Water foamed from Frank’s mouth, followed by a gush. He coughed and coughed, then started to breathe in great big gasps.

Tata cried and hugged Frank tight. But it’s the last time I can remember him doing that. Now Roman walks in my father’s shadow. Maybe Tata’s ashamed of Frank because since that day, Frank will only go into the ocean when the tide is low on a full-moon night. It’s sad. Frank tried to win my father’s love by conquering the water. Now it’s the water that keeps them apart.

Where Was She?

When I think back to the day that Frank almost drowned, I wonder, Where was my mother?

The Dream

Last night I dreamed about the Fragrant Lady. The legend of the Fragrant Lady goes way back. Auntie Bernadette told me about her when I was five years old. That day the sky was clear and blue, and the sweetest scent drifted in the air.

I asked Auntie Bernadette, “What flower makes that smell?”

“Must be the Fragrant Lady,” she told me. “At a certain time of the year a sweet lemony scent floats around the island. But no one on the island can find a flower that makes that scent. Many have tried and failed,” she said. “It doesn’t grow on Guam.

“Someone decided it must be the Fragrant Lady. She bathes in the ocean with the oil from the flower. Nobody has ever seen her face, but they know she’s there because of the sweet, sweet smell.

“Once a curious man searched for her in the mountains above his home. He caught a glimpse of her, a woman wearing a long white dress. But he was not happy with that small peek. He followed her to the ocean. Just as he spotted her in the water, she waved, then vanished. Nobody to this day has seen her face.”

Last night, in my dream, I smelled the sweet scent. Like the man, I followed the Fragrant Lady into the mountains, then to the sea. I even went into the ocean and swam closer to her. She waved and disappeared. I never saw her face.

Robbed

If Olivia had a nightmare last night, I didn’t hear her because I slept straight through. But this morning I feel hot and exhausted instead of rested. My hair and clothes are soaked from sweat, not from Olivia’s big spot of pee on the sheet. My throat hurts when I swallow.

I want to call out for my mother, but when I try to think of her, my mind grows fuzzy. My heart races and my head pounds. I close my eyes and try to recall her face, her smell, her touch. It’s no use. I can’t remember my mother at all.

Pictures

“You have a fever,” Auntie Bernadette tells me as she rubs some herbal potion on my throat. “You’ll remember your mother when you’re well. Now rest.”

When she leaves, I walk through our empty house in search of proof. I see my mother as a young girl, eight or nine years old, eating a mango, her long black hair blowing in the wind. I see her at fifteen, smiling with a crown on her head at the Malesso fiesta. I see her at eighteen in a long white dress, dancing with my father at their wedding.