Long Fiction | The Visitor

The cemetery is almost empty when I go that afternoon. There are a couple of people standing in front of headstones; some  families sitting beside one. Most look at my direction when they hear the crunching of pebbles underneath my feet and divert it back to their beloved when they find that it’s just me, another alive human being. I walk slowly towards the spot, enjoying the cool September wind. The sun is away during that day and dark, thick clouds occupies her space. Trees’ leaves rustle as the wind passes through them. I pull my jacket sleeves to cover even the entirety of my hands.

When I reach my spot, there is a woman standing in front of the headstone. She wears a mint green button-down, black pair of slacks, and black leather dress shoes. Her long, peppered hair flows from her shoulders to her breasts like a vibrant waterfall. She is watching the headstone intently, as if burning the details carved on it on her brain. I don’t know who she is. I don’t remember seeing her at Mom’s wake. The pebbles crunch as I walked closer to her and my spot. She turns around, her face in pure surprise. When she sees me, she clutches her chest and releases an audible sigh. “Oh!” she exclaims. “You scared me!” She then laughs. She looks middle-aged, but her beauty is still there. She has a high, regal nose, dark eyes, and thin lips. She looks like a foreigner, but her voice and accent shows no indication of such.

I crouch beside her and from my satchel bag, grab the two candles I brought with me. Both are yellow ones. I also fish the box of matches from the side pocket and light up the candles. The lower part of the headstone is already charred and blackened by the candle fires from before. While the overall stone is dirtied and weathered, her name is  still carved elegantly:

Alison V. Rodriguez
September 21, 1972 - December 02, 2017

It’s me who suggested to use her maiden name and my aunts obliged. I wouldn’t want her to be still tied by his name until her death. He who ruined her life and mine.

When I stand up, the lady asks, almost whispering as if afraid that her voice would blow the candles out, “Are you Ali’s son?” I stare at the swaying candle fires and nods. “So you are Asher,” she says, astonished. I look at her--she is way below my shoulder. “Do I know you?” She looks back at me and smiles. “No, you don’t. But your mother did.” She gazes at her name again. “I can’t believe she’s  really gone.” The way she says it, I think it was disbelief I heard. Disbelief and utter sadness.

“How do you know her?” I asks. She speaks to the wind, “We were friends, from high school until college. We were practically best friends.”

“How come I haven’t seen you?” It is strange to have her call my mother her best friend when I haven’t seen her visit, nor heard Mom mentioned her.

“Oh, we lost touch. I moved back to London with my family after college and she remained here. We tried to maintain communication with each other, but distance and different time zones hindered us, until we ultimately stopped talking with each other.” There is melancholy on her voice when she says that final statement.

Broken from her trance, she exclaims another “Oh!” and says, “I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Maxene Brand. But most people just call me Max.” I shake her hand. “I’m--” I begin to speak, but she cut me off. “You’re Asher, I know. Ali loved that name and swore that she would name her first-born son Asher. And she did exactly that.” She smiles at me. “Did you know that your name mean ‘happy’?” I nod. I used to hate my name because it’s an uncommon name. I told Mom this. I was angry at her for naming me Asher; I was maybe ten or eleven. So she told me to sit beside her, combed my hair and finally shared that my name meant happy. “Don’t you like feeling happy?” she asked. “Of course I do,” I answered. “But I hate how uncommon it is.” She chuckled. “Your name  is uncommon, because you’re not supposed to be as common as everyone else. You’re supposed to be unique.” “What does that mean?” “It means that no one is like you. You’re the only one who is you.” “I don’t get it.” She pinched my cheek and said, “It’s okay. You’ll understand it when you’re older.” Twelve years later, I am not only common, but I am also mediocre. And I still hate standing out.

“You know, Ali asked me to be your godmother.” I look at her and she’s smiling at the candles.
“You declined?”
“Well, I had to,” she says, gazing up at me. “I told her I would love to, but at that time, I couldn’t come back here. I had problems in London; I had problems awaiting me here.” She shakes her head. “That’s when we began to lose touch.”

I imagine my life if she accepts. Would it be different? In the end, Mom’s sister Christine becomes my godmother. But still, I can’t help but think, would it even affect me?  Would it even matter?

“Maybe that’s why I didn’t hear anything about you,” I say.
She smiles sadly and replies, “Perhaps.”

There is silence between us, around us. The wind whistles through the leaves, but even that is almost imperceptible.

I oddly remember most of the faces of those who paid visit. I remember the faces who stared at me as I shared a eulogy for my mother. I remember family and far-off relatives. I recall friends from elementary up to college; colleagues, workmates, fellow hobbyists. Even my piece of shit father was there, but my Aunts didn’t even let him come close to me or to my dead mother. I watched as they escorted him off. But I didn’t see her there.

