Francis Gabriel Concepcion

Children of the Stars

WHEN I WAS nine, my father told me the Tinggian story of the Star Wife: how Gaygayoma – the daughter of a big star, Bagabak, and the moon, Sinag – fell in love with a sugarcane farmer.

“Joseph,” he began, “everyone on this earth is an immigrant.” He went on to tell how the Star Wife had seen and tasted this farmer’s excellent crop, and so longed to whisk him away and take him as her husband. And she did so, much to the dismay of the farmer, who already had a wife and son. But because he was afraid of being devoured by these foreign entities, he obeyed and went with them.

The star maiden and the farmer had a son, one who was amazed at the beauty and majesty of his father’s homeland. They would visit every now and then. Each visit, the boy hoped to lengthen his stay in the fields. He and his half-brother often played together – up until the younger boy’s celestial mother began to weep and call out for him to return to the heavens.

Maybe it was because of the nature of our family that I felt such a connection to this story. My mom wasn’t exactly the prettiest Filipina in our neighborhood. And yet, my Dutch father was drawn to her like a dog chasing after a female in heat.

My mother was like a cloud – a sponge that sucked in and slurped my father’s affections, and drained him of resistance. He was lost the minute he’d laid eyes on her – maybe because she possessed this ineffable charm, or maybe just because she looked nothing like the women he was used to, back in Europe.

Maybe it was from my father that I inherited this love of the strange and the foreign. Either way, the story he told me stuck to my bones. Mostly because of the way he told it – it didn’t sound like he was just trying to tell me a story. It sounded more like a confession. My dad worked abroad. And most months out of the year, he was away.

Either way, I inherited it – his love of the strange and unfamiliar – and I found I could not get rid of it. Not that I wanted to be rid of it – not until I met a true maiden of the stars.

Her name was Maria. Maria Divinagracia. I’ll always remember the very first day we met.

IN HIGH SCHOOL Filipino class, I was asked to read a verse from the Ibong Adarna. It was an epic I know I would have loved and enjoyed – if only I could have understood it as well as everyone else.

Classes had been going on for only a few weeks, and we were just about to dive into the epic. As our teacher, Mrs. Esmero, was introducing a little bit of background about the epic, Maria walked in with her half-sister, Fatima.

Maria’s skin was the first thing you’d notice, because it wasn’t white or brown or yellow or black. It was a color difficult to describe. Kind of like gold, but duller. Or maybe it was brown, with little specks of gold, like glitter that shone brighter when touched by sunlight.

I still remember what she wore that day – she wasn’t in uniform like the rest of us. She had a silver band on her head, her curls running down the sides of her face in black and auburn streaks. She was dressed in a long robe, the weave and make of which looked like royal tapestry. The hem of her dress fell to her ankles, a silver belt tied around her small waist.

We were just high school students. Most of the girls in our class were just that: girls. Not Maria. Though I couldn’t see beneath her robe how much of her body had matured, I took it from the way she walked – a gait that was poised and alert, intimidating yet innocent.

“Hi. This is my sister, Maria,” Fatima said. “She just arrived from the Gaygayoma.”

A round of whispers erupted in class.

“They’re sisters? Does that mean Fatima is –?”

“Hindi, ah! Kita ko, her mom and dad are Pinoy.”

“So, si Maria lang ang bulagaw?”

“May nagsabi sa akin na they can see in the dark daw.”

“Quiet, please!” Mrs. Esmero finally bellowed, hushing all the whispers. She let the silence hang for a moment, before signaling Fatima to continue.

“Um, she doesn’t speak much Filipino, but she really wanted to see what it was like here, so… ayun. Ayan siya.”

As luck would have it, I was called and asked to read the first part of the epic: the author's dedication to the Virgin. Whatever blessing the dedication was supposed to grant, I didn't feel any fall upon me. On every single line, I stammered and paused. “Oh, Beer hen kaibig-ibig, Ina nam-ing nasa-langit, liwa-na-gin yar-ing isip, nang sa layo, di malinis,” I read.

I remember blinking my eyes rapidly, because the letters on the page seemed to shift: lines turning into squiggles, curves both straightening and elongating. Some words grew longer, one or two letters added to their bodies. Other words shrank.

