Always Around

Chapter Four.1

Roxanne

"So, how have you been?" I asked, trying to sound as emotionless as possible.

"I've been well, thank you," responded the mild-mannered, middle-aged brunette sitting in front of me. 

She's chubby now, wearing shiny accessories, a signature yellow long-sleeved dress, and flat doll shoes with large gold buckles. Her sharp oval eyes were emphasized by black eyeliner, while her round nose was trying to pull off unblended nose lines. Her pursed cherry red lips formed a straight line on her round face, which was glowing, I assumed, thanks to an expensive skincare routine. Her long, straight hair now had waves and curls. 

I hate that if you take away all the luxury items, all her makeup, uncurl and un-comb her locks, you will see an older and chubbier version of me.

"We don't know what to call you," said Kuya, sitting beside me. I could tell his guard was up. So was mine.

"You can still call me Mama... if that is all right with you," she replied while placing her bright red luxury handbag on the center table.

Yeah right. That's not going to happen.

It's now December, our semestral break from school. Three weeks of supposed relaxation in celebration of Christmas and New Year before the resumption of classes. Relaxation, my ass.

Our mother dropped by. Papa's out for work, and I honestly thought she timed her visit so she won't have to deal with him. It infuriated me that she disrespected Papa's authority over our home this way. But then again, I thought I'd choose her disrespect over her straight-up torturing him with her presence.

She came around before lunchtime on a Wednesday in a grey Mazda sedan, touting bags of snacks, toys, school supplies, clothes, shoes, and bags for Kuya and me. We didn't know if we should let her in at first, but then we soon realized how uncomfortable it is to have a yelling woman, who's also a thief magnet, standing outside our gate.

We would have prepared lunch if she hadn't said no to white rice with canned tuna. Picky eater, as always. We had her wait in our living room while we prepared store-bought 3-in-1 coffee and Spanish bread. She sat on one of our old sofas covered by discoloring repurposed bed sheets, ripped at the edges because of our teething puppies. In front of her was our center table. It's supposed to have a flat glass surface but instead has a wide, one-inch thick plywood top. You can't see it, but underneath its floral cloth cover, the plywood is covered entirely with drawings Papa, Kuya, and I did of Son Goku, Recca, Toguro, Voltes Five, the entire Squirtle evolution line, and Yu-Gi-Oh monsters. This table was our first family activity after Papa's recovery from depression.

My family takes pride in repurposing, recycling, and customizing items at home. It's the best part of our frugal life that we learned to love when we were short on budget. Now that money is stable and liveable, doing DIY projects turned into a habit - a hobby even - that we share. 

Our house now is a far cry from the one our mother made with us before she left. This used to be a well-sustained, DIY-intolerant place.

With our own vehicle, Papa's daily taxi-driving earnings went straight to us instead of paying boundary fees to a taxi-lending company. He would leave after family breakfast and come home at around 7:00 P.M, just before dinner and our nighttime playtime with duel cards, puzzles, pellet guns, tops, or basketball if he still had enough energy. Mother, on the other hand, was a housewife. She did chores, took care of our daily needs, and went to entrepreneurship and computer literacy courses every chance she got. She did all these while looking and sounding mad at everything and everyone every single freaking time.

For the life of me, I can't remember a single moment in our life when she's not frowning or talking trash about her life, our house, or other people. At least not until today. I do remember, however, the times when she would command Kuya and me to hide costly items from Papa. Lipsticks, perfume, handbags. Once, she even bought an expensive electric fan when we already had a functioning one, and we had to hide its dismantled parts under our bed before Papa came home. 

Her temper and impulsive buying were bothersome but bearable, and even when these were the probable reasons she left, we never heard her and Papa argue about them. We never actually heard them fight at all. Imagine our surprise when she drove away with our taxi and never came home.

Now that we have steered away from our life as she knows it, I could understand why she looked mortified while looking around the house. Her face was struggling to hide her uneasiness, and we could see her expression contorting even more whenever one of our dogs came close to sniff her or her things. 

