She gives her eyes a second run around, tries to think of it all as her
own. A clock radio blinks unset on the bedside table.
11: 11
11:11
11:11
Next to it, there’s a framed picture. Ligaya’s swoop and bob acceler-
ates as she tries to focus on the picture, unable to believe what she sees
inside the frame. There, behind glass are Ligaya’s mother, her father,
arms around each other, leaning against the hood of a car.
Why? From where? These questions come at her with an angry force
that she doesn’t understand. Peering between her parents’ shoulders,
there on top of the car, sit Nene and Totoy. Nene’s bangs still hang
crookedly across her forehead, but the rest is combed into tidy pigtails
that hang to her shoulders, bare in her sundress.
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But what? What are they doing here? The questions rise in a fizz of
panic, up from somewhere deep in Ligaya’s guts. They sit hot and wet
at the bottom of her throat.
Slightly apart from the others, Pedro leans against the car door.
He’s wearing his white tank top. His arms cross in front of his chest,
his muscles glistening as if he’s just shimmied down a palm tree. A
cigarette dangles from his mouth.
Again, the oxygen is gone. Ligaya puts a hand to her chest, pushes,
reminds her lungs to breathe. Now her eye catches framed pictures
scattered around the room. All variations of the first. Her family is
everywhere—on the tall dresser, along the window ledge, taped to
the wall above her rainbow bed. She turns to Vero, tries to put the
question in her eyes, cannot find the words, does not trust her voice.
“From your mother!” Vero beams. “She friended me on Facebook.
After you signed our contract. I was so surprised, but she says she can
connect from her sister’s village sometimes.” Vero pulls on Ligaya’s
arm and leads her to the nearby bathroom. More pictures hang from
the walls. Pedro climbing a tree. Nene and Totoy playing luksong
baboy. The whole family sitting down to a table filled with rice and
chicken. “I emailed and asked her for photos. We want this whole
level of the house to feel like home. Your home.” Maybe Vero sees
that Ligaya cannot speak because she keeps going. “I was surprised by
the Facebook request. I didn’t imagine your family having computers.
In the Philippines.” She gestures at Ligaya’s laptop in the bag on the
floor. “Not in a village.” She picks at a loose thread on her sleeve, looks
almost embarrassed. “I guess that was naïve. I know very little about
your country. You should teach us.”
Ligaya walks back to her room. Vero follows. Ligaya tries the
phrase in her mind. My room.
I wish to be alone in my room.
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Vero picks up a framed photo from the dresser, and Ligaya must
fight the urge to grab it from her hands. She swallows so loudly that
Vero must hear the grind of her tonsils.
“Who is the boy? The young man?” Vero smiles. Ligaya recognizes
this smile. It is one she and the other Filipina women wore in the
streets of Hong Kong, when they traded their secrets.
Ligaya’s eyes run across the picture, but a door slams shut in her
mind. She yearns for the warm breeze of home. “His name is Pedro.
He is, how do you say, a neighbourhood friend? Of the family.”
He is the other half of my heart. That she does not say.
“Ah.” Vero still wears that smile. “Not a boyfriend, then?” She tilts
her head one way, twists the corners of her mouth the other way, lifts
her eyebrows.
“Oh, no,” Ligaya meets her eyes, “not at all,” but then lowers her
gaze. “He has holes in his pockets, we say. Very poor. Like all in my
village. He does not make a good boyfriend.” She holds her breath for
three seconds and says a private apology to Pedro.
“I’m sorry about the single bed,” Vero says, bending to run her hand
along the comforter, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, “and I’m sorry
about the basement room. I hope it’s okay.”
could put her head on the pillow.
My pillow, she tries.
“And I’m sorry—there’s no lock on the door.” Vero leans into the
wall as if she has no intention of ever leaving. “I know the manuals
insist upon it, the lock. And it’s in your…contract.” Vero says “con-
tract” like it’s a curse. “But we didn’t get around to it, and you won’t
need it here. This whole level is yours. Nobody else will be down here.
A lock? We didn’t want it to feel like a prison.”
Ligaya fingers the small gold cross hanging below her throat. Nods.
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“And I’m sorry about the grass being brown.”
These people apologize a lot, Ligaya thinks, but she nods again.
“Yes, ma’am, you said. It’s almost…winter. No more watering.”
“Come, let me you show you the rest of the house.”
Ligaya says a sad goodbye to her pillow and follows Vero. The
number of bathrooms alone leaves Ligaya reeling. She counts five toi-
lets. As many toilets as there are people. And she will be the one to
scrub them all.
Back in the living room, Eliot again begins chanting, “party, party,
party!” Jamal squeals in his wake. But Ligaya turns toward the base-
ment. When she finally says that she is tired and will go to her room
to rest, she swears she hears her new bosses sigh their relief.
