The Birth (The Black Wing Book 1) (7 page)

Ms. Clarisse’s voice went dark, disappointment followed her tone.

“Then Troy brought me to Gilia, and promised he would visit me, celebrate family birthdays, and bring my grandchildren. Ana and Ben agreed on the idea, and it sounded alright. It was the first time the family agreed on one thing, and I couldn’t stand living in my home without my husband. As long as my family visits, I could cope living here. But no one ever came, not even my daughter Ana, whom I felt closest to. Her marriage grew dysfunctional, and I stopped hearing from her. My youngest son Ben didn’t even know where Gilia was. When I called him, and asked him to visit me, he stopped answering my calls. For three years I have waited. On family birthdays, I call them, hoping they would remember me.”

Ms. Clarisse grew silent. I think it’s my turn to speak, but I’m unsure of what words to say to something so personal, and hurtful.

“No one visits me!” she yelled.

Ms. Clarisse’s voice echoed into the hall, I jumped at her escalating voice.

“I’m no different than an abandoned dog in a pound, hopelessly waiting for the owner return! They don’t even try to visit me. Did I spoil them that bad? Would there be a difference if I disciplined them? It makes me angry—it makes me hate my own children! Like the stupid woman that I am, every year I call them on their birthdays, in hopes they will let me see them. Despite the anger, and the grudge I have on my heart, it’s hard for me to believe that I still love them.”

“Ms. Clarisse, you’re not alone.” I whispered.

My own throat is starting to tighten. Just hearing her pour all of these hurtful feelings is pushing me to the brink of tears. Unaware, of my sensitive state, Ms. Clarisse laughed.

“Oh I know most of the folks in Gilia have the same history as me. But they do something differently that I cannot! They are willing to smile and befriend each other, and move on—but I can’t. No, I refuse to move on! I can’t forget and forgive for what they did to me, and to their father!”

Like a boxer ready for a match, Ms. Clarisse gripped her good fist, and started beating on her own chest. It hurt me to see that, I told her to stop but she didn’t listen.

“No matter how much I try, I’m still weak.” she cried “There’s nothing I can do to let them know how much I love them.”

I took her hand to stop her from hurting herself, she forced her hand away from me, but I clenched it. When my tears started to fall, she relaxed. I smudged my tears from my cheek and laughed at myself for crying. Ms. Clarisse asked me why I’m crying, but I can’t tell her. I shouldn’t.

“Child.” she started. “You shouldn’t cry on me like that. I’m not the first person on earth who has gone through this. If my words upset you—”

“It’s my mom.” I chirped.

What Ms. Clarisse said, tugs at everything I thought my position in my family was. Her words eroded my definition of a mother. Embarrassed, I finally decided to explain myself.

“You are so patient, and kind. Even with the neglect, you still try to reach out to them. Against all odds, you still hope for them. My mother—my mother was not that kind of person. She is the opposite.”

“Opposite? Stop crying child and explain yourself!” stammered Ms. Clarisse.

“There’s isn’t much to explain.” I smiled. “Your words alone confirm it. Now that I know the truth, I can’t help but cry.”

“Truth?” she asked. “What truth?”

“My mother.” I released. “My mother has never loved me.”

M
y time at the hospital was bitter-sweet. It was awkward for me to receive the kindness of the infamous Mr. Clarisse of the Gilia. It didn’t happen miraculously, but through the post-surgery and after, we became good friends. When she returned to Gilia, Ms. Clarisse continues to be the scary resident my co-workers have nightmares about. When I asked her about making friendships with her neighbors, she told me she couldn’t share her story to anyone. Telling a resident in her circle about her life would be scandalous, and the media will make haste to gobble it up. According to Ms. Clarisse, she had a long desire to find a genuine person she could trust and share her story with.

“You’re that person.” she confessed.

It has been well over a year since the day I was involuntary pushed to become Ms. Clarisse attendant. Within that year, everyone wanted to know the secret that tamed the wild Ms. Clarisse. A few attendants started admitting their residents were troublesome, but of course, none have been capable to top Ms. Clarisse. When I advised them to grow a friendly relationship with them, they saw it more as work. Those who care for Ms. Clarisse on my days off, tried to convince me to tell her to treat them nicely. They couldn’t understand that Ms. Clarisse was kind to me because I sincerely wanted to care for her. These attendants were only out to look for themselves. Ms. Clarisse did not give me any special treatment because I have won her trust. I have no control of her destructive behavior against others. To my surprise, I learned that her sour attitude is not out of spite with the staff of Gilia. Her problem, is a family problem.

