No More Maple Syrup

What gets me is how it all happened in a week. Exactly seven days ago, I was, as my friend Maita put it, all in trance with my so-called father. I had it all planned on a Saturday. I knew my life would be different come Sunday. . . . We called the theatre ‘The Big Space’ because it unlimitingly catered to all our emotions. The grant zoutes, shasaes and cartwheels were freely executed *. Free, that’s the adjective. I entered the big space on a Saturday afternoon. I felt the thrill and excitement of expressing myself again. The show would start at 6pm. I ran across Joey, the stage manager, on my way to my designated dressing room at the far end of the backstage. He was the busiest of all. “Is our princess ready for her big night?” he said. His SM Kit was wrapped around his hips. His right hand held a roll of masking tape he used for plotting positions, his left busy with jotting down measurements. Before I could answer him, Joey was again preoccupied with counting and cutting and pasting. I watch him for a few seconds but realizing he’d already forgotten what he had just asked me, I went on. Besides, he was not done yet with instructing the props men for the backdrops. I saw the battens lowered a little from the ceiling but they were still bare. As soon as I got to my dressing room, I changed into my danceskin. I had just started tying my hair into a knot when Maita, the freak-out girl, came rushing. “Girl! Girl! Check this out!” she said in a voice much like a teenage-mother bearing her child. “What? Wait, it’s good you’re here. My pink tutus can almost pass for granny’s veil. Did you bring extra?” I told her. “Can you check this first before the goddamn tutus?”. She handed me a small piece of blue Post-It. The awful handwriting on it read 89 Caimito St. Q.C. Maita just watched me. “Maita! I only have an hour to get myself ready for our show. You know that. But still you can afford to give me an anonymous address without any explanation and you actually expect me to waste more minutes staring at you and wait till God-only-knows-how-long for you to at least give me a clue. Tell me, is this where pink tutus are lent for free?” I blurted out. “Hold it!” she cut in, “The NBI guy you dated three weeks ago, do you remember him. Well…we’ve been communicating, you know. He wanted me to be some sort of a beautiful bridge between both of you. For all we know I can’t be the ordinary overlooked type. I’m too sexy, that’s one thing…” “Maaaaaaaaiiiitaaaaaaaaaaa!” “Hedroppedbyawhileagotogiveyouthis.Hehasaflighttonightsohecan’twaitforyou.Hesaidifyourfantasydad’snamewasEduardoReyes,youcanfindtheguyonthataddress.” She hadn’t breathed at all. It didn’t sink in my head instantly. I had my moments in the show. I did my routines perfectly, or so the remarks said. I never noticed. Half the time I was searching the audience. Funny, but every aged man I saw I imagined as my father, watching me, proud of her dancing princess. Considering it’s my first performance as a lead, it was weird that I didn’t feel nervous. I was so lost in thoughts. When the show was over, I quickly packed my things and rushed to the nearest Pancake House. Strangely, no one asked me why I was in such a hurry. No wonder. The ever-so-spieling Maita had spread the word. It was good enough, anyway. At least I had the night to myself. And to my dad. I waited until the butter melted before pouring maple syrup on two pieces of pancakes I ordered. I had been forcing myself to follow a serious diet months before the show but even I failed to keep myself away from my dearest pancakes. They were my source of equilibrium. I ate them when I’m sad, or angry, happy, confused, excited, and especially when I felt different things all at the same time. Just like now. And never without the maple syrup. As I indulged with my sweet treat, I looked around the place. It’s nine o’clock and everyone was grabbing anything under the moon for dinner. What caught my attention was the man, probably in his late 50s, occupying the table across mine. He was nibbling on what seemed to be Clubhouse sandwiches and French fries. He looked stressed. Perhaps he had a long day in his office. His green longsleeves were already full of seams. For a moment I felt like approaching him to ask if he happened to live in 89 Caimito St. Q.C. or if his name was Eduardo Reyes. Thank heaven earth came to me and I didn’t. When Mom was still alive she used to tell me dad was good-looking. He was tall and dark and gorgeous. Along with that he