Ruthless Whispers: Broken Vows

Chapter 8: The Silence After Yes

The land in Busay was quiet.

Not peaceful quiet. Not restful quiet.

Empty quiet.

The kind of quiet that happens after a bomb. After everyone runs. After you realize you are the only one left standing in the crater of your own life.

I sat on the cement. The same cement Alastair said he poured himself when he was twenty. The same cement he said would hold a house. A home. A future. The same cement I promised to build a life on.

There was no house.

There was no home.

There was no future.

Just me.

And the audit file.

And his silence.

His yes.

Yes, he paid her.

Yes, he married me because I looked like her.

Yes, he lied.

Three yeses.

And then he turned around.

And walked away.

Not to me.

To the manager’s office.

He closed the door.

And left me standing there with a why that echoed louder than any answer.

Marco did not follow me out of the car. He stayed by the gate. Watching. Not guarding me. Guarding the land. Or maybe guarding himself from me. From what I might become after today.

I did not care.

Let him watch.

Let the whole world watch.

I opened the audit file.

My hands were not shaking anymore.

Galit does that. It burns the shake out of you. Leaves you cold. Steady. Leaves you with hands that can hold paper without tearing it, even when the paper is trying to tear you apart.

The first page was names.

Celina Santos Foundation Board Members.

Twelve names.

I read them slowly.

One.

Two.

Three.

I knew three.

Senator Alcaraz. The one on TV last week. The one who said, “We must protect our women. We must protect our children. We must stop the trafficking of our future.” He said it with a hand over his heart. With a flag behind him. With a smile that reached his eyes.

He was lying.

His signature was on page two.

Governor Buenavista. Not my Reyes. Another name. The one from the south. The one Lola Celing called “buwaya sa barong”. The one who opened roads and closed mouths. His signature was there too. Right under Fund Allocation: May 13.

Congressman Montelibano. The one who gave scholarships to orphans. The one who took photos with little girls in white dresses. His name was there. His signature was there. His fingerprint was there. In ink. In blood.

Nine more names.

Businessmen. Lawyers. One doctor. One dean.

All men.

All powerful.

All fathers.

All monsters.

I turned the page.

The second page was dates.

May 13, five years ago.

The day Celina took half a billion and disappeared.

The day Alastair buried something.

The day my father died.

I remembered that day.

I was twenty.

It was raining.

Lola was cooking sinigang.

There was a knock.

Two men in black.

They said Papa had an accident.

They said he was gone.

They gave us an envelope.

Money.

For the funeral.

For our silence.

Lola did not take it.

She threw it at them.

She said, “Ang buhay ng anak ko hindi nabibili.”

They left.

We buried Papa with no money.

With just flowers from the yard.

With just tears.

With just truth.

I flipped.

Beneficiaries.

List of girls. Ages 2 to 17. All from Cebu. All from poor families. All with Montemayor eyes.

The words blurred.

I blinked.

They cleared.

They were still there.

Ernesto Reyes Beneficiary: Celine Reyes, Age 2.

My father.

My name.

Age two.

I was two years old.

And I was on a list.

A list Alastair had.

A list Celina sold.

A list the board used.

A list that decided who lived, who disappeared, who got bought, who got buried.

I was on it.

Before I could walk.

Before I could talk.

Before I could say no.

I closed the file.

Not because I was done.

Because if I read one more word, I would scream. And if I screamed, I would never stop. And if I never stopped, I would become her.

Celina.

The woman who screamed into money.

The woman who traded her face for half a billion.

The woman who looked at me and said, “You should be thanking me.”

No.

I would not thank her.

I would not become her.

I would not scream.

I would think.

I would breathe.

I would fight.

The wind came.

It moved through the grass that grew between the cracks of the cement.

It smelled like rain. Like soil. Like sinigang from five years ago.

Lola Celing used to cook here. On a gas stove. Under a tarp. Before the cement. Before Alastair. Before the contract. Before the lie.

She would stir the pot with a wooden spoon that was older than me. She would taste the broth and make a face. “Kulang sa asim,” she would say. Then she would add more sampalok. Then she would stir again. Then she would say, “Celine, anak. Ang asim hindi laging masama. Minsan, yun ang maglilinis ng dugo. Minsan, yun ang magpapagising sayo.”

I did not understand it then.

I was fifteen.

I thought asim was just for food.

