In My Father’s Two Worlds
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Dr. Antonio Lamug and his daughter, Nanette (Photo courtesy of Nanette Carreon-Ruhter)
It feels uncanny to enter Papa’s other world, but here I am, alone, struggling with disparate emotions begging for a release. Suffocating from the heady odor of funeral parlors, I close my eyes and grope for a single feeling, desperately fighting to drown the discordance in my heart.
Do you know I am here, Papa? I wanted you to know I would have been with you in your vulnerable moments, but you did not call for me. You did not let me know you were sick. I need you to hear me say “Thank You” for blessing my childhood with amazing memories.
My childhood was embroidered with unforgettable moments, lovingly woven by my father. I see a beaming little girl in Manila whose birthday parties were the talk of the town. My Papa orchestrated something special for his palanggá, “Nettie Pie”: cartoon shows, clowns, magicians, puppet shows, when they weren’t common in the ‘50s. I was told that every kid in the neighborhood dreamt of being invited to those annual extravaganzas. Throughout our years of growing up, my brothers and I would fondly reminisce our annual pre-Christmas excursion with Papa to Escolta, the then high-end shopping district in downtown, Manila, delighting in the array of the season’s decorations, and choosing a treasured gift to put under the tree we always decorated with him.
Dr. Lamug and Nanette as a baby (Photo courtesy of Nanette Carreon-Ruhter)
I sit in desolation at an empty pew in this glum mortuary. Maura approaches me in the same hesitant manner; our respective reluctant smiles struggle to fill in the ambivalence.
“Are you hungry, Nanette?”
“No, thank you. I had something to eat before I came.”
“Would you like to rest at home? Maura’s daughter-in-law interposes gently. “The people will start trickling after office hours yet.”
“Thank you. I am really not tired. I am fine. Thank you for your concern!”
They are very kind, as I expected, almost obsequious. I am an outsider…a stranger…but they are trying sincerely to make me feel I belong.
I hope they do not feel slighted by my rejection of their niceties. I just want to be alone in my thoughts, of my world with Papa.
How thin my Papa looks. I used to tease him about his “pouch.” He was my Santa Claus. The magic of Christmas lingered with me beyond my innocent years because Papa embellished the season with much pomp and boosted my six-year-old penchant for fantasy when he encouraged me to write long and meaningful letters to Santa, to “show the portly benefactor that [I] can write like a big girl.” He made me believe Santa drank the San Miguel beer I set by my window on Christmas Eve. How he elaborated on accounts of Santa sitting on my bed, watching me sleep soundly as they chatted about how I was “not naughty but always nice.” How I blamed him for not rousing me from sleep hard enough to meet and hug the jolly old man!
“Your father was such a jolly fellow. He was always the life of the party!” A lanky American in his sixties chimes in with his condolences, gripping my hand in a genuine gesture of sympathy.
“Yes, everyone remembers him for his sense of humor and zest for life,” echoes his cheerful Asian wife, tenderly touching my shoulders in comfort.
A heavy-set Filipino matron approach. She speaks with the authority of one who seems to know the history of the family. “The children loved him and called him ‘Papa Tony.’ Look at these teen-agers behind you–he entertained and baby sat them when they were this high.”
I contrive a weak smile and turn around to catch a glimpse of the teenagers, but I only imagine my two younger brothers who never experienced his care beyond the time when Papa taught them how to bike at four and eight years.
Papa took us to a week-end sunset ritual, pedaling bikes at nearby Luneta Park, Manila’s waterfront promenade and leisure ground, after an hour of homework. That nightly excursion included a coveted stop at Brown Derby’s for foot-long hot dogs and Milky Way dip cones— a welcome dinner diversion over Yaya’s traditional adobo and sinigang fare. By 8:30, the three of us were washed-up and ready for bed. I always felt like a character in one of my storybooks as Papa would plant a kiss on my cheek and tuck me in bed in his characteristic jovial fashion. “Tomorrow, you will get a wake-up massage!” With that, an overwhelming sense of security lulled me to sleep.
“Are you sleepy, Nanette? Jet lagged, I am sure?!” Maura checks up on me. “We asked for an extension of the viewing. Normally the parlor closes at eight, but we are allowed an extra hour,” a sincere smile lacing her lips. My smile of affirmation creates a delicate bond between us.
She is gracious and gentle and looks older than my Papa. She is far from what I had envisioned her to be. I wonder if she was attractive in her youth.
