Manila Marriage App (7 page)

Timothy sank down next to me and touched the back of his hand to my sweaty forehead. “We need to get you out of this sun. Right now you bear a strong resemblance to a wilted
sampaguita
.” His lips pressed into a frown as he swept the hair out of my face.

“Excuse me? What's a
sampaguita
? Asian spinach salad with warm bacon dressing?” I slapped at a mosquito and fluttered my eyelashes at him.

His lips parted as laughter rumbled in his throat. I fought the urge to purr like a kitten when he laughed. He seemed more human. “No. It's the national flower, part of the jasmine family. A very pretty, fragrant flower.” A warm flush crept up his neck as he glanced away.

No one had ever told me I resembled a flower before, much less a sweet-smelling blossom.

“Time to get you back to the seminary. You need a cold drink and a few hours rest at the apartment. After you're feeling better, I thought we might go out to dinner tonight. We're due to have a long talk, don't you think?”

At last.

As we reached the car, his cell phone rang.

It was the hospital. Darling Pinky was going home within the hour.

 

 

 

 

8

 

I positioned the air conditioning vents toward my face and pinched my cheeks. The sharp sting helped to revive me.

We raced across town—or rather, we raced and crawled—finally arriving at Manila Makati Medical. I was sure Danilo had taken his driving lessons from Timothy.

We moved into the crowded waiting room, and I found a seat.

Timothy loped off to find out more information on Pinky. The sick, the poor, the dying, not to mention the sniffling, the crying, and the moaning surrounded me. I didn't care for hospitals at the best of times—like when my sister, Lily, had delivered baby Ethan—but it was important to be here for Pinky's sake. Maybe Timothy's compassion was rubbing off on me.

Timothy returned, and we were off to the accounting department.

A harried employee informed us that in order to discharge a patient, full payment was expected.

Timothy reached for his checkbook. I didn't intend to eavesdrop, but I overheard that Timothy had also paid a down payment when Pinky had first been admitted. I would imagine precious few people in the Philippines had medical insurance and definitely not anyone from the shantytown up the creek from the seminary. How expensive was a hospital bill when no insurance kicked in?

We wound through the labyrinth of halls, rode on a creaky elevator up to the children's wing, and entered the second room on the left. The room held eight beds, each bed occupied by a sick or broken little girl.

Pinky sat up in the first bed, her mother's arm around her thin shoulders. Her dark-haired head was swathed in bandages, her right arm supported by a blue cloth sling.

Liwayway's face lit up when Timothy strode into the room. She quickly rose to greet him, and just as quickly sat back down, suddenly shy.

Pinky was not so reserved. With unconcealed glee, she squealed, “Dr. Juicy. It's Dr. Juicy.”

Turning to Timothy, I made sure he spotted my arched eyebrows. “Juicy? This ought to be good.”

Timothy knelt by the bed, and with the gentleness of a mother cat comforting her kitten, he gathered Pinky into his arms. I could hear her tiny chirp of pleasure as she snuggled against his chest.

Over his shoulder, he spoke in my general direction, “Juicy as in chewing gum. Whenever I visit the creek community I bring along a generous supply, making sure each child gets a stick or two. It's such a small thing, but it makes them happy.”

That explained the gummy glob I'd stepped into on his office floor. Timothy was the culprit, or at least the source.

Liwayway reached over and tugged on his sleeve. “Thank you, Dr. Flynn, for coming to get us…and for everything.” One shining tear glided down her cheek.

It hit me that Liwayway had been by Pinky's side since they'd both arrived at the hospital. There was no way for her to get home, but she was the kind of mother who wouldn't have left her daughter's side even if she could have.

With the doctor in the room, everything else, including me, faded into the background.

The worshipful gaze she aimed at Timothy landed on me. “I'm sorry, are you with Dr. Flynn?” Her mouth scrunched up as she tried to remember.

Despite our riding in the same car for miles when we'd first brought Pinky to the hospital, it was possible my appearance might have changed now that I wore suitable clothing and shoes. And I hadn't made much of an effort to comfort her. No wonder she didn't remember me. I stepped closer, offered a hand, and introduced myself. “Yes, I'm Shay, a friend of Dr. Flynn's.” I guess I was a friend. I certainly wasn't anyone's fiancée.