Over the months, I’ve learned to mentally record two types of eyes on Ms. Clarisse’s face. She has her gloomy eyes, worn when she was by herself, tired, and rolling to the past. Then, there’s the frightening eyes of a hawk—beaming at the staff for cooking the wrong meal. Sad or hawk eyed, they are influenced by her children, who are everything to her.

On the contrary, I was raised in a way that makes my resentment towards my mother easy. If Ms. Clarisse is like my mother, then I can understand why Troy and the rest neglect her. I want to believe that possibility, but the more time I spend with Ms. Clarisse, the more I’m proven just how wrong I am.

On a good mood, Ms. Clarisse makes me pull the family album from her book case. Together, we will sit in the living room sofa, drinking tea, and going through the photos Ms. Clarisse faithfully collected. Her eyes always sparkle whenever she shared her intimate memories as a child, and later—a mother. Thirty albums packed with pictures of her children in every occasion imaginable. I have felt embarrassed to watch a corporate leader’s first potty-train attempt, and another lose their baby tooth. It made Ms. Clarisse happy to relive those memories with someone. That was when I saw the picture of her cabin.

“That looks just like your portrait.” I said, glancing at the one in her living room wall.

“That’s because it is.” she replied. “It’s been my mother’s mother and so on. This cabin is my most prized possession. I spent my summers there as a child, all the way up to my teens. I often brought my very own children, we spent our Christmas there, cozying up by the fireplace. This cabin is in Washington State, it’s mighty far for an old lady like me to visit. If I could, I would be there right now. That place is my safe haven, it survived many forest fires—the only problems are those mischievous raccoons.”

In the photo, the cabin’s yard is decorated with a swing set, sand box, and rows of flower beds.

In one of the photos, Ms. Clarisse is young and beautiful, her gray hair is a dark blonde, her wrinkles are gone, and her love for makeup, hasn’t changed. Her blue eyes are kind, youthful, not sad or angry like she wears them now. Each photo has a serene smile, a smile I have never seen in person. In those photos, I can see why she is the way she is now, the family she used to know is no longer what it used to be.

Whenever Ms. Clarisse shared her adventures in the cabin on Washington State, it sounds like that place is the source of happiness. Never in my wildest dreams would I believe she would put aside her tradition and pass it to me.

Ms. Clarisse’s 70th birthday is a week away. In secret, I asked Bradley about her children’s home address. I wanted to surprise Ms. Clarisse by persuading her children to visit her. I didn’t care if I had to leave California, and travel state to state.

Bradley looked at me with sad eyes, and told me her children live in this city—our city. Hearing him say that made my guts twist and churn. I assumed they couldn’t visit her because they live far away, but it only made me realize that I’m coming up with excuses for them. I’m starting to feel guilty and pathetic for thinking in their defense. I’m naïve to think that if her children see how miserable and frail Ms. Clarisse has become, they will feel a shock of sympathy in their hearts. Now I’m confident they have no soul.

On the day of her birthday, Ms. Clarisse had neither joy nor sadness, rather, a lot of anxiety. She asked me if could keep her company while she made a phone call to her children. Despite her years of rejection, Ms. Clarisse hasn’t given up on them. For her birthday, she wanted to invite them for dinner. Deep inside, I want her to give up, they don’t deserve it—but I dialed the contact number anyway. After a few rings, none of their personal mobile phones answered. All of them went straight to voicemail. After two days of trying to reach them, Ms. Clarisse feared they have changed their cell phone number. As an alternative, we decided to dial the permanent house they live in.

Ms. Clarisse shockingly pressed the phone to her ear, this time, her age isn’t causing the wobbling in her hands. When someone picked up the line, Ms. Clarisse’s voice fell into disappointment, a maid answered.

