In the sterile hallways of a public hospital. The fluorescent lights buzz above, giving off a dim white light—never bright enough. Just like that, I was back in the land of my birth. Awaiting news from the doctor, who seemed too busy to even stop and talk to me about her.
Last night, a call from my aunt had me packing quick as a flash. Mismatched socks. The lightest shirts I have. My favourite pair of jeans. And a black dress. Of course, a black dress. You’ll never know in these situations how it’ll turn out.
A few clicks of my mouse and I had my flights all planned and the airport shuttle was at the door at 5am. I didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Mike. He was dropping by for our usual weekend date later that day.
When I picked up that ringing phone and heard Aunt Meling’s voice on the other end, I knew I had to rush home. “It’s your Mama, Anita.” Her voice was cracking. I knew she was on the verge of tears. “You have to be here tomorrow. It’s happening.” Then the line was dead.
I was left to bear the weight of the news. I haven’t seen my mother in years. I left when I was 19. Right out of college, I got a post-grad scholarship in another country. I scraped every centavo I earned from part-time work. A month after graduating, I took the first flight out to continue studying in New Zealand. I needed that fresh start. I needed to run away from a life that had no future.
Mama didn’t want me to, of course. She raised me as a single parent. She worked day and night to send me to good schools. My father ran off before I was even born, she tells me. And my late grandmother and Aunty Meling were really the ones who were there for me when I was growing up.
But I did it anyway. Her heart broke as she took me to the airport that day. It’s been almost seven years. She didn’t talk to me for the first few months as I struggled to make a life in a strange city. Even without phone calls, I knew she cared. Aunty Meling always kept in touch. She told me how my mother has changed since I left.
She was always angry. She was always unhappy. But most of all, she was always lonely.
I almost gave up after a year in Auckland. Then Mike came along. He was sweet, strong and most of all he cared for me like no man ever did.
We were classmates in grad school. He always looked after me. He made sure I ate my lunch on time and that I never did it alone. He stayed up all night giving me hot soup and medicine when I was down with the flu. He puts up with my weird quirks. He lets me flourish and enjoy little wins that I have.
When I landed my first job as a copywriter, he prepared a little surprise party with all our mates from school. I felt important. I felt loved for who I am. He didn’t know anything about the family I left behind in the Philippines and would often ask me about them. He even threatened to buy tickets for the two of us one summer so he could meet my mother.
“Let’s talk about it some other day,” was always my answer.
I just never felt ready to go back to my past and re-live that life. Mike made this life perfect. And I wanted it to last for as long as it can.
And then Aunt Meling’s call came. And I knew my perfect little world will soon come crashing down.
“Oh, Mike” was all I could muster as I let the tears flow. I’m not ready for this. Not now.
He says he wants to marry me. He’s been asking for a few months now. I do want to be his wife. But I don’t know if I’m ready for a commitment just yet. I grew up without a father or any father-figure in my life. I don’t think I can bear the pain of losing the only man I ever loved.
So, I jumped on the plane without an excuse. Without even a goodbye.
I woke up with a jolt and a sharp pain to the arm. I fell asleep at the hospital’s waiting area. The wooden bench gave no comfort to this tired soul. A thirteen-hour flight, a two-hour cab ride and a four-hour wait and I’m finally ready to see my mother. The doctor’s light tap on the shoulder felt more like an uncaring stab.
“She’s still in critical condition but she insists on seeing you.” The stern tone of his voice had me at a loss for words. “We don’t usually allow off-hours visits, but I’ll make this exception just this time, okay?” He added.
I got up and headed to the closed double doors of the Intensive Care Unit. The nurses were too busy going back and forth between patients. Back and forth taking notes. Back and forth dispensing medicine. Back and forth checking charts. No one even noticed I was in the room. There were four beds with the curtains all drawn.
There was a loud coughing coming from one of the closed curtains. From another a soft whining noise—more like a soft cry of one in desperate pain. Then I heard my name in a hoarse whisper coming from the third curtained bed.
I pulled the sheet back slightly. Then I saw her. The mother I abandoned. She looked so fragile. Her cheeks hallowed out by poverty and longing for the daughter she lost. Her eyes timid and tired—perhaps from years of crying. Her hair was thin and white, huge chunks have fallen out and I could see her white scalp. Her skin hung wrinkled to her bony frame. Yet she managed to smile.
“Anita. You’re so beautiful. I missed you.”
“It’s Annie now, mom.” That’s all I could say. I didn’t say I missed her terribly. Or that I’m sorry for leaving her. I managed to let her know that I’m a different person now. That’s all.
“Annie. Sounds good. Come, darling.”
I hesitantly pulled a chair closer to her bed. But she motioned for me to come even closer.
“There’s something you need to know,” she whispered.
But I already knew what she was going to tell me. Growing up, my classmates never failed to remind me. The rumors persisted even after we moved.
They said that my mother was a creature. That she was evil. I came home bruised and beaten, fighting off mean girls and even meaner boys. They pulled my hair. They scratched my arm. They threw mud at me and sometimes small rocks.
I had the courage to ask her one time if the rumors were true. If she was indeed an aswang. She had the audacity to laugh. There I was, a 13-year-old in tears, with mud and blood running down a bruised cheek. And all she did was laugh.
“Don’t mind them, Nita.” She even said.
But I did. The cut on my cheek healed but the pain from that day never went away. I knew then that I had to escape that life and I started planning a new one.
“No mom. You don’t need to tell me anything.” I tried to pull away and escape yet again. But I was too late. Her deathly grip on my arm wouldn’t let me.
“It’s true what they said, Anita” her voice was barely audible.
“No, mom. Please. I can’t do this.” The tears came rolling down again.
“I am what they say I am. I am an aswang.”
I was about ready to turn on my heels and run away from her forever. But the world turned dark. I saw it happening before I could do anything. A strange otherworldly lump started forming on her flat belly. It was moving up towards her heart. It was moving faster now. A huge lump on her throat. She opens her mouth wide, ready to release that Evil into me.
“Mom, please….I can’t..” And then everything went dark. No sound. No feeling. Nothing.
I woke up in a different room. My Auntie Meling was beside me, crying.
“She’s gone.” Was all she could say.
I was in a hospital bed. They said I fainted when my mother flat-lined. I must have been exhausted from the trip and weak from lack of sleep, the doctors said.
I blink and try to remember what really happened. Then I felt a gentle stir in the pit of my stomach.
Hot tears started coming relentlessly. I do not know if they were for my mother. For Mike. Or for myself. The life I’ve left behind has caught up with me. I am an aswang, just like mama. I am home.
****
Jade-Ceres Violet Dolor Munoz lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her husband and six-year-old daughter. She currently works as a digital marketing consultant specializing in SEO and Content Strategy. Jade has been writing fiction since her early teens. She studied AB Literature from De La Salle University and been working for over 15 years as a professional writer. She has written for a San Francisco-based broadsheet, several magazines, blogs and websites in Canada, the US, Australia and New Zealand. She blogs about their family adventures at www.babyjetsetgo.com.
Image credits: Rica Espiritu