the bitch kit.

** Saw a copy of this while arranging my files. A good friend of mine from college got this from one of his lit classes. Heartbreaking story but it happens </3.

Joy Walks Between Us

Rica Bolipata Santos

17            Yellow shirt, floral shorts, white sneakers, piled high ponytail, long nails, losing my high school grad ring, sitting on a chair, delivering my jump in senior year (this retreat has changed my ability to see experience), seeing you, your shoulder on the wall, legs crossed. I remember looking you in the eye and thinking, this is for forever. 

18?            In the school’s administration building, you coming over, white shirt, khaki slacks, long fingers, curling to come under my chin, you asking, you okay? I jump at the touch of your hand. Same building, days, weeks, maybe years later, this time you arriving by bicycle. I’m upset because it’s a long way to bike and I was scared of what could have happened. I jump at the recognition of fear.

29            Christmas dinner. Living room, lights are strewn all around the balcony, friends over for dinner, I attempt a roast beef that’s as had as nails. I spend all day on this roast beef wanting to look like the perfect not-so-newly-married woman. My husband is pretending too, serving a wine he researched over the Internet. The scene is such a sham but I am committed to pulling it off. The roast beef has a mind of its own and is not cooperating. I am embarrassed but you say it’s excellent over the din of people laughing. You have more than one piece while no one else touches it. I keep this knowledge close to my heart. I try to transmit my gratefulness to you. I’m not sure you ever got the message. 

Perhaps 45            I sit in my garden all weepy. The calamansi has died. All my gardening life, I have never killed a calamansi. It is so easy to grow and so useful. Its perfect when mixed with soy sauce and served fish. It’s perfect in a pinch when Red Ribbon forgets to include a pack of calamansi when I take out palabok. Leave it in a pot, leave it out in the garden with little sun, or a lot of sun, it doesn’t care. Calamansis are unmoved. They will grow in spite of themselves. For all I know calamansis would rather die. You are a stupid, stupid fool.

19 ½            you run to me with what you’re calling a petition in your hand and a goofy smile on your face. I look at it and on it is a series of signatures. I don’t understand the point. You tell me that you gathered signatures of our friends who agree that I shouldn’t go on a diet because I’m perfect just the way I am. You’re convinced I wouldn’t look as cute thin. I stare at you like you’re an alien.

36            The abyss yawns before us and we speak to each other properly, with diffidence, with a gap that seems unbridgeable, the sentences we pass to each other have become proper, shore, aged, self-conscious and trite, trite, trite. I wonder if this is what it means when people use the word grown-up. Are we finally grown- up? Your words certainly are: “Good evening.” “I hope I didn’t disturb you.” “I hope all is well with you.” I read your words and I want to be non-grown-up and slap you.

23            A phone call, your number gotten from another old friend. I ask for your help. You are cold on the phone and I don’t know why. The old fear creeps into this call. I had already forgotten that you had any reason to be angry with me. I try to call you over to the light but you are adamant about wanting to stay in anger. I give you up to the dark, powerless against you. But days, weeks, maybe years later, you’re the first person I call to say I’m getting married. Finally, you are free. Finally, the anger is suddenly pointless. Finally, you recognize me.

27 to 33            Monthly visits from you. On one visit, you come on the day I plant my garden. I spend all afternoon on hands and feet thinking I can make a garden in a day. We play with my first child. I feel ugly. I know I’m pretending to look like a good mom. You obviously are a good friend because you don’t say what a hack I am, because really you should have. Instead, you text me later, ‘it’s good to see your blessed life in action.” On another visit, years and more children later, Christmas Eve, you walk to me to the garden, with gifts for the 10-year-old, the 6-year-old and the 3-year-old. This garden has become my refuge. The children are with their father visiting relatives. I bring out meatloaf and a fresh salad with my first batch of successful tomatoes. I have Christmas Eve lunch with you under the shade of this magnificent tree I myself had planted when I was 8. We don’t talk about the children. We don’t talk about anything except how moist my meatloaf is and how good I am at making things grow.

