MIGUEL

BEFORE

May 2004

It was a hot and humid summer day when we buried Lola Celing. The ground was still a bit mushy from last night's heavy rain. I watched somberly as they lowered the shiny mahogany casket into the ground. And all I could think about was how much she'd suffered in the final days of her life.

Mama told me that pancreatic cancer is one of the most painful types of cancer there is. I had no doubt about it, seeing as Lola was moaning and crying and begging to just please let her die, please, she could not endure any more of the pain.

Two weeks after she'd been confined to the hospital, she suffered a heart attack. With Lolo Hermie's consent, she had a Do Not Resuscitate order placed on her medical chart.

Lola passed away two days before she could have turned 71. She always talked about how she and Lolo would live to a ripe old age together. I thought grandparents live well until they're a hundred years old, and so I thought Lola Celing died too young.

Right now, as I watched her casket suspended above the gaping hole in the ground, I could only wish she's in a better place with no more pain and suffering. It was the first time I ever saw a dead loved one. A person I grew up with. A person I used to talk with. Someone I adored with all my heart.

Lolo Hermie, Lolo Ans, and Papa's eyes were red-rimmed, as if they'd been holding back tears. Mama was wearing a pair of sunglasses, and she was crying and sniffling. So was Lola Patring and Ate Kate. But they're girls, and their tears were to be expected.

I didn't cry. I didn't want to, in front of so many strangers. And as much as I wanted to, I didn't want Lolo Ans and Papa to come and tell me that "boys don't cry, Miguel, only girls and sissies do", for the umpteenth time. I wonder what Mama would say when she hears that? More importantly, I wonder what Papa would think when he finally acknowledges the fact I'm gay.

It was never a secret. My family and friends have always known I'm gay since I was eleven, when I mentioned having a crush on our class escort, Emman Zafra. It seemed natural at the time—or I thought it should be. Now, I'm not so sure.

For Papa, that has always been the elephant in the room. Sometimes, I wonder if he'd forgotten or just straight-up refused to acknowledge it. Either way, that never stopped him and Lolo Ans from spewing passive-aggressive homophobic crap around me. I tried not to feel hurt but every time they look at a gay cousin or uncle with barely-concealed disgust on their face, there's always this gut-wrenching sensation deep in my stomach. Every time they're around, I am always prickling with anxiety; waiting for that horrible day to come when that repulsed look would be directed to me.

After the burial, Lola Celing's absence was palpable, like a dark shroud had been cloaked around the family. Everyone was silent. The house was quiet. Lolo Hermie was a combination of devastated and exhausted. Later that night, we could hear him crying in his room.

Lolo Ans and Lola Patring left for Pampanga the next day. At lunch, Papa announced that we'd be moving out of our apartment in Novaliches, and moving in with Lolo Hermie, effective next week.

"It's much closer to the office," Papa explained. "Besides, we could save the money instead of renting an apartment."

My sister looked especially ecstatic about this news. She'd been attending St. Aloysius University since she was nine; whining incessantly about always being late to school.

"Does that mean I'll be transferring to St. Aloysius?" I asked after Papa made his announcement.

"Of course you will," my sister answered for everyone, frowning at me as she toyed with a carrot at the end of her fork. "You can't expect to be traveling to and from your school in Novaliches, can you?"

I shrugged. I'm not about to argue that she'd been doing the exact same thing for seven years now. Personally, I don't want to be experiencing the same hassle she did all these years.

"Yes, hijo*, you'll be transferring to Ate's school for your senior year," Mama cut in. "Isn't that exciting?"

Transferring to a Jesuit school isn't exactly my idea of "exciting", especially when I've already felt at-ease in a not-so-Jesuit school where I've already made plenty of friends. Once again, I shrugged in response as I bit into my pork chop. It's not like I have a choice in the matter. Wherever Papa gets assigned with his work, the rest of the family follows.

"St. Aloysius, huh?" I gave my sister a sideways glance. "'Guess that makes us schoolmates now. I can't wait to see what the fuss is all about," I added in a deadpan voice.

"You better not talk to me on campus," Ate said, pointing her fork at me. Mama and Papa shot her a warning look that she ignored.

I shrugged as I cut another piece off my pork chop. "Like I would."

Mama let out a long sigh before silence fell over the table once more, only broken occasionally by the sound of utensils hitting china plates.

Well, we're off to a great start.

The move to Quezon City was swift. Five days after Lola's funeral, we've officially moved in with Lolo Hermie.

The thing is, people have been referring to our family as NPA's*—and I don't mean the subversive, mountain-dwelling types. We're a family with No Permanent Address. One of my earliest memories is watching my parents packing our stuff into big, brown boxes, traveling to different towns and cities, settling into a new apartment. And then a few months later, we'd be doing the exact same thing. Pack up. Move out and into a new place. Rinse. Repeat.

When I turned nine, however, Papa was pulled out of field work and was assigned to a desk job in Q.C., prompting us to move to places in and around the city. Mama would always tell me and Ate that it's "just going to be a temporary thing". We somehow fell into that same, old routine that by now, we have mentally prepared ourselves to be on the move at any given time, to never get attached to people and places, and to nod and agree with your mother like she never lies to you.

