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My father, without saying anything, heads to my lola’s old room, to the wobbly, black drawers we’ve had since my childhood. I follow him. Leave our fried eggs and garlic in the sun. He opens the frilly curtains, closes them, fluffs the pillow, and sits down on the carpet floor. He avoids my presence. I walk in and gaze above him: the paint’s chipping off the walls. The fountain outside is burnt, out of flowers and vines. The chipped veranda is gone; my father ripped it out the ground once my lola died. Too many things remind me of her, my dad said. The swaying calamansi and mango trees are uprooted, the front grass is dry and brown. But inside, everything remains: the ivory dressers matched with black ones, the china cabinet used for picture frames instead of china, holding photos of everyone in the family except my mother, the stacks of unwashed dishes that seem to never disappear, the smell of fried fish and vinegar.
Dad, tell me how you met Mercy, I say.
You mean your mother? He laughs, and I sit next to him on the carpet.
She’s not my mother. Lola Pacing was. Mercy is my birth mother.
He’s silent, contemplative. He looks out the window from his low place. The room feels heavy, the Los Angeles heat enters from the opened windows.
You know, I’m overly sensitive now because of this. He points to his woman’s heart.
I don’t want him to carry the silences anymore.
This is the nightmare I have. This is what could have happened the night my father met my mother: the city lights of Manila cloud the darkness with a crimson hue and the streets are rowdy and loud, the men thirsty, the women laughing, and the cars roar and roar and roar. It’s 1973. My father, Narciso, is running down the corridor toward Ermita, the tourist belt, in search for his sister Gloria. Narciso is running and running, past the smoke from fish-ball carts, past the yelling men in collared shirts—ay, boy, slow your ass down—past the women and their short dresses, past the cars that screech and honk and crowd the sidewalks, past the blinking lights, the sounds, the smell of fried fish and cooked meth, the flaming air of the night.
He sweats like a madman. He has reached the whorehouse. He looks up to the neon lights of Casa de Lady. He’s swallowed by the glow, the heat, the burning of his mind, America, he keeps thinking, America—but then, Ate, what about the food we need to eat?
He seizes the gated door and a man opens it, flicking his cigarette ashes. My father, Narciso, has always told me this: he remembered the way the man smoked, like a badass, with his hand on the hip and the other in the air, the cigarette between his fingers, the vapor blurring Narciso’s vision. A coarse voice, an angry demand for money or no girls. My father, Narciso, shakes his head—not here for the girls, just my sister—but the man clutches my father, Narciso, by the neck and says it again: No money, no women.
This is when my mother enters the scene. She appears from the darkness, the alley, dangerous like a slithering aswang, her white dress as pale as her skin, her hair slicked back into a ponytail, her makeup impeccable, her smile flawless.
Pogi boy, she calls, pogi! I’ve been waiting for you all night, handsome. She places her hand on the bodyguard’s shoulder. Won’t you be a dear? This boy, pogi boy, he’s a friend. C’mon, be a darling. She flashes a red smile.
The bodyguard smiles at my birth mother’s touch. Just this once, he says, since you’re a favorite. Salamat, she winks. She takes my father by the hand, he is confused, dazed, still coughing at the weight of fingers once pressed against his brown neck, and she walks him upstairs, up a dark staircase, and stops in the middle.
She turns abruptly to him: What are you doing here? You’re Gloria’s brother, yes? Don’t cause any trouble for her, she has American customers tonight.
Narciso, my father, smiles that smile that has made every woman he has ever met crumble at the knees. It’s his eyes, he has always told me, he has the charm, the puppy-dog eyes.
I have to see if it’s true, Narciso starts rambling to Mercidita, I’m just here to ask her a question.
Mercy extends her hand. You’re going to need cash for this.
He searches his pockets. How much?
She shrugs. Two thousand pesos.
He takes a step backward, almost tripping over the steps. How is any respectable man supposed to pay that?
My mother laughs. It’s just to select and look at one of the girls, she says, it’s actually three thousand pesos to rent the whole room for the night.
That much? Narciso exclaims, running his hands through his perfectly waxed hair.
Mercy smiles shyly and lifts his chin toward her. I’ll loan it you, pogi boy, she laughs, but you better pay me back. Maybe a whole night with you?
Narciso trembles, hands in his pockets, back bent, and he looks away.
Mercy places her hand on his chest: You must be a virgin.
C’mon, be a dear. Here. She hands him two thousand pesos. Just enough to look. She flicks his forehead. Gotta go, pogi boy. I’m a favorite. I can do as I please. But: I’m late for work.
My father walks down a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. It’s quiet. He can hear his own footsteps, the creaks. The red lighting heats the long corridor. The walls are brown but the lamps make it appear crimson. He can hear faint screaming in the distance. His footsteps become louder. A dark man, as tall as the bodyguard, follows him closely. You’re a bit young for this, boy, he laughs. How old are you? Fifteen? Narciso shakes his head, no, sir, I’m seventeen. The man bellows a laugh, finally clutching his shoulders. Then why so nervous, pare? They’re just something to look at. You didn’t even give me the price for a whole night.

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