Naturally on a Wednesday morning, a lad of Harold's age would be staring out the door from a high school homeroom. Harold was staring out the window from a hospital ward that stunk of a sick smell he could not get used to. To think that he had been going in and out of here for almost half a decade now.
"Hey, Mom," he said, "I saw Grandpa yesterday. I dropped some flowers." He held her hand. The doctor said it would help her in some way, get her senses going. Her fingers felt cold and rough.
"And I bought you fruits, in case you wake up today. The oranges are your favorite right?"
Keep conversing with her, the doctor had said. She can hear us.
"Did you know they're planning to send humans to Mars? By the way, Coco is doing another movie this year. I'll save it for you. But you know, it'll be much better if we could go to the movies together."
He held her hand tighter, curled her fingers around his. Whether she could feel anything, she showed no sign of it.
Maybe the doctor was wrong. Maybe she was not getting any better. 'She will never ever get better.'
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he willed it to disappear. He hated that thought. He hated himself for even thinking that way.
"Mom, what do I do?" Helpless, he sank his head into the mattress.
He didn't know he had fallen asleep. He woke up to the door creaking and Nurse Mildred stepped in. "Sorry, I woke you."
"No problem."
In her hand, she held a tray of syringes.
"May I ask what is that for?"
"Oh, just a dose of vitamins."
"I thought she only now receives twice a day?"
"Her vitals are not improving," she said whispering, as if his mother could hear. He didn't know why but he instantly disliked Nurse Mildred for toning her voice down. "The doctor recommended to add another dose," she explained as though it was perfectly normal.
He silently watched Nurse Mildred inject the vitamins into his mother's IV.
"Have you had lunch?"
He shook his head, without muttering a word.
"Maybe you should eat. You don't want your mother to see you all spindly."
Nurse Mildred always said that. In fact, it was the only thing she said. Harold hated hearing it. It would not make him feel better. It never did. He wanted to tell Nurse Mildred that but he was afraid of antagonizing the only ally he had.
"So are you spending the night?"
He brought a change of clothes. He shook his head. "I'll be leaving in a moment." He originally planned to. Now suddenly, he wanted to get away.
"Okay, but take care of yourself always," Nurse Mildred said, patting him on the shoulder before leaving.
"I will," he replied, listless.
He felt terrible. He did not have the right to feel this way yet he could not help it.
Before he walked out of the door, he grabbed one apple and took a huge bite. Three steps out and he swiveled back to quickly fetch the whole basket. He headed for the ward and gave them off to the first persons he saw.
Exiting the hospital, he extended out his arms at full length, feeling free even just at this moment. Air never tasted so fresh.
But like any other adult, he had things to do.
He had not called Mr. Blue Tie in days. He actually called him Frank when they talked in person because that was what Frank told Harold to call him. But in his head, Frank was a man in a Blue Tie. It was his most distinguishing feature. That and his limp.
"Hello," Harold greeted into the phone. He located a shade under a repair shop. The place smelled of grease and oil but he paid it no more attention.
"Oh hi, I've been trying to reach you," Mr. Blue Tie said. Harold imagined him talking in front of him, a few inches shorter than he was, and boasting a pretentious sunshine. It was not that he disliked the dealer. It was just that Harold disliked what the man was good at. Buying and selling houses.
"I'm sorry I haven't contacted you. I just wanted to ask, how much is it gonna sell for?"
"Based on our inspection, I think you would be happy to know that you have a nice house. And it can sell for a nice price. Our estimate is six hundred thousand pesos - that's the lowest it can sell for. If you are ready, I have found an interested buyer. He liked the location and is dying to see it for himself."
"By ready, you mean to leave?"
There was a cough at the other end of the line. He was being unfair to Mr. Blue Tie. It's not his emotional cargo. He's just a broker. "I know it's hard, Harold. It's still up to you to decide, though."
"How about the furnitures? What happens to them?"
"It was not part of the auditing, but if you want to sell it, we can include it in the offer."
"But he's not obliged to keep them?"