was also handsome in the pocket, a total hunk in his time. I heard a lot of stories of him buying this and that for Grandma just so he could take Mom out for a date. At the time when I was starting to establish my dancing career and what’s left of the little inheritance I got from Mom was only a thousand, I imagined Dad knocking on my door with bags of groceries enough to last me a month. I told myself if Dad only knew I fed on noodles for straight weeks he would ran to my house and bring me to the nearest Pancake House. Or probably he would bring boxes of hotcake mix, dozens of eggs, and bottles of maple syrup. I knew he would even help me pay for the house’ mortgage and wouldn’t have allowed the bank to take Mom’s car. Perhaps he would buy me a new car and let me live with him in his rich man’s house. I knew he would, if only he knew. But he didn’t. He might not even know I was half-expecting him to come. He didn’t know. I’d tell him. Tomorrow. I’d tell him everything tomorrow. I got his name and address. There was no more reason to delay our meeting. What was left was the preparation for the much-awaited day. I quickly finished my pancakes and hurried to my apartment. At the back of my mind I knew tomorrow would be an uphill battle. The sun still shone at the east. The cling-clangs of Manang Loven’s kitchen utensils on the adjacent unit indicated that this day was as ordinary as the others. But I knew it wasn’t. I was busy applying mud pack on my face when Maita came. “Hey girl! Bought us pancakes and maple. You did great last night. I heard some big name proposed a restaging.” she said. When she saw my newly made toenails she blurted out, “So, the girl’s on for something. Ummm…what time are you going to your fantasy father?” She made me laugh. Dear Maita, she’s so good at fishing information. As if she was born to it she started throwing questions at me. She even volunteered on accompanying me. “I can manage. Don’t worry I’ll update you. By the way, can you relieve me for tonight’s baby ballet class? Or maybe you could be the new teacher from now on. Who knows I might not need to work tomorrow.” I told her. If not for my almost impolite insisting Maita wouldn’t have left at noon. I slammed the door shut as soon as I had pushed her ninety pounds out the front door. Five minutes later, I could still hear her voice. “Girl, if in case you change your mind I’ll be at the studio. We can cancel the pointees tonight if you want. Girl? Girl?!” Well, she was so sweet to want to be a part of the most important time of my life but I wanted to do it alone. Besides, it was not like the blind dates we normally share together. Four o’clock was the perfect time to go to Dad. That way I could easily leave before dinner if things didn’t turn out well. At 2 p.m. I was already scanning my closet. I took my white sleeveless MNG blouse and flared jeans. I’d worn both only once. I gave my shoulder-length hair a hundred brush strokes. I put on some accessories, a nice belt, and my sexiest stilettos. I added some color to my face to complete my look. Hawaiian Ginger scent of Calgon also came in handy. At a quarter to three, I opened my front door. There I was, dressed to kill, ready to discover a missing part of me. 89 Caimito St. I didn’t know the name of the village or barangay so it took me a while. The cab fare cost me almost half-a-thousand before the driver finally located the place. I let the taxi stop at the corner. I wanted to enjoy the thrill of walking to the house. I stared at the street sign for a while then composed myself. I dug all the guts I could. Then off I went. It seemed to me that the Caimito Street neighborhood was exactly how I imagined Dad’s place would be – a quiet and civilized environment. The first house at my left read #67. I walked fast. The road was empty. 69…71…73. I wondered how Dad exactly looked like. If only Grandma didn’t burn all pictures of him when he left, I would’ve had an idea. What if he changed name? What if he already transferred home? The thought stopped me. 81… How could I forget all the possibilities? What if my NBI date had made a mistake? What if Dad wasn’t residing in 89 Caimito anymore? And if he still did, what if he’s presently on a business trip? Or what if he went shopping? Should I wait for him or should I just come back some other day? Should I leave a message then? With whom would I leave the message, anyway? Oh my God, what if dad has an arrogant wife? I hope he’s there to save me from facing a real monster. And if he’s there, what would I tell him? How would I introduce myself? Oh, Mom’s name would ring a bell for sure. I retreated to what Maita would call graceful brisk-walking. I didn’t care about my thin heels anymore. 