The Weight of Air

The thin fabric catches on my thumbnail. 

It is a tiny pull. A white thread coming loose from the light purple dress. The dress fits my shoulders perfectly because the clothing maker came to my apartment twice last week to measure me. But it feels tight under my ribs. Every time I breathe in, the dress fights back. 

The security guard at the gate of Forbes Park does not ask for my name. He knows the silver Mercedes. He stands straight under the shadow of the old, large trees. He raises his white glove to his hat. It is a quiet greeting for the car, not for me. 

Outside the window, the houses sit behind walls covered in green vines. They are huge. They are hidden by the thick leaves of old trees that have been growing for decades.  There are no streetlights here like the ones in BGC. The light comes from inside the properties. It is warm and yellow, spilling over the tops of the stone walls onto the dark, wet road. 

The car stops on the rocky driveway.

The engine dies. The silence comes back right away. It is the heavy, quiet feeling of this neighborhood that always makes it seem like something bad is about to happen. 

"Good evening, Ms. Snow," the driver says. He does not open my door. He knows I prefer to turn the handle myself.

"Salamat, Kuya Danilo," I say.

The rocks crunches under my heels. The sound is too loud. It echoes against the high white pillars of the porch. The front door is made of thick, heavy wood. It smells like furniture polish and extreme wealth. It is the kind of smell that stays in your nose for hours. 

Manang Teresa opens the door before I can knock. She is wearing her white uniform. The cloth is worn out from twenty years of washing. 

"Nasa loob na sila, anak," she whispers. She looks at my dress. She reaches out to touch the sleeve. Her fingers are rough from kitchen soap. "The color is beautiful. Bagay sa iyo."

"Salamat po," I say. I give her a small smile. 

The dining room is very large and looks out into the garden. The glass doors are shut to keep the cold air conditioning inside. The glass light fixture above the table shakes a little when the air turns on. 

My mother is adjusting the silver salt cellars.

Calista Ford does not look fifty. Her skin is pale and smooth. It was pulled tight by an expensive face doctor in America. Her hair is short and black, and it does not move when she turns her head. 

"You are late, Snow," she says. She does not look up at me. Her fingers are small and covered in diamond rings that click against the plates. "Your father has been waiting since seven."

"The traffic on the flyover was heavy," I say. I sit in the middle of the table, a few feet away from her. 

"Traffic is always heavy," she says. Finally, she looks at me. Her eyes are light brown. They look at my face, then down at my neck. "That dress makes you look pale and thin. It looks like you do not eat at the hospital." 

"I eat, Ma."

"You look grey," she says.

The door to the kitchen swings open. My father walks in. Damien Ford is a large man who has spent forty years running a huge building company. His white shirt is perfect. He smells like expensive cigars and the alcohol he drinks before dinner. 

He does not kiss my cheek. He sits at the head of the table. Picking up his napkin before his weight has fully settled into the leather chair.

"Did you read the report on the Siargao land?" he asks. He is looking at the empty seat across from me.

"Good evening, Pa," I say.

He nods once. He quickly looks at my hands.  "The local government is giving us a hard time about the setback from the high-tide line. I told Scarlet to handle it. She has a way with the mayors down there."

"Scarlet should not be traveling right now," I say. My voice is too quiet. "Her last test showed that her heart valve is leaking more blood than before. The hot weather will make her body swell up with water." 

My mother stops her hands. She puts the  silver salt cellar down hard. 

"Do not start, Snow," she says. Her voice sounds angry and sharp. The one she uses when the tea is too cold or the servants have left dust on the piano. "Your sister is excited about this project. The doctors said she needs to live her life. She cannot sit in a dark room and wait for her heart to stop just because you are afraid of everything."

"I am a doctor, Ma. I am not afraid. I am looking at the numbers."

"You are looking at charts," my mother says. She leans back. She touches the large pearl necklace on her throat.  "You don't know what it’s like for her. To wake up every morning wondering if her chest will tighten. She needs the excitement. It keeps her going."

The sliding doors from the garden open.

The smell comes first. The strong vanilla perfume. Then the sound of her shoes on the shiny floor. 

Scarlet is wearing the exact same dress as me, but she has cut the sleeves off to make it look wild and ruined on purpose. She has a gold chain wrapped around her wrist. 

"Sorry," she says. She does not look sorry. She looks bright. Her face is very red, and it is not from makeup. "The traffic from Makati was insane."

"Anak," my mother says softly. She reaches out to touch Scarlet’s arm. "You look warm. Are you sweating? Damien, turn down the air conditioning. Your daughter is too warm."

"I'm fine, Mom," Scarlet laughs. She pulls her arm away. She looks at me and winks. "Snow already thinks I am going to drop dead before we eat." 

"Scarlet," my father says. His voice is completely different when he talks to her. It is warm and kind. "Don't talk like that. The business papers are on your desk. I want you to sign them before you leave for the island on Tuesday. 

