Chapter 18 Ligaya
LIGAYA
The pickleball court is new to the Centerstone Community Center, although the dynamic of this match is vintage Torres family.
It might as well be the Monopoly board from my childhood, except instead of bankrupting me with hotel fees, my mom is trying to annihilate me with her terrifying backhand.
The cold November air mixes with our heated breathing.
You’d think it’s the US Open for how seriously I take my serve.
Parents vs. daughters. The tradition continues.
We’re four people who have different, perhaps even seemingly incompatible, personalities on the surface. There’s rarely a discussion without a debate, or a competition without trash talk. The one thing we have in common is enjoying each other’s company.
Dad is our steady rock. Pragmatic and protective.
The man is the human equivalent of a seatbelt.
Always keeping “his girls”—and in that, he includes his wife—from flying off the rails.
Orlando is unconditionally supportive of his very different daughters.
One of them a determined and courageous warrior, the other a smart-ass theater junkie.
Me. I’m the smart-ass theater junkie.
Mom is warmth and might in equal measure. Cathy will hug you and offer encouraging words, then trash-talk your pickleball serve in the next breath. She’s got a mean competitive streak that her daughters inherited. But unlike either of us, Mom can cook a feast to take the sting off a loss.
Or the sting off the pickleball! She overhead smashed into my foot!
Ami is visiting on leave from her station at Fort Worth, Texas.
I know it’s selfish, but I don’t spend a lot of time asking about that part of her life.
Unfortunately, my stress about my sister’s choice to serve in the military overshadows all else.
Her deployments wreck me. I’m grateful for her patriotic duty, but terrified of the potential cost.
We talk about a lot of things, but not that.
At the moment, Ami and I are trying our best to undermine the parental unit, but I’m playing like garbage.
My body’s dragging, my focus is shot, and I’ve missed more returns than I care to admit.
I blame the virus I caught at work. High school kids are basically petri dishes that stare at their phones and complain about curfews.
“I’m carrying you,” Ami says after she lands a savage smash. Dad dinks the return. I flail and miss. The ball rolls away in disgrace.
“You carried me into defeat, Ate,” I mutter, winded. Ate is the Tagalog word for older sister, and a form of respect in Filipino culture.
Before I can sulk, Ami throws an arm around me and pulls me in tight. She smells like Dove soap and Tide detergent. Familiar. Safe. She presses a quick kiss to my temple like she used to when we were kids and I had a bad dream.
“We’ll get them next time,” she assures me. I lucked out. My big sister is the best.
Back at our mid-century time capsule of a bungalow, dinner is in motion.
She’s only here for the weekend, so this Saturday night is extra special.
My parents went full fiesta-mode. Grilled chicken skewers marinated in sweet, sticky Filipino sauce made with soy, brown sugar, garlic, and magic.
There are shrimps thawing for the pancit, enough rice to feed a hockey team, and lechon kawali frying on the stove.
We help put away the latest Costco haul. I point at the wall of toilet paper rolls. “Look, Ate! they knew you were coming. Preparing for the apocalypse.”
“No joke, sis. I prayed for two-ply when I was stationed in the desert,” she says, hoisting a package onto her shoulder like it’s a sack of feathers.
The kitchen is warm and cluttered with love.
Brown laminate counters. A fridge covered in old magnets from road trips.
The same lumpy wooden spoon that’s been in use since the turn of the century.
Garlic and soy sauce—the savory fragrance of home—floats in the air.
It’s making me ravenous. Unfortunately, we’re not allowed to snack and ruin our dinner appetite. That’s the rule.
Mom stops me from sneaking a piece of the lechon.
“You two can wait ten minutes. Go set the table.”
I gather plates and glasses, resigned but not defeated. “You’re making enough to feed the block, Mom,” I say.
“Shut up,” Ami cuts in, gathering Tupperware from the pantry. “The containers are ready. I’m freezing leftovers and bringing them back to Texas.”
“Not if I grab them for myself,” I tease.
Dinner is delicious and boisterous. I see my parents at least once a week, but it’s not as elaborate as when Ami comes over. Having her back in town turns the gathering into a holiday.
Everyone’s talking over each other. Dad tries to tell a story about a clogged sink, but no one listens. Mom claims Jollibee isn’t “real” Filipino food. Ami and I protest, united. I shovel pancit onto my plate. After a few bites, I can’t seem to chew.
Curse the sickness that keeps me from shrimp!