◊◊◊
Ligaya’s mother’s face flickers onto the small computer screen. Madam
Poon forbade Ligaya from speaking to her mother. Ligaya has trav-
elled farther from home to be closer. Her mother plans to stay all week
at her sister’s house to celebrate the renewed contact with her daugh-
ter. Ligaya reaches out to touch her mother’s tiny face on the screen.
“Kumusta,” her mother says. Hello. “Anak. ” My child. “You have arrived in your new home.”
Ligaya nods but cannot speak.
“Now life will get better and better. You will see.”
Still Ligaya says nothing, but she holds her mother’s look in the
computer, her eyes just like Uncle Andres’ eyes, just like her own.
“Show me your new home, daughter. Show me with the camera.
Take me on a walk-around.” Her mother’s sentences push Ligaya up
and off the couch, propel her forward. Her mother will not allow her
to stay in this motionless slump.
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Ligaya lifts the computer and spins it around so her mother can see
the whole room. “This is the sitting room,” Ligaya hears herself say,
finally, her voice her own. “A room just for sitting. These people have
a room for everything.” She’s surprised to hear laughter in her words.
“Be happy then, anak. In Hong Kong, you had no time to sit, let
&n
bsp; alone a whole room dedicated to it.”
One half of the room is filled with couches circled around a tele-
vision, the other half with Mister Shane’s exercise equipment. Ligaya
walks her computer-screened mother through the basement, showing
her the weight-lifting equipment, the laundry room, her own bed-
room, her own dressers, her own bathroom.
“All your own?” Her mother’s voice bounces.
“Mostly. The man will come down to do his exercises. And the chil-
dren, Eliot and Jamal, can play down here when I’m working, Madam
Vero says, but the rest of the time, yes,” Ligaya nods. “All my own,
Nanay.” Mother. She smiles the word.
“Now! Isn’t that better than a closet? Life gets better. See? You are
a lucky girl. Don’t forget to thank God when you pray tonight. I pray
for you always.”
Ligaya traces her fingers along Nanay’s smile. “Yes, Nanay. I am. A
very lucky girl.” But Ligaya does not feel this luck. Not yet.
“Bye-bye, Nanay.” She waves and blows a kiss and then pushes the
red “end” button. Instantly, Nanay disappears back into Ligaya’s old
life.
Ligaya didn’t ask after Pedro, Nene, or Totoy. As if knowing just
how much Ligaya could bear tonight, her mother did not mention
them.
Ligaya digs in her bag for a postcard from the airport. She bought
one just for them with a picture of a moose. The big ugly animal
drinks from a lake, its spindly legs barely managing to hold up its
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barrel of a body, its giant mug of a head. This animal will make the
children laugh.
Sprucedale is my new home, Ligaya writes, soon it will be home for all
of us. I think of you every day and send my hugs, kisses, and prayers. Soon
I will send real gifts.
Love,
She lifts her pencil and thinks of how to sign the card. She remem-
bers Nene’s habit of crawling into her lap when tired. She’d tuck her
fingers up Ligaya’s shirt, fall asleep with her warm hands against
Ligaya’s belly, breathing little piglet snores into her chest. Ligaya also
thinks of Totoy, his tagak cry for weeks after his birth, his mouth
pointed her direction, opening and closing.
Ligaya puts her pencil back to the card and writes LiLi. Here, LiLi
is her name. For now, she will be LiLi for everyone. She pictures her
other name, the one from the Philippines, written in water, and then
gone.
LiLi places the card on her nightstand. She will post it as soon as
she receives her first pay and can buy postage. Her head has stopped
spinning, but it is heavy. She rests her chin on the window sill. Vero is
right. Shane has left the grass to die.
Tomorrow Ligaya will find the watering hose and see if it’s not
too late.
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TWO
Ang taong walang kibo, nasa loob ang kulo.
She who does not speak has something boiling up inside.
— Filipino proverb
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CHAPTER NINE
The change to Vero’s life after LiLi’s arrival is instantaneous.
Vero has heard of depressed people coming out of it, surviving. They
talk of a fog lifting, something wet and dense just rising off them,
steaming right out of their skin.
It’s not that. Rather, it’s as if someone has changed the channel.
There was static, then there is no static. The volume lowers. The sound
clears. The main characters of her life come into focus. Just like that,
the plot is discernible. She gets the jokes. She can follow.
