Gilded Truth

Chapter Nine

My back slouches in boredom. The chorale sings hallelujah to the Lord, harmonizing in different tones of voice. My mom taps my back, forcing me to stand straight. I look up at her and her eyes are fixed on the altar. I glance at my father and he does the same. I cannot help but heave a sigh, relaxing my spine. The sun is shining and passes through the stained glass windows of the church, casting a soft rainbow color on the pristine white marble tiles of the church. I want this to be over . . .

The pastor instructs the crowd to take a seat as he reads the gospel for this Sunday. I play with the hem of my dress as everyone falls in silence, listening to an hour-long homily about what the gospel is talking about. But I know that inside this church, not a single one of us is pure and void of sins. Neither is the pastor in front of us who is allegedly assaulting his altar servers. I know of it because I read an article about it when I snuck into my father's office. My eyes roam around the place, from the altar servers whose heads are bowed down, refusing to meet the eyes of anyone from the crowd, to families attending the worship. One would think that this is a normal gathering for a eucharistic celebration where everyone is dressed in formal garbs to praise the Lord. But inside this church are not the type of family one would encounter in a subdivision or a neighborhood.

Every one of us either belongs to those families who are in a gated subdivision or living at the top of the tallest skyscrapers in the city. Members of highly acclaimed families gather in this church that could be considered an exclusive gathering of socialites, on par with how elusive the royal family is. These people pray on Sundays but go against the morals of the Holy Bible when it passes by. And like what my father said, they are nothing but a bunch of hypocrites.

I hiss when I feel my mother's nails digging into the surface of my skin. "Effe, listen to the pastor," she says through gritted teeth. I glare at her but say nothing, rubbing the skin where she dug her nails in. I slump my back on the backrest of the pew, crossing my arms in front of my chest and pretending to focus on what the pastor is saying. I hate Sundays, it's the time when I have to mingle with families I have no interest in mingling with, and meet with their children the same age as me who are nothing but a bunch of spoiled brats and bullies. Ever since I was young, my family has brought me to celebrations and gatherings such as this, where political families and influential people come. I can't blame them, as the current premiere's esteemed propagandist, my father holds a name on his own, in addition to the name my mother holds as a niece of the former premiere. I am bound to mingle with these people, but even in my dismay, I can't find a voice to go against my family as the only child they have.

The grueling celebration ends and the silent church turns into a hive, with politicians and businessmen alike talking about their plans for the future, forming partnerships and alliances that will benefit them in the long run. Women from affluent families giggle as they compliment plain, white dresses that only interest them because of the designer tag it holds. It's as if the homily about earlier holds no gravity to these people. As if the show they performed earlier of offering a bunch of flowers on the altar and candle lighting by the side of the church are but for photographs that will be plastered on the news and papers. They think that this is nothing but a soap opera where they could direct on what drama the people would subscribe to. I sit there on the pew, watching how these people act out of touch with reality. It makes me hate Sundays even more.

Another hour passes by till my father walks to my place. He extends his hand and I gladly receive it. We walk out of the church in silence till my eyes notice a group of people surrounding a familiar man and his wife. "Fidelio," the man greets. My father stops in his tracks and saluts the man. "Admiral Adira." I can feel my father's hand tightening his grip around mine. The man in front of us smiled at me, a cold shiver runs down my spine. His smile is nothing but a normal smile, however, there seems to be an underlying meaning behind it. He's the current state regent of our country, second in power as the premier. He's widely popular and respected for being a person who enforced an iron fist when he was in the navy. "Effe, your mother is already in the car, why don't you join her?" I nod silently, my father lets go of my hand and lets me walk toward our car. I glance back at him but his eyes already met Admiral Adira's, his eyes in all seriousness, and his voice hushes down. From a safe distance, one will know that whatever the business between them is a matter of privacy, and the air surrounding them is heavy as if an impending storm is brewing.

When I open the door of our car, my mother is already seated in the backseat, her hands full of papers she has to read and study. Unlike my father who is a propagandist, she continues the lineage of her family as a statesman, diving into the dangerous field of politics and jurisprudence. I settle beside my mom and take a sneak peek at the papers laid in between us. These are policies and laws that their party is lobbying for change and amendments. Her notes are color coordinated and organized so that someone who does not know about laws and policies can understand them coherently. It is comprehensive enough that the usage of jargon is minimal. "Where's your father, Effe?"

I look out of the window and point in the direction of my father and Admiral Adira. "He's talking to the admiral." As if the word is taboo, my mother stops what she's doing. "Do you know what they are talking about?" I shake my head. Panic-stricken, my mother looks in the direction of my father and the admiral, but even before my mother decides to approach them, my father is already walking toward us. It is rare to see my father with a sullen face and today is one of those days. Our driver immediately goes in the driver's seat when my father sits in the shotgun.

The air inside the car is unexpectedly eerie, no one dares to break the silence as we travel back to our home. Instead of asking what is happening, I look out of the streets of the busy capital. My mother always advised me to leave the adult talk with the adults and I don't want to ask anything when no one wants to speak.

The capital is busier than usual, people walk by the streets toward the subways and overpasses, dressed in the newest street fashion with paper bags in their hands. There are those my age loitering around freedom parks with phones in their hands, laughing together with their friends holding a cup of iced coffee in the middle of fall. Some rush out of the coffee shops with a box of pastries that are probably for desserts or afternoon tea. As someone born from a high-profile family, these are the things I barely experience, I cannot go out without a chauffeur, nor a lot of friends to join with. I grew up in a glass tower overlooking the capital where I watch the world change right in front of my eyes.

When we arrive home, my mother instructs me to go to my room and practice piano. Before I can say anything, she and father walk toward his office, an ominous atmosphere surrounding the both of them as if an unspeakable storm is to arrive. Ever since the moment my father saw the state regent in front of the church, his aura changed. He's usually bubbly with a great sense of humor, but the moment he stepped in our car, he was nothing but silent. As if something was bothering him. I noticed how he kept on glancing at me and my mother when we were on our ride home as if telling my mother through a connection only they know that there was something serious to come.

I go straight to my room and sit on a beanbag on the floor. My body is swallowed by it as I become comfortable with how it feels around me. I know that Admiral Adira is not a simple person, he wouldn't be climbing up ranks without him being skillful, but my father who is never shaken by politics or any bigger personality is shaken by his mere existence. I could feel goosebumps all over my body as I remembered his smile towards me, a meaningful smile I could never get my mind out of. I have met the state regent before, he was fairly charismatic and the people loved him, but I know everyone in politics has always been intimidated by the kind-looking man in power and that everyone has to be careful around him.

As if the sun had gone into hiding, the clouds turn gray and the weather is now as gloomy and cloudy as my mind.

"It seems a storm is approaching."