The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 24

THE MAN knows it was his fault. He chose to be a coward and left. And how could he? How could he have traded the joy of seeing her daughter grow with the fatal loneliness in a foreign land? Was it not better to have less than nothing at all? At least, that is how he feels now: empty.

Perhaps it is not too late. So the man stays. He stays even when at first the girl acts as if he did not exist. He takes a leave from his job abroad, plans his retirement, and prepares for a food business in the city. He buys a condominium unit in Pasay— a small space forty stories high with windows as tall as the ceilings, thus letting sunlight or moonlight, starlight and city lights flood in whatever time of the day it is— and takes the girl from the custody of his sister to live with him again.

It is a slow process. To get her speak to him once more. He cooks her favorite dishes, and plays her favorite song on speakers. Still he only sees her when she has to eat or relieve herself and even then she treats him as air. She stays mostly in her room, silent but with the low grumble of the radio. Sometimes he fears what she could be doing. But he lets her be and respects her.

A month passes, and grumbles and nods transpire. A few days more, she greets him. Once, she even tells him that she wants to resume college before disappearing into her room. Words always succinct and hurried, though; the tone impassive.

Their first real conversation happens a week later when she appears in the kitchen as he makes himself a cup of coffee.

It is early in the morning. She stands by the doorframe in an oversized shirt and a pair of pastel purple pajama pants, both clothes he had bought on his own for she never accompanied him to the stores— her arms crossed; her gaze on the floor, never on him. "There's an audition coming to this city next week," she says. "It's for a local indie movie. I think I suit one of the supporting roles, so I signed up."

The man stares at her.

"Will you accompany me?" she asks, finally bringing up her gaze.

"Sure, hun'," the man says. And the girl leaves him alone.

That night the man cannot sleep, still dazed from the interaction with his daughter. He scurries out of his room to go to the kitchen and have a shot of vodka or two, but stops dead in the hallway when he hears the soft song of a whimper. He soon finds out that the girl's bedroom door is left ajar. He knocks, and calls her name.

The low murmur dies.

"Come in," the girl whispers.

And he enters into a space of shadowed cream and beige and brown. The air conditioner is on cool. The desk is empty, the curtains drawn in. The girl is on the floor, still in her usual pajamas, hugging her knees.

The man sits beside her and notices the little box in her hands: a tape player. Like the one they used to listen to. Only now it is silver, and slightly thinner. Beside it a stout tower of Compact Cassettes. Once white, now yellow. She used to have a lot more. Perhaps these were the only ones she could afford hiding and keeping. He learned that his sister burnt and threw away a number of things his daughter had owned.

He takes her head and puts it on his shoulder. When she does not push him away, he kisses her forehead, and rests his chin on it. She depresses one of the player's buttons and a tune fills the air: an orchestration of one of his wife's most favorite songs. It was a song by Steve Chapman, about letting love in.

A little later his wife's laughter tickles the air.

I love you so much, sweetie!

His own voice, grumbling in mock derision.

And your dad, of course!

His eyes dampen.

They are a family again.

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