"Congrats on sorting out your anger issues. Money looks good on you. Is there anything we can help you with?" Kuya asked, perfecting passive aggression.

I saw a slight hint of disappointment in the woman's eyes, with her hands folding in each other on her lap. "I want to know how you've been doing all these years," she started. "I- I missed you kids, and I wanted to see if there's anything I can do to make it up to you." She clasped her hands together, took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked at us pensively. "I have enough saved up for us now. I went abroad, worked for a while, then I came back and built a mini-grocery and water refilling station. My businesses are doing well. I can give you a better life now." 

We tried to see her eye to eye, but a split second was all it took for her to lose her momentary confidence. Her eyes darted from us to our broken TV, to our dogs, then to her hands. Her words came out slow, and to me, it seemed like she was doing it on purpose just for dramatic effect. Hearing that her trip overseas was probably where all our family savings and our taxi (which I believe was sold for more money) went was believable. Hearing that she missed us was not. Even if it is true, it seemed stupid, and entirely her fault.

I looked at Kuya and saw in his eyes that we had the same thing in mind. "Let's play it off like we don't need her," I could almost hear him think.

It's true. We don't, and we know it. Papa works hard for us, and we siblings study our asses off so we'll be covered as long as we're in school. Despite occasional financial struggles, we get by just fine. Emotionally, I think we have grown used to a life without another woman in the house. In an ideal world, I know Papa will prefer having Mother back, flaws and all. Kuya would be less stoic, and I would be less insecure as a young woman. But this is not an ideal world, now is it?

I felt a sharp increase of resolution as I looked at Mother. With the lightest expression I could muster, I said, "I think our life is fine as it is now. So, no thanks. I think we're good." I followed it with a smile, hoping it would serve as the last nail on the coffin.

I think she instead saw that as an opening as she propped up the couch to say, "I can pay for your college. A better school than yours now, Kuya. I can cover your allowances, your food. But you have to live with me. It will be easier for you to live near the university."

I couldn't help but scoff. But just as I was about to tell Mother off, Kuya stood up to look down on her with piercing eyes and a straight face. "So, after disappearing from the face of the earth for over five years, you called me saying you want to help with our studies. Then you were out of reach again for six months. Then you come here out of nowhere and expect us to drop everything for you like your a homecoming hero? I'm impressed. You're more shameless than I thought." Kuya spoke in the coldest tone I have ever heard from him. 

This was surprising to me. All this time, Kuya had been the most collected person among us. If he told me that he was fine a second before he spoke, I would've believed him. Looking back, I cannot recall a moment when he cried about Mother or anything else. He was like my tag team partner, the one I could trust would be strong for the both of us when I couldn't be. He was the only person who fully understood my insecurities and anxieties because we went through the same hell together. It was only now, as I reached out to grip his arm, that I felt deep sadness spilling out as cold rage. I can only assume this had been building up behind his supportive and playful exterior, and it would have stayed there for God knows how long if Mother hadn't reappeared.

I pulled him to sit back down since he didn't have anywhere to storm out. As I pat his right shoulder, I turned to Mother and tried to see what she was thinking. There, I witnessed her eyes twitch as she weighed her next move. I waited. Will she shout at us the way she used to? Will she grab her things and leave for good? Will she try a rebuttal?

"It will be good for your father if you come with me."

Her mention of Papa triggered something in my brother and me. Something we can't hide. He's our weak spot, and she knew it. I could tell from Mother's expression that our faces were giving away our furious intent to chase her out of the house. 

"Good for him? What are you saying?" I asked for confirmation. But we already knew where she was going with this. Judging from what she said and all the things she brought with her, we knew what her only ace was.

She sighed. "I have talked to your father multiple times in the past months. I know he'd been working straight twenty-four hours every other day for this taxi company. And I know he'd taken all the overtime opportunities he could to earn enough for the two of you. I also know that he had been sick but continued working without telling you kids. Do you want him to overwork himself to death?" Mother ended with a tone as if to suggest she's concerned with the well-being of my father. Her? The homewrecker? Concerned?

