Moondogs - Alexander Yates [147]
And that was it. Just a tiny wreck of a house and a column of strangers. Could it really be that she’d dragged her family to the Philippines for this? Was this rotten little box really the sense of home she’d been longing for? Monique wasn’t stupid—she knew that her memories were idealized and exoticized. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t pushed harder to come back in the whole year they’d been stationed in Manila; for fear of having those memories invalidated. Maybe that’s why Joseph never insisted; because he knew they would be. Still, Monique didn’t expect this total emptiness. She could just as well have been on the meticulously preserved movie set of a film she’d enjoyed once or twice as a little girl. It wasn’t home. It was hardly familiar.
She was about to get up and return to the car when someone on the trail caught her attention. It was a woman, not ancient but very old, picking her way up in the direction of the main road. Her hair was dyed black but was silver about the roots, making it oddly match her black flats with white soles. She had a walking stick of dried bamboo that she used every other step, as though favoring a good leg. Monique slipped off the porch, cut through the trees and got on the trail, telling herself all the while that this was silly. The similarities were superficial. There was no way this was her.
But why couldn’t it be? She remembered the cleaning woman cutting fresh walking sticks for each of them whenever they set out on one of their adventures. And there was something in this woman’s face, something in her posture that was undeniable. She followed the old woman a short ways up the trail, debating whether or not to say anything. The chances were so infinitesimal—but what the hell? At worst she’d look foolish and that shame would fade by the time she got back to the car.
“Tiya?” Monique called.
The woman kept walking at her irregular pace.
“Tiya?” Louder this time.
The old woman stopped and turned. She put her hand up in a “just a moment” motion and plucked little plastic headphones out of her ears. Frank Sinatra’s voice boomed out of them so loud that Monique could hear it from where she stood. The cleaning woman had loved Sinatra! “Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. You probably don’t …” Monique stammered. Not knowing the woman’s first name was incredibly embarrassing. “I don’t want to bother you, but I used to live here when I was a little girl. And you look—”
The old woman shushed her again, this time with both hands in the air. Her eyes widened like opening mouths. Seeing recognition spread over her face made Monique’s knees shake a little. The old woman closed the distance between them and actually put a hand on each of Monique’s cheeks.
“My goodness,” she said. “My goodness. My goodness. It’s you, isn’t it?”
Monique choked on her own breathing.
“Anna. You’re Anna.”
A bird flew noisily through the foliage above, and somewhere in the woods a branch fell. Monique took a step back and the old woman’s hands stayed where they were, cupping air.
“You are, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m Monique.”
“But you look just like Anna. Your hair. Your freckles. She was a beautiful little girl. Her daddy was a geologist and they had a house in Olongapo.”
“My parents lived on the base. Just up there.” Monique pointed. She didn’t know why. “There was a woman who came over three times a week to clean.”
“Clean?” The old woman dropped her hands to her sides and wrinkled her nose like a cruel joke had been played on her. “I never cleaned for anyone. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“I know. I’m very sorry.”
Monique turned and walked back up the trail. She cut through the woods to her old backyard. She kicked the porch once and the wood crunched under her feet like slushy ice. She climbed back up the muddy hill, sat in Reynato’s car and locked the doors. She’d been wrong about the shame, the feeling of foolishness, fading by the time she got up there.
IT GREW