To make things worse, the syllables just couldn't seem to form properly on my lips. Like the rest of my body, my lips rumbled and shook, as though a drill were being driven through them, grinding my teeth and bouncing off my blubbering tongue.“Ako’y isang hamok lamang, taeng lupa ang ka-tawan, mahilo ang kai-sipon, at maulap ang pawanaw – pananaw!” I finished.

I buried my face in my book, just so I wouldn’t see the reactions of everyone around me – especially Maria. Days after that, I could still hear their giggling ringing in my ears, particularly whenever Peter and Ferdie came up to me, with huge grins on their faces.

“Hoy, Taeng Lupa!” Peter called out. “Kamusta na katawan mo? Naligo ka na?”

“Huwag mong patulan!” Ferdie said. “Maulap pa daw kaisipon niya!”

The thing that really ate at me about their taunts was the fact that I could never be able to come up with an appropriate reply.

“Hanggang diyan lang ba kaya mo, Kano? Hahaha! Supot!”

One thing I was grateful for that day, though: right after class, both Fatima and Maria approached me, as I was packing up my things.

“Okay ka lang, Joseph?” Fatima asked. She was much smaller compared to her sister, much plainer to the eyes, whenever they stood side-by-side. She was by no means actually plain, though. Her eyes were round, and her nose was small. She had the cutest dimples. They were the marks that distinguished her most.

“I can tutor you,” she said, smiling. “I’m tutoring my sister din naman, eh.”

I stared at her, not knowing what to say. We’d known each other only two weeks, and in that time we hadn’t really talked. Yet she seemed sincere in her desire to help. At that moment, I couldn’t help but turn to Maria, who, I realized, towered over me by a few inches.

“Sige! Why not?” I answered. Looking back, I feel like I must have had the weirdest look on my face, probably the most awkward smile I’d ever had.

ONE DAY, AN exchange student from Korea walked into our classroom.

“Dong-Jun! Asawa mo!” Peter cried.

“Yihee!” Ferdie immediately crowed.

Part of me was thankful for the arrival of Lee Yuen. And for that – as though karma couldn’t wait to punish me – I was again called to read aloud in class.

Once more I found myself standing, all ears poised and focused toward me. I tried not to look around. I tried. A nervous cough rang throughout the room as I stood there in silence, book in my hands – my wet, sweaty hands.

I did better. For that, I have to thank those afternoon sessions with Fatima. Still, my reading was filled with long pauses, dragging syllables, and constant corrections from Mrs. Esmero. There was no boisterous laughter. But there was some stifled mirth. Every now and then there was a squeak from one corner of the room. However, Mrs. Esmero quickly dispelled any further noise with one stern look.

She asked me to read an entire page. My entire body was drenched in sweat by the third stanza. And as I looked on, and found seven or so left, I began to feel faint.

At that moment, Maria stood up and said, “Teacher, can I try?”

“Uuyyyy! Yihee!” Peter cried. A fit of laughter erupted, and more teasing ensued.

“Bagay sila, ah!”

“Siyempre!” Peter said. “Mga puti, gusto exotic, eh, di ba? Ayan na pinaka-exotic. Alien?”

“Amen!” Ferdie cried. “Alien!”

This went on for a few more seconds, seconds that seemed to stretch on and on, as Maria stood there, silent as a tree. When the room finally stilled to an uneasy quiet, Mrs. Esmero motioned toward Maria and nodded. “Sige, Maria.”

I blanked. My ears blocked out nearly every sound within the four walls of the classroom. I didn’t even get to hear Maria’s reading.

“Naks naman! Narinig mo ’yan, Donya Leonora?” Peter said, winking at me. “Ayan na si Don Juan! Maililigtas ka na.”

“Damsel in distress ka pala, eh,” said Ferdie.

I buried my face in my hands, and peeked at Maria through the spaces between my fingers. She merely stood there, calmly assessing the situation, smiling faintly as she held her book in her hand. I couldn’t tell if she was offended, if she was embarrassed and trying to hide it, or if she was just indifferent to all the teasing.

“Si Dong-Jun at Lee Yuen naman!” Peter bellowed.

“Sino kaya best love-team?” Ferdie squawked.

Lee Yuen was fidgeting in his seat, looking around with a fever in his eyes. Poor guy. I’m sure he had no idea what was happening. I realized that even though I couldn’t read Filipino very well, and had probably just a few pages’ worth of vocabulary, at least I could understand what everyone was fussing about.