18            in sophomore year, sitting by the stairs, I tell you, okay, let’s try it. I let you love me and I try to love you. I think to myself, well why not? You will never hurt me. You tell me it will never work because I will be afraid of your love for me. I tell you I can try and I will try. You look at me and smile and probably think I’ll just humor her. At least I try for a good 20 minutes. I break it off on the 21^st minute. I did not know that I would have to pay for this betrayal for the next 5 years of my life. I just can’t go through with it. I imagine having to kiss you later. I’m scared because I have no passion for you, only fear and true love. You are right. Once again, you are right. I think from this moment on you are always right. I am always wrong when I read the story of us.

32            on the phone, you give me the list of all the people who ever looked at me when we were young and foolish. I laugh and laugh because I don’t even know most of theses names. You claim someone couldn’t take his eyes off me for years. You say this with much emphasis like until today you can’t believe his gall. I say, “How could you possibly know?” You say, “Because when you’re watching someone that intently, the way I watched you, you’ll know who else is watching.” I am silent on the phone. What was it you would have wanted me to say? You’re finally about to be married and I wonder how you look at her.

17            We are young and walking to the cafeteria. Joy walks between us telling us to stop fighting. I deny we are fighting. All I want is a hotdog sandwich and I don’t understand your mood. It’s infuriating how my wanting a sandwich causes you such anguish. She says to you, “you just have to be brave and tell her how you feel.” And you say, “I don’t want to be brave.” I don’t understand what the two of you are talking about. I can only think of the hotdog sandwich.

34            I am forced to sing and I do not want to sing. You are on the phone compelling me to sing.  I have not sung in years and you try to convince me that the best time to trot out my chords is at your own wedding. You are unbelievable and I contemplate murdering you. You tell me it cannot be the same unless I am part of it. I say to you, “just let me go.” I can’t help it but there’s a catch in my voice and my eyes start to tear. I am glad we are just on the phone. You say, “I can’t let you go. And you know I can’t, not just with you singing but with everything.” I swallow my tears because I know deep down you will have to let me go with everything. It will never be the same between us. This time, a rare time, it is I who am right.

20            You draw me a drawing, me wearing my costume from a play I actually found the courage to join. Months later, it appears in a book of poems. I look tiny in this drawing, I wonder if this is how you really see me. A figure standing in the rain, just watching the rain go by, oblivious to being rained on. I can’t tell if it’s a happy or sad picture. It’s hard to tell with you. This is sad. I ask you to sign it for me. I can no longer remember what it as you wrote. I only know that this story makes me sad.

35            My father dies and you call me and tell me that he died with very little pain. You say this as if you actually know, like you’re an expert. I send you a text message – “I wish you were here” and deny it (I tell you it was meant for someone else) because it is no longer proper to admit such things. You reply-“I wish I were with you” unmindful of my denial. Death and courage spur me to admit how hard it is to not have you in my life. You tell me it will pass, as it did for you when I married, but it hasn’t. suddenly I am grateful for the way this phone keeps me faraway. You tell me: you know I love you right? Do I still have to tell you after all these years?

18            I tell you about the other man. You are upset and I don’t understand why. You are my best friend. It is your job to listen to my pathetic little story of dramatic, tragic, unrequited love. You tell me I’m so blind but I still don’t understand. You tell me “I’m in love with you but I’m not offering you anything”. I say “good!” Did this really happen or I was merely novelizing?

pick a number            We look to the past separately as it should be and there will be no regrets but there will be an indescribable sadness. You will be sad that you had defined life and live in the smallest of space and you had made choices based on this limited breath and depth. And I will be sad that I had learned that life and love are otherwise much earlier but that I could not teach you this. I imagine you will shrug and say, “You always were a fast learner.” I will not laugh because you’ve never been funny and it’s too late to try now. And we will wonder why we were so serious about everything and how we should have just taken everything with on internal weighing scale. And I will send you a message of courage to check if you are what I remember you to be. In my dream, I will say, “I am dying. Are you there?” And you shall finally say, “I am here.”