Chapter 45 Ligaya
LIGAYA
My parents’ house is bursting at the seams. This baby shower at thirty-two weeks might have been optimistic on my part. I am sooo huge. Once the titas get involved, though, there’s not much room to revise plans.
By the way, although tita is normally an aunt’s title, it is also what you call the women in the Filipino community who cook and hug and laugh and gossip and feast together. We might not be related by blood, but there are other ties that bind.
Balloons bob against the ceiling fan, streamers drape across the windows, and every flat surface is covered in pastel food trays.
Turon next to cupcakes with purple and yellow icing, pancit beside pink punch.
Whoever invented “spring rainbow” as a theme never had to wrangle this many women with strong decorating opinions.
It looks like an Easter parade collided with a fiesta.
Ami flew in last night, and she’s buffering the onslaught of unsolicited advice, Filipino edition.
“Don’t use those store-bought creams,” Tita Carmen warns, wagging her finger. “Coconut oil is the best for your stretchmarks.”
I don’t tell her that I use coconut oil and store-bought cream, but neither have stopped the stretchmarks.
Tita Regi adds in a whisper, “And absolutely no scary movies.”
“Look at Belen’s daughter,” says Tita Johanna, pointing at her own face dramatically. “Always scowling. You know why? Because her mother watched zombie movies while she was pregnant.”
“She’s a teenager,” Ami deadpans. “All teenagers scowl.”
“She’s been doing that since she was a toddler.” Tita shakes her head gravely. “Disturbing.”
I wheeze-laugh into my soda and pineapple juice.
Neighbors, coworkers, and family friends hug me, pat my belly like it’s a community drum, and keep telling me I’m glowing. In reality, I’m sweating through my dress and waddling like a penguin in orthopedic sandals.
Seven pounds in the last month alone. Apparently normal. Sleep is a memory. My bladder is a diva demanding encores every hour. And the horniness that had taken a vacation the last few weeks? Back with fangs.
Tristan is away for game four against Toronto tonight. It’s the East Coast Final and the second to the last team on the way to the National Championship. I could not be more proud. But it’s been five days, and I miss him terribly.
Body: I’d like to file an official complaint regarding the inadequacy of zero daily orgasm allowance.
Uterus: My need for peace and quiet is more important than your raging libido.
Body: But the playoff beard!
Tristan isn’t going to shave until the playoffs finish or until the Mavericks win the championship. Hopefully the latter. I love the feel of his beard on my lips, against my palm, between my legs . . .
“Time for presents!” Ami calls everyone over to the living room.
Mom sits beside me, helping me with the endless tape and ribbons because my stomach sticking out make my arms about as effective as T-Rex stumps.
Each gift sets off its own commentary chorus. A bottle warmer shaped like a coffee machine earns gasps. “You put the formula here, the water here, press one button—it’s ready in seconds,” Tita Johanna explains.
“In our day,” Tita Carmen sighs, “we tested the temperature on our wrists.”
Someone else mutters, “Breastfeeding is really the way to go.”
Everyone and their opinions have come to party.
There’s a wipe dispenser that’s a sleek work of art, a diaper bag so chic it could double as my work tote, and an avalanche of tiny clothes that send me into squealing fits. Soft overalls, bunny-ear hoodies, socks the size of golf balls.
I try to make a gracious speech, but the words spill out messily.
“Thank you, everyone, for being here. For your generous gifts. So many gifts! Wow, I’m so very grateful. A special thanks to Mom and Dad for hosting us. Ami, you’ve been supportive from the beginning. Thank you for always, always believing in me.”
I tear up a bit when I see my military badass sister sniffle a sob.
“Tristan and I are not raising these babies alone because we’re part of this . . . this village. All of you are helping pave the way for our new adventure. So, thank you for the food, the gifts, the laughter, and for reminding me what it means to be a community.”
By the time I finish, everyone is sniffling into napkins, even Tita Johanna who insists it’s allergies. I’m wrapped in the cushiony arms of Tita Cecilia who says some kind of prayer under her breath while touching my stomach. Someone shoves a cupcake into my hand.
Suddenly, the air in the room shifts.
By the front door, a figure in a Chanel suit stands unsteadily.
Samantha Thorne, Tristan’s mother, is clutching her purse and holding her breath.
I haven’t seen her since that disastrous brunch in January. Her face carries new lines, making her look less like a mannequin. Without the placid smoothness of her Botox injections, she looks less detached. More present.
“Um, hello, I just wanted to drop off a gift.”
“Come in, Samantha,” my mother says. Thank goodness she speaks for me, because I’m still at a loss for words.
“Hi, Cathy. I don’t want to disturb the—”
“Please come in, Mrs. Thorne,” I finally say.
Her timid steps pause when she sees the shoes by the hallway. After a beat, she slips off her kitten heels and strides toward me, arms offering an envelope and a gift bag.
“Thank you,” I say and give Ami a glance.
My sister makes some kind of comment about the cupcakes which other people pick up on. The herd shuffles to the buffet spread in the dining room. Chatter muffles into a hum as I sit alone with Tristan’s mom.
Her voice lowers but doesn’t falter. “I’m sorry to pop in like this. Cathy invited me a month ago, and I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t even RSVP, it’s just . . . I mean . . .”
“We’re happy you could make it. And thank you for your gifts. He’ll be so happy to know you came to the shower.”
She swallows with effort, her hands fidgeting on her lap. “I haven’t reached out because . . . because I’ve been in rehab.”
Shaken by her statement, I’m not sure if I should offer pity or congratulations. Maybe a bit of both?
Ever the height of eloquence, I simply mumble, “Oh.”
“And I left him. Tristan’s father. I filed for divorce and have my own little place. Not far from here.”
Wow. Just wow. It’s shocking, but I can’t help thinking the appropriate response to the divorce is congratulations for leaving that jerk.
“That’s a lot of changes, Mrs. Thorne,” I state instead.
“Samantha,” she interjects. “Please.”
“Well, Samantha, you’ve made considerable life changes in a short amount of time. How are you coping? Is there anything I can do? Do you need help with the move?”
She exhales roughly and pushes through with a trembling voice.
“I’m not here to ask for help. I’m here to ask for forgiveness.
The way we treated you when you had the news.
I . . . I was not well, Ligaya. My, um, my medicines don’t mix well with alcohol.
I shouldn’t have been drinking at all. The pictures of the ultrasound, they shook me.
There’s no excuse for my behavior. I should’ve come sooner, but I wasn’t ready.
I don’t expect forgiveness overnight, but I want to be here now in whatever way I can.
If you think I should leave till you talk to Tristan, I understand. Do you want me to leave?”
Her speech got faster and faster till she ended with a squeaky, high-pitched inflection.
“I would never ask you to leave, Samantha. And Tristan wouldn’t want that, either.”
Tears stream down her face while she shakes her head. I reach out to hug her. My tummy makes it extremely awkward, but I try.
“We’re family now,” I say. At that moment, the kids do their typical cartwheels. “Do you want to feel them? I think the sugar from the cupcake is kicking in.”
“Really?”
“If you want to.”
She nods rapidly, the glimmer of anticipation lightening the weight of worry.
I place her hand at the top where there’s more activity. My lungs are cramped and my bladder is full, but I try to keep very still so she can focus on the movement.
She gasps when she feels the push of a limb.
“Oh, Ligaya.”
“Here’s another one. Lower.”
Her hand is gentle along my side as a round shape pushes against my stomach wall. More than likely, one of the babies is wiggling their butt.
Samantha makes a sound like she’s choking on laughter. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Wanna keep me company? I’m getting hungry again. These two are voracious.”
“God, I miss Cathy’s cooking,” she mutters reverently.
“What are we waiting for? Let’s get some pancit.”