Because of that, I made my sessions with Fatima a priority for the next few months. I didn’t even understand why those two liked to pick on me. I wasn’t that much whiter than they were, yet somehow they were capable of making me feel like a blond albino.

Seeing Maria during those tutoring sessions was more like icing on the cake – sweet, but I wasn’t expecting to actually get anything substantial out of it. So I was taken completely by surprise when she came up to me one afternoon and asked, “Do you want to join us for dinner tomorrow night?”

I sputtered and coughed. I couldn’t blurt out a proper response. My ‘yes’ was more croak than speech.

MY FIRST BLUNDER that night was tipping my glass over, just as we were about to start eating. We sat at their table, Fatima beside me, Maria and Mrs. Divinagracia sitting on the opposite side, and Mr. Divinagracia at the head of the table. Maria, of course, was a feast that my eyes devoured – in swift, tiny bites.

If there was one thing the sisters inherited from their parents that I thought they should be thankful for, it was their flawlessness. Not a pimple or mole across any visible inch of their bodies. As Mr. Divinagracia called us to prayer, I had to tear my eyes from the strapless dress Maria wore, the locks of hair that fell softly on her bare shoulders. I felt a sudden rise of warmth in my chest, a growing rasp in my voice, and a fluttering in my stomach.

I was reaching out for some food when I caught Maria smiling at me. My arm suddenly took a sharp turn to my right. Thankfully, the spill I caused ruined nothing, and Fatima simply stood to fetch some towels.

After dinner, Mr. Divinagracia gave me a tour. “Joseph,” he said eventually, after showing me all the family photos laid out along the walls, tables, and shelves. “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot about me, about Maria. I’m sure you’ve noticed the differences between her and Fatima.”

I thought of all the gossip and rumors about their family. Not really knowing how to respond, I merely nodded and followed him, as he walked on toward the back of the house, where a private pool was lit. A few seconds later, Maria and Fatima came down to the pool, silken robes wrapped around them – silver and purple, glinting against the yellow garden fixtures.

Mr. Divinagracia chuckled at my silence, and I tried my best not to stare at his daughters, as they dropped their robes and waded into the pool, giggling at the temperature.

“Have you ever heard of the story of the Star Wife?” Mr. Divinagracia asked me.

“Yeah,” I said, distracted. “My dad liked telling me that story when I was younger.”

“Maria’s at that age now,” he said. “And she wants nothing more than to stay here, on earth.” Mr. Divinagracia sighed and rubbed his chin. “She and I both.”

My eyes widened. “So – um – it’s true? You have another family abroad?” I bit my tongue the minute I asked.

“‘Abroad’,” he repeated, smiling. I half-expected him to be angry, yet his expression didn’t change. “Yes, Joseph. It’s true.” He paced about the pool, the girls preoccupied with their own sport.

I glanced toward them and watched, as they splashed one another. Two women, both incredibly beautiful. What was it that made me choose Maria over Fatima? “Do you think it’s in our blood,” I asked, “that we always search for the exotic or the unfamiliar?”

“I think so,” he replied. He looked me in the eye.

I was afraid that he could tell I wasn’t talking about him. I scratched my head and turned away.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily because of colonization,” he continued, “although I believe that plays a role. Rather, I believe it’s because the truth is, we’re all foreigners. We were never born on earth. We were born up there. In the stars.”

“My dad says something like that, too,” I said, just to say something, “that we’re all immigrants.”

His lips formed a wry smile. “Yes,” he said. “We are all aliens.”

“‘We’re all aliens’?” I repeated.

He walked up to the edge of the pool and stared across the horizon. “Everything started up there,” he said. “We all came from He that started it all. Separated at the birth of the universe. Now we feel like strangers in a stranger land.” Mr. Divinagracia turned around and faced me, a content smile on his face. He patted me on the shoulder. “My girls like you a lot,” he said. “Make yourself at home.” He then left me by the pool with his daughters.

For a few moments, I watched them. They did make repeated attempts to try and get me to join them, but I declined. I hadn’t brought a change of clothes, after all – a reason they parried with a quick, “Then don’t wear any!” and a round of boisterous laughter.

That made me think of another version of the star maiden myth: how the farmer had reacted to the maidens bathing at the lