Routines

Mondays now consist of grease-coated fast food meals, or sometimes canned tuna with a side of canned dramas. Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Thursdays. A rebellion would rise inside her preventing a switch back to her real self - a domestic goddess. “No, just stay. This is good. This is okay.” Every bit of protest was barely enough to hold her down. But never on Fridays. Saturdays. Sundays. These are the days when she regains her essence back from the guilt-ridden depths. She cooks and maniacally cleans her spotless apartment in Quezon City. At the end of the day, a table for six is prepared, but only one sits to feast.

It’s 6:30 in the evening.

She believes that somehow they will come to eat with her. She’s been waiting. It was what she knew best. Sit still. Stand still. Years of being married made sure she’d never forgotten how to be a proper woman and how to patiently wait.

If only anyone had the slightest idea about the amount of energy she uses up in waiting!

But, how could they?

+++

6:30 in the morning.

Mark comes home the earliest from his night shift in Makati, but he never has the energy to last for even the simplest ‘Good morning’. He needs a hug. She was about to embrace him but she hesitated as soon as he slammed the door to his room. No. He needs sleep. Her twin girls head out of their shared room the moment her eldest retreats to his bed to make love with it. They, too, never have time to even notice the breakfast she magically conjures up each morning. Their excuses were as identical as they are. It was always “I have a presentation” or “My professor’s gonna kill me if I’m late again,” even “On a diet. Luke likes skinny girls!” But they are skinny girls, she whispers to herself as she arranges and packs her youngest son's books as well as give a final polishing to her husband’s shoes. Perhaps she should talk to them and tell them all they need are a healthier diet and a pair of quality glasses. College girls and their insecurities. No. They needed their space. Good thing her Matty isn’t old enough to be alone, yet. Oh, that horrid stage! No! She doesn’t want to lose him to puberty. But at age seven, other parents are starting to reprimand her, saying she needs to learn the art of letting a young man grow up. She was adamant at first. She believed children would always need a strong bond with their parents. And she knew Matty wasn’t like the other kids. He was genuinely happy to be helping his mom with chores and constantly asks for her guidance with school work. But soon after the countless unsolicited nagging from fellow mothers, she was slowly giving in to the fact that now might be the time for Matty to find his own strong footing out in the real patriarchal world. If he doesn't, he might end up like his father - deep in his 50s but still hasn't managed to grow up and be a man.

Oh. if he would only confess! She’s well aware of his affairs. How wouldn’t she know? Her husband has a bad habit of slipping various names into his cries whenever they make sad, pathetic obligatory love and he reaches climax. Ana. Baby. Catherine. Darling - Isn’t he too old to be singing a whore’s list of ABC’s? She asked herself. As he retires for the night, she’s left alone to tend to her bruised ego and dry spells. Never did she have the courage to give him even the slimmest piece of her mind as she’s all too well aware of William’s temperament and the strong blows he delivers. Quite especially under the demonic influence that a crazy mix of alcohol and failures at work brings. He has his needs, she bitterly comforts herself.

In the course of it all, no one has said her name. No one has said goodbye or noticed how disheveled she looked with the grease stains left on her decades-old skirt, the sweat dripping down her unmade face, and the evidence of restless nights packed under her tired eyes. No one really cared. Except for Matty. He always gives her a kiss before he leaves with his father for school. It was her consuelo de bobo. William, on the other hand, only complains how his shirt seems haphazardly pressed before he storms out to fulfill his fatherly duty.

It takes a good couple of hours before the disorderly uproar of the early morning storm simmers down into a nice and warm pot of quiet. She looked around her. The only company she’s left with from 7 am onwards were half-eaten meals, dishes to be cleaned, heaps of laundry to be hand washed and dried and pressed then folded, and a whole lot more things that needed her ingenious domestic-grade fixing. Here we go, she said as she pulled back a piece of stray hair into her bun and mustered up the strength to fulfill her motherly duties.

***

7:30 p.m.

