Chapter 47 Ligaya
LIGAYA
The Mavericks won against Toronto, securing the East Coast Conference title.
They’re currently in Seattle for the Stanley Cup Final Series, at the cusp of sweeping the Hawks after winning the first three games.
This incredible season is a big deal. Huge for the city and momentous for Tristan’s career.
I’m cheering him on from the comfort of my bed.
I’ve been asked, multiple times, What if you go into labor while he’s across the continent?
I won’t. I’m not due for another three weeks. Everything is fine. I’ve gained more weight and don’t remember how my toes look, but walking is still possible. The weekly checks have shown routine progress. Dr. LeGuin predicts I’m on track to go full term till the end of June.
Heaviness, however, has settled in like a permanent companion.
My pelvis is low and burdened, my back aches like I’ve been hauling bags of cement, and the sporadic contractions remind me that this is not a drill.
I shift on the propped pillows of my bed, searching for a comfortable angle that doesn’t exist.
I can hear Mom in the kitchen with Samantha, who arrived with enough groceries to feed a hockey team. The two of them are laughing while they scrub down countertops and argue about whether dish towels should be folded or rolled. The grandmas are getting along just fine.
Dad appears from the hallway, carrying one of the dining chairs. He sets it down right beside the bed.
“How are you doing? Want me to fetch you a popsicle?”
“I just finished one,” I say, pointing to the red stain on my pajama top.
He settles in, watching me with quiet concentration.
My father is a mild-mannered man, with an unlimited reservoir of patience and love. Looking back at my childhood, I realize that he isn’t merely surrounded by strong-willed women, he nurtured our confidence.
I have been blessed with two parents who love me unconditionally, but I’ve always turned to my father for the more sensitive, often difficult, conversations. It’s as if he can read my mind, intuitively knowing that I need him right now.
“Dad, I’m nervous. What if things don’t go as planned?” Saying anything more specific than that feels like a bad omen. Still, I crave reassurance.
“Everything will be fine, even if things don’t go exactly as planned,” he says simply. “Want me to prove it?”
“Yes!” I exclaim, though I can’t imagine how he can prove something in the future.
He leans his elbows on his knees and folds his hands like he’s narrating in front of a campfire audience.
“Let me take you back to August of the previous century. There was a heatwave that put your mom in a fit. That’s saying a lot, considering she grew up in the Philippines. The fact that this American hospital failed to provide adequate air conditioning was unimaginable.”
“Was there no electricity?”
“It was a freaky hot summer. Fans on the maternity floor were snuck in from home.”
Experiencing heat as a pregnant woman is another level of hell. I couldn’t imagine how miserable she must have been.
“My responsibilities were easy compared to hers,” he continues.
“Stay calm, count her contractions, and hand her ice chips. That was it. Except halfway through the night, I got hungry. I thought I could sneak out for a quick sandwich from the vending machine. When I came back—” He pauses, shaking his head at the memory.
“Your mother had progressed three centimeters in the time it took me to unwrap a ham and cheese.”
I laugh, a short, sharp burst. “You left your laboring wife for a sandwich?”
“The nurse was timing contractions in my place, and your mother was yelling, ‘Where is he? He’s eating!’ Every time I eat a sandwich in front of her, thirty years later, she still mutters, ‘Ham and cheese.’”
He leans closer, voice dropping for effect. “And then you made your grand entrance and no one else could get a word in. You were loud! The doctor actually said, ‘Well, she inherited her mother’s lungs.’”
I wipe at my eyes, though I’m laughing more than crying.
“Here’s the thing, Ligaya,” he adds, quieter now.
“Your mom forgave me for the sandwich. She forgot the heatwave. She didn’t mind the crying.
All she cared about was you. Tiny, fierce, healthy.
Giving birth feels chaotic while you’re in it, but once those babies are in your arms, the rest fades into background noise.
I can’t guarantee that things will go exactly as planned, but you yourself are proof of things working out in the end. ”
“Come to think about it, you rarely eat sandwiches,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’d rather eat your mom’s cooking.”
“Good point.”
He pats my hand, eyes crinkling. “But hey, if I smuggle in sandwiches this time, I’ll bring you one, too.”
My phone rings. It’s Tristan’s nightly call. My dad closes the door behind him to give us privacy.
“Hi,” I answer. He’s probably just showered after practice. I dreamily indulge in the image of Tristan toweling off and smelling all clean and yummy.
“Hey, how did it go today?”
“All good. Just resting.”
“I wish I was there.”
“You’re doing your job,” I remind him. “Somebody has to score all the goals.”
In the sports channels, he has been lauded as “the comeback kid” because of his contribution to the post season wins: one goal to wrap up the Toronto series and two goals at home during the first game against Seattle.
Even when he isn’t scoring, Tristan is the most versatile player on the ice, usually playing with different lines depending on what’s needed.
It’s as if he turned the disadvantage of being the new guy on the team into a strength.
Not being set with the usual linemates, he’s the surprise factor when the Mavericks want to make a push.
No one is faster than Tristan—that’s a fact.
“Every one of them is for you,” he declares.
“Well, your children just did somersaults, so that must mean they approve.”
I settle back against the cushions, palm resting on my belly.
“Are they still bothering Mama by moving all night?”
“Yup. Sometimes I get these zings low down. I read somewhere they’re called lightning crotch. Isn’t that funny?”
“That’s not funny at all. Lightning crotch sounds like torture or the name of a bad superhero.”
I snort. “Exactly, which is what—” A wave grips me, insistent enough that I stop mid-thought and press a hand against the cushion.
“Ligaya?” Tristan’s voice sharpens.
“I’m OK,” I say quickly, the spasm easing off almost immediately.
He exhales, but I can feel the tension humming through the line.
“You’re doing this without me, and I hate it.”
“Tristan, you’re always with me,” I say and add, to distract from his melancholy, “My mom and your mom cleaned the entire kitchen today. Bonded over vacuuming.”
“That’s the only thing keeping me from losing my mind with missing you . . . knowing you have family so close. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, Tristan. And I’m fine.”
His pause is loaded, like he’s gearing up for a big declaration. “You should know, Ligaya, every time I’m out there, it’s you I’m playing for. You, the babies, the future we could have if Columbus decides to extend my contract.”
“They will. Kick ass tomorrow, and they’ll have no choice but to keep you for the next ten seasons.”
“I’ll take a three-to-five-year contract. Enough to set something up before retirement.”
“Look at you, living your retirement days in style.”
“If it’s with you, it’s definitely in style.”
We haven’t talked about marriage directly, at least not since that strange proposal. Yet we want the same thing. That’s clearer now more than ever.
“I love you, Ligaya.”
“I love you, too.”
I could say the words a thousand times and they still couldn’t fully capture how much I feel for Tristan. We’ve come so far and yet we’re only getting started.