Look, Ma! It’s easy. She’s a kid on her bicycle, coasting down a hill,
feet lifted off her pedals, legs stretched out at her sides, an upside
down V, a party hat. She’s proud and relieved at the same time—as
big and little as that. Sure, she’s only doing what all the other kids
in the neighbourhood do every day, but until now she was afraid
everyone would discover that she was the only one who couldn’t. For
the first time since the birth of the boys, Vero wishes Cheryl would
visit. Vero wants her mother to see her in this new, sane, grown-up
life. They could drink chamomile tea, practice hatha yoga, discuss the
latest Naomi Klein. Maybe Vero can be everything—with help.
LiLi has come in and taken over—the kids, laundry, groceries,
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cleaning, cooking—LiLi’s got it all covered. At eight every morning,
Vero and Shane sit down to a table set with sliced oranges, steaming
scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a thermal carafe filled with fresh coffee.
They asked for none of this, but LiLi does it. A carafe, for God’s sakes!
thinks Vero. Where did LiLi even find such a thing in this house? It
must be an unused wedding present, dug from the dark corner of some
cupboard, scrubbed clean of years’ worth of dust.
“A carafe? Cool.” Shane nods at the set table, impressed. “We just
drank it right from the coffee pot before you came, LiLi. Sometimes
we ate the coffee beans straight from the bag.”
LiLi looks uncertainly from Shane to Vero and then back again
before she lets the corners of her mouth rise in the imitation of a smile.
“He’s joking, LiLi. Remember, Shane is always joking.”
At the first of these breakfasts, Vero and Shane smile at each other
stupidly across the sliced fruit and the steaming coffee, as the boys play
with LiLi in the basement.
“Hi, you.”
“Well. Hello there, yourself.”
But.
LiLi does not look happy. This is the problem, the kernel of truth
that nags at Vero during the early months. LiLi scurries about Vero’s
house with buckets of laundry that must weigh more than she does.
She does three jobs at once, cleaning supplies in one hand, squirming
kid in the other, and a load of wash on the go. She hardly speaks a word,
and when she does, she ends every sentence with “ma’am.” Vero tries
to engage her in conversation about her transition to North American
life, but LiLi simply drops her eyes and tells the ground, “Yes, ma’am, it
okay. I like it. Thank you very much, ma’am.”
Vero complains about Ligaya’s unhappiness to Joss during their
morning runs, Vero’s breath fast and short, her words laboured. “Ligaya
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means happiness, for God’s sakes.” The words hang, a white frost in
the winter air. Vero and Joss cover two full blocks before Joss responds.
In her peripheral vision, Vero sees a white puff of breath with each of
Joss’s words. “You can’t control other people’s happiness, Vee. Be kind.
Be empathetic. That’s what you can do.” Joss hardly sounds winded, so
Vero forces her legs to pick up the pace.
After breakfast, Vero visits the nanny agency where she an
d Bernie
drink espresso from doll-sized cups, stirring with sticks made of brown
sugar. Bernie shares many of her Filipino quick-facts with Vero, all in
the same nose-held tone— I can’t say it stinks, but let me make one thing
clear: it stinks. “When the Live-In Caregiver Program started in 1991,
we expected workers from all over the world, but now we deal almost
solely with women from the Philippines,” Bernie tells Vero. “It’s all
about the right skills having passed from the conquerors to the con-
quered. Filipinos know how to serve. We like their English. We like
their manners. Of course we do. They’re ours. Our forefathers have
done the training for us. They lessened our load. That’s why people like
Filipinos as workers. It’s been bred into them through generations of
subservience.” Bernie’s words carry a thick, sticky layer of irony. She
makes it clear that while she has no doubt her statements are true, she
does not condone them. Her tone holds the words apart from her, a
soiled diaper stretched to full arm’s length while she announces, Yep,
it’s shitty. Bernie speaks in a nasal drawl and twists her mouth when
she’s done as if there is something in there she can’t swallow. She’ll just
hold it in her cheek until Vero’s not looking and she can spit it on the
ground.
“I just don’t know if LiLi even understands me,” says Vero. “Yes, ma’am.
Okay, ma’am— it’s always yes and okay. But then she does…things.”
Vero moves her hand through the air once quickly, as if waving away
second-hand smoke. She waits for Bernie to ask what kinds of “things.”
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Bernie sets down her espresso cup but says nothing, so Vero continues.
“She put my wool toque in the dryer. It won’t even fit Jamal now. I had
just left it sitting on a counter, not even put it in the laundry. We tell
her, ‘Keep the thermostat low; heating the house is expensive. Put on
a sweater.’ Then we go to the basement, and it’s tropical down there,
the dial cranked as far as it’ll go. We say, ‘Don’t cook in the basement,’
next thing you know the whole house smells like fish sauce. From the
basement. She says everything is okay, but in the morning her eyes are
all dewy like she’s spent the whole night crying. If she would just tell
me when she doesn’t understand, just say not okay when it’s not okay. Be