"So you're telling us that if we don't leave our father as you did, he dies?" I started, my voice now showing the emotions I tried to contain. "You're trying to convince us that we should be thankful you're trying to take us away from our only parent? Wow, how thoughtful of you. We never would've thought to help Papa with money. Oh, wait. We did. The government pays for our s**t because we are damn exceptional kids. We pay half the living expenses here. Papa's now working to regain our savings, buy another taxi, and get us health and life insurances. Do you understand why he has to work for those? Do you get why he's sick? It's because of you. You milked every cent from us, left us with nothing. But of course, you would leave all that out of your little argument. We are not as rich as you are now, but we've come so far without you. Please, if you're going to use money to lure us away from Papa, at least try to be creative about it." I could have sworn I said these as composed as I could, but a glance at my reflection on the TV screen showed I was about ready to punch something with my fists.

While I was sitting down, Kuya grabbed the top of my head and forced it to bow. This was always how Kuya took me out of heated conversations. This time though, I had to pull my knees to my chest just so my forehead had something to land on. Kuya stood in front of me with his back turned to Mother. "Leave," he said to her. 

"But...! But he could save more money without you two here! Come with me! You'll live more comfortably! I promise!" Mother tried to salvage her argument as I heard her stand and walk to our side to see our faces.

"We don't need 'comfortable.' We have Papa. Papa will always have us. You can keep your money." Kuya said, reaffirming our stance. "Leave," he repeated calmly. I couldn't see anything aside from my knees and my brother's shadow over me. We were like that for a while before Mother decided to walk out of the house without another word.

Just as the front door closed, Kuya slumped beside me on the sofa. With a sigh, he lightly poked the side of my head. On queue, I slowly unfurled from my fetal position. I grunted in irritation while clenching and unclenching my fists. 

"You could have just let me at it if you were going to explode like that," said Kuya laughing slightly. 

"That was horrible! She was horrible! All these things she brought with her, but she forgot to bring her brain!" I said. "What kind of person would insult someone they want on their side? She implied we're financial burdens to Papa! The nerve...!" I tried to sit upright, barely managing to do so as I reached for a Spanish bread to stuff in my mouth.

"You don't think we're a burden at all to Papa?" Kuya asked as he begrudgingly slid down from leaning on the backrest to completely laying down on the couch. His head was now on the seat next to mine and his legs were swinging from the armrest to the floor. His face twisted as if he's not liking his answer to his own question.

I copied his position, my head now on the right side of his and my legs swinging from the other side of the couch. For almost the entire afternoon, we stayed that way, only moving to get pieces of bread from the table. 

"Tinapay (bread) for your thoughts?" Kuya broke the silence.

"She looks happy now, don't you think?" I said, staring blankly up the ceiling. "Do you think that's because of the money she has now, or the fact that she had time to care for no one but herself?"

I felt Kuya exhale beside me as he took his moment to answer.

"I honestly think she's just bluffing," he said.

"Bluffing? How so?" I asked.

"I think she's not happy. If she is, why does she need us? And if this is just some diabolical plot for her to get back at Papa for God knows what, don't you think she would've fought us harder earlier instead of leaving us alone? She's not the type to drop issues when she could pressure us. That's her forte, you know that. I think she genuinely needs us, to clear her conscience maybe?" Kuya sat up. 

"We have no obligation to help her clear her conscience. I doubt she even has one. And even if she does, the stain there's her own doing. But if what you're saying is correct, that she's not happy, maybe it's because she got the money and status she wanted but no one to share it. I think her selfishness has more to do with this than her conscience, which I honestly believe she has zero of." I ended with a big sigh as I tried to recall moments when she displayed affection for me and my brother. Between angry ranting and angry dropping of food bowls on the table, I couldn't recall a moment when she was tender, or just a tad nice.

Just then I heard someone shout from outside the house.

"ROOOOOOX!" 

"Oh, Andres. Your unofficial boyfriend's here," Kuya teased. 