Another image of Nanette and her father (Photo courtesy of Nanette Carreon-Ruhter)
In my youth, Papa was Cary Grant in the flesh --suave, urbane, self-possessed. His smile was a magnet, especially for women. His middle name was Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. He carried his popular appellation, Mr. Ladies’ Man with aplomb. Social graces were second nature to him. He could have been Fred Astaire, as the ladies died to be his Ginger Rogers and have him sweep them off their feet literally with flawless tango and cha-cha moves. His agility matched his acuity. Surprisingly, he did not tell me that he was among the top ten in the Dental Board exams, when he always reminded me to push myself to the top. He was my ever-patient mentor. Besides teaching me to write neatly and use “big” words in my compositions, he taught me how to fry a sunny side egg and make Spanish omelets, nurse my brothers’ wounds, and make ice-cold calamansi juice with vanilla essence. I remember his showing me parts of the grasshopper in fourth grade, guiding my drawing of an intricately labeled masterpiece for which I earned a commendation from my science teacher. When I was still two years short of the legal driving age in the Philippines, Papa graduated me from bikes to cars, to my mama’s chagrin.
People are thinning out now. A chubby little girl toddles by and stumbles on my pew. A young couple run in tandem to catch her and we exchange smiles. I gesture to carry the child, a welcome distraction from my discomfort. “We’re Doc’s neighbors,” the young mother introduces her family. “He drove me to the hospital when I was in labor with Candy because Mike was traveling.” I learn that Papa would also babysit neighbors’ kids whenever he babysat for Maura’s grandkids. “Oh, he spoiled and doted on the kids, your charismatic father!” Ric, my papa’s dental assistant claims, as he joins the conversation.
I knew how kids and adults were easily drawn to his warmth and charms. What a shame that he missed the chance to spend time with my sons too.
A bevy of people come and go, Maura’s children taking turns to introduce “Tony’s daughter,” just arrived from Taiwan, where I was teaching at the time. They were all singing praises of Papa’s winsome ways and sense of humor.
I force myself to feel comforted. My pain is so deep. Tears do not flow. I can hear only my soul crying. I feel a spasmodic ache in my heart. It pounds for the pain of the lost years…of not having him with us in our world for the rest of our lives. The tears wrestle to linger inside me. Would Mama have cried, even for the wrong reasons? I do not appreciate feeling like an outsider, through no fault of theirs. My own jealousy and dejection shackle me.
Papa, were you also despondent that we were not beside you in your deathbed? Do you understand how I am feeling? I am here, Papa. I have come to say goodbye to you. I was your girl, remember, your “Nettie Pie?” Why were you so unfair? It hurt more leaving me in the cold, concealing your illness from us—for what? “To save us from the pain of seeing you suffer?” as you told your other family? It was more painful this way, you know! I wanted you to hear me say, “I love you so much, Papa. I forgive you for hurting Mama and please forgive me for asking you to leave us. I did that because I could not stand your incessant altercations, and I did not want both of you to hurt each other anymore”... but I needed to hug you in the flesh for the memories of my beautiful childhood, one last time.
A gradual crescendo of sobbing and then wailing pierces the solemn air and momentarily halts the flow of tears from my eyelids. Supported by her parents, a young adult charges towards my father’s casket and hysterically lets out her pain, throwing the room in suspended movement.
Envy and confusion surge inside me. Am I seeing myself in this distraught girl? Is this envy caused by her unrestrained release of the pain I am miserably suffering and incapable of expressing? Is this envy wrapped in guilt? In resentment? In regret? Who is she? Was Papa closer to her than he was to me?
I find out that she is Maura’s eighteen-year-old granddaughter. They kept his illness from her as well, as she was completing her final exams. I was her age when Papa left us for THIS WORLD…
I now know, he was loved well. No resentment in that unexpected but gratifying realization.
My inner self reaches out to Papa’s other world.
I sidle up to Maura and her children and grandchildren. I tacitly slip my hand to cover hers, deliberately blocking my mother’s admonition in my mind.
Finally, my own anguish finds its expression.
A symphony of sobs now fuses papa’s two worlds.
Nanette Carreon-Ruhter writes from Honolulu. An international educator, she has taught English Literature and Writing in Manila, Hong Kong, Taipei, and Singapore. She enjoys visiting her sons and grandchildren in Shanghai and Philadelphia.
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