But now, by moving into Lolo's house, I can feel that this is going to be our final stop. Ate and I never seem to agree on anything but this time, I think she feels the same way I do, which only makes my insides squirm.

Lolo Hermie and Lola Celing's house—or "The Blue House" as I call it—is located in a gated community south of the biggest mall in the city. When I asked Mama what it meant to live in a "gated community", she only said it's a place where rich people live, which meant Lolo and Lola are rich. Right? I think their house is proof enough of that.

The Blue House is a large two-story courtyard residence with white walls, white-shuttered windows, and blue-tiled roof, hence the name. Lola Celing's array of exotic plants spilled their vibrantly colored flowers out front, making the place look like paradise. That's how Lola described it, too. Her and Lolo's own, little paradise.

There's nothing little about The Blue House, though. They moved into this place a couple of years ago, and it's such a humungous house, there's no way only two people could fill it. There's probably about a dozen rooms upstairs, most of which have their own bathrooms. Perhaps Lolo and Lola had been expecting for this day to come. That, sooner or later, one of their children would move back in with them, along with their grandchildren.

Well, we're not about to disappoint them.

My sister dropped her luggage to the floor and plunked down on the couch, looking quite at home. "I could get used to this," she said as she stretched her hands behind her head, looking around in satisfaction. "I won't even mind if we live here for good."

Mama and Papa were in the kitchen with Lolo Hermie. I could hear them talking in a steady murmur, broken every so often by Mama's exclamations. Ate and I are trying to get accustomed to her sudden outbursts whenever Papa is around. But it's gotten really hard to ignore lately, especially when the outbursts are happening on an almost daily basis.

I glanced over my shoulder, and then to my sister. "Ate, I think Mama and Papa are fighting," I declared.

Ate let out a huff. "You think?", she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "They're going to split up any day now, Miggy. I just know it."

I looked around to make certain we were alone, then leaned forward to my sister. "Our parents arguing doesn't necessarily mean they're going to split up," I said in a hushed tone.

My sister gave me a smug look. "Sure. But that's because you don't know what they're arguing about."

I leaned back as I scrunched my eyebrows, sure that my sister knows more than she's letting on. "It's not like Papa has a mistress and is keeping secret siblings from us," I said, trying for humor.

I watched as Ate slowly lifted an eyebrow, lips curving into a hard line. "That's awfully specific," she said humorlessly, and my stomach felt like a rock had dropped into it.

"Why? I feel like you know something I don't," I hedged.

"Do you really wanna' know the answer, Miggy?" she said almost forebodingly, and that rock in my stomach turned into something sour.

I decided I didn't want to hear any more of this. I stood up out of my seat so abruptly that the couch's legs screeched against the floor, prompting Mama and Papa to poke their heads out the kitchen door.

"Everything okay, guys?" Mama asked, a lilt in her voice. It's not lost on me that her face is splotchy, her nose and eyes red and puffy from crying.

I should be the one asking you that!

I waved a hand for a moment, as I collected myself. "Yes, Ma, we're fine," I replied as I picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder. "Can I go upstairs to pick my room now?"

Mama gave me a quick, appraising look before nodding. "Sure, hijo. There are two rooms up for grabs at the west wing. Let your sister tag along."

"We'll be with you in a minute," Papa said as he disappeared back into the kitchen. "And try not to kill each other while we're gone!"

Ate rolled her eyes as she walked past me. "I could say the same to you and Mama," she muttered under her breath.

"Keep it to yourself," I hissed as I caught up with her on the staircase. "I don't want to hear it."

Before we reached the top step, my sister turned and poked a finger at my chest. "Keep living in your own little bubble, Miggy. Pretend you don't hear. Pretend you don't see. Pretend you don't feel it in your bones. Keep pretending that everything is fine." She let out a breath, closing her eyes. A single tear fell down her cheek before she blinked and wiped it away, her eyes glazed. "It's bound to happen, Miggy, but I don't want to see you hurt. I just want you to prepare for the worst. Because whether you like it or not, this—" she pointed the same finger at the floor, circling it to indicate the whole house, "—is gonna' be our last stop."

I stood frozen for a moment, putting a hand on my chest as I watched my sister disappear into the hallway leading to the west wing. It hurt where she'd poked me but something inside me hurt more than the physical pain.

I'm so used to Ate's little jabs and harmless insults, but this was the first time she said something so serious, totally devoid of humor that my sixteen-year-old brain could not process so quickly. But my heart did, and it ached, and I wanted to cry right then and there.

This is gonna be our last stop.

She put words to my fear, and I don't know if I'll ever be ready. Because no matter how exhausting moving into different homes can be, no matter how intolerable Papa can get, and no matter how suffocating Mama's love can sometimes get, the Vargases have always been a single unit for as long as I can remember. I don't think Ate and I would have it any other way. But like what she said, it's time to prepare for the worst.

And like an incoming storm, I need to brace myself for the inevitable.

Definition of Terms:

* Hijo - son; young boy

* NPA - New People's Army; the armed wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines, primarily based in the countryside