“Please inform Troy that his mother is calling.” Ms. Clarisse pressed her lips together and waited. “Oh I see, tell him to call me as soon as he’s available. Yes I would like to leave a message. It’s my birthday this Friday, and I will be having a family dinner at my suite. I’m inviting him, his wife and children. Tell him that I would very much love to see them...yes…thank you.”

It took a big toll on Ms. Clarisse. Tears are starting to fill up, but she cleared up her throat, called Ana, and then, she called Ben. Her voice kindly asked every butler and maid to pass on her message. When the days passed, no one returned her call.

The day before her birthday, I took it upon myself to make the last call. While Ms. Clarisse took her afternoon nap, I dialed the same number to their house. None of the maids and butlers have any clue that I’m prepared. When Troy’s maid answered and directly told me to leave a message. I pinched my arm to remain as calm as possible.

“Do you know who I am?” I stated. “This is urgent, and you want me to leave a message? How dare you! I’m not telling a mere servant my name that is confidential information! I am utterly—purely—gravely upset! When I tell your boss you’re wasting my time, and darting me with these stupid questions—this will be the last call you will answer—do your hear me?!”

After a pause, I instantaneously got my way.

All three of Ms. Clarisse’s children answered my call, I listened their voices—they’re all alive, and healthy. When revealed myself, I invited them to Ms. Clarisse’s birthday dinner. I told them the private, and very exquisite meals Gilia will be serving. They all sound interested, and excited to go. I hanged up, almost jumping with joy. This will be the best surprise yet, Ms. Clarisse will finally be able to reunite with her children!

I greeted the nervous staff into Mrs. Clarisse’s room. They removed the round table in her dining room, and set up a rectangular table, covered in fine linen. They decorated the dining room with blue-lavender flowers that share same name of this company, Gilia.

The food servers arrived, wearing a dark formal uniform. The chef looks more impressive with his white toque chef hat. The team brought in the strong aroma of the main course, followed by the salad, fresh fruits, and homemade dessert. Before going to work, I was so excited that I even curled my hair, just to blend with Mrs. Clarisse’s stylish home. The time on my watch reads 6 p.m. I whistled to Ms. Clarisse’s bedroom to tell her it’s time.

I found her in a dazzling red crochet dress. She asked me if it was too much, but I told her she looks elegant. I wished her a happy birthday, and presented my gift. She chuckled, hugging me, saying that she didn’t need a gift from me. I told her it was necessary, knowing she’s a fan of embroidered scarfs. Luckily, it’s the only thing I could afford that was from a top brand.

The staff welcomed Ms. Clarisse, and stood in position, ready to serve and entertain her guests. We waited for two hours for them, but nobody arrived—no one called us back. Ms. Clarisse’s light hearted face has turned into disappointment. The staff isn’t shocked by the empty visitors, it’s like they expected it would turn out like this. I didn’t take it well, her children sounded excited about attending, and now I’m beginning to think they were saving face by saying they will go.

“I would like to be alone.” said Ms. Clarisse.

She’s doing it again, staring at her frail hands, accepting defeat.

“But you haven’t eaten dinner yet.” I said. “The food—”

Ms. Clarisse didn’t have any strength to hold it in, she quickly broke down crying. I quickly told the staff we needed to leave. We left the food, and decorations where they sat. After closing the door, her cry roared just like the night I first met her. We stood there for a while, again, the entire staff kept a blank face. Angered, I asked them why they have no sympathy. The chef looked at me, and commented.

“Don’t look so sad Lola. We do this for her every year.”

That makes more sense to me, I was still a server at that time. My heart ached, realizing this is a usual routine for Ms. Clarisse. After everyone left, I remained outside her suite, looking at her gold plate, and room number. I stayed there listening to her sobbing. An old man passed by, taking his usual walk in the hall, with his personal attendant. They looked at me knowingly.

“The old saying is that it happens to all of us.” he said, grumbling with faint steps. “We have children, and lose them before we hit our graves.”

He looked at me, and raised his trembling index finger at me.

“It will even happen to you.”

The moment he said that, I felt my stomach turn. It twisted deep inside my gut, and I ran to the restrooms, to throw up. I thought this nausea came from the overwhelming smell of the flowers and the food in Ms. Clarisse’s dining room.