Chapter 8
One of the worst feelings in the world: waking up before my alarm.
I groan when my phone screen reads five thirty AM. My body is supposed to have thirty more minutes of blissful sleep … Why does my body not want that for me?!
It also doesn’t help that I didn’t fall asleep until two in the morning. I mean, late nights aren’t unusual for me, but this wasn’t a case of my regular insomnia. The reason I forsook hours of valuable sleep was Ma’s silent treatment.
When Ma’s upset with me, I’m used to the sermons, her favorite line: Why can’t you be more like your sister?
Yesterday, though? I got nothing.
She came home after their Gloria Maris lunch and asked me if I had eaten already.
I said yes and she proceeded to go to her room to make some calls.
Achi joined us for dinner and they only talked about bakery-related topics—not one word about how I was rude, immature, no comments from Achi that I probably turned out the way I did because kid-me once bumped my head on my crib.
They’re not going to sway me into thinking I was wrong for calling out Dr. Derrick yesterday. All those things I said to Ma? I was upset about Dr. Derrick, not her! Just because he tricked Ma into saying yes to his proposal doesn’t mean he can weasel his way into my family.
Although, it’s way easier to defend that I was right if Ma actually brings up what had happened.
If we can’t articulate ourselves through words, maybe we can do it through food.
Hence, me waking up extra early to make breakfast for Ma before going to school.
It’s a great strategy: I’ll make Ma breakfast, open up about my side of why Derrick shouldn’t have been there yesterday, then she’ll see the error of her ways and cancel the whole wedding!
I kick off my blanket and set my plan into action.
But someone already got to the kitchen before me.
“Why do you even pay rent for your apartment?” I ask Achi, who’s already in the middle of heating up corned beef. She’s also giving me the silent treatment, but I can tell hers is out of pettiness.
“I need the kitchen,” I say when Achi pretends like I don’t exist.
She still doesn’t look at me. “For what?”
“To make breakfast.”
Achi scoffs and checks the rice cooker while still stirring onions in the pan. “What are you going to make? Eggs na naman?”
“Eggs are a worldwide breakfast staple!” I insist.
For Mother’s Day, we usually make Ma breakfast in bed where I take my time preparing my scrambled eggs with the perfect runny texture.
While I’m focused on my specialty, Achi does a hundred things at once and makes longganisa, bangus, tocino, and every other breakfast food ever invented.
It’s not my fault that I prefer quality over quantity.
“Don’t use my pan,” I warn her before going to the bathroom. I can deal with reclaiming the kitchen more effectively after I brush my teeth.
Shutting the bathroom door behind me, I turn on the faucet and splash my face with water. I try to focus on anything else instead of the feelings that are lighting my head on fire.
Shut it down, Nika. Ignore it, ignore it.
Still, all the things I’m angry at keep cycling through my mind.
I am pissed at Achi for hogging the kitchen and insulting my eggs.
I am pissed at my stupid body clock that doesn’t let me sleep.
I am pissed that I have to wear retainers for the rest of my life.
Most of all, I am still incredibly pissed that Ma is moving on with Dr. freaking Derrick.
The mirror fogs up as I’m trying my hardest to wash away everything I’m pissed at. None of this is productive! I have to move on and figure out how Nika Ilagan will thrive on this given Monday.
As I’m fixing my mindset, the window by the shower slowly creaks open.
Hasn’t that window always been locked?
… Isn’t this also what happens before the ghost murderer shows up in the Pagpag movie?
A window opening is normal! My brain tries to scream at my quickening heart rate.
I’m paranoid because of sleep deprivation.
On the very slim chance that there’s truth to the pagpag superstition, a ghost should’ve appeared yesterday!
Ghosts are known to be very punctual! Even in the movies, ghosts never wait a whole day to show up.
My heart comes to a full stop when a butterfly suddenly flies into the bathroom … and I hold my breath when it lands on the sink.
Ma’s words ring in my head: Butterflies are the souls of the departed.
Shit. Am I staring at the soul of the departed?
I put up my hands in case this soul has murderer tendencies too. “I come in peace,” I declare.
“Kumain ka na?” I ask, remembering how Ma always welcomes guests in our home by offering food. Maybe the departed soul will be hesitant to kill me if it thinks I can cook.
“Have you already eaten?” I give the English translation in case this butterfly is a foreigner.
The butterfly stays completely still. Its black wings don’t even budge when I try blowing on them.
