Belen

“Elena Kathrine S. Ortega.”

I typed that name on the searchbox and pressed ENTER.

“Your search returned 0 results.” replied back to me for the 500th time.

Maybe she doesn’t have a facebook account. I tried Friendster, Twitter, Multiply and even Blogger but there’s just no trace of her. Is she deceased? Or maybe she have had a new surname, or a new name itself. I don’t know. I can never know.

I never really knew a lot about her. Not even memories. Just her story that I heard from my dying father. A bitter story, in fact, that as her son, I should hate her. And right now, just trying to search for any fact that she really did existed, that hate is starting to bloom.

I closed my laptop and looked at the time. It’s already 2 am in the morning. I’m on leave at the office for a few weeks so I could watch over my dad who’s confined at the Manila Doctor’s Hospital. I got a call early in the morning by my father’s nurse that my father had a seizure. My father has lung cancer, and the connection of the seizure to that was out of my bounds to understand, after all, I’m not a doctor.

I looked at the face of my sleeping father and I wondered how could a smart and good man like him endure, let alone experience such pain in life. Not only because of his illness (which I certainly guess he got from smoking about 3 packs of marlboro per day) but also because of the pains in his life.

When I was a kid, I always ask him, “Papa, what makes you happy?” and then he would reply, “You make me happy.” and then after that I would request him to buy me something I want. But I wasn’t spoiled. There are times when things get a little serious.

My father once worked on an oil company, as an accountant. Why the hell would an oil company need an accountant? I don’t know. But that’s what I know he does. Then when we transferred to another house somewhere in Cavite, he started working on a nearby bank.

My father was a smart man too. He was my first teacher. He taught me how to write and read. When I got into high school, he taught me how to speak in Greek and Latin, and even write that way. That’s why my friends always teased us as the “Father and Son who speaks in codes.” And I just can’t explain to them that it’s my father’s way of being unique.

Yes, if there was one thing my father always wanted: it was our difference from other people. From the clothes to wear, car to drive, and language to speak and write. It was wonderful, actually, not boring, to live like that. Me and my father lived happily for many years, until I finished High School and College with a degree in Secondary Education, and my father has retired. I could not ask for more.

Ah! Yes. My father was a great dad. But if there was one thing he lacks, that would be the question I asked him once and he never wanted me to ask it again: “Papa, where is Mama?” The first time I asked it, he stared at me for a long time. I was ten years old that time, so what else could he expect me to ask? I mean, everyday I see my classmates be hugged or kissed by their mothers. And at the park, every weekend, families gathering there, a mother, a father, a son…

Ah, yes! If there was something that I loved and hated: this uniqeness. Yes, I am unique; I can speak in Greek and Latin. Yes I am unique because I am a vegetarian. Yes, I am unique, because I have no mother.

My father never answered that question. When I was 18, I asked him again, but he’ll just walk out. I guess it’s a question that I will never get the answer for.

One time, when my father was gone and I have no classes, I went to his room and searched through cabinets and other private stuff of his but I found nothing. No pictures. Not even pictures of him. Or any marriage contract, or any other legal documents.

And right then, I stared to think that I was adopted. I mean, to be frank, I don’t really much look like my father. Or maybe…me having no mother was also a part of our uniqueness….

I stopped asking my father any more questions about my mother. And things began to go back to normal. But not for me. I was just waiting for some sort of oppurtunity. But that oppurtunity never seem to arrive.

When I graduated from college, I worked on a local private high school here in Cavite, near our home, and my father has retired from his bank job and gets his monthly pension. Meaning he could buy all the cigarettes that he wanted.

I enjoyed my job as a teacher, and there I met a lovely woman named Eliza, who is a teacher too, and later we got married. My father, of course, was the happiest of all. But that’s the last time I saw of him and spoke to him.

I didn’t hate him. I just hate why he wouldn’t answer my question. So I decided maybe I should give him some time and space to think it all over and realize that he owes me some sort of explanation as to how I came to be. So, for 3 years, I lived with my family in Makati City, and I haven’t had any plans to come and visit him until I received a call, early one morning, telling me she’s my father’s private nurse (how she got my number or how she located it was still a question I haven’t yet asked) and that my father is dying at the hospital. So I went, alone. And saw him, very much different from the one I remember. I was sad, when I saw him actually.

I arrived at the hospital just in time for lunch, so I ate first at the hospital cafeteria, then went back to my father’s hospital room.

“Oh!” my father exclaimed, surprised to see me. He opened his arms wide, swinging the dextrose and other stuff connected to him.

“Dad, Dad,…Don’t. You’re weak.” I advised.

“Just let me touch you, my son. Just let me touch you.” my father said. His voice was shattered. And begging.

I held out a palm at him and his hot fingers gripped it. I felt like crying. Then he said something in greek that I didn’t understand. I know it;s greek, but I forgot to understand it. I erased that memory of uniqeness.

“Dad,” I said, sitting down beside him. “I didn’t come here just to see you.”

