She’s quietly sleeping in her father’s arms as the creaky old bus rumbles its way through the pouring summer rain, drenching at once the parched ground which eventually emitted that all-too-familiar pungent yet pleasant smell. With his voice breaking, the father seated beside me hesitantly told me how at a young age, their daughter broke their hearts. And mine, too…
It was raining like mad when I took the trip home to Pangasinan the other day. After thinking that my further stay in CLSU will drain my allowance or what’s left of it (I’m unemployed, for goodness’ sake!), and since it was already vacation and the heat of the sweltering summer and the erratic weather are already getting into my nerves, I decided to go home. I didn’t have an umbrella or anything that would spare me from rain so by the time I arrived at the San Jose City bus stop and stepped onto the platform of that rusty old bus, it seemed like I’ve just emerged from the bathroom: wet and dripping with water. I was like rain-drenched and all. Well I guess that’s what you get when you decide not to take a bath because you’re thinking that the one-and-a-half hour trip home will just be a breeze no one can smell you. I didn’t even change clothes when I left CLSU. I was too anxious to go home. And besides, the ordinary commuter bus that I took stinks more than I do.
(And what was that quote again? There are two things in this world one can never fully understand: the weather and women? I can better tolerate the weather, though. And I digress from attempting to understand women. I’d rather blame my misery on the rain—even rain on a summer season.)
I deliberately chose one of the seats at the near-end of the bus—two rows from the rear—so I can freely dry myself up with the used clothes I had in my backpack, hoping that water didn’t seep through in there. What choice do I have? With all effort, I negotiated my way through the rear, hurdling baskets filled with varying vegetables, bags of—what was that, rice or fertilizer?—and careful not to step into boxes and trays packed with eggs and salted eggs all lining the whole stretch of the aisle. Oh wait, did I hear chickens and ducks somewhere? Well this was an ordinary public commuter line, so maybe then it’s possible even to bring a chicken coop inside. Perfect. I wonder if there was some exodus happening here: people leaving a doomed village in search of another, bringing with them their entire household with their crops and livestock and pets and all.
When the bus pulled from the terminal, it was almost packed with people who appear restless due to the heavy rain. The atmosphere in the bus was a mess, and because of the thick humidity in the air, the stink intensified all the more. I tried to ignore if it’s just me or the bus. Maybe it’s the flock of chicken.
Despite its heavy downpour, the rain failed to dampen the lively chatter of mixed languages that filled the atmosphere inside the bus. Men, women, children minding their respective businesses completes the typical scene of a life in motion, sharing a momentary space on this speeding vehicle, headed to a cycle of endless journey. Seated across from my seat, an elderly woman with a bush of unkempt white hair and few front teeth tries to negotiate the price of a chicharon baboy with the itinerant vendor who climbed up the bus to sell his goods. While drying myself up with the moist clothes from my bag, I caught the vendor say “makulit” while scratching his head, but nonetheless gave in to whatever price the old woman demanded. The vendor heavily shook his head and clicked his tongue as he moved ahead. Another vendor came and offered me boiled quail eggs and peanuts. And when I declined, he too shook his head.
The rain slowed down by the time the bus pulled at another stop near the military installment in the Lupao-Umingan boundary, and a man and a woman climbed the platform. I later noticed that the man carries a baby in his arms as the woman tries to make way for them through the rubble of boxes, stacks of tray and vegetable baskets. And since the only seat available that can accommodate them was my three-seater, I gave way to them and perched myself nearest the window. The man heaved a sigh of relief as he collapsed his weight in the seat beside me after having to hurdle the obstacles. Her wife, so it seemed, positioned herself in the seat near the aisle, across the elderly woman happily munching her chicharon. I abashedly smiled at the new passengers out of courtesy. They smiled back and nodded their heads.
I attempted to start a conversation by asking the usual questions about their destination when I glanced at the baby sleeping quietly in his father’s arms. Surely it was a girl, not more than two-years old. As if something is tugging my eyeballs, I couldn’t look away. I held my gaze at the baby he is carrying, and noticed that something was distinctly wrong with the beautiful, innocent face. Something that’s out of proportion, like a glitch or a distortion…like in an abstract painting in which something was out of place and you try to figure what. I don’t know whether to hold my smile at her or at the couple, I don’t know how should I look like at that moment or what kind of words will I say next that will matter.
“Meron siyang cleft palate”, the father said, if only to make clear to me what I already perceived as obvious. I forced myself to nod at this. No, I deliberately shook my head up and down and up and down to emphasize that I understand, but mostly to spare me from commenting with the right words that became so elusive at that moment. Will I say she’s beautiful? Will I say it’s alright? I honestly don’t know what to say.
“Ano po ang pangalan niya”, was all I can ask, as if knowing her name can give me a proper excuse.
“Angela…magda-dalawang taon na siya sa July”, the father replied in the midst of the rumbling cry of the vehicle's engine.
Angela, like angel, I thought.
Angela was their first baby. He and his wife were married six years ago, when he was 27 and she was 25. They have planned to start a family immediately after the wedding. But two years into their marriage, nothing happened. On the third year the wife got pregnant, but just four months away from giving birth to their first child, she had a miscarriage. The father said it was too painful to bear, but they’ve managed to move on. After another year, the wife had another pregnancy and it continued until the final month. And so they were very happy when the baby came out. They were filled with joy and earnest expectations for their baby girl. Until they saw her little face and it broke their hearts to pieces.
“Wala na kaming nagawa. Ganyan na siya simula nung pinanganak…”, the father said with a heavy heart. Again, I can only manage to nod, as if it's the only proper thing to do when words have lost all meaning.
He then said that they are going to Baguio City to see a specialist there, to hopefully correct their daughter’s distorted face. He said he’d been saving up from his meager income by the time Angela was born, so as to give her daughter a fighting chance. He further said that he researched a lot about cleft palate in order to understand it better. There have been a lot of successful operations concerning cleft palate, he said. So they are giving it a shot. Or a leap of faith. They are not giving up hope that someday their daughter can smile like the rest of the world.
When there were no more words left to say, I absentmindedly diverted my attention to the images flashing on the road before my eyes. The rain has picked up its strength again, pelting my glass window with all its might. I glanced toward the front of the bus where I can have a better view of the road in the large windshield: the road was blurred by thick threads of driving rain, but our bus showed no signs of slowing down. We were moving forward despite the odds. The flurry of scenes from beyond my window failed to form a coherent mental picture as I try to take in Angela's and her parents' battle with her cleft palate, a battle which--if it has any consolation at the moment--reminded me of my own, personal battles. I have fought them hard, was defeated at times, but just like this creaky, old bus, I am bouncing on the high road of life and continuing the journey. And until the next bus stop or the last destination, I must persist and resolve to move forward.
And I realized then, like Angela, I am a child in the Father’s arms. In the midst of chaos around me, despite my imperfections and flaws, He still carries me gently through wherever life may go, reassuring me again and again with grace and truth, prodding me to trust in His will. Like Angela, I was given a fighting chance. And that I don't have to face my battles alone.
They named her Angela, like angel.
And I knew why.
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