The following day Inchoy and I would leave for Baguio. Outside, the rain passed in waves, clattering against the pane with sudden bursts of wind. I hoped that the weather would improve, that everything would improve, and then I fell asleep.

VII

VII

The following day the rain had cleared but there was something ominous in the wind that was bending the tops of the trees, rattling the gate at the end of the drive. Inchoy and I sat in the chairs set at the head of the steps at my tita’s house, facing each other but at a distance that discouraged conversation. He’d lost weight and his shirt was baggy on him, his face drawn, with large circles beneath his eyes. We’d made a pact to try to be happy for the trip, to do the fun things that Bibo would have wanted to do, both of us knowing it would be a worthy struggle. I had promised to leave all work behind and Inchoy had cleared his grading and prepped for the next week’s class. Everything would have been right if it hadn’t been so wrong.

On the driveway, Miggie was piloting her Hello Kitty car with Nini following at a quick pace behind. It would likely be the only car she ever learned to drive.

“Where’s the driver?” asked Inchoy. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“I’ll check,” I said. I dialed C. G.’s landline, safe in the knowledge that she was in Bangkok, probably trawling through the stalls at Mabungkrong, striking some bargains because bringing the price down was what the rich did for fun. Cherry answered the phone. “Cherry,” I said. “Nasaan ang kotse? Umalis na ba?”

The car had left three hours earlier and was likely stuck in traffic somewhere. As I rang off, I saw the gate swing open. I gestured with my chin in the direction of the car, which was now entering the drive.

“Our chariot awaits,” said Inchoy, which was something he would have said in the days when he was happy. I appreciated the effort.

I stepped into the house to say goodbye. Tita Rosa was pulling herself up from behind her desk. “Tita, don’t get up,” I said, but she was already on her way to me, brandishing a piece of paper.

“Okay, anak,” she said. She handed me the list.

“Four jars strawberry jam. Four boxes peanut brittle.” This was all standard. “Six walis.” I looked at her. “Six walis?” Walis was the native broom. “Why? You can get that in Kamuning.”

“It’s better made in Baguio.”

“And why six?”

“Two for me, two for your tita Dom, and two for Carmi.” She thrust an envelope in my direction, which I knew contained a careful allotment of pesos.

“I can pay for it,” I said.