“Why didn’t you attend her wake?” She seems taken aback by what I asked. She looks down once again and says, “Because I didn’t know.”

“I only found out last month. I only found out two years later that she was already gone.” At this, her voice cracks. “I saw an old college friend in London. We had lunch and I asked her about Ali. She began to be awkward and fidget at the mention of her name. When I probed, she realized that I didn’t know.”

“I tried to book a flight to Manila immediately, but my company didn’t let me file a leave of absence until the next month. I obliged. I had no choice. September came and then I realized that it was almost her birthday. I filed my leave on that day--today. When the plane landed, I booked a hotel and took the commute. And that’s how you find me here. I still can’t believe it. Ali.” Tears flow down her cheeks, down to her hair.

“Was she alone when she did it?” she asks and it’s me who is then taken aback by a question. In vignettes, the memories I had repressed comes back: the trauma; the horror when I found her. I close my eyes and try to will it all away. Bury it back. Do not exhume the dead, I thought to myself.

“She was,” I croak..

Mom and Dad were having their usual bout that night. It was because of my Dad’s female workmate. As usual, I was in my room, with headphones blasting music over my ears. But their shouting penetrated the walls, the headphones, the music. I heard all the vile things they yelled at each other. I grabbed my satchel bag and got out of the house. I took my bike and drove around. The streets were already dark, with streetlights only providing minimal lighting. But I’d rather be here, enveloped by the silence of the night, than there and watch them kill each other. I would return an hour later and maybe that time, there would be temporary peace at the house. For the meantime, I rode in circles.

When I came back, there were no more shoutings. I silently went back to my room and slept. I woke up the next morning to the same silence as from last night. When I went to the kitchen, Mom wasn’t there. There was no breakfast on the table. It was a Saturday, so I realized that maybe she was still asleep, exhausted from all the yelling. I let her be. But when it was almost lunchtime and neither my father nor my mother came out from their room, I became scared. My mind was already racing with thoughts. Maybe they weren’t there. Maybe they left during the night. I knocked on their door and called. There was no answer. My calls became louder and more desperate because I was terrified that they had finally killed each other. “Mom, please! Answer the door!” I yelled. I was already crying. I prayed to God when I opened the door, but He was unavailable at that time. I screamed when I found her hanging.

The police, the ambulance, and my Aunts came sometime later. They found me crying and rolled down the floor. It was my Aunt Christine who told me everything that happened. She was crying when she told me that it happened during the night. Dad probably left after me, she said. And I couldn’t help but blame myself. She told me not to. I still did. No notes were left behind. My father was not even jailed because it was ruled out as murder. Two years later, I still haven’t forgiven myself.

“I asked her to come to London with me,” she says. She is crying heavily now. “If I have insisted, maybe this wouldn’t happen to her.” Her breath hitches. She falls down on her and she reaches out to her headstone. She fingers the grooves that formed her name. She follows the loops  on the letter o’s and the flow of the letter l and the letter s. She whispers something to her, a prayer, a final message, I don’t know. I give her her privacy and I let her grieve.

When she finally stands up, she dries the tears with a white handkerchief. I stand awkwardly, holding the strap of my satchel. She chuckles and offers an apology. I smile at her and says that apology is not at all needed. She pulls her wallet from her back pocket. She fishes a photograph inside and reaches it to me. It’s a picture of my mother when she was much younger. She was wearing a long blue skirt, and a white blouse closed by a same-colored blue tie. A school sigil was embroidered on the wide part of the tie. She was sitting on a classroom armchair, laughing. Sunlight flowed from the window on her right and her face was completely submerged with it. She was happy. I stare at the picture for a long time and reach it back to her. She smiles as she pushes it away. “Take it,” she says. “I used to take a lot of her photos in college. I can send you copies  if you like.” I nod. I would like that. I return to the photo and imagine a life where she accepted Max’s invitation to live with her in London. Would she still be alive?

“She was the love of my life, Asher,” she says clearly as she watches how the candle wax drips on the ground. I look at her and she is smiling.

“It was very nice to meet you, Asher,” she says. She fishes her wallet again, but pulls a business card this time. “Contact me, whenever you feel like it.” I receive it and say thanks. Embossed on it is her name, her position to the company, her address in London, and her contact details. She opens her arms and I bend down to hug her. I almost cried at her shoulders.

She says her goodbye and I watch her walk down the path. I stay a little bit longer. I crouch down and speaks to her headstone. “I met Max, Mom. She was lovely.” Thunder growls from far down the cemetery. I ask her the two question I wanted to ask after I met Max. “Did you love her, Mom? Why didn't you go with her, to London?” She doesn't answer. I wish she could. I wish she did.