Used to taking charge, I combed the area for an aide, a wheelchair, or something useful, but nothing materialized. We were on our own.

Pinky's fragile body trembled. It was obvious she was in pain and there was no way she was going to walk out of here on her own two feet. Why was the hospital sending her home so soon? I'd lay odds that money was the issue.

There had to be a nurse's station or someone who could help. Before I was halfway out the door, Timothy assumed the role of chief commander, lifting Pinky off the bed as if she were a china teacup.

As we headed out, I peeked back into the room and waved goodbye to the other patients. The girls who were awake had been awestruck by Dr. Flynn, too. As he swung on his heel to leave, one child started to cry. The good doctor had an effect on females of any age.

Timothy carried Pinky to the car and nestled her in the back seat with her mother. It bothered me that there was no car seat, but I reasoned such American priorities were far down on the list for those without enough food. Timothy drove at a sedate pace—at least compared to his usual jet-fueled zigzags—and we arrived at the entrance to the village in less than an hour. Our grand slide-to-a-halt-in-a-cloud-of-dust arrival drew a crowd, and swarms of kids showed up calling “Dr. Juicy! It's Dr. Juicy and Pinky.”

The squatter community was poorer even than I'd expected. Most of the homes were small shacks perched on the bank of the creek. Skinny chickens scratched for sustenance at our feet while, in the midst of the squalor, a gleeful troop of boys and girls kicked a ball through the narrow passages between the dwellings.

As we made our way through the gathering crowd, we received a warm welcome from the adults in the community.

Timothy held Pinky in his strong embrace, her good arm tight around his neck. As usual, everyone knew Dr. Flynn.

Liwayway's house was located in the middle of a row of homes. As we walked through the doorway, we dodged three small children as they headed toward a basketball hoop situated in the middle of the barrio. The last boy slowed as he glanced back at Timothy. If I came back, I'd have to remember to keep a stash of gum handy to ensure everyone got enough.

The shanty was made of plywood covered with a corrugated metal roof. The room we stepped into was clean, but that was all there was—just the one room. An old wooden cushion-less couch leaned against the back wall. In the corner, on the rough concrete floor, was a narrow bunk bed with folded up mats underneath. Timothy had mentioned that seven people resided in this structure. From the size of the place, the residents lived all crammed together.

I was offered a seat on a wooden chair pulled up to a white plastic table. On the wall to the right, scant measures of rice, a few vegetables, half-a-chicken, and two lonely bottles of hot sauce sat on a “pantry” shelf. The only water available seemed to be a rain barrel full of brackish liquid placed outside under the eaves. And where was the bathroom?

I couldn't help but be distraught at the lack of, well, everything I regarded as essential in a home. My arms wrapped around me, my breath hitching.

A tiny gray mouse huddled in a shadowy corner while two big, fat mosquitoes circled around the room. My skin prickled, just thinking about the creepy critters. Checking the area for something akin to a fly swatter, I was disappointed there was nothing I could use in case of attack. I'd keep a sharp lookout.

Timothy settled Pinky on the mattress-less bottom bunk, covering her with a threadbare scrap of blanket. He squatted down, whispering who knows what into Pinky's ear. Whatever he said had her giggling before she fell headlong into dreamland.

Despite the dilapidated dwelling, Liwayway and Pinky seemed to have many friends and support from the neighbors. One at a time, a dozen or so people popped their heads in to say a quick hello and drop off food, a few pieces of fruit, a plate of rolls—Timothy called the bread
pan de sal
—a coconut, and a tin of something called Skyflakes.

Liwayway's hands fluttered as she busied herself, obviously determined to make us feel welcome. She switched on the two-burner propane stove and heated water for instant coffee—the very best in the Philippines, too. When the coffee was ready, she sliced a mango and broke out the Skyflakes. I was waiting for something unusual, but they were ordinary saltine crackers. The fruit and crackers hit the spot. What moved me more was her willingness to share the little she had. Wasn't there some verse in the Bible about that?