I wonder if my classroom can be mandated as a masked-only zone to prevent the spread of sickness. Or maybe I can spray them with Germ-X when they cross the doorframe, like a carwash but for hygiene.
Dad asks me something about my students. Mom asks Ami if she saw the contraband recording of The Addams Family she made. Ami says she loved it.
In feigned innocence, Mom poses questions about Ami and whether or not she’s dating. She isn’t. Cathy Torres turns to me. I confirm that I, too, am single. Ami and I love our mother unconditionally, but we do our best to sidestep this line of questioning.
Mom gulps down wine, swallowing her disappointment that her girls aren’t dating anyone seriously.
She grew up in the Philippines, so she can’t quite wrap her mind around not wanting to get married and have babies.
At the same time, she raised women who are fiercely independent and strong-willed.
Discussions about our single status inevitably unleash our mom’s central existential conundrum: how can I love my girls exactly as they are and yet want them to have more?
And by “more” she means grandkids for her.
“Tristan visited me at the laundromat this week,” Dad says cheerfully, thinking it will shift the discussion away from singlehood.
His wife is about to launch hints about her friends’ growing brood of grandkids.
The flavor of passive-aggressive matchmaking is bound to turn the dinner sour, which is why he changes the topic.
Little does he know, this conversation will not improve my digestion.
Ami pauses mid-chew, narrows her eyes. “Tristan? As in Hockey Tristan?”
I pull at a BBQ chicken, disentangling it from the skewer with more force than necessary. “That’s the one.”
“You didn’t mention he was back.”
I shrug. Chew slowly. Drink water. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
She looks at me suspiciously but doesn’t press. Thank god.
After dinner, Ami and I are on dishwashing duty. The house is quiet except for the clink of plates and the Netflix show Dad puts on while he naps.
She nudges my shoulder. “Hey. You sure you’re OK?”
“Exhausted from a long week.”
She rinses a plate, watching me out of the corner of her eye.
“You look more than physically drained. More like inside tired.”
“Thank you, Dr. Diagnosis.”
“I’m serious. Do you have a fever?”
She wipes her wet hand and places it on my forehead.
Her palm smells faintly like dish soap and garlic.
And that tiny, familiar gesture—the same one she used when I was sick and had to miss school—sends a mix of nostalgia and nausea through me.
The lingering taste of shrimp clogs my throat. I turn away to quell a gag.
“Are you going to throw up?”
“No,” I snap.
Shit, I think I’m going to throw up.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were pregnant.” My sister chuckles at her stupid joke.
Except . . .
My heart lurches. My stomach churns. My brain scrambles. I do The. Math.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Ami turns to me so quickly, she gets some dishwater on my shirt.
“What do you mean by oh no?”
The night with Tristan was nearly six weeks ago, right around my mid-cycle window. Which means I haven’t had my period in two freaking months.
I stiffen and nearly drop the plate I’m holding.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. What’s the matter?”
“I’m a little, um, late.” The last word is barely a whisper.
“Don’t joke about that, Ligaya.”
My glare is serious.
“How late?” she asks loudly.
“Forget it. Never mind.”
“How many weeks?”
“Eight. Maybe nine,” I squeak.
Her eyes go wide. “Are you possibly preg—”
“Shh!” I hiss. “Not so loud!”
She purses her lips like she’s determined to discredit my wonky math. I’d like that, too. Surely, a calendar will reveal my faulty memory.
“We’re having a sleepover at your place tonight,” Ami declares.
“Ate—”
“It’s happening.”
She wipes her hands and disappears into the dining room. She tells Mom something about sisterly bonding and girl talk. Within seconds they’re back in the kitchen.
“I’ll make you baon,” Mom says, already reaching for foil. “Thanks for doing the dishes.”
We finish washing up while Mom packs up our baon.
There isn’t an exact equivalent of this Tagalog word in the English language.
It’s sort of a doggie bag, but the concept exceeds leftover scraps of a meal.
Baon signifies food to remind you of home.
An emergency stash of your mother’s love when food is how she expresses that love.
“Call me when you get home,” she orders us both.
We hug goodbye, and Dad mumbles from the recliner, half-asleep under a throw blanket, “Drive safe. No racing.”
Ami grabs the car keys before I can argue. The November air is chilly with a hint of distant fireplaces. We load up the trunk with a plastic bag of leftovers, pancit and lechon in Tupperware, and leche flan in a shoebox that is questionably spill-proof.