“Yes, I know.” my father said, slowly. And I was surprised. Is he prepared, now, to tell me about my mother?

“Don’t worry, my son. Your name is on my will even though you left me alone for 3 and a half years.” he added.

Heat arrived on my head when he said that. “Dad!” I said. “I didn’t come here because your will! I came here because I need you to answer my question.” I stood up.

“What question?” my weak father asked.

“The question of mine that you never answered!” I was yelling now. “The question that you always chicken out of!”

My father was silent. Closed his eyes for a few seconds then opened them again. But he never spoke.

“You see? That’s you. The perfectly, imperfect person!” I said. “Just tell me, dad. Am I adopted? Where did you pick me up?”

“My son, nobody left you on my dorrstep.” My father said, calmly.

“What orphanage? And where?”

“You were never from an orphanage. Never! How could you say such things? Please, understand my son.” my father replied, giving a small shout and panting afterwards, “It’s difficult. Difficult and painful, my son.”

“So, so,” I said, pointing a finger at him, “You think it’s not painful for me…to have never known my mother?”

My father closed his eyes for a few seconds then opened them again. “My son,” he whispered, softly, “Sit Down. And listen. You must now know about your mother. Elena Kathrine S. Ortega. The only woman I ever loved.”

And so my father told me the story.

“Elena was a good friend of mine from High School. We were classmates from 1st to 4th year. We were really good friends. We laughed together, we watched movies togethter, so needless to say, I fell for her. And who wouldn’t? She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I hid my feelings for her until our high school graduation. I told her I love her, but she can’t love me back. And that was the time I cried.”

My father asked for a glass of water before he continue, so I gave him one. And after drinking it, he continued:

“So, I went to college. Fortunately, we two are the ones who luckily passed the entrance exam at the Universtity of the Philippines. So we see each other everyday. And we were still friends. And it’s our friendship that me badly. But we’re happy.” He paused for a moment, “And then one night, it was a friends’ night out. We’re drunk. And it happened. It was an accident. I never wanted it to happen.”

My father started to cry. But still managed to speak. “She hated me ever since. She stopped school, of course, when she learned that she was pregnant. I talked to her parents, telling them that I would marry her, but they refused. And Elena refused to marry. Even see me. Or talk to me. Her parents told me that if I care about Elena, I would take the baby away.”

“So you agreed?” I asked.

“Yes. But I told them I would finish my studies first so I could give the baby a better future.” My father paused again, panted, cleared his throat, and then continued. “When you were born, I was at class. Elena and her parents never told me when is she due. So I have no idea. They just called me to ask how long do they have to wait before I take you away. I told them a few months. So, at graduation, I thought perhaps Elena’s mind would have changed. But no. I went to her home, and she gave you to me. Like an unwanted toy. Without any hesitation. And that was the time I cried again. For that was the last time I saw Elena. The next day, they moved out.”

He paused.

“And I learned that they haven’t named you yet.” he added, “I tried looking for Elena, but I failed. I never found her. And I will die, without seeing her one last time.”

“Where was their home?” I asked, wiping my tears.

“She used to live here in Cavite. And so was I.” my father replied.

“Where?”

“The school you used to work for. Their used to be there. Before it got demolished.”

“Were the memories got demolished, Dad?” I asked, looking at him.

My father shooked his head weakly. “No. Some things we forget, and some things we can never forget. And Elena is not a memory to me, despite the face that she left you and me. I told her I will love her forever, and I hold on to that promise. Because to me, she is everything.”

“She never wanted me.” I said.

My father didn’t reply. I looked at him and I saw that he’s fallen to sleep. Or else just avoiding the last words I said.

“Hey,” a voice behind me said. It was my father’s nurse. “I’m glad he’s asleep.”

I smiled. “Thanks, for uh, taking care of my Dad when I wasn’t there.” I said.

“It was no problem.” she replied, smiling too. “I heard you two talking. Was he telling you about your mother?”

“Well, yes, actually.” I replied.

“Your father told me everything about her.” the nurse said. She then handed me a photograph. I took it, and stared at it. It was an image of a smiling woman, with jet black hair, blue eyes…and without a doubt, she’s beautiful.

“You look very much like your mother.” the nurse whispered.

I flipped the picture and saw a note: “To my dearest friend: Hope you remember me every time you see this! Congratulations! –Elena.”

I smiled at the nurse one more time before she left.

So, now, I type again:

“Elena Kathrine S. Ortega.”

and then again,

“Your Search Returned 0 Results.”

I searched for her, here in Cavite, on the National Statistics Office, on the Internet, but I found nothing.

Maybe I was never meant to meet her. Maybe her purpose in my life is just be me, just be a dream. A speck in the air sent by god to give wonder to my head.

A few days later, my father passed away. His death was peaceful, but I know he was happy. And he dies without seeing my mother one last time.

A few of his friends went to the funeral, and when I asked them about my mother, they’d just smile and say how my father loved her so much.

None of them knew where Elena is now. Or if she is still alive.

-end-