After a polite amount of visiting time, Timothy motioned with his head toward the doorway, giving me the international sign it was time to go.

We were ready to leave when Liwayway sniffled, her moisture-filled eyes turning on Timothy.

Glassy-eyed, his stare reminded me of a deer caught at the wrong end of a shotgun, but I knew what she was trying to say. It was clear she was grateful beyond words that her daughter was home and alive. I'd explain it to him when we got back to the apartment.

He didn't seem to understand subtleties.

 

 

 

 

9

 

The ride back to the campus was so quick, I didn't have time to sneeze.

Timothy's car mounted the steep hill behind the seminary, and he parked in his assigned spot.

Bayani tipped his cap at Timothy and narrowed his gaze at me. It was plain he didn't trust me.

My calves ached with the memory of descending those wicked stairs—better down than up—but this time I'd follow close. I redoubled my pace and chased him down, down, down. I was moving so fast, at the bottom, I smacked right into his back. I might as well have slammed into a sequoia. Off balance, I flailed and reached out my hands, steadying myself by gripping his massive shoulders.

He slanted his head and winked at me, mischief in his slate-gray eyes. "If you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask."

Shocked down to my pointy-toed shoes, I nearly took him up on it.

This was a new side of Timothy. Who knew the boy could flirt when he put his mind to it?

I was trying on a witty retort when, all of a sudden, I was so drained I could hardly stand up.

He caught me as I swayed and draped a steadying arm around my waist.

“Sorry. I guess I'm more worn-out than I figured.” At least that's what I meant to say. It came out as an unintelligible mumble.

"It's past time we got you home. It's been a long, long day for you." It had been a long day for him too, but he didn't seem to mind.

The sun hung low in the sky as we trudged side by side up to his apartment, his strong hold supporting me. The last few steps, my feet didn't touch the ground. With no effort at all, Timothy lifted me into his arms and carried me into the living room and set me down on the sofa. Sweet, blessed coolness. “You're dehydrated. Wait here and I'll get you some juice.”

As if I could move.

After the juice, he held a cool, wet cloth to my forehead. Between the air conditioning, the life-giving drink, and the cooling washcloth, I perked up. The room stopped revolving, and I could breathe again.

Timothy disappeared into the kitchen and, ten minutes later, after some banging and clanging, in wafted the delicious scent of chicken soup. It smelled almost as good as my own special recipe. My mouth watered with anticipation.

He emerged from the kitchen with a tray. “I have chicken noodle soup and some corn chips. You need nourishment.”

Chips were nourishment? This was a nice country. “Thanks.”

Timothy plunked down in the chair next to the couch, muscular legs stretching almost to the middle of the room. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his thick hair. It hit me he'd been worried. Nobody ever worried over me except for Brianna. I made sure they didn't have to.

Along with the light meal, on the tray, Timothy had placed a jelly jar with a white flower stuck in it. Tears stung and threatened to fall. With a shaky hand, I spooned a mouthful of soup. It was good and hot, just the way I liked it, the chips crisp and salty. After I'd eaten every drop of the soup, and licked the salt from my fingers, I drew my feet up on the couch and rested my head against the back. A cavernous yawn escaped my lips. As I snuggled into the cozy sofa, evening light streamed through the sliding glass doors, illuminating the portraits of Timothy parents. The magnificent paintings sprang to life—his father's expression stern and imposing—his mother's smile warm, her liquid, dark brown eyes arresting.

I stood up and inched closer so I could study the artistry. “The portraits are startling in their vibrancy. Such bold strokes. Your father's face is…unsettling, like he's holding on to some deep, underlying anger.”

He nodded in agreement.

“On the other hand, your mother is so lovely I can hardly bear it. Who painted them?”

“I did. My father was easy. He's always angry. My mother's took more time. I painted her as I remember her.”

“Why didn't you say you were an artist before? They're not signed.”

“No, not signed. I paint for myself.”

“Timothy, they're brilliant. Do you still paint?”

“No. Haven't for a while. Too much to do.”