Chapter 4

Joshua

Exactly seventeen years passed since mother fired a gun to her head.

            In the Memorial Park, you could just count the number of people in the area with one hand. Save for the whistling wind rustling the leaves of trees, the park was quiet and void of distractions. Dad dusted mother’s shiny gray headstone and lit a candle while saying a prayer for her. He closed his eyes and mumbled about love, forgiveness, and happiness.

            I clenched my fists. Mother was never happy, and wherever she was right now I was sure she was still unhappy.

            A drizzle started, and the candle's flame sizzled to smoke. I patted dad’s back and placed the slightly melted candle on mother’s headstone. “It's time to go, dad,” I whispered in his ear.

            We quickly crossed the cemetery, avoiding headstones, flower pots, candles, and tiny figurines. Our black Honda waited by a light post, and our driver, Manong Arturo, upon seeing us, opened the car door.

            I helped dad get into the back of the car, and I slid in right after. I shut the door. The car's engine started, and a moment later we were driving through the curvy streets of the park.

            The cold drizzle died once we were out of the Memorial Park, which never was and never would be my favorite place to stay.

            We passed a mall and a chapel. Dad cleared his throat, and I sat in attention. He loosened his tie and ran a hand through his hair. “Joshua,” he said, “did you offer a prayer to your mother as well?”

            I sagged into my seat and pulled the knot of my tie. “I told her to be happy.”

            “But that isn't a prayer,” he croaked.

            “No, it isn't,” I said.

            A moment passed before dad spoke again. He clutched on the door's armrest and looked outside of his window, as if he was deeply thinking. “Don't blame your mother, Joshua. She shouldn't be blamed for anything.”

            “What does that mean?”

            Dad didn't speak to me again until we reached our house.

            The driver parked the car between my red 1972 Ferrari Daytona and dad’s other black Honda. Dad and I got out of the car, and I helped him get to his office, which was right at the second floor.

            We got to the room and dad quickly sat on the chair behind his oak desk. The bright computer screen flashed against his face, and his forehead crumpled. He drummed his fingers against the desk while I stood straighter at each thump of his finger.

            I removed my jacket and tossed it to the chair closest to me. “Do you have something to say?” I asked.

            He inhaled a deep breath and sighed. He looked around the room, and his eyes stopped at mother’s portrait above his doorframe. The portrait was of a younger version of mother with me in her arms and a stiff smile on her face.

            “Do you remember this room, Joshua?” dad croaked.

            I stared on the floor, and underneath my shoes was a giant blood stain. I remembered this room very well. “This is where mother died,” I said.

            Dad nodded. “I still have the bullet which killed her.”

            I laughed. “That's kind of sick, dad.”

            “No,” dad said, “it's my way of remembering what I drove her to do.”

            I shook my head in protest. “No, dad, you didn't do anything wrong to mother. She suffered from depression, God knows why, and hurt me.”

            “Do you feel any resentment towards her?” he asked.

            “No, I feel nothing towards her.”

            “Joshua, I know she loved you.”

            I shook my head again. “She loved Marco, but let's not reopen old wounds, dad. What is it you want to tell me?”

            He tapped the keys of the keyboard and moved the mouse around the pad. I waited for about ten minutes until dad spoke to me again and turned the computer screen around. “I adopted a school,” he coolly said, as if adopting schools was just a normal thing for a restaurateur to do.

            “A school?” I raised a brow.

            “Yes,” he said dismissively, which always meant he wanted me to shut up and listen before I crack a sarcastic comment or an unfunny joke. “You heard me right. I adopted a school.”

            The corners of my mouth twitched and a spiel of jokes was definitely on its way. “So, what now? Are you going to call it Junior? Have it breastfed?”

            Dad kneaded his temples for a moment before giving me one of his wide, knowing smiles, which I hated and spelled trouble for me. “Son, the one thing I forgot to teach you when you were younger is the gift of giving back.”

            I shook my head. “Pardon?”

            He tapped his computer screen and I stared at the white background of the page he tinkered on a while back. “Don't be such a jackass, son. It's time for you to learn about charity. I adopted a school for you.”

            I blinked my eyes in surprise. I might not be the most charitable person, but I knew my charity-limits. A public school was clearly not part of my list of things I wanted to be charitable to.

            When I hadn't said anything still, dad proceeded to his, what I guessed, long speech. “It's a quaint public school, Josh. Apparently, its previous sponsor, a small publisher of textbooks, couldn't continue helping the school after getting into bankruptcy.”

            “Well, you can't really help a school if your business is publishing textbooks that no one even wants to read but reads anyway for the sake of grades.”

            “That's not the point, Josh,” dad enunciated each syllable. “The textbooks the publisher gave to the school were destroyed by a typhoon three months ago, right before classes started.”

            I shook my head and sighed. “Let's just get to the point. You want me to help this school, give it books and money just for the sake of charity.”

            “For your mother as well,” he said.

            My brows furrowed. “What?”

            “The school is in Paki-bato. I promised Isabella that I would rebuild that school.”

            “By sending me off in your stead?” My voice rose by an octave.

            “Yes.”

            “Are you nuts?”

            “No.”

            “Why are you dragging me into this?”

            “Because I still love her and I know you do, too.”

            “You're definitely nuts!”