” Alicia chimed in. “I think Mommy and Papa are in trouble or something.”

“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked.

“I don’t know. After Papa kicked her, I think she’s still in the hospital,” I said, looking around as if the subject of my mother was not to be discussed.

“What are we doing here then?”

“I think the judge wants to know who we want to live with.”

“Who should we live with, Evie?” I asked tentatively. “Grandma and Grandpa said that they would give me $20 if I told the judge I wanted to live with my mommy.”

“Isa, Mommy is bad. She asked the bad men to follow Papa to the gas station and shoot him!”

“Alicia, what are you talking about?” There were footsteps coming toward us and I desperately tried to hurry the conversation up.

“Issy, didn’t you know? Papa can’t walk because of a bullet wound in his leg. The bad men shot him a few days ago, and he crawled up the steps to Abuelo’s house. There was blood on the steps when Evie and I walked outside to go to school the other day.”

“Evie, why am I living with Grandma and Grandpa all by myself?” I asked, confused about how this living arrangement was working for anyone, including me.

“Papa said that Grandma and Grandpa only chose to take care of you. If you ask me, I think it’s because you’re the only one who looks like Mom,” she said indignantly.

“Well, he shouldn’t have hurt her. I still want to live with Mom. Can we just call each other and see each other on Saturdays?”

Then, as quickly as we had come together, there were parties in between us, separating us. By the time we entered the courthouse to take our seats, there were two distinct factions — on the left side sat my grandparents and me, and on the right, my father’s family and my sisters. There were muffled whispers and shuffling noises, as my sisters and I sat on the floor and played with our toys while the hearing took place. After about an hour of endless droning, my older sister was led to the podium by the bailiff. The prosecutor’s lawyer started to interview her, and she calmly told him what had happened the day my mom punctured her spleen.

I don’t remember any more of it other than this: Without warning, my sister ran up to the judge and bit him! She bit him as she screamed, “I want to live with my dad! I don’t want my mom taking me away!” A swift kick to the judge’s shins immediately followed that bite. A commotion ensued and we were whisked away together. I gave Evie the widest smile and a thumbs up as we were hurriedly escorted out of the courtroom.

“I walked a mile with Pleasure

She chattered all the way;

But left me none the wiser

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow

And ne’er a word said she;

But oh, the things I learned from her

When Sorrow walked with me.”

—Robert Browning Hamilton

The years just melded into each other and before I knew it, I was twelve years old, and my mother had finally come back.

My grandparents and I were having lunch one Saturday, just the three of us. It was the same kind of meal we used to share every day. Standing alongside several plates of various entrees, the chef continued to explain to my grandmother what they were.

“And what are these garnishings you used, Felipe?” She pointed to the various dishes with swirly green things and flower shaped tomatoes. “They don’t look good, too tacky. Next time just use some sprigs of rosemary or parsley. They would look more presentable,” she instructed as she took a spoonful of one of the dishes. “I think this needs more salt or something,” she continued.

“Yes, ma’am,” was all Felipe could say.

My grandfather ate in silence as I sat next to him, my squeaky voice rattling on and on. Engaging my grandparents in conversation was not an easy task.

“So, Grandpa, do you remember Melissa, the girl who came over the other day? She lives two houses away from the club.”

He nodded his head and waited for me to go on.

“Well, Ali’s friend Paula told her friend Marge that Melissa was caught kissing a boy at the bus stop. And she got grounded!” I squealed.