I understood it now.

This silence was asim.

It was cleaning me.

Burning my tongue.

Burning my throat.

Burning my tears away.

Waking me up.

I stood.

Dust on my dress. On my hands. On my knees.

The dust of a house that was never built.

The dust of a future that was never mine.

The dust of a lie.

I was not Celine Reyes the wife anymore.

Wives get answers.

I got silence.

I was not Celine Santos the replacement.

Replacements get paid.

I got used.

I was Celine.

Just Celine.

Daughter of Ernesto.

Granddaughter of Celing.

Girl from the list.

And Celine was done asking.

I walked to the edge of the land. Where the cement stopped and the cliff began. Where the city was far below. Where the lights were starting to turn on. One by one. Like questions. Like eyes. Like witnesses.

Alastair built this place for me, he said.

He built structures, he said.

He built futures, he said.

He pointed at the view and said, “See that. That is yours. That is ours. That is safe.”

He lied.

He did not build trust.

He did not build truth.

He built a cage.

With cement. With money. With silence.

With a view that was beautiful only if you did not know what was buried under it.

And he expected me to live in it.

To plant sampaguita in it.

To cook sinigang in it.

To thank him for it.

To love him for it.

To call it home.

I laughed.

Once. Short. Bitter.

The sound scared me.

Because it did not sound like me.

It did not sound like the girl who said “I do” in a courthouse.

It did not sound like the girl who believed “Part three of the deal. No love” could be changed.

It sounded like her.

Like Celina.

Like the woman who stood in a bank and said “I changed my mind” like changing your mind about five years and half a billion was nothing.

Like the woman who took the money and walked away.

Like the woman who looked at me and saw a cheaper version.

No.

I was not her.

She took the money and ran.

She took the deal and broke it.

She took the face and sold it.

I would take the truth and fight.

I would take the file and open it.

I would take the name and reclaim it.

I looked at the audit file in my hand.

Then at the city.

At the BPI building where Alastair was still probably sitting in that office. Staring at the wall. Staring at the door I walked out of. Saying nothing.

Good.

Let him sit.

Let him choke on his yes.

Let him drown in the silence he gave me.

Because I was done waiting for his why.

I was done being the girl in the waiting room.

I was done being the girl in the contract.

I was done being the girl in the photo.

I took my phone out.

No signal.

Of course.

Busay was always a dead zone.

Lola used to say, “Walang signal dito, Celine. Kaya tahimik. Kaya payapa. Kaya safe.”

She was wrong.

It was not safe.

It was isolated.

It was controlled.

It was a cage.

And Alastair bought it for that exact reason.

So no one could call.

So no one could warn me.

So no one could take me.

So I could not leave.

He built me a cage with a view.

And called it love.

I walked back to the car.

My legs were steady.

My heart was not.

But my hands were.

And my hands were what mattered now.

Marco was still there.

Leaning on the hood.

Looking at the ground.

Not at me.

Like if he did not look, he would not have to choose.

“Ma’am,” he said when he heard me.

His voice was careful.

Like he was talking to a glass that was already cracked.

“Take me home,” I said.

He nodded. Started to open the back door.

“Not to the penthouse,” I said.

He stopped.

“Take me to Lola’s old house in Mabolo. The one with the blue gate. The one with the broken pot.”

Marco blinked.

“Sir said you should go home. To rest. He said.”

“I do not care what Sir said,” I said. My voice was not loud. It was worse. It was calm. It was final. It was the voice Lola used when she was done talking. “You have two choices, Marco. Drive me, or I walk. And if I walk, and something happens to me on these roads at night, you explain to Alastair why his protection failed. Again. You explain to him why the girl from the list did not make it home. You explain to him why yes was not enough.”

Marco looked at me.

Really looked at me.

For three seconds.

Maybe four.

His eyes were not a bodyguard’s eyes anymore.

They were a man’s eyes.

A man who was tired of choosing between two people who were both drowning.

He nodded.

Once.

He opened the front passenger door.

Not the back.

The front.

Like I was not cargo anymore.

Like I was not a package to be delivered.

Like I was a person.

I got in.

We drove in silence.

Down from Busay.

Through the curves that Lola used to pray through.

Past the trees that hid the city.

Past the city that hid the truth.

No radio.

No words.

Just the sound of my breathing.

And his silence.

Same as Alastair’s.

But different.

Alastair’s silence was a wall.

Built to keep me out.

Marco’s silence was a question.

Asking if I was sure.

I was sure.

When we got to Mabolo, the street was narrow.

The houses were old.

The air smelled like fried fish and laundry and rain.

It smelled like real.

It smelled like before.

The house was dark.

Of course it was. Lola was gone three years.

The blue gate was rusted.

The sampaguita she planted was dead.

The vines were brown.

The windows were closed.

The house was holding its breath.

Waiting.

For me.

The key was still under the broken pot.

The pot I broke when I was ten.

Lola did not get mad.

She just said, “Pag nawala ako, Celine, umuwi ka. Ang susi nasa ilalim ng paso. Para hindi ka mawala. Para lagi kang may uuwian.”

I picked it up.

The key was rusted too.

But it fit.

The gate opened with a sound like crying.

The yard was weeds.

The door was swollen from rain.

I pushed.

The house smelled like old wood. Like mothballs. Like dust. Like her.

Like Lola.

Like truth.

I did not turn on the lights.

I did not need to.

I knew this house.

I walked to the kitchen.

My feet remembered.

The gas stove was still there.

The one with the missing knob.

The one Lola said “mas matanda pa sa tatay mo”.

The pot was still there.

The big kaldero.

The same pot she used for sinigang every Sunday.

The same pot she used the day Papa died.

The same pot she did not use after that.

I touched it.

Cold.

Empty.

Dented.

But mine.

Ours.

I sat on the floor.

The same floor I sat on when I was five and had a fever.

The same floor Lola slept on when she was too tired to get to the bed.

The same floor that was not cement.

The same floor that was wood.

That was home.

I opened the audit file again.

The light from my phone was enough.

One bar.

The page glowed.

And I started reading.

Every name.

Every date.

Every lie.

Senator Alcaraz May 13 Approved 50M.

Governor Buenavista May 13 Approved 30M.

Congressman Montelibano May 13 Approved 20M.

Dr. Salvador May 13 Approved 10M.

Dean Villanueva May 13 Approved 5M.

I stopped.

A dean.

Even the schools were for sale.

I kept reading.

Beneficiaries Female Ages 2 to 17.

Celine Reyes, Age 2. Ernesto Reyes, Father. Status: Active.

Active.

I was active.

I was not saved.

I was not hidden.

I was active.

On a list.

For five years.

While I was eating sinigang.

While I was going to school.

While I was marrying Alastair.

I was active.

I was not Celine Reyes the victim anymore.

I was Celine Reyes the witness.

I was Celine Reyes the evidence.

And witnesses talk.

They do not wait for why.

They do not wait for sorry.

They do not wait for men to turn around.

They make why happen.

They make sorry bleed.

They make men turn.

I read until my eyes burned.

Until the names blurred into lines.

Until the lines blurred into bars.

Until one name made me stop.

Until one name made my heart stop.

Senator Alcaraz.

Board member.

Signature on the May 13 document.

The same Senator Alcaraz who was on TV last week.

Standing in front of a school.

Holding a little girl’s hand.

Talking about “protecting women. Protecting children. Stopping trafficking. Building a better Philippines.”

He smiled.

The girl smiled.

The cameras flashed.

The crowd clapped.

And his signature was on a paper that sold me.

Hypocrite.

Liar.

Devil in a barong.

I looked at the number next to his name.

Private number.

From five years ago.

Under it, in pen, Alastair’s handwriting: “Do not call.”

I laughed.

Again.

Bitter.

Loud.

It echoed in the empty house.

Lola would have hit me with a slipper for laughing like that.

She would have said, “Ang demonyo lang ang tumatawa ng ganyan, Celine.”

Maybe I was.

Maybe I needed to be.

To fight them.

I looked at my phone.

One bar.

Still.

Enough.

Enough for one call.

Enough for one why.

Might be a dead number.

Might be changed.

Might be him.

Only one way to find out.

I dialed.

My thumb did not shake.

The number glowed on the screen.

I pressed call.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

My heart was not beating.

It was waiting.

Then,

“Celine Reyes?” The voice was old. Tired. Like it had been waiting five years to be tired. Like it had been carrying a coffin for five years. “This is Senator Alcaraz. I have been expecting your call. About your father. About May 13. About why you were on that list. We need to talk. Now. Before he finds you. Before he silences you too.”