34. Chapter Thirty-Three Gloria
Chapter Thirty-Three: Gloria
T oday is All Saints' Day, when we visit and clean the graves of our deceased family members. It's just me, Eddie, Paulo, our parents, and our Tito James, who are going to the mausoleum today. Raina and Kostas will join us for our big family dinner later.
Bags of cleaning supplies, flowers, and candles weigh us down. Plus, the food. There’s always a quasi-picnic on All Saints’ Day after we finish cleaning the graves of their dead relatives. We kept it simple with a large batch of Filipino spaghetti, with banana ketchup and sliced hot dogs.
As we set up our cleaning supplies around the grave where my grandparents and Tita Dolores—Eddie’s mom—were cremated, I realize for the first time that I’m glad London isn’t here.
Although All Saints’ Day is more joyful than All Souls’ Day tomorrow, it still feels right that only our family is here.
Mom squeezes my shoulder, like she knows what I’m thinking.
We scrub the dirt off their headstones, then arrange chrysanthemums and anthuriums in the vases and add water.
Candles are neatly arranged around the headstone as well and lit with matches.
While it’s still bright outside, the candles add to my somber, sacred mood .
Other families are gathered around us in their family mausoleums. The streets were packed on the way here, not just with traffic but vendors selling everything from snacks to candles to children’s toys.
Tents and umbrellas are set up outside the colourful buildings, parked cars crowding the streets as everyone pays their respects.
Despite the bustling of other families around us, it feels like it’s only us gathered here. The work has gone by too quickly and I’m left with my thoughts. I make the sign of the cross and whisper the traditional prayer to myself for the departed souls of my grandparents and Tita Dolores.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
“I miss my mom every day,” Eddie says to me. I almost jump out of my skin, having not realized he was standing next to me. Tears blur my vision.
“Me, too,” I say. But is that true? Guilt certainly weighs on me heavily for her death. But am I really thinking about her and the beautiful life she lived? Or only thinking about how I could have changed things so that she lived?
“But I’m really glad that I have you guys,” he continues. “Especially you.”
My heart clenches with remorse. “I wish she could be here. I… Every year, I wonder if I could have changed things. If maybe her death was my fault, and I should have gone to the beach with you that day. Maybe she would still be here if I had.”
Tears leak from my eyes along with regret at my words, and I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I shouldn’t be dumping this all on him. He’s too young to have to comfort me in my guilt and remorse.
“You know, right after my mom died, I thought it was my fault,” Eddie says. “I was the one who wanted to go to the beach that day. I was the one who played pretend that I was Aquaman and thought I could save us from a hurricane. ”
“Eddie, of course you weren’t responsible.” His words pierce the layers of grief that have encased my heart for so many years. He was only seven.
He spins around to look at me, an intense expression belying his youthful demeanour. “And you weren’t responsible for my mom’s death, either. The hurricane is.”
Something cracks in my heart. The floodgates of guilt give way to another, stronger emotion. Grace . “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right.”
“It’s okay.” He wraps me in a hug. We’re practically the same height now. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than me, but still pretty skinny. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Eddie.” I squeeze him back. He smells like salt air and fresh pan de sal .
We return to the rest of our family, who are setting up a picnic on a table inside the mausoleum, laying out plates and cutlery and food on the glossy white stone surface.
As we dig into the food, I feel freer—less weighed down by my worries, guilt, and by the past than I have been in a long time. I’m with my family, and that’s what matters the most.
The next day, All Souls’ Day, we get ready to go to Mass. Kostas is Greek Orthodox, but he goes with us anyway, saying he’d like to remember his mom. Apparently, the Orthodox don’t celebrate All Souls’ Day. Raina grew up Catholic, so she’s used to the traditional liturgies.
I spy my aunts and older cousins and our Lola, all wearing mantilla veils as they cross themselves before entering the church. Paulo walks next to me, while Raina and Kostas follow behind us. We scan the pews for an empty row to fit all of us, and find one near the back.
We go through the motions of the mass: kneeling, sitting, and standing when appropriate.
The Bible readings seem to hit me more strongly than they have at other masses.
Maybe because I haven’t been to church in a few months, telling myself God would understand that I had to work overtime for the promotion.
Now that I’m in the Philippines with my family, though, all of that feels so far-off. So unimportant.
One of the parishioners reads the Old Testament passage, from the book of Wisdom.
" …But they are in peace. "
The words linger in my mind as Mass continues. I think of Tita Dolores in the hand of God, not actually dead but alive, at peace.
Father Nilo gives a homily about how grief reminds us that life on earth is short. With a twinge of pain, I think of London and the awkward way we left things. The time I’ve spent with him, even as friends, has been some of the happiest of my life.
I can’t imagine never seeing him again. Never talking to him again.
Never making up silly British nicknames for him.
Or drinking bubble tea together. Never seeing his smile or hearing his ridiculous puns.
Even seeing him push his glasses up his nose absentmindedly when he’s concentrating on a legal brief.
All the little details about him that form the constellation of the man I love.
Even if I’m not sure how our eventual reunion will go, I know that I can’t stand the thought of losing everything we’ve built because we let our fears and insecurities overshadow the love we have for each other.
As we file out of the church, we cross ourselves with the holy water from the font next to the door. Raina dabs at her eyes with one of Kostas’ monogrammed handkerchiefs. “That was a beautiful service.”
Kostas gives his assent with a nod, though his grey eyes seem to be gleaming faintly with unshed tears.
Paulo smiles at the two of them. “I’m glad you guys thought so.”
A sense of peace and purpose washes over me, the first I’ve felt in a long time. I know what I have to do .
“You seem different,” Paulo observes a few hours later when we’re having merienda —a late afternoon meal between lunch and dinner—at a local cafe. I pick at my kwek-kwek —fried quail eggs in a crunchy, salty batter—and enjoy the scenery and people around me.
“What do you mean?”
“After Mass, I mean. And these past two days. When you first got here, you seemed so sad, so weighed down by everything that had happened. You look happier now,” he says.
“I am,” I say. And I’m surprised that I mean it.
Just then, my phone buzzes, and I get an email notification telling me I've received a response to my job application. My pulse speeds as I open the email, scanning the words.
Dear Ms. Romero,
We've received your application to work for our nonprofit, Healing Hearts Children’s Home. After reviewing your resume and cover letter, we would love to have you come to our office for an interview. Are you available sometime this week between the hours of 10 am and 6 pm?
Sincerely,
Shannon Ford
Hiring Manager
I squeal and pump my fist before realizing what I'm doing. Every eye in the delivery room lands on me.
"Sorry," I say, sticking my phone back into my blazer pocket. "I just got an exciting email."
"Exciting and email should never be used in the same sentence,” Paulo jokes.
"This one is exciting. It's from the nonprofit I applied to—they want me to come in for an interview sometime this week."
“I didn’t know you were changing jobs,” Paulo says .
Raina, Kostas, and my other family members look over at me curiously.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I want to do what I actually signed up to law school for. To help people who actually need it.” I take a deep breath, glancing at each of their faces. None of them seem upset or condemning at my choice.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” my mom says, squeezing my hand. “I’m so proud of you.”
A warm glow of love surrounds me, and I turn my attention back to the email. I type out a response telling them when I'll be available. Even if a pang of guilt nudges at me when I think about the promotion and Wendy.
But I have to do this. I have to choose what truly fulfills me—even if it's not what others want for me.