Ordinary World: Stories from Worlds Wide and Small

Dolorosa (an excerpt)

           

I first saw her as I walked through the charred remains of a children's orphanage in Manila. She mingled with the rest of the onlookers, but as is sometimes the case, some people just stand out in a crowd, like doves among pigeons. And how could she not? There was a luminescence that surrounded her – that pale blue light often seen around the images of saints. Or maybe it was just those new lights that the mayor had installed in his city, bucking the murky yellow for the otherworldly blue because he had read somewhere that blue lights brought down crime rates in areas where they had been installed. In the early light of the dawn, and the glowing remains of the fire, she looked like a ghost. She wore a white veil, very much like the ones those old ladies used when they went to church for their morning devotions to a God who had long ago turned deaf to their entreaties. I really couldn't see the dress she wore, but there was a hint of blue on her shoulders. Unlike the grimy onlookers who crowded to gawk at the cinders of what used to be the home of fifty-six children, there was a cleanliness in her features. How could one not notice a star in the evening sky when all other stars were hidden by nightfall? Her face revealed a mixture of serenity and sorrow. It was as if she was used to the suffering in this world of mankind. Our eyes met for just an instant, and then she moved away – into the crowd, slowly vanishing just as the first rays of the sun began to chase away the darkness of the sky. I would have wanted to break through the crowd, part it like Moses had parted the Red Sea, and chase her. I suspected that she knew what had happened here. But my captain called out my name and I got distracted. When I turned around to see if she was still there, she was gone.

     I sighed. How often was it that you fell in love at first sight? Oh we could quibble on about what I really felt that day, but looking into the infinity of her eyes, I knew I wanted her. I needed to see her again. So, after a long day asking questions trying to determine the cause of the fire and canvassing the area, I went around the neighborhood and asked people about the woman with a white veil and a blue dress. No one knew her. No one had seen her. A few snarky bystanders told me that perhaps I was looking for a whore, and that they knew where I could find such women. They continued giving me such garbage until I gave them a glimpse of the badge and gun underneath my maong jacket. They then clammed up and began moving away, creeping back into the shadows of the city which had turned them into its unwanted ghosts.

     Before I went home that evening, I passed by the Church of La Birhen Dolorosa and prayed for the twenty orphans who perished in the fire. The fire marshal had concluded that the building burned down due to faulty electrical wiring. I snorted when I heard that and he shrugged at me in acceptance of the fact that nearly all fires in the country were caused by faulty wiring. It was the easiest conclusion to arrive at. There was no one to run after, no one to prosecute, and the charity could claim its insurance, if it had any. Everybody was happy. Except of course the twenty children who had burned to cinders because someone decided to cut corners. Even the mayor showed up and vowed to build another orphanage on the ruins of this one. He gave a lengthy indignant speech before the reporters covering the tragedy. He even managed to squeeze out a tear. Throughout the impromptu press conference, no one mentioned or even asked about the survivors of the fire. I prayed to the Birhen Dolorosa so that she would guide the dead children to her son Jesus and give them the life that they never had in this world. And that unlike us, she would remember the survivors.

       When I arrived home, my wife, Candice, met me at the door and wrapped her arms around me. She was sobbing as she told me how sorry she was about those children and how sorry she was that I had to be there watching and digging up their ruined bodies. I hugged her back. She smelled of apples tonight. It always surprised me how Candice could turn into a veritable hellcat everytime I come home from a tragedy. She would grab me the moment I made it past the door and we would have hours and hours of lovemaking, on the floor, on the couch, on the table, against the sink, against the wall, on the bed, in the bathtub – everywhere. I asked her once why she transformed this way whenever I came home from such horrible scenes and she simply said that she wanted to share some of my pain, otherwise, she knew that I would drown in it. She wasn't one of those inquisitive wives who always wanted to know things about the case. Instead, she understood that there were things that a policeman had to keep from her and that her job was to make it more bearable for me.

     It wasn't a bomb? she asked me after our lovemaking.

     No. Bad wiring.

     You remember...? but she trailed off.

     I knew what she was going to say. But I didn't press her on it. It belonged to another life. 

This was the Candice I married ten years ago and missed the most. But it was true what people say happens when you lose a child, your marriage starts dying too. Our five-year-old daughter died two years ago. She was attending a slumber party at her friend's house. Candice was a bit overprotective and was reluctant to let Melody go. But I gave my consent. The friend's house burned down at three in the morning. Faulty electrical wiring, the fire marshal had concluded. Everyone in that house made it out but my daughter. The Reyes family had forgotten that she was there as they had stashed her in the guest room instead of having her sleep in their daughter's room. They didn't say it out loud, of course, but I could remember the shame in their eyes when I confronted them about why my daughter died when theirs survived.

Candice had almost left me. She had blamed me and I took in all her anger, her venom, her grief. I took in slap after slap, scratch after scratch, punch after punch. I took all her abuse and never uttered a word or raised my hand in retaliation. I deserved it. Had I listened to her, Melody would be alive right now. After a year of mourning, Candice turned into a ghost. Instead of leaving me, she haunted the house we lived in. The clothes would be washed and ironed, the food warm and delicious, the floors scrubbed and cleaned, the roses pruned and healthy, but she rarely talked to me. She slept in Melody's room and kept my bed cold. I buried myself in work to forget that I basically lived all alone. In the few instances when we made love, she would be very dry down there, though she would never complain as I continued anyway. She wouldn't make any sound at all and just lie there and wait for me to come. She would then rise from the bed and go into Melody's room, and I would hear her incessant sobbing. Her sobbing sort of made it easier for me to sleep – it was like white noise, or the whirring of the fan blades. Still, I couldn't really abandon her. I wanted her to abandon me. So, I always texted her whenever I got called for overtime, so she would not wait up for me. Even on the days when I had no overtime, I still texted her that I needed to do extra work. Being around her was intolerable. But having a ghost in my house was more bearable than just being all alone in this world.

The Reyeses and their daughter are gone now, though. They died when a bomb exploded at a wedding they attended. All three of them, including twenty-two guests and the bride perished that day. It was only after that when Candice began to move out of her ghostly self to return to the land of the living.