We Who Love

Isabella

Monster. Mama oftentimes called Papa a monster, a demon who tore our family apart. "I hate him, Ling," she used to tell me before I went to sleep every night. But for an eight-year-old child, I couldn't understand why.

            Papa loved many things. Reading was one of them. On lazy weekend afternoons, when he had no test papers or assignments to check and record, or lesson plans to ponder, he'd smoke a cigarette on the bench outside of our house and read The Count of Monte Cristo, his favorite. He was considered to be a quiet, calm man, who had too much brains just to be dumped in a rural, woodsy city outskirt like Paki-bato.

            Mama, on the other hand, had little to love and a lot to hate.

            She had a gruff voice as if she had a frog in her throat, and a sneer she claimed to be her most honest smile. She didn't have a job—jobs were for women whose husbands were useless drunkards and had no money or inheritance to spend on.

Mama argued with Papa about money. She liked to point out Papa's public school teaching job that couldn't possibly support her wants and the fact he was a dreamer.

            "Why won't you aim higher?" She'd ask with her brows knitted together and their arch sharper than an axe's blade.

            Papa, who never loved confrontation, would sigh in exhaustion and dismiss it with a curt, "Let's not talk about this in front of the children."

            Their bickering became mundane, which covered topics like Mama's overspending and Papa's inability to feel anything else except indifference.

            "And we very well know why Mr. Alexander Marco Ravelo here is so uncaring," Mama said during one of our breakfasts. She waved her hand, pointing a chipped nail-polished finger at Papa's nose.

            Papa, who was always collected, slammed his fists on the table. The plates and utensils clattered and bounced. "Enough, Marianne," he shouted.

            Mama's eyes turned to slits and her mouth was a thin line. "It will never be enough for you, Marco," she snapped.

            Later in the evening around midnight while my little sister, Charlene, and I slept on the thin foam mattress, a pan crashed on the floor and jolted us awake. Papa's voice was thunder and Mama's whimper was a goat's bleat.

            They screamed at each other. A piece of furniture slammed on the walls. Papa growled, "I chose you! Get it into your head already!"

            "That's not true! You and your whore are tearing this family apa—"

            A hard, loud slap echoed in the house and in my ears.

            "Don't you dare insult her, Marianne. Isabella has nothing to do with our problems!"

            Isabella? Me? Did I do something wrong?

           The house stilled, and Charlene hugged me tight until Mama came to our room and tucked us to bed. She kissed Charlene's forehead, and she whispered in my ear, "I hate him, Ling. I hate him and Isabella, his whore. Your Papa named you after a slut."

            Her words were an incantation she religiously whispered in my ear every night, until one night while I was groggy with sleep, Mama came to our room. In the kitchen I could hear a few glasses breaking and Papa's loud whispering.

            Mama knelt beside me and stroked my head. Her hand, I noticed, trembled. She pulled me and Charlene up and barked orders to stash our clothes into a bag. "We're leaving," she shouted.

            The rings of our curtain, which served as a door and partition, rung as it slid across its metal rod. Papa marched towards Mama and pulled her up. "You can't leave Marianne," he pleaded and kissed Mama's knuckles and caressed her wrist with his thumb. "I need you and the children. You're all I have."

            Mama's eyes were knives. She stared Papa down and pulled her hand away from him. "And now you beg?" she spat. Hurriedly she stomped to the family closet and put every piece of her clothing into a bag.

            Papa eyed her warily. His bottom lip quivered. "J-just don't take the children," his voice broke. He knelt beside Charlene and me, hugged us and patted our heads gently. "You're all I have," he whispered.

            When Mama was through packing, she dragged Charlene and me out of the room. Charlene whimpered and so did Papa. "Let go," Mama barked.

            "You can't do this, Marianne! They're my children, too!"

            "Well, one of them isn't yours!"

            A cricket sang from the distance and the wind blew with a distinct whooshing voice. The house fell silent but my heart erupted. Papa squeezed my arm until I felt his fingernails digging into my skin. His brown eyes, for the first time, were burning hot coals.

            Mama went to the kitchen and grabbed for the large pineapple juice can she used to store the money she and Papa saved. "Rogelio is coming. I told him to pick up the girls and me tonight," she said. She was calm and even sported a small smile.

            "H-how can you do this?" Papa quivered and rivulets of tears streamed down his face.

            "Because Rogelio is a better provider, Marco. He gives me what I want, and he loves no one else but me, unlike you," she spat.

            A motorcycle roared outside of our house, and Mama hurriedly dragged Charlene and me to the door. Charlene didn't protest and clung onto Mama's leg.

            A black motorcycle parked by our small gate, and its rider, Rogelio, looked at us warily. "Huy! Marianne, you said Marco would be asleep."

            "Just shut up and help me with the girls," Mama chided.

            Charlene climbed the motorcycle with Mama's help.

            I stared at Papa who stared at me in return. When Mama called for me while she sat on the motorcycle, I ran back to Papa, closed the door and locked it. Not a second later, the motorcycle roared and sped away.

            Papa embraced me tight and together we wept until Mama's incantation echoed in my ears.

            I hate him, Ling. He and his whore, Isabella, are monsters.

            It hit me. Isabella. Who was she to Papa? Why did Mama hate her? Whoever she was I hoped she would die horrifically.

            I looked at Papa, who cried like a lost child, and I knew I couldn't learn to hate him. He was all I had right now. I couldn't hate Mama either because that was how she really was. I could only put the blame on Isabella, for she was a wedge between my parents. She drove Mama away from Papa.