In Similar Situations

It was dark already when we got there and I'm really worried about him when we parked the car. I looked at this face and I knew then that this situation is very difficult for him. I tried to tell him that everything is ok, but I know that he can asses the sensitivity of the situation better.

We exchanged numerous text messages and phone calls today regarding the trip that he was obliged to take. I asked him if it would complicate things if I came with him to Quezon City, and I even said that it was ok if I didn't come, but he insisted that it will make things easier for him if I'm there by his side. I said yes. I'll go with him. I can’t say no. I won’t say no.

And now... We are here, sitting inside the parked car. The objective is but a few steps away, and yet it felt like it was more difficult than before. On our way to park the car, people already saw us, and we both knew that there was no turning back.

I noticed that the fervor that I usually see in his face has left him. In its place were a blank stare and a look of hesitation which continuously deters my eyes. I can’t stare at him that long because it pains me to see him that way. He did not talk about his feelings but I knew he has the same pent up anger that I nurse inside me. We are in similar situations after all and this worries me. The object of his hatred was just a few meters away, across the street. I felt the weakness around him, and I knew that this time, even though I'm scared of surrounding myself with strangers, it’s my turn to be the sturdy one.

"Ok ka lang?" I asked moments after he killed the engine.

There was a brief pause before his reply and I thought he didn't hear me. He only noticed me when I unlocked the car door.

"Ha? uh... ok ka na? Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah. Shall we go?"

"Ok. Tara"

We got off the car and I walked towards his side. It was a quiet village and the sound of the car alarm activating echoed off the tall walls and apartments along the street. This attracted unwanted stares from the house across the street where we are supposed to go. I bowed my head and pretended to straighten the black pants that I wore earlier today at work.

We started to cross the street towards the house. From the outside I can see the yellowish electric light as it glowed on the flowers and the opened curtains. We haven't reached the yard yet but I was already overwhelmed by the atmosphere. The air was thick with the smell of different flowers. Beside the gate were guys, huddled together, obviously catching a cigarette break. They were the guys who saw us as we pulled over at the curb. I don't recognize any of them but it seemed that they recognized us because they gave us nods of greeting as we approached. I just smiled, nodded back and continued walking.

We've both been to this house before; at least that’s what I was told. I can’t remember because I was too young. It feels strange to see the actual place that I heard so many stories about. Sad stories. Stories of memories that people hope to forget. Stories that are a little too familiar. We went through the gate and noticed that tables and chairs were set up at the yard. This was a gathering, but this is certainly not a party. No one was laughing, but there were conversations spoken at a whisper. The people wee gathered in groups, most of them were older women, while the men were outside the gate.

We walked along the stone path at the yard and it lead to the wooden main doors of the house. This house is bigger than ours in Makati, but this one is older. "His grandparents used to live here", I thought. I've never really had an idea how his relatives from the father side live. The only relatives that I got to know were from his mother's side. Looking at the house and the people in and around the house told me that their lifestyles were totally different.

We stopped in front of the steps leading to the main doors. At the top of the steps was a man in his early 50's, and beside him was a woman who I assumed to be his wife. On their faces was the look of sadness and exhaustion. They wore tired smiles as they welcome guests. The wife has a disheveled look, it’s as if she hasn't slept well for the past few days. I couldn't help but compare. She looked younger, and even though she was in stress, I have to admit that she is pretty. "She doesn't look as sophisticated though," I thought to myself.

Although we were guests, my companion was reluctant to approach. I knew that we had to talk to this man because his was the only face I recognized in that place. I saw him first from the old photo albums in our house in Makati. Those photo albums were tucked away in a box and in a closet in an unused room in the house. Nanay scolded me when I opened them. Di ko na raw dapat pinapakialaman yun. I took a second look at the man at the doorway and I concluded that resemblance is undeniable. The man at the door looked so much like his son.

As we stepped closer, I heard my companion exhale a sigh. I could only assume that he was pacing himself- an act of self control. I knew that he didn't want to be in this place. He wouldn't have come if not for his deceased ninang, and he can’t believe that his mom actually forced him to come. I heard them arguing over it on the phone two days ago. He told me about this conversation with his mom, and even though they weren't really in good terms, his father is still his father, and she didn't raise him to ignore his responsibilities and obligations to his family.

"Pa..." Al said to get the attention of the man at the door. I knew that it was difficult for him to address him as his dad, knowing what his father had done, and knowing how he felt about it.

"Oi," replied the man.

One syllable each, nice greeting, I thought to myself. I've seen them talk before, but it was in a place with less people. I wondered if they were looking at each other eye to eye, but I couldn’t turn my head because it would've been impolite to stare, although I noticed that the people inside the house looked at us at the corner of their eyes. I can’t help but imagine that they were whispering about us at our backs. "Sino yung kasama nya?" I can imagine the people around us asking. I felt out of place- I'm not even part of the family, who am I to be in this funeral wake?

"Good Evening Aldrin," said the wife. I thought her voice would sound like a shrill of an evil witch who I characterized her to be in the stories from Tita and my mom. I was mistaken. Her voice shook but it was soft. She wore a smile, and I thought that she is uncomfortable in welcoming his husband's son that isn't hers, let alone speaking his name.

"Condolences po," I replied and gave the couple the mass card that we brought with us.

The situation is very awkward for all of us and I could only cling to Al's arm to tighter to remind him that I'm there with him, no matter what happened. The four of us wouldn't have moved, and the void was already beginning to scare me. The silence was broken when a young lady, who I later found out was Aldrin's Tita Vivian, his dad's spirited younger sister, noticed us and dragged us away from his dad to introduce us to some of Al's other relatives.

He didn't have the change to talk to his father again that night. I assumed that they are avoiding each other.

It’s a cliché, I thought- older men sacrificing their family just to be with pretty, younger women. The story is old and the details have blurred- but is, unfortunately unforgotten, and the characters remained unforgiven. If this were a book, I have read through it time and again, and yet I still don’t know who the dedicated mother should blame. The younger woman or the unsatisfied man? Now, looking at the characters directly, and how they lived their lives apart, I find myself not in a position to judge. It is a sad reality that they have to live their lives as a broken family- even sadder that the story of my own broken family has intertwined with them as well.

After being introduced to Al's relatives, we walked towards the casket where Aldrin's ninang laid in peace. I wondered how he felt. I knew then that his deceased ninang was the farthest from his mind.

Is it more difficult to live without a father, to have an entire life looking for that paternal approval of your existence but only to be eternally frustrated because he has denied you from the very start- Or to have a father but be disappointed because his morals are questionable, and he has no regard for the principles that you have been brought up to uphold?

He opened up to me years ago. He felt like sometimes, his very own existence was the very proof that his parents made a mistake- that if he was not conceived, then his parents could've lived without the deception, lies and pain that they had to go through. This was not far from what I feel about myself. We are in similar situations after all.

If this were a book, all I can do now is what I can do best: to stand beside the son. I looked at Al's reflection on the glass casing of the casket and tightened my grip on his arm. He turned his head towards me and his lips gave me a momentary smile.

This was enough to tell me that he will be ok.

-Emma Lew.