"Of course. It's still up to the buyer. If you want, I can make some calls. There are people willing to buy it from you."
"Okay, thanks. I'll ring you up again."
He forgot about lunch altogether. He took a stroll in the park, tried to shun away his setting pit of melancholy by appreciating the trees and the way they reflected the daylight. He felt better. But not enough. After musing alone for some time, he hopped on a ride to his father.
The bakery was a one-hour ride. He dozed off and nearly missed it.
Harold took the time to take it all in from the outside, as though it was the first time he was seeing it. Which he was not.
The very first time he walked in, his heart pounded like drums. Today, as he stepped in - he still felt his heart drumming. But it was not for excitement.
Just like the last time, his father greeted him, "Good day" just like any other customer who came in through those doors.
'His name is Jericho. You must have derived your sweetness from him,' his mother said once.
"I'll have a spanish bread, please," Harold answered.
"Will you be dining in?"
Harold looked around for a second. Then nodded. There were not many people around.
His father put the bread on a plate. "Some drinks to wash it down with? We have just recently started offering milkshakes and coffees. Janna, stop texting," Jericho reprimanded his daughter. "So you want some?"
"I'm lactose intolerant, I'll have some hot coffee."
"What are the odds. Me too," he laughed.
'I know,' Harold thought.
"Janna, make her a cup of coffee. Here's your spanish, still warm. We have mocca, capuccino, latte, and choco? What do you prefer?"
The daughter looked up at Harold without interest as if he was wasting her time.
"I-what would you recommend?" Harold replied, unsure what to choose. He just really wanted a real pure coffee.
"At this time of day, capuccino?"
"Capuccino it is."
Janna, indignified, lazily pressed down on the coffee machine, then not ungently, she handed the cup to him.
He found a spot from where he could watch Jericho. He got his eyes from him and the shape of his head, he saw now. 'You sound like him,' his mother used to say. She was wrong, he had found.
Harold wondered if he ever knew. Or if he ever tried to know. Does he still even remember a woman named Marcy whom he had a fleeting affair in late January sixteen years ago?
Harold tried hating him. But Jericho was literally a stranger that it was pointless to feel anything toward him. Still Harold wondered. Still, he was curious. What would his reaction be when Harold told him that he had a son somewhere?
It took Harold a long while to finish his bread mainly because he was deep in thought. And also because he found it strangely comfortable to sit among people who had no inkling as to what he was going through. Unfamiliarity. That was what he needed. No people talking about his mother. No one trying to console him.
He did not need consolation. What he needed was for his mother to at least move a finger so that he could have something to hold on to.
His coffee felt cold when he took a sip. It was only half empty. He stood up and settled his bill.
"I don't see you around here often," Jericho's wife said to him, tending to the register. 'She does not even compare to my mom,' Harold thought bitterly.
"Oh, it happens to be along my way home. I got wind from a friend you have great pies so I've been coming here."
"Ah, so how is it?" Jericho cut in.
"It's actually quite tasteful," Harold smiled.
"Oh good to know." Jericho handed him his change.
**************
Harold almost forgot that someone was waiting for him at home. That was why he was so startled when the door aggressively swung open as he was just reaching for it.
"What took you so long?" The goddess said.
"What the-"
"And it's you who has the right to complain, eh? I've been sitting here all day long, wondering if you will ever come back."
"This is my house," Harold exclaimed, "why have you been in my house for all day long without me knowing! And for all I know you just puffed into thin air this morning."
"Hey, I'm the one doing the scolding here. Look, it's already dark. Where have you been to?"
"Get out of my house." He stepped in and tried to push her out, not gently.
She held on firmly, extending both arms to the door frame. "I'm gonna count to three. If you don't get your hands off me by then, I'll-aaaahhh!"
She did not have the chance to finish her sentence. Harold had pushed her off, sending her off-balance, and nearly kissing the floor had she not supported herself with her hand.
"Oh, there's no counting to three for you!"
And the second the last word came out of her mouth, Harold's breath turned into mist. He felt the ice cold kiss of the wind - colder than he ever knew it could be.