She decides to pack leftovers for the stray children that stop by the sturdy, old street light right across her apartment. A small post-it note on the mini fridge’s door caught her attention. It was from her Ma asking her to drop the act and go back to her family. Her mother called her selfish and impulsive. She hasn’t replied to the accusations, yet, even after several visits of interrogations. Her body is just beginning to adjust to the freedom she’s given to it, after all. It decided to join a fitness club and an overly enthusiastic needlework circle. It can make its own money through direct-selling and going after her almost forgotten dream of being a maestra by attending to young children at a nearby daycare center. It chooses the finest garments and accessories her well-earned money can purchase. And for almost five to six months now, it’s slowly learning how to live, relax, and be human.

All that’s left to forget is the pain that William’s numerous accounts of infidelity brought to her quiet life. Nothing a good amount of cheesy telenovela can’t heal, she calmly tells herself.

***

10:30 a.m.

She’s finally all packed up.

The children are outside, joining hands to form a human barricade. Matty even enlisted the help of his plastic resin allies for reinforcement. Batman. Robin. The Flash. Superman. Hulk. Iron Man. Captain America. Spiderman. None of them could stop her. William’s pointless calls are heard from behind, “Please, Honey. Don't do this!”

“I've been nothing but unappreciated here.”

“I need my wife,” he pleaded some more.

“You — need a maid, and maybe a young bitch or two,” she corrected and, for the first time, not minding her language in front of the children.

He tries harder, now choosing emotional blackmail. “They need their mother,” desperately pointing at Matty and the twins.

These last words were only muffled by the sound of the crackling fire. The garbage can has her husband’s clothes and their bedsheets, now ablaze because who knows what kinds and strains of evil he has been bringing into the house. She loosens Matty and the twins’ grip around her arm. “No worries, my children. There is breakfast in the kitchen. Champorado for the boys and corn flakes for my sweet baby girls.”

Her heart grew heavier with each painful step beyond the gates.

Mark stood by the door, half-awake, unaware of the short tragic play slowly coming to a conclusion in front of him.

***

10:30 p.m.

Sleep doesn’t come to her.

She argues with voices in her head. Stay or go back?

Every night this is her routine. After a morning rush of freedom and afternoon showers of glory, evenings are spent by herself in the dark of her rented room. She nurses guilt more hideous than the sight of unfinished household responsibilities, or even that of her husband on top of her young mistress on their conjugal bed. There’s still a lot more she wishes to explore, from her country, the world, and maybe, even her mind. She’s just starting to uncover what she needs without the consent of anybody else. And to go back to her house would convey the message of forgiveness and acceptance. A second chance. It is not time yet, isn’t it? She questions the tiny people in her head.

Along with these tiny inhabitants now run the thoughts of Mark’s heavy snoring and occasional lambing of turon made by Aling Josie, Martha and Maricris’ annoyingly cute brawls about who’s prettier (when you can barely tell them apart), and Matty’s Hello and Goodbye kisses and his “I love you, mommy!” Her everyday consuelo de bobo.

They need me.

I love them. Even the person I call my husband. I loved him, and I still believe somewhere in that mess of a man he is now was the William who innocently promised the moon and the stars to me…

Blah. Who am I kidding? I hate his guts.

But they need their mother, her heart screamed inside its bony prison.

12 a.m.

She’s all packed up again.

She remembered how her children have always wanted a dog. She told herself she’ll get one later that day, along with turon for the whole family.

Anticipating the span of time it’ll take, she hurries to the bus stop, wind bringing her hair into beautiful disarray. Mara pulls a lock of stray hair back into her bun as she creates an imaginary shopping list, preparing for a breakfast fit for six once more, and maybe dinner for seven, even.

+Fin+

© 2016 for Women's Month, Creative Writing - PNU UGDO and PNU Kabataang Urduja

1ST PLACE

Photo credits: A. Oracion, Q. Valenzona, Y. Kiefer, P. Hearing, R. M Caraan, P. Fernandez