Chapter 2
Two
ISABEL
At dinner, Mama asks me if I’ve RSVP’d yet. As if deciding whether to risk your sanity for the sake of your art is a choice you can make all willy-nilly.
“Dra. Gotiangco thinks it’s a good idea,” she says.
My jaw drops. “You told her?” Dra. Gotiangco doubles as my psychiatrist and therapist. We used to meet once a week, but after we found the right cocktail of medication for me, we only see each other once a month now.
Mama holds her hands out and shrugs as if her hands are tied.
“Ma!”
“I think it’s a great idea, Isabel,” she says to me. “It’s an opportunity for you to heal and move forward.”
”I don’t need to rehash the past to do that.” But then again, a walk down memory lane is the perfect opportunity to mine my life for material.
Mama fixes me with a reproachful gaze. “People change, Sabs. Remember what you told me? The first to apologize is the bravest. The first to forgive is the strongest. And the first to forget?”
The happiest.
I’d learned that from youth group with Rocío.
My shoulders slump as I stare at my plate of sinigang and rice.
I can’t imagine Natalia ever being brave enough to apologize; years of reflecting on her actions have convinced me that she’s a coward, someone who projects her insecurities onto others and pushes those who are different from her down in order to feel good about herself.
Which makes her the perfect reference for a character study, but in a world full of terrible people, she’s a dime a dozen.
You could drop me off in a country club in Muntinlupa, blindfold me, spin me around with my finger pointed for a couple seconds, and I’ll probably land on someone just as bad, or maybe even worse.
“Be strong, Isabel,” Mama urges me. “God is with you.”
I swallow thickly. I know in my heart that even if God works His magic and I find it in my heart to forgive Natalia Aranaz, I will never forget what she did to me. And if that means I’ll never be happy, then so be it.
In the spirit of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, I am going to take ownership of all that’s ever happened to me.
After everything she’s put me through, the least Natalia can do is to offer me a glimpse behind the curtain past the social divide.
How does the one percent of the Philippines really live?
Fiction is rooted in facts; I want her to give me the cold, hard truth.
After dinner, I take the invitation from my desk and key in Shirley Sandoval’s number.
I send her a text telling her I accept Natalia’s invitation.
She replies quickly with dates and an itinerary so I can pack accordingly.
Mid-summer, we’re flying out to the Aranazes’ private island off the coast of Luzon, where they’ve built a farm and a beach resort for their exclusive use.
The rest of the time is dedicated to exploring the city.
I know for a fact that the rich, especially the top one percent like the Aranazes who built their empire on retail and real estate before diversifying into banking, telecommunications, infrastructure, and other industries, live in a completely different world despite residing in the same Metro Manila as the rest of us.
Still, I’m dubious as to why Natalia, who brags about her Spanish citizenship and spends most of her time in North America and Europe, would ever want to spend a summer in this city.
Shirley tells me a few of Natalia’s friends from New York are coming to join as well. I’ll be sharing a room with one of them due to the limited guest rooms available. She apologizes profusely for the inconvenience, which I reassure her is no problem.
When Shirley and I finish coordinating, I step out into the living room where Mama is winding down watching a K-Drama on the TV.
I lean against the door jamb. It’ll be good for her to have the house to herself for the summer; I suspect she hasn’t had a day’s rest since I was born, and maybe even before that.
Still, I worry about leaving her. It comforts me to know that she’ll always just be a call away, even though I know if anything arises, she’ll be too protective, too proud to ask me for help.
“I RSVP’d,” I tell her. She turns to me with a shocked look on her face. Her expression quickly turns into unbridled joy. She stands from the couch and pulls me into a hug. When she pulls back, she cups my face and kisses each cheek.
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You’re going to have a great time.”
“I’m probably going to be writing the whole time,” I tell her.
Mama shakes her head. “No. No, you can do that after the summer. Amparo will understand. Take a break, Sabs. Please.”
“Ma, I have a deadline to meet. I can’t—”
“For me,” she says. “Do it for me.”
Mama has never asked me for anything in the twenty-two years I’ve been alive. I swallow thickly and nod. I won’t deny her this one request, even if it scares me. I can’t.
“God is good,” she tells me, kissing my forehead. “He is always with you.”
I close my eyes and picture Amparo’s face when she finishes reading my pitch.
She’ll be on the edge of her seat, desperate to find out what happens next.
She’ll order the rest of the book and enroll me in some kind of a residency.
I’ll be paid to write a book. I’ll be living my dream.
Facing Natalia Aranaz and confronting my past is worth that, at the very least.
I spend a few hours writing out my plan in my journal.
Working out my feelings, figuring out my approach.
I flesh out my ideas, so I can go in there knowing what to look out for, what questions I’m trying to answer to carve out the narrative’s confines.
Without it, my mind will be scattered; I’ll be jotting everything down, wasting my time on inconsequential details instead of getting into the heart of things.
People are people, one way or another, we’re all the same.
But as George Orwell says in Animal Farm, while we’re all equal, some are more equal than others.
Fear and anxiety grip me as I tuck myself into bed later that night.
The thought of being around Natalia again makes me feel so small, like I’m a little kid again, that fifteen-year-old in a terno crying in the bathroom.
Mama still makes all my clothes, so what if I borrow a whole wardrobe from Rocío, just so that if nothing else, I can protect myself from such attacks?
I’m back to that feeling, as if I’m standing on the cliff’s edge, the ground below obscured by the clouds.
There are two ways this could end, and while I try my best to keep an open mind, to let God surprise me, I can’t help but feel like both outcomes end in a disaster.
Imagine: I go through all of that and end up with nothing to show for.
I fall asleep praying for guidance and for strength. Lord knows I’ll need it to get through the summer.