Ang mag-ina
The care home is quiet when Edith finally finds it, buried in the depths of Northern California.
It's taken nearly 6 months. APERIS is the most distant of blurs in her mind. Jules is gone. Alejo is gone. They'll all forget her in time.
Edith has been thinking a lot about the past. They've been thinking about their mother. Even now, clutched in their hands is their mother's file from SPRHD. A life, distilled into cold, hard dates, names, events—just data. And at the top, simply the phrase:
REDACTED
It doesn't take long for Edith to be admitted. Soon enough, she's in the room. And it's her, it's actually her. Far older, and weathered, and so, so tired—but undeniably their Nanay.
Even seeing her provokes a rush of memory. She closes her eyes, and it all floods back, being jolted around in her mother's lap as the jeepney rattles through the traffic-clogged streets of Manila; scents of calamansi rising from the pancit before her; a family gathering, surrounded by tall strangers, all their titos and titas; saying goodbye at the port (they were both crying, and she was telling Edith maging matapang ka, anak (be brave, child), while kissing them farewell). Even back then, Edith had known her Nanay was so strong, so full of fire and fury. She had stood firm against Marcos as part of the Task Force Detainees of the Philippine, outlasting his reign. Yet only a year after the People Power Revolution of 1986, Maria Bulosan was redacted by SPRHD.
Edith looks at the woman strung out on the bed before her, and cannot recognise her. Where has their Nanay gone? Surely this is not her. But it is true.
Maria Bulosan stirs from her rest, finally, and stares into the eyes of her child.
Edith steels themselves.
“Nanay? Si Edith po ito.”
(“Nanay? It's me, Edith.”)
Silence.
“Umuwi na po ako, sa wakas.”
(“I've finally come home.”)
“‘Nay, ako po ito. Hindi niyo po naaalala?”
(“'Nay, please. Don't you remember?”)
There is nothing behind the eyes of the woman who stares back at her. No recognition, no sparkle or fire. No love. It is the look of the uncomprehending. It is look of those who are gradually forgetting themselves, and all they once were. Edith weeps.
“Sige na po, ‘nay… kausapin niyo naman ako.“
(“Please…. please… 'nay… talk to me…”)
And Maria smiles at her, then. For a moment, Edith has hope.
“Kamukhang-kamukha mo nga ang anak ko. Alam mo ba kung nasaan siya? Lagi kong tinatanong ang staff, pero sabi nila na hindi nila alam kung nasaan siya. Iniwan ko siya. Kailangang gawin ko iyon. Ngunit malakas siya. Napakalakas. Magpakailanmang anak ko.”
(“You look a lot like my child. Do you know where she is? I keep asking the staff for her, but they say they don't know where she is. I left her. I had to. But she was strong. So strong. Always my daughter.”)
Edith can barely muster a response.
“Ako po siya, Nanay! Si Edith. Tingnan niyo, tingnan niyo ako—“
(“It's me, Nanay! It's Edith. Look at me, look at me—”)
…and Edith is grasping their mother's hand then, tenderly bringing it up to their face, ignoring the tears that stain their skin.
And Edith's mother looks at her intently. There is for a moment a spark of recognition—and then it is gone.
“Ikinalulungkot ko, pero hindi. Hindi ikaw ang anak ko. Ngunit talagang maipagmamalaki ko siya. Mahal na mahal ko siya.”
(“No, I'm sorry. You're not her. But I'm so proud of her. I love her so much.”)
And Maria withdraws her hand from her child's face.
“Babalik ako, Nanay. Mahal kita.”
(“I'll be back, Nanay. I love you.”)
But Maria is asleep once more.
Edith emerges, numbed and hollow. They stare down at the prognosis that the staff gave them before they entered.
“Late-stage Alzheimer's … perhaps a month left to live …”
SPRHD took her Nanay away from her once. And now they've done it again.
The Historian of Absence weeps—their future bound by an empty-eyed mother and their emptier soul.
Edith will be back. Her Nanay has to remember before the end. She has to.
Paalam, Nanay. Mahal kita.