A New Home

I wake up as soon as the bus comes to a halt but I keep my eyes shut. All around me, I hear the shuffling of the other passengers eager to alight. The elderly lady beside me starts talking loudly on her phone- not paying any mind to the other sleeping passengers. I try to block all of the distraction to remember the dream I was having but it's too late. 

Begrudgingly, I reach up to the overhead compartment to collect my stuff: a worn-out plastic bag that contains all my life now. 

I step out of the bus to stretch my legs. They are almost numb from sitting for almost eight hours. It is the longest trip I have ever been to in all my life. Another eight hours of travelling and I'd be in Manila. 

My stomach rumbles and I approach the cafeteria. I am too busy wondering if I could buy anything that I don't notice the lady at the counter smiling at me. 

"Hi, sister," she says in my native language. 

It is only then that I notice her unusually long hair tucked in a neat ponytail, just like mine. For a moment, I look at her wide-eyed, unable to say anything in response. "Peace be upon you," I manage to say at last. 

"And you," she says. "Where are you from? Are you travelling alone?" 

My heart starts to pound rapidly at her questions. I grip my bag tightly and tell her the name of the biggest town I can think of. 

"Is that so? I have family in that town, perhaps you know them." 

I am racked with panic at this point and my stomach rumbles loudly. "Of course, you must be hungry! What can I get you?" she says. I am embarrassed but relieved at the sudden change of  subject. I ask her for a bowl of soup. 

"Here you go." She places a small bowl of steaming hot soup at the counter. As I rummage my wallet for some bills, she says, "Never mind, sister. Anything for my brethren." 

I thank her and scoot to the farthest table. Luckily, another bus had arrived at the station and the passengers gradually flock to the cafeteria. I finish the soup as fast as I can, not caring if I scald my tongue. I return the bowl at the counter and wave her goodbye. 

I hurriedly return to the bus. Once seated, I try to calm my racing heart. There's no way the cafeteria lady knows me. Eight more hours. Eight more hours then I'd be in the big city where no one will find me. 

As the bus starts winding down the zigzagging highway, I close my eyes and think of the life I’m leaving behind. 

****

I was raised in a very religious household. The kind where we go to church not only every sunday but almost everyday. We did not miss any assembly or meeting. My father had an important role in the congregation so we were not allowed to miss church unless we were seriously ill. Once we had a church assembly at the same time of my grade school graduation. Which did I attend? I sat in a two-hour church assembly when I was supposed to be on a stage delivering the valedictory address. My father said it was through God’s grace that I finished on top of my class.

Growing up like this, the only sunshine in my life was my mother. While she was a devout officer in the Church, I never felt that she valued us less than her duties in the church.  She was kind and loving; she never raised her voice when she got mad. She was the only one who would listen to what my siblings and I wanted. 

When I was sixteen, I wanted to go to the town dance with my sisters. Father said that such occasions were the instruments of the devil to lure us into sin. I was upset but I could not cry in front of him. But when he left that evening, my mother sang for us while we had our own dance at home. 

I wanted to go to a certain college in another province but father would not allow me. He suggested that I take a two-month course in tailoring that was sponsored by the mayor. Mother managed to persuade him to let me attend the nearest college we could find. It was not what I wanted but when you are stripped of the power to choose from a very young age, every little choice seems big.

Then, my mother became very sick.  She had been diagnosed with cancer a while back. She spent most of the time sleeping and when she did wake up, all she did was throw up. The week she fell seriously ill, the minister came to our house every single night: praying for us, anointing my mother with oil, telling us about the importance of accepting the will of God. 

All the while I was thinking: Is my mother going to die? What was the use of begging God to heal her from her sickness if he was going to do what he wanted anyway? Why are you here? All this I wanted to ask him but I knew I couldn't. In the end, we thanked him for his love and compassion. 

Mother was buried on a rainy day. I remember the funeral only lasted a few minutes long because there were fears that roads would be flooded by midday. Back at home, the brethren expressed their condolences. 

"At least she will not suffer anymore." "She'll be at rest, waiting for the promised salvation." "She's lucky to have finished her race." These were their words. 

I wanted to be sick. I excused myself and went to the bedroom. I was crying when my father walked in. “What are you doing here? Don’t be disrespectful and come out.” With my mother gone, I have lost even the right to feel. 

I had never planned to run away from home. I was resigned to a lifetime of obeying these rules, of being kept in a box, of denying my feelings and desires. Then my sunshine vanished. 

So I phoned a college friend who by then lived in Manila and then one Sunday, while father was in a meeting, I excused myself on the pretext that I had diarrhea. In reality, I went home, grabbed a plastic bag filled with clothes and took a bus to the next town where I took another bus and another until I got to a town where nobody knew me.

*****

I shield my eyes from the sun as I stepped out on the platform. The station is packed and everywhere I go I bump into a stranger. I feel a rush of excitement, nerves, fatigue and hunger  all at once. 

I stand against a column and wonder about my mother. If heaven truly exists and I go to hell, will she look for me in heaven? Will she be sad? Disappointed? I am not sure if I want to know the answer. Don’t look back, I tell myself. It’s time to look for a new home. It’s time to be someone else.

My friend Jocelyn appears from somewhere. “How are you? How was the trip” she asks. I tell her everything is fine. 

“What would you like to do?” she says.

“I would like to get a haircut.”