"I saw them, Pa," she says. She takes a piece of bread from the basket. Breaks it in half. Crubs fall onto her lap. She does not wipe them away. "The mayor wants three executive suites reserved for his family during the opening. I told him we’d give him four. Quietly."

"Good," my father says. He smiles. A real smile that shows his teeth. "That’s my girl. That’s how we get things done."

Manang Teresa brings the soup. It is tinola. The broth is clear. Green papaya slices floating like small moons around the chicken pieces. The steam rises between us. Carrying the smell of ginger and wild pepper leaves.

My mother watches Scarlet pick up her spoon.

"Eat the ginger, Scarlet," she says. "It’s good for your circulation."

"I hate ginger, Ma," Scarlet says. She pushes a slice to the edge of her plate with her thumb.

"Just a little, anak. For me."

I watch my sister’s fingers. They are long. Like mine. But her nails are perfect. A deep dark red. Her hand is steady as she lifts the spoon. But they are shaking a little. I can see the pulse in her neck beating way too fast. It looks like a tiny hammer hitting against her skin. 

One-twenty, I think. My mind does the calculation automatically. At least one-twenty at rest. She hasn't been taking her beta-blockers.

"Your heart is beating too fast, Scarlet," I say. I do not look at my mother. I look at my sister.

Scarlet’s spoon stops halfway to her mouth.

"Snow," my mother warns.

"She’s skipping her medication, Ma," I say. I put my spoon down.  "Her red face isn't from the heat. It is her body reacting badly to stress. Or she is drinking alcohol again. "

The room goes completely quiet. 

My father puts his drink down. The ice clinks against the glass. 

"We are having a family dinner, Snow," he says. His voice is flat. The concrete voice. "Your sister has been working fourteen hours a day for the company. She does not need an interrogation from you every time she sits down to eat."

"I am trying to keep her alive, Pa."

"No," Scarlet says. She drops her spoon. She leans forward, looking angry. "You're trying to control me. You've always tried to control me. Because you're mad that Papa gave me the hotels and he gave you nothing but a tuition check for medical school."

"Scarlet, that’s enough," my father says. But he is looking at me when he says it, acting like I am the one causing the problem. . 

"It’s true, Pa," Scarlet says. Suddenly, she struggles to take a breath. My mother notices instantly. She jumps up and runs behind Scarlet’s chair, rubbing her shoulders. 

"Breathe, anak," my mother says. Looking terrified. The one that has lived in this house since we were seven and Scarlet fainted on the stairs. "Don't let her get to you. You know how she is. She doesn't understand."

"I know that her heart is failing," I say, standing up. "I know that if she keeps staying out late and drinking, her liver will fail too. I was the doctor who had to save her at the hospital last month, Ma. Not you." 

My mother looks at me with a pale, angry face. 

"You are a very cold girl, Snow," she says. Each word is a small stone. "You have always been cold. You think your medical degree makes you better than us.  You didn't have to suffer the way she did. You didn't have to spend your childhood in sterile rooms with tubes in your arms."

"I was in those rooms with her, Ma," I whisper.

"You were standing by the window," my mother says. "You were always just standing there. Watching."

The words hit me hard in the chest. 

They do not hurt anymore, but they feel incredibly heavy. 

Scarlet looks up at our mother and smiles a tiny, mean smile of victory. 

"It's okay, Ma," Scarlet says. Her voice is tiny now. Vulnerable. The wild child is gone. Replaced by the sick little girl who needs to be saved. "Snow is just stressed from her shifts. Let's just eat."

My father looks at his plate. "Sit down, Snow."

I look at the three of them.

They look like a perfect family photograph. There is no room for me in their picture. There never has been. I am just the empty space on the outside. 

"I am going back to the hospital," I say.

"Your dinner," my father says. Still not looking at me. 

"I am not hungry, Pa."

I turn around. I walk out of the dining room. My shoes click loudly on the floor.  

Click. Click. Click.

Behind me I hear the sliding doors open again. The sound of the cicadas from the garden comes in for a second. A loud frantic buzzing that fills the house before the glass shuts them out.

Manang Teresa is standing by the front door. She holds my white coat in her hands. She must have taken it from the car. She holds it out to me like a shield.

"Pasensya na, anak," she whispers.

"Salamat po, Manang," I say.

I take the coat. I don't put it on. I just fold it over my arm, feeling how stiff and freezing cold the fabric is against my skin. 

Outside, the air is thick with the smell of wet dirt and jasmine flowers. The sky over Forbes Park is pitch black, trapping the heat down against the roofs like a heavy box. 

I walk down the driveway. 

Behind me, the house is glowing with light. 

I do not turn around to look.

I do not look back. I know exactly what they look like without me. They are sitting closer together now. They are happily talking about business. 

They are breathing the same air.

And across the city, a sick little boy is sleeping in Room 412, waiting for me to come back and tell his mother that they are going to be okay.