Nectar Behind the Clouds

Chapter 6 - The Paintings

I wanted what she thought of me, to make this process easier. At least I could pretend. Papa told me I could be anything that I wanted. Well, I was trying to be the good grandson, because there was still a part of me that doesn't know her.

Little by little I felt her getting frustrated with me. It started with harmless comments about going outside more. About maybe going to the plaza or the library that the mayor funded, or the beach with you.

"Summer is made for children like you," she said. "Make good use of your youth and play. Stretch those legs before it aches like mine."

I knew then that the words of the gossip struck her, too. For all her thick skin, my grandmother was not impervious to insults, especially those who knew where to aim. I withdrew into myself. I didn't mean to, but the smallest thing can make me silent again. I didn't join her at the marketplace. I didn't stay too long outside when feeding the hens and goats.

"You're wasting your days cooped up inside." We were in the dining room. I was listening to the radio. I turned it off when she appeared behind the bookshelf, one hand on her hip. "Go on out there and find something to do. The hens get more sunlight than you."

I stayed silent. I thought I was doing good by following her rules.

"Maybe you can send a letter to some of your friends in the city?" She continued, twisting her apron. "We could go to the post later." I looked at the spotless marble floors. She said something else, then. Something about me being just like my mother.

I looked at her and said, "People only ever talk about her when they have something bad to say." I did not mean for my voice to be loud. We stared at each other until I passed her to go outside. I stood under that reliable old tree, the afternoon breeze parting the leaves. One of the goats spotted me and bleated.

There was always a charge in the air when her mind went to her memories. She would stop herself, or flinch as if touching hot coals. She didn't want to talk about her daughter the same way her daughter didn't want to talk about her or where she came from. The difference was when I looked into lola's eyes before I passed by her; they held sadness while my mother's held disgust.

I kicked and stomped the roots. I felt like I had no place to go. I was too scared to go to the beach by myself, afraid that I might bump into that vile woman. Afraid that I'll meet more of her. And people will mumble and mutter behind their breaths, buzzing words that will pester us. But I also didn't want to go back inside the house. She was turning me into something that she would recognize, turning into someone she would understand. Someone who wouldn't be the cause of whispers of people who had plenty of time on their hands to be rude and stupid.

I heard her leave the house and call my name. She was going to the market again. Or someplace else. She had a lot of friends, like you. As soon as I heard her gates close, I went back inside, grabbed the keys she always left under the miniature globe on the bookshelf, and climbed up the stairs to unlock that door.

A click and the doorknob turned.

My hand was on the metal. I didn't think myself a disobedient kid, but then I realized that maybe there weren't things to be disobedient about back in the city. I just wanted to see her somewhere around the house. I wanted to see her ghost, her specter, her memories, her life before me.

Colors seized my eyes as soon as I entered.

I was prepared to see nothing; taped boxes and thick curtains draping over secrets. But there were paintings stacked on paintings: a tower of canvas. Those that were the most vivid were framed and displayed on the walls. I walked over. I saw my mother's signature. There were paintings of both her lives; her past and present: carabaos in the mud, a field of flowers, the sea, the skyscrapers near our apartment.