"He's Andrew, Drew. Not Andres, And he's not my boyfriend," I responded quickly, punching his shoulder as I stood up to peek through the window. "I wonder why he's here, though."

"I texted him to come. Thought you might want to go out, clear your head," Kuya replied as he began clearing the table of the plates of bread and coffee mugs.

"But, we're supposed to clean up here... catch up on that puzzle we started this vacation?" I asked.

"Bunso (youngest kid), you don't get your peace here at home. You know it, I know it. Papa... well he doesn't, but he's not here to watch you squirm as if you need to do things every waking moment of every day. Isn't that why you go out every Saturday morning to meet that professor?"

He's right. But my peace should be less important than family, right? Especially now that we've been hit by the storm that is our mother. 

As if reading my mind, Kuya snapped in front of my face, capturing my attention. "I'm fine. I honestly feel better now I got to tell her off to her face," he said while smirking. "Go."

"What about all this stuff," I asked, kicking the bags of expensive items mother left in the house. 

"The foodstuff, let's keep. The branded stuff, let's drop off at the nearest donation center. Unless you need to keep any of it?"

"No, we'll donate them all," I stated.

I waved through the window to invite Drew into the house while I packed my pouch with candies, a pen, a small notepad, my wallet and keys, and my phone. I decided to change into something more presentable, a plain blue dress with striped slip-on shoes. My hair's too long to comb, and I swear to God it's such a waste of time. But today, at least, I decided to say no to a simple hand-comb or an unattractive bun. I forgot when this started, my habit of not combing my hair properly, but somehow this simple act at this moment was calming, therapeutic even. I wonder why.

"Drew, drink water or pee now if you need to before we head out," I shouted to him from the bedroom. As I walked back out, I saw him and Kuya chatting at the kitchen table. I caught a glimpse of them both looking troubled, but then they snapped out of it the moment they noticed me. 

"H-hey! You ready?" Drew asked, somewhat shaky. "Where do you want to go?" he continued as he stood up from his seat and nodded in Kuya's direction.

"Somewhere with live music, maybe? But without alcohol," I responded, trying to ignore the fact that this was looking to be a ploy by my best friend and my brother to cheer me up. But I didn't need cheering up.

"I think there's an open mic event at the artsy cafe mid-city. Want to go there?"

"Too far, we won't make it back for dinner," I stated.

"Then eat out," Kuya interjected while handing Drew money. "You handle this. She won't spend a cent if given the chance." He then patted Drew on the back and proceeded to walk to the kitchen sink. "Just be back whenever," he finished as he waved us out and started washing the dishes.

I barely had the chance to say goodbye to Kuya as Drew pulled me out of the house and in a tricycle that happened to pass the gates.

"I think we should eat an early dinner before heading to the cafe. What do you want to eat?" Drew said, smiling as we sat side by side inside the tricycle sidecar. He's wearing a purple polo shirt with black and white stripes, black jeans, and tie-up Sperry's. Times like this make me wonder how I'm friends with this person. 

"Just the normal dinner will do, but how much did Kuya give you? Maybe we should budget it," I suggested, worried they might be planning to spend too much on a pick-me-up attempt that's not even necessary.

"Nope, not gonna happen. No money problem today. You wore a dress only once before, and that was a requirement since it's the junior-year prom. Today is special, and you're not getting just a burger and fries for dinner!" Drew was a bit touchy today. I think Kuya might have told him a bit too much about what happened.

"Well, what if that is what I want?" I retorted.

"That's not what you want. That's what you're used to. There's a difference," he responded. And with that, I knew he was more worried than I thought. 

I touched his hand. "Drew, you okay?"

"No, are you?"

"No."

"What do you need?"

"I don't know." 

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder as we rode the tricycle until our stop. It was comforting, yet I felt as though I don't deserve it. Plus I don't think Drew was comfortable with this, I can be quite sweaty.

When we transferred from the tricycle to the bus, I noticed he wasn't letting go of my arm. His hand felt like it's velcro-ed to me. It's like if I pull away, something will tear. 

