Chapter 3 #2
I sneak into Ma’s office, glancing behind my shoulder every few seconds to make sure no one’s watching me.
My eyes roll to the back of my head when I open a drawer and see Ma’s collection of Dr. Derrick greeting cards.
Every Valentine’s Day, birthday, monthsary (what grown man celebrates monthsaries?
!), Ma always gets a card from Dr. Derrick.
Happy birthday! Yours, Derrick
Happy Valentine’s Day! Yours, Derrick
Happy monthsary! Yours, Derrick
No pickup line, no joke, no cute designs. He also chooses the world’s most boring sign-off: yours. Considering there’s a wide selection of greeting cards with template greetings, Dr. Derrick always sends cards with dedications that can put me to sleep.
I’m looking through the corner where Achi usually stores her things (I previously found advanced copies of our report cards here) when I see the key hanging from the bottom filing cabinet. I once tried opening that drawer, but my sister said it’s always been broken.
When I turn the key, I find a folder of bank documents and investment fund applications. I go through the other envelopes filled with recommendation letters for Jackie Ilagan, copies of her résumé and transcripts, flyers from college fairs.
What the hell?
They’re all brochures for master’s and PhD programs.
Master’s in School Counseling
Master’s in Clinical Psychology
PhD in Child Psychology
Each one details programs and schools miles and countries away. While I’m leafing through a University of Florida brochure, I take note of the highlighted text, the comments added in the margins. All of them are in my sister’s scratchy handwriting.
I’m still calculating the distance from Manila to some place called Gainesville, Florida, when I hear footsteps approaching outside. Midway through stashing the evidence, my sister walks in.
“What are you doing?”
The drawer is hanging open, brochures scattered on the floor, and I still have one in my hand. Really painting the picture for the worst crime ever committed.
Although, the best way of explaining away sketchy behavior is pointing out others’ sketchy behavior.
“You’re moving to Florida?”
My sister stiffens. “You went through my drawer? My locked drawer?!”
“When were you going to tell us? Once you landed in Florida?” The thought of Achi being that far away triggers this hot feeling at the back of my throat. I rack my brain for any reason to convince her not to go.
“Do you know that Disney World is in Florida?” I remind her. “Why would you go there when you’re scared of roller coasters?”
Achi’s mind is still on the stupid drawer. “Didn’t you see the lock?” she yells. “A lock means boundaries, off-limits, no trespassing!”
“You left the key inside the lock!”
“That doesn’t mean you have permission to open the drawer! If I left a gun next to me, does that mean you can shoot it?”
“No, Ach,” I deadpan at her ridiculous question. “I won’t be able to kill you if your body is all the way in Florida.”
We both go quiet when we hear Ma’s voice from the kitchen. “Where did those two go?”
Achi switches on the room’s loud ceiling fan as if the whirring can retroactively mask our yelling. She signals for me to zip my mouth, our cue to hit pause on our argument.
Our ceasefire kicks in when we step outside the office and find Ma packing some of the puto paos. Although seeing Dr. Derrick right next to her doesn’t help that my blood’s still boiling about my sister’s secret move.
“The client from Marikina called that their bulk order didn’t get delivered to their party,” Ma tells Achi. “Can you be the one to take Nika home?”
“You’re going to Marikina now? That’ll take forever during rush hour.”
Ma waves Achi off. “It’s okay. I like the drive. It clears my head.”
Achi and I share a look when Ma goes on about the million errands she was able to do today. During Pa’s death anniversary two years ago, Ma actually passed out from pulling multiple all-nighters at the bakery.
Then Dr. Derrick inserts himself yet again. “I can drop you off there too.”
“It’s okay, I’ll do it,” Achi volunteers. “I promised this client that I was going to take a meeting with them too.”
Buns by Beth is a family business, after all.
“Then who’s going to go with Nika?” Ma asks.
“Hi.” I cut in when everyone seems to forget I’m in the same room. “No one needs to go with Nika. It’s a miracle, but Nika figured out how to walk—all on her own!”
As usual, my joke falls flat with my family.
“Speaking of…” Ma turns to me. “Remind me to give Seph some siopaos for looking after you.”
“Ma, he did not look after me. All he did was walk by my side, which I’m capable of doing alone!” I groan. “Also, between Moseph and me, I’m the one who’s more responsible and mature.”
“Yeah, Ma, Nika is responsible.”
We all stop short when my sister suddenly compliments me out of nowhere. This is even weirder than when Seph was doing it.
“When you say Nika … you’re referring to me, right?”
Achi nods and the smug gleam in her eyes makes me nervous. “Super responsible. I was really impressed when you volunteered to handle the dish station today.”
I peek at the washing station and it’s overflowing with a tower of pans, trays, bowls.
I don’t know how she pulled it off, but every single dish there looks greasier than usual.
I’m also 100 percent sure that dish duty is payback for me opening her stupid drawer.
Yet, I hold my tongue and save all my comebacks for later.
If I make a fuss about this now, Ma might enlist Seph for Nika-walking duty until I’m forty.
Fine, I will swallow my pride. I will continue to be the bigger person and wash the dumb dishes.
“Did you see the email with the supermarket’s latest offer?” Achi asks Ma. “They even tagged Buns by Beth in their post about brands to watch.”
Ma’s gaze hardens. “I don’t want them tagging us. If they start posting about us, then people will know where we are.”
“Ma, that’s the whole point of marketing,” my sister says, still trying to reason with her.
Ma drops the subject and hands Achi a puto pao. “How do you like the texture of this? I tried steaming the bun for a bit longer than usual.”
Maybe I was distracted by Dr. Derrick’s presence or Achi’s dishwashing scheme. Or maybe it was hearing Ma talk about Pa’s favorite food. I’m not really sure what compelled me to break the rules.
“Do you remember Pa’s birthday when he got sick from eating too much puto pao?” I ask, smiling at the memory. “Can’t believe he still managed to eat more the next day.”
As soon as I bring it up, I already feel myself holding my breath.
“Ah, Annika.” Ma doesn’t look at me when she answers. “Let’s not talk about those things.”
Achi swiftly swoops in and brings up how sales have increased this week. When Ma excuses herself to check on the register, Achi eyes me with an expression that screams, What the hell was that?
Because of course, I should know better.
Ma can talk about Pa when she reminds us to include Pa in our prayers, when it’s about replacing the flowers by his grave, when she tells us not to harm any butterflies because it might be our dead father visiting.
But when we think about memories with Pa, the happy stuff, the times when he felt real—Ma hasn’t been able to handle that.
That’s why Achi tells me to adjust. Keep mentions of Pa to a minimum, shove it all in during the days when Pa is all I can think about.
I mean, what right do I have when Achi and Ma are able to keep it together?
Achi had Pa until she was eighteen, Ma fell in love and built a family with him. Twelve years is all I had.
What right do I have to grieve when their loss is way bigger than mine?
When Ma returns and Achi does damage control by chatting more about the puto pao texture, I turn on the faucet and start rinsing. I blink away my tears as I turn up the water pressure and soak the pans with surfaces that make the loudest noise.
Pull yourself together. Like what Achi says, if Ma sees that you’re okay, then she’ll be okay.
But, god.
Sometimes, being around my family makes me feel so lonely.