Before the third episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on April 18, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
Mary twists open the tube of concealer before bringing it to her eyebags to do its magic. She pats on her thin skin to blend it with her rough finger, using the mirror in front of her. She silently laments that she did not put enough makeup to cover her scars, but she is already late as it is; she now only has time for blush and lipstick. Both are in a good shade of pink for her pale skin, to make her come to life.
This will have to do for now, she consoles herself again. She’s already late for her meeting with her college friend. She’s wearing a blazer over her white shirt that is a little too wrinkly for her liking, and a black pencil skirt. She should’ve ironed them, but that’s also broken. She has yet to buy a new one. Or she could’ve just bought a new skirt, as Alice, her best friend, suggested.
Her college friend’s merely doing her a solid favor – by introducing her to their family company’s HR. She badly needs this job, or she won’t be able to pay for her bills. All the statements she got in the past few months suddenly bombard her mind: the tuition fee that is due tomorrow, the electric bill and the water bill. Even all the other broken appliances in this bleak condo that needs to be replaced come to her mind – the iron, the water dispenser, the toilet that won’t flush right and even some lightbulbs. It all threatens to ruin the composure Mary has mustered all morning.
She reaches up to smooth down her hair, raking her fingers through the black, white and gray strands, trying to regain some peace. She takes a deep breath, giving herself a once-over. She could’ve had more time to prepare if she didn’t need to stress about her little girl, Maya, suddenly getting a fever and moaning for mama all night.
Alice said she’ll take care of her, but Mary is still worried. She side-steps out of view in the mirror, looking at her girl’s reflection. She was dozing peacefully at the bed behind her. Mary heaves a sigh again as she grabs her tube of lipstick on the makeshift dresser (a mere plastic table). The lipstick was almost running out, so she had to tip the tube so that the wand could grab enough of the liquid stain.
“All for you, anak ko,” She whispers to herself as she surveys if the color sufficiently covers her chapped lips. “My only family now.”
It’s not like she never thought of it. She was an only child. While others were imagining big family get togethers where all the cousins are laughing and sharing secrets together, Mary was imagining who her little girl will call when she’s not available. When her parents used to talk about walking her down the aisle, they were also making sure they’ll be giving away their daughter to a good man who will take care of her when they’re gone.
Now they are gone, and there is no man. Just a little girl with her smooth and innocent face. She did not inherit Mary eyebags, and she wishes she never will. She only agreed to this interview, despite her dignity taking a hit, because she wants Maya to live a better life than they do now. She would do it for her, if not for herself.
Mary gets ready to go. She grabs her bag tattered fake leather bag and slings it on her arm. She walks over to Maya and gives her a little kiss on the forehead. She shuffles and her eyes flutter open, arms reaching out for a hug.
“Mama needs to go, sweetheart.” Mary whispers.
“I love you.” She mumbles, eyes drooping close.
“I love you, too.” Mary smiles, the energy resurging back from her head to her toes. There’s so much that needs to be fixed and done, but she’s not alone, and that gives her immense comfort.
Her gaze then goes to the bedside table, where there are two framed pictures. The first one was when Maya was born, newly swaddled and placed on Mary’s chest. She looked tired, but with eyes full of joy. Maya’s father was still there, with the same shining eyes, looking at his daughter instead of the camera.
Mary and her husband had bonded over being an only child and fell in love almost instantly, getting married a year later. They were both barely 25, but they knew they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. Another year later, Maya was born.
The second picture was of her parents in a photo studio, with them sitting down and Mary standing in the middle, her hands on their shoulders. She was a bit longer when they took it, her hair straight and shiny, and her back straight and tall, not burdened by the world. Her parents were already old when they had her. Her dad had thinning hair and her mom had lost a bunch of teeth by then. They were a small but precious family.
All her friends have always said that Mary was so lucky to be an only child, to have the attention all on her. But they never thought of the after, when the three most precious people in her life died in a car accident, leaving her and her child to fend for themselves. She took it as a sign – more so to comfort herself – that in everyone in that car she lived because she still needed to take care of Maya.
Even when she was aching all over in the hospital, about to be suffocated with grief, she called Alice, who was babysitting Maya that day, and asked if she could bring her to Mary. She hugged her little girl tight, and promised never to let go. It was a promise both to her and to herself.
The alarm on her phone rings, and she quickly rummages through her bag to silence it. She looks over to see if it woke Maya up, but she merely shuffles to sleep on her side. She checks the time – she really is late now. She says another goodbye and runs out to the sala, where Alice is sipping her coffee.
“I’ll treat you someday,” Mary quips to Alice, before looking at her reflection one last time in another mirror by the door. Her eyebags are still so prominent. Good thing her cuts from the accident healed nicely, even though there are light scars still left. But there’s nothing to do about all that right now but complain.
‘“Ugh, my eyebags are so ugly.” Mary groans. “No amount of concealer and cover this up.”
“So?” Alice says. “Everybody has eyebags.”
That made Mary pause and think. Everybody does have eyebags, has their own stuff going on that makes them unable to sleep. Or eyebags are genetic as well, right? She frowns at her reflection and sighs. This should probably be the least of her problems, but she can’t help it.
Alice stands up and walks towards her friend. She has a newspaper in hand, and she whacks Mary’s arm with it. “You need to go! You still have to commute!”
“I don’t look sick and dying, right?” Mary grabs Alice by the shoulders. “Do you think this is a good impression? I’m just asking for a favor here. I need to pro–”
Alice clutches Mary’s wrists in response. “Hey, calm down. You don’t look sick and dead, alright?”
“You’re a good worker,” Alice adds. “Show them that.”
Mary smiles at her friend, who’s like a sister by now. It comforts her to still have people in her life who show up like this for her. It makes her think the Lord has not truly abandoned her.
That makes Mary look up at the little wooden cross her mother gave her when they first moved in here. She clasps her hand together and says a short prayer – Lord, please provide for us. I am counting on You!
Then she turns on her heel and turns the knob of the door open. She leaves, ready to conquer anything, even the Philippine heat and traffic.
Written by Caitlyne Cue
