Chapter 9
If I got a chance to see Pa again, what would I do?
The question has been in the back of my mind for years, but it was always a fantasy—something that was never actually going to come true.
So when the ghost of my father appears in my home, it makes sense that I would answer the current fantasy with another fantasy.
Ever since I was eight years old and Pa glued the snowflake stickers on my bedroom ceiling, he made a promise that he would take me to see actual snow one day. He passed away before we could make the trip, and right now could be our only chance.
“Shouldn’t we discuss this with your mom?” Pa asks when I press the elevator button for the parking level.
God. If Ma was already disappointed about me skipping chemistry, what’s she going to do when she finds out I’ve skipped to another country?
My mind pushes the thought away. There are bigger, more urgent priorities right now. Dealing with Ma could be future Nika’s problem.
“I can tell her when we’re about to board,” I tell Pa, and press the B1 button again when the elevator takes forever.
“If we’re flying somewhere to see snow, shouldn’t you be packing more things?” He gestures toward the tote bag hanging by my side. “And what about flight tickets?”
Airports must let you buy tickets there, right? I mean, it’s still a business. They wouldn’t turn down a paying customer. Shit. How much is in my bank account? Am I a customer who can actually pay?! And did I check if my passport was really in my tote bag?
I consider going back to the condo to check when I remember how many minutes have already passed. No. I have absolutely no time to waste, to think, or breathe! Adding these all to my list of future Nika’s problems.
The elevator reaches our floor and I rush inside.
“Where is it even snowing at this time of year?”
“Pa.” I urge him when he’s still hovering by the elevator, asking me a million questions.
“Superstar, I’m always game for a spontaneous trip, but we should think some things through. You can’t ride a tiger without checking how tall it is first!”
My chest twists when I hear a classic Antonio Ilagan saying. While Ma is always hooked on superstitions, Pa loves giving advice that sounds like some ancient proverb.
I swallow the large lump in my throat when I say, “We might not have enough time.”
Pa’s face softens right there. It’s something I’ve been scared to ask—how long does Pa have before he leaves? How long do I have before he’s gone? When does future Nika’s problem become losing Pa again?
He proceeds to float to the spot where I am and smiles. “We’re off to see snow then.”
Pa’s body levitates a few inches higher when he spots his old silver Toyota.
“You kept Martha!” Pa beams.
Ma did a deep cleanse of everything Pa-related when he passed, but Achi asked to keep his car, whom he affectionately dubbed Martha Toyota. Even though Martha’s clock is broken and her air-conditioning only works when she feels like it, my sister has never considered changing cars.
Pa excitedly reaches for the car door, then his hand passes right through the handle.
He tries again and all he manages to grasp is air.
“Cool magic trick, ‘no?” He laughs it off and turns to me. “Do you drive now, Superstar?”
Oh my god. He actually meant it as a serious question.
I already have my student permit, yet Achi and Ma still don’t think I’m “ready” for the road. Like, how will I ever be ready if my family never lets me practice?
“Yeah, I can drive!” I hold up the car keys I sneaked out of the condo.
Although someone should’ve warned me that driving meant having to take on EDSA.
Just to be clear, I’m a good driver—above average even! Olivia Rodrigo could write a sequel to “drivers license” about how great my driving skills are. The only thing I haven’t really mastered is driving on the highway.
My hands are still clutching the wheel as I watch cars, buses, trucks, and motorcycles flood EDSA from my vantage point of the Connecticut Street junction.
I make a detour and park at the gas station on the side of the road.
I’ve decided that I will merge once everything calms down …
which I’m pretty sure will be any minute now.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still on the edge of my seat, waiting for the right moment.
Any minute now!
A plus side to my impressive patience is that I have some more time to catch up with Pa. And at first, Pa actually seems to take my questions seriously.
While he’s pointing out all the buildings and billboards as if he didn’t spend my entire childhood driving me on this same street, I ask, “Have you been a ghost this whole time?”
Pa faces me and I try not to stare too much at his translucent arm. “I’m not really sure. A lot feels … blurry.” It seems like an eternity passes before his eyes smile back at me again. “I’m glad I’m here now, though.”
“And did you really show up because … I didn’t pagpag?”