83… I was sweating. 85… I looked down. I’d never felt so nervous. In fact, my heart was beating faster than in any of my shows. For every performance, the bigger the audience the more nervous I got. But now I only had to see one person. I didn’t even need to perform. But I couldn’t control my trembling knees. 87… My stomach ached. I felt like vomiting. I felt cold but I was perspiring. I needed a doctor. I needed a toilet, a bed, medicine, hot & cold compress. I needed an emergency room! 89. My tote bag fell to the ground. From the street, I could see the façade of a turn-of-the-century two-storey house. Its light green paint seemed to need recoating. The Bermuda grass on the lawn was of dark green and brown colors. The doorbell button was missing. The gate was ajar. I called the names of every saint I knew and slid in. There were four steps up to the front door. I climbed up and felt jumpy. The nervousness I felt was replaced by excitement. I knocked three times and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again. Maybe he hadn’t heard me because I was hearing loud sounds of what I figured out as coming from a musical instrument I could hardly recognize. “Hello? Anyone there?”. My voice fought the loud music. I knocked harder this time. “Heeellooooooo?!” After what seemed like forever the music stopped. “Who’s there?” a deep manly voice said. Dad’s. I never heard it before but my hard knew it was his. “Who’s there?” Dad repeated. “Ammm…I just wanted to ask something, Sir.” I replied. Later I realized how awkward it was for a daughter to call his father ‘Sir’. “Can you wait a second? I’ll just put a shirt on.” “No problem, Sir.” I thought my heart couldn’t beat any more faster but it did. My feet felt as if I had my grand zoute suspended on air permanently. Could it be true that I was standing in front of Dad’s front door, waiting for him to finish putting on his shirt? There was no single sound of footstep but when Dad spoke again his voice was as loud as it was earlier, coming from the other side of the wooden door, “Are you still there? I’m sorry you had to wait.” his voice brought me back to consciousness. Everything was really happening. The door opened. “Come in. What can I do for you? Come in, come in.” Our eyes met through the same almond-eyed gaze. There I was looking at a gray-haired old man in his wheelchair. “Come in. Suit yourself. What is it you needed to ask?”, he insisted. I made a long deep inhale and said, “Sir, do you remember Luisa Martinez? I’m Lyka, her daughter.” I myself could hardly hear my voice. I was watching my fingers, both hands gripping my tote bag. “Oh yes, of course. How could I forget?” He turned his wheels and moved a few meters away from me. We were both silent. “You’re our daughter.” he finally said. “That’s what I came here for, Sir.” “How do you call your mother?” “I call her ‘Mom’, Sir.” “Call me ‘Dad’, then. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” I fought my tears and I knew he did the same. Both of us didn’t want to be too emotional in an already emotional situation. But the connection was there, more than that of the bloodstream. Dad turned to face me. Watery eyes accompanied his smile. Just like mine. We spent the rest of the day looking at pictures of him and Mom, reading Mom’s love letters, and sharing tales from long years of separation. I learned that he lost his legs from diabetes. He’d been living alone since his family migrated to the states five years ago. He didn’t tell me why he stayed, though. He never even explained why he left Mom. I didn’t ask. It suited both of us just fine to avoid confrontation of the pains that 24 years of endless questions had brought us. What’s important was the sense of fulfillment I knew we both felt. . . .We are holding a pre-cast party today at Dad’s. Maita and Joey stayed with us overnight to help me unpack my things. The rest of the gang will be arriving in a while. Joey is busy mixing his green tea while Maita prepares sandwiches. Dad and I are munching on homemade pancakes with liquid Nutra Sweet. Everyone’s already in at four. Dad plays his accordion. We accompany him with our shanaes, pas d’boreis and relevaes*. Tomorrow will be the restaging of our show. Dad will be there on the front seat, clapping his hands, proud of his dancing daughter.