It was a searingly hot day in Iligan, Philippines: the kind of overbearing heat that pushed all thoughts away, and second-grader Rosita was not able to focus during class. The heat, the whirr of the ineffective ceiling fans in her classroom, and the drone of her teachers’ lectures lulled her into a sleepy stupor.
At last, classes were over. In
unison, the class stood and performed a half-hearted, tired goodbye bow to
their last-period teacher. Rosita was not looking forward to the long trudge
home, carrying her heavy school bag. Her clothes were sticking and her hair
clung to her sweaty face. Her discomfort was so great that it distracted her
from her hunger.
Her thoughts were on her sister:
three-year-old Lydia, whom they called inday (little girl), had been sick for
the last week. Lydia was Rosita’s little shadow, following her everywhere. And
when she couldn’t see Rosita, she would always yell, “Ate (big sister), aha ka?”
Where are you? And Rosita would have to call out so Lydia could find her. But
now Lydia was too sick and weak to call out for help.
Rosita began the three-kilometre
walk home, her steps so slow that it would take over an hour to get there. Her
feet were heavy, her heart heavier. Her grandmother, Lola Nilda, had given inday
tea brewed from lagundi leaves and bathed her in cooled water boiled with sambong
leaves: all the usual herbal interventions that had always worked when Rosita
and her siblings were sick. But Lydia kept coughing and kept getting weaker,
despite her lola’s constant and prayer-filled ministrations. Rosita’s mother
was a nanny and her father a farm worker three towns away. It was only her lola
who took care of Rosita and Lydia, barely clothing and feeding them with the
meagre funds their parents sent.
Before Rosita
left for school that morning, her lola had gently explained that she needed to
take Lydia to the hospital. Rosita had begged to go, but her lola said she had
to stay because she didn’t know how long they’d be in the hospital, and anyway,
her parents might come home later that day. Rosita needed to meet them after
school.
She missed her parents and had
been wishing for this reunion, but somehow, her young mind sensed the ill
timing of it all. That morning, Lydia was pale and weak, and her lola had been
fighting tears. They had no money for the hospital, but Rosita knew her lola was
desperate to save her sister. Despite lola’s assurances that everything was
going to be all right, Rosita had an ominous pit in her stomach.
Finally, she turned the bend
toward home, her feet dusty and her arms tired from carrying her bag. The air
was filled with that familiar afternoon smell of burnt leaves as neighbors lit
brown piles of fallen leaves to ward off mosquitoes. She could see her parents
talking on the half-built balcony outside their old wooden house. She could see
a small crowd with them: there were her uncle and aunt, Tito Roger and Auntie
Nilda, other workers from the farm where her father worked, and her mother’s
friends. The pit in her stomach grew heavier. She wanted to run back to school.
Lydia was a sweet, inquisitive
soul who always followed Rosita around to ask her questions. She had a lisp as
toddlers do, and most of the time, only Rosita could understand what she was
saying. Amused but confused by what Lydia said, her lola often asked Rosita, “Unsa
kuno iyang giingon?” What did she say? Rosita was afraid she would never hear
Lydia’s voice again: never hear her ask about the birds or the funny thing
their dog, Maymay, had done this time.
Rosita went to
her parents and kissed their hands to show respect. They hugged her in turn,
asking her how school had been. Her mother’s eyes were red-rimmed, and her
father’s voice sounded hollow, she thought. Rosita’s voice was caught in her
throat and she couldn’t answer them. Then, her lola came to her crying, hugged
her, and said, “Wala na si inday, Rose.” Inday is gone, Rose. She felt a
sudden, sharp pain in her chest. “I must be crying,” Rosita thought, “because
my face is wet and my eyes feel so warm.” Something big and loud was welling up
inside her, but she pushed it down because it felt too overwhelming. She
extricated herself from her lola’s arms. She could feel her parents trying to
get hold of her too, but she wrenched away and ran into the house: she had to
see for herself.
Lydia’s tiny body was on the bed they shared with her lola. She was wrapped in her favourite blanket, and there were lit candles at the foot of the bed. There were flowers: bougainvilleas from lola’s garden, in glass jars she had washed and recycled. Rosita thought the room smelled like the chapel where they went to church on Sundays.
She turned to her parents, who
had followed her, and, with wide eyes, she said, “Natulog raman si inday, ma,
pa: awa gali!” Lydia is only sleeping, Ma, Pa—look!”
Her mother shook her head slowly
while her father covered his face with his hands and cried. Rosita heard
someone howling and wailing before she realized it was her. “Inday, inday!” she
cried out. Her lola held her for what felt like hours until the big, loud thing
in her chest grew quiet.
That night, Rosita slept fitfully
on the bamboo bench in their living room. The house had been filled with people
who stayed for the wake, rosaries gripped tightly in their hands, praying
constantly throughout the evening. Following tradition, they had spread ash
across the doorway in the belief that it would capture the footprints of the
dead if they returned to visit. They prayed for Lydia’s eternal repose and for
God to welcome her into heaven. Rosita prayed for this nightmare to be over.
She thought that if she prayed hard enough, she would wake up to Lydia asking
her to climb the mango tree and pick fruits for her. She fell asleep dreaming
of mangoes and Lydia.
At dawn, Rosita woke up in the
darkness, weakly illuminated by candlelight, to find herself alone in the
living room. She could hear murmured conversations among her father, mother,
and Tito Roger on the balcony. She heard the word ‘pneumonia’ being said a few
times. She got up and saw that Lydia had been moved to the living room. Rosita
stood next to Lydia, and repeatedly whispered for her to wake up. When Lydia
didn’t stir, Rosita went to find Lydia’s slippers: cheap rubber flip-flops that
had been too big for her. She took them to the ash-filled abuhan, the concrete
hearth in the kitchen where they cooked, pressed Lydia’s slippers into the ash,
then used them to make a trail of ashen footprints from the doorway to the
bamboo bench where Rosita had been sleeping. She then carefully placed the
slippers to the side and fell back to sleep.
Hours later, her mother woke her
urgently, demanding to know what she had done. Still half-asleep, Rosita heard
the anger in her mother’s voice. Her father stood over her, bewilderment stark
on his face. Rosita looked down at Lydia’s slippers, at the trail of footprints
she had made during the night, and didn’t understand what she had done wrong.
Her parents continued demanding an explanation, but she could only shake her
head and cry. Rosita heard someone say, “Na unsa. Abi namog tinood! Ngano man
intawong gibuhat man na niya?” We thought it was real! Why would the child do
that?
She pushed away from her parents and went to where Lydia lay. Inday’s skin was so gray now, and her lips were blue. She no longer looked asleep. Rosita felt something in her break, and she frantically whirled around to find her lola. She ran into her arms and cried desperately. “La, gitabangan nako si inday aron mapangita ko niya. Pero wala ko niya nakit-an.” Lola, I was trying to help inday find me, but she didn’t find me.
Her lola pulled her close and said nothing.
