TWO
1818 Words
TWO
Anyone who knew Datu Alvez as a child was acquainted with his fiery temperament. Relatives often attributed this to his birth order. After all, it was always the middle child who acted out, and always the middle child who got the scraps.
He wasn’t the pride and joy. That was Isagani. He wasn’t the sweetheart, either. That was Pio. To his parents, he was simply Datu. The disappointment, if Geronimo Alvez was being generous.
His father used to like having friends over and often held brandy-induced spur-0f-the-moment talent shows in their living room in San Juan. He would tell everyone how “my Isagani learned how to play the piano at three!” and how “angelic my Pio’s singing voice is!” followed by “Quick, quick! Mga anak, show my friends how good you are!”
Only the shy, reclusive Datu didn’t have anything to show, and this often prompted his father to say: “Datu makes me wonder if we had babies switched at the hospital.”
Because there was boisterous laughter that followed every time, he filed away the statement as a joke. The more he heard it, though, the more he felt like he was the joke.
For many years, and in countless different ways, he had sought his father’s approval and failed, to his chagrin. Only after he had brought home his first Best Short Film award at the annual CineMagiting Film Festival did he decide to stop trying to impress Gerry Alvez. Because what was the point in trying to impress someone whose eyes wouldn’t even spare you a single glance? He would rather focus on mastering his craft than play the Look Dad! I Made This! game.
And so these days, Datu took pride in the fact that he’d mastered two fine arts: Getting s**t Together, and, more importantly, Not Giving a f**k. He was often unruffled and in control. A feat, considering the industry he worked in.
Tonight, however, it took only two words to unravel him.
I’m pregnant.
It was hot out here, maybe several-degrees-from-hell stifling, and yet he could feel the tips of his fingers grow cold.
“So, like…a food baby?”
He regretted it the moment he said it. Nope. No way to save that.
“No.” His gaze fell on the hand Kalila pressed over her stomach. The absence of an obvious bump confused him for a second. “Like…a human baby.”
“Oh.”
You i***t, he told himself. You couldn’t have asked Kalila first if she was seeing someone before inviting her to dinner and launching into your TOTGA speech?
Confused and bewildered, Datu felt like he needed to lie down and process this.
“I’m sorry, I was under the impression you—” he mumbled, paused. “When you kissed me before I left for La Union, I thought it meant something.”
She blinked and looked away, chewing on her bottom lip as though regretting what she had done the night he’d taken her and Rainbow to the vet. He had to be at a gig north of Metro Manila the next day, and before he left, Kalila had thanked him. With a kiss on the lips.
“I’m sorry. I was very emotional, and so overwhelmed…”
He deflated. How was he thirty-one and still losing his s**t over a f*****g kiss like he had not played tonsil hockey with random women before? Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss. Nothing more.
“Sorry, I didn’t think to ask if you were seeing anyone, I just assumed right away that—”
“Oh, no. I am not seeing anyone.”
Say what, now?
The hands he kept in his pockets balled into fists as heat crept up the back of his neck, burning his earlobes. “What the f**k? Are you telling me your baby daddy up and left?”
A small, amused smile appeared on Kalila’s face as she reached out to touch his arm. The simple gesture was often a prelude to her pacifying him before he blew up and wrecked things. Unsurprisingly, it still worked.
“Let’s find some place to sit down and talk about this?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“How about that café over there?”
His mind was a mess of questions as they quietly followed the snaking path toward the café. Before they could get closer, he spied a group of people exiting the establishment to smoke. Now, he might not know jack about pregnancy, but he at least remembered that pregnant women should not be around smokers. Catching Kalila’s wrist, he said, “I think there’s a designated smoking area near the café. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Oh, okay.”
“How about we just drive around in my car while you tell me everything. There’s air-conditioning and you’ll be more comfortable…”
She looked at him like she was grateful he uttered the words “air-conditioning.”
“Sounds good to me.”
. . . . .
Isagani was already pulling open the gates to the garage when Datu slowed to a stop in front of their compound.
“Knew it was you,” his elder brother said as Datu rolled down the window. He didn’t need help parking, but Isagani went through the motions anyway and remained standing by the door as Datu got out of the car.
“Problema?”
Datu replied with a nonchalant shrug which didn’t deter his kuya from speaking again.
“I was standing by my bedroom window and saw you circle the block three times before I came down and opened the gate. What’s the matter?”
“Wala,” Datu sighed and walked past him. “Just having some problems funding our latest project.”
“Funding? O, AFFA can help.”
“Save it, Kuya. I don’t—” He raised a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” Sluggishly, he went up the porch steps and pushed the door open.
It was one-ish in the morning, and the dimly lit house was a sight he expected. But light still flooded the kitchen, and if he listened closely, he would hear a pleasant hum over the tinkling of silver ware. Without thinking too much about it, Datu walked into the kitchen and announced his arrival with a back hug and a kiss on his mother’s hair.
“Datu!” she exclaimed and dropped her spoon so she could cup her son’s cheeks. “I thought you were coming home next week pa! Kumain ka na?”
“I didn’t skip meals, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Good, good. Are you staying for a few days?”
“I guess I am.”
Cecilia Alvez’s eyes became crescents when she grinned. “O, sige. Tell me what you want to have for lunch tomorrow, and I won’t take ‘kahit ano’ for an answer.”
He chuckled. “Pochero.”
“Done.” Cecilia patted his cheeks. “Now go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I had a long afternoon nap!”
Too tired to argue about her sleep patterns, Datu simply told her to go to bed soon and ambled out of there. Isagani, who had just come out of the toilet, bumped into him at the hall as he was stepping into his room.
“Dats.”
“Kuya.”
“We’re not using dad’s money, okay?”
“I know.”
“All right. If you change your mind—”
“Good night, Kuya.”
Malayong Maging Malaya—the film Datu and his crew needed funding for—was the farthest thing in his mind as he plopped onto his computer chair and switched his laptop on. Immediately, he opened a browser and stared at the screen, fingers resting lightly on the keyboard.
He typed: PCOS diagnosis
“I got diagnosed with PCOS last year,” she’d told him while they were waiting for the traffic light to turn green at the intersection of Ayala and Paseo de Roxas. “Do you wanna hear about this? You might find it a little gross.”
Of course he wanted to hear about it, he’d said, and Kalila explained her condition to him. He tried his best to retain as much information as possible, but all he could remember about it were the words “cysts in my ovaries” and “difficulty conceiving.”
The first article Google returned had an image that illustrated how a doctor would conduct a pelvic exam. A few more articles later, he confirmed that the condition was treatable and non-fatal.
“It’s been almost a year since Yves and I broke up then, and really, I wasn’t ready for another relationship,” he remembered her saying. “But after that trip to the doctor, I panicked. I’ve always wanted to have my own child, and suddenly I’m being told it might not happen for me at all? So…I made a decision.”
“What did your parents say?”
“Nothing. I mean…I was already thirty, damn it. I should be able to make my own choices, right?”
It was such a Kalila thing to do, making decisions without caring so much about what other people thought or said. As a child, she earned the ire of the schoolyard bullies after she so bravely stood between them and Datu, whose P.E. uniform had been a mess of nose blood, grass, and dirt. He had never known of hero worship until he saw Kalila vanquish the mean kids with her throaty roar and trusty red Coleman, her braided pigtails waving in the wind.
They became friends that day, and he was aware how she always chose to be a friend to him, even when he was being difficult. Even when the other kids were being difficult to her because she stuck by his side.
It was admirable, how it seemed nothing much about his best friend (and ex-girlfriend) had changed, but the nature and repercussions of her recent life-decision was…unsettling.
He mentally slapped himself. Nobody asked for your opinion, Datu.
As he stared at the blinking cursor on the search bar, he reminded himself of the journey Kalila said she took before arriving at her decision. The research, flying to Singapore to meet with specialists, the numerous tests. She wanted this. So bad, she said. I spent a lot of time and money to make sure I beat PCOS and have a baby.
The only rational thing to do now was be supportive of her decision.
Blink, blink, blink, the cursor winked steadily at him, as if daring him to make a move. What exactly did he want to look for, anyway? What did he want to achieve?
When he realized he had started biting his thumbnail, he just went ahead and typed:
pregnancy
what happens during pregnancy?
books about pregnancy
how to support a pregnant woman
The last keywords returned a search with an article entitled How to Take Care of a Pregnant Wife on top of page one. Without thinking twice, he clicked on the link and read through. Soon, he was taking down notes, clicking more links, and bookmarking pages. Before he knew it, light was creeping up on the horizon, and his mind was begging for rest.
Sometime between shutting down his laptop and getting roused by the smell of kapeng barako, Datu had a hazy vision of himself, posed like Rafiki from The Lion King, lifting a baby to the heavens as a horde of wild animals cheered. The sun burned high in the sky, brilliant and majestic, bathing the child in warm light. When he looked back, Kalila was there, beaming at him. He smiled, but only for a fleeting second.
Because the next thing he saw when he turned his head was projectile poop. Flying straight to his face.
- Writer