If I paid more attention during Chinese class, maybe I would know how to ask the question in Mandarin too.
When I take a closer look, it still doesn’t move. No budge in its legs, its wings, antennae. Would a dead person be reincarnated into a dead butterfly?
I empty the cup that carries all the toothbrushes and hold my breath when I carefully place it on top of the butterfly. “Hello?” I ask and wait for some spiritual reply.
Nothing.
But I do feel better that I’m staring at a cup instead of a possible departed soul. Hiding my problems can sometimes solve them, right?
Maybe there’s a superstition about how covering a butterfly with a cup can protect people from ghosts! Yes, yes, I like that a lot better. Let’s go with that.
Okay, back to planning out my Monday.
Step one: Cook Ma the best eggs in the world and bask in her revelation that I’m the one who’s on the right side of things.
Step two: Ask Kayla what in the world is going on in class.
Step three.
AAHHHHHHHHH.
I jump when I see a figure in all white next to me in the mirror. Oh god. It’s the departed soul!
Fuck. This is how people die, right? The ones who see the ghost first always die in the movies!
Squeezing my eyes shut, I try my best to stay calm. If the ghost wanted to kill me, I should be dead by now. A non-supernatural being would’ve killed me faster.
Okay, Nika. Remember, hiding from your problems can work. When I open my eyes, I will just see my regular, normal reflection. Not a man who I think looks exactly like …
The mirror shows the same man patting down his head and squinting as he checks his reflection. The squarish face, the graying hair, left eye slightly smaller than the right … Why the fuck does he look exactly like my dad?
His eyes widen when he turns to me. “Nika?” The sound of his voice makes me knock my head on the towel rack. How the fuck does he know my name too?!
Then I hear Achi from the outside yell out my name. “What was that noise?”
“N-nothing!” I yell back, and cover my eyes again.
What if this isn’t a ghost? What if you’re hallucinating?
Didn’t your ninth-grade assessment say you have an overactive imagination?
! Lots of renowned geniuses suffer from hallucinations: Vincent van Gogh, Isaac Newton, even Olivia Rodrigo thinks everyone in her party has her face in one music video.
Maybe I’m not seeing a ghost, maybe I’m just exceptionally intelligent!
When you open your eyes, you will be fine. He will be …
Standing in front of me.
“I can’t believe I’m back,” the hallucination’s voice chokes out as he marvels at his hands like he’s just now noticing that they’re the color of the baby powder on the sink.
The hallucination lights up even more when he flexes his fingers and stretches his legs.
My heart then freezes when the hallucination faces me again.
“Sorry nabigla ‘ata kita. Been a long time and it took me a while to recognize my bunso.” I momentarily forget the striking Pa resemblance and notice that his feet aren’t touching the floor.
Does Olivia Rodrigo also see levitating dead people? !
He floats closer and I hurl myself into the shower, pulling the curtain closed. I crank on the faucet and let the water soak through my pajamas. “This is a dream, this is a dream,” I mutter to myself while turning the knob to the coldest setting.
But I’m wide awake and I still hear his voice.
“Nika, are you okay?”
There are about a million layers to that question.
“I know this might be a lot to process, but everything’s going to be fine,” the hallucination assures me while I’m still praying for the shower to wake me up.
This happens in horror movies, too, right?
Demonic evil spirits pose as your loved ones so they can trick you into trusting them!
I’m racking my brain for any superstition about driving ghosts away.
Didn’t Ma once say that holy water purifies a space?
My hand goes through all the bottles and containers lined up on the shower rack.
Great. We have two tubes of anti-dandruff shampoo but no holy water.
If I get possessed by a demonic spirit, at least I’ll be dandruff-free.
“Hello?” I hear the demon’s voice again.
I’m not going to answer. I may be delusional enough to see dead people, but I haven’t gone so far as to talk to dead people. I’ll let my sanity have that.
After more unanswered questions, I start hoping that the hallucination has disappeared and left me alone. But then I see a chalk-white hand poke through the shower curtain—and based on my extensive science education, NORMAL HANDS SHOULDN’T GO THROUGH SOLID THINGS!!!
“Ahhh!” we both yelp, and someone barges through the doorway.
“Niks!” Achi pushes the shower curtain so fast that it rips. “What happened?”
She gapes as I’m sprawled in the bathtub, her expression screaming the same lines of There is something seriously wrong with my sister.
My eyes immediately land on the hallucination beside her … that Achi doesn’t pay attention to.