Pa’s mood turns more upbeat then. “Didn’t I tell you that there’s magic behind superstitions?”
Watching Ma made me think that superstitions are based on fear.
If we sweep the floor at night, we’ll be cursed with bad luck.
If my pregnant cousin gives birth and takes a shower right after, she’ll attract tons of health complications later on.
I first heard about the pagpag superstition when my amah passed away when I was really little.
When Ma told me that there was a chance that the spirits would follow us home after the wake, I stayed up late multiple nights, praying that the ghosts wouldn’t find me. Pa was the one who made me less afraid.
He sat with me on my bed and whispered, “You know, I sometimes wish the pagpag superstition came true.”
When I asked him why, he said, “So I’d get to see my best friend again.”
Pa told me how he had to say goodbye to his best friend when he was in college.
I remember Pa saying that if his best friend’s spirit followed him home, he would catch his friend up on all that he missed.
He’d tell his friend about his wedding, everything about me and Jackie.
My favorite story was when Pa recounted how his best friend was the one who made him fall in love with music, who taught him how to play the piano.
Maybe that’s the origin story for why I don’t find ghost stories so scary.
I started imagining ghost encounters as Pa taking piano lessons from his best friend.
I try learning more about Pa’s situation, but he starts becoming more and more evasive.
When I ask him if he knew he was coming back, Pa jokes, “You know who had a great comeback? Mariah Carey!”
“Where were you this whole time? Were you, like, roaming around, haunting people?”
“It’s not good manners to haunt people, Superstar.” Another joke and again, no elaboration.
I’m about to ask Pa how exactly he was able to come back when a car honks and swerves around us. “You might be blocking the entrance,” Pa says, so I move the car over to another empty space by the fuel pumps.
“We need to merge onto EDSA to get to the airport,” Pa reminds me.
“I know.”
“Just making sure.” He stares outside again when another car moves ahead.
“I’m waiting for the right moment,” I assure him.
“You don’t have to be so careful, Superstar. It’s not like you can kill me twice.”
I groan at his joke, then Pa coaches me to make small movements and inch Martha toward EDSA.
“Other cars aren’t going to stop for you, so you need to assert yourself.”
When I finally make my move, Pa cries out.
“Don’t close your eyes! You might hit something!”
“I thought you said I couldn’t kill you twice!” I say, barely keeping my eyes open.
“But you could kill yourself once!”
Pa tells me to keep going despite my knuckles turning white from gripping the wheel. When I manage not to get run over or hit by a bus, I realize … oh my god, I’m driving along EDSA!
There’s the usual Monday traffic jam where all the cars including us are pretty much crawling down the highway, but still.
“I’m driving along EDSA!”
I feel like a dork for saying it out loud, but Pa proudly echoes, “You’re driving along EDSA.”
“Should we celebrate with some music?” His hand tries to push the car stereo knob and his face falls when his fingers slip through. I turn on the radio for him and he brightens when the familiar “doo-doo-doo” melody rings through the speakers.
“Is that really—”
“Uy!” Pa smiles and slaps his knee. “It’s Mariah!”
Mariah Carey’s voice fills the car and Pa immediately starts bobbing his head. He waits for me to sing along, but I tell him to go ahead. I give some excuse that I like focusing on the road when I’m driving.
I laugh when Pa trills his lips and makes blubbering noises.
“Need to warm up my vocals.” He massages his jaw and sings the phrase “Pa! Pa! Pa!” in different scales.
By the time he’s done warming up, the song’s already in its final chorus.
Pa jumps in and the flattest sounding note escapes his mouth when he tries belting with Mariah.
He beams when another Mariah song comes on the radio. “I feel like being a ghost improved my vocal range.”
It’s just like the million car rides I took as a kid. Being stuck in traffic while Pa in front remains unbothered since Mariah is playing on the stereo.
Whenever I fantasized about Pa coming back, I always wished he would show up in the big moments—graduation, when I become some CEO of a company, score a Tony, a Grammy (or both). I haven’t thought about how much I miss him during the small moments too.
Pa stops humming along to “Fantasy” when he turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
I wipe the tears rolling down my cheeks. “Just emotional about driving through EDSA.”
“Well, it’s a big deal, Superstar.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It really is.”