We sat in silence for a while, his hand still around my forearm.

"Drew?" I started. "You don't have to worry too much. I'm... fine-ish. We'll eat wherever you want. We'll enjoy the open mic. We'll probably drink too much coffee, it's crazy. Then we'll be home and end up talking endlessly through the phone because... caffeine."

"I hate your mother," he said. Odd. I knew he knows my family's history, but he's never one to hate anything or anyone. He's a hipster who's all about love and peace and ukeleles.

"I hate her too," I replied.

"I hate you, too, sometimes," he continued.

"Excuse you," I responded jokingly.

"I do. You are stupid when it comes to your own needs. I wish you could just cry once in a while, or at least have someone cry for you."

I had someone like that once. Papa. But never again will I let someone experience that, not for me. 

"I don't think that's necessary," I countered.

"Except it is. Come on, Rox. You know that. You have to understand. Your brother knows how to handle himself. He has friends who hear him when he needs release. Your father is also not as weak as you think. You, you're the most stubborn person I know. The toughest, too. But you're the most emotionally unhealthy in that house because you think you have to shoulder everyone's problems before dealing with yours. At this rate, you're never going to get to your own issues." His grip got tighter and tighter, and I understood what he was saying, but he didn't need this stress. He deserved to just enjoy today.

"I'll be fine, Drew. You don't have to worry about me. Besides, I cry. You just don't see it! I'm an ugly crier!"

Drew slipped his hand from my forearm to my hand. 

"You're dumb," he quipped. "You're never ugly."

"You sound like my brother," I noted, laughing.

"Yeah, your brother," he said, squeezing my hand hard before returning it to me.

"Now... Uhm, do you want pasta plus chicken or fancy burgers?"

We stopped at an old plaza in the middle of the city. The area was repurposed to be a new food district with all the new fast food and fancy restaurants allegedly fighting to get the remaining slots. After much deliberation (by that I meant compromising between what Drew wants and what he thinks I want), we settled to dine in a small mom-and-pop Pinoy cuisine restaurant at the corner of the food district. We ordered a small pot of pork sinigang (stew), a plate of biko (sweet rice cake), and chicken inasal (marinated roast chicken) meals. It was a big meal, and food coma was kicking in, so we decided to have the remaining to go. I enjoyed how unproblematic the dinner was, with a lot of laughter and at one point, a lot of water through Drew's nose. 

As Drew settled the bill, I started gathering my things. It's only a fifteen-minute walk from here to the open mic cafe, and I was excited to walk now that it's a cold and cloudy evening.

"Ready to go?" Drew asked, offering his hand to help me out of the soft couch. I took his hand and slid out of my seat. As we headed for the exit, he hurried past me to pull open the door. In return, I passed through it, pulled it from the outside, and asked him to come through. I know, it is weird. But is it bad? If men can open doors for women, surely we can do the same for them. This habit of mine always receives a burst of kind laughter from Drew, and I like that he gets the sentiment behind it. 

As we slowly walked through the rows of restaurants and stores filling the night with lights of all shades and shapes, I felt like hugging Drew from the side. I knew he went out of his way to take me out tonight. Sure, it's because Kuya asked him to, but it's still nice to get away from the house for a while.

"Hey Drew," I tapped his shoulder as he was walking in front of me. As he turned to face me, I went in for a hug, my face burrowing on his chest. He's only a tad taller than me, but this time he seemed a little more so. "Thank you," I tried to say, but he hugged me back so hard I thought I was going to drown on him. I had to tap his back repeatedly so he would release me.

"Goodness, bro! Are you trying to kill me?!" I exclaimed as soon as he loosened his hug, although not letting me out entirely.

"No, you wanted a hug, so I gave you a hug! A big one at that!" he said, laughing in my face.

I slipped out of the hug and slung my arm to his shoulder. "I was only trying to thank you. I didn't realize that meant I get the death sentence."

"Right," he responded, chuckling. "Whatever you say."

We continued walking side by side to the artsy cafe, looking forward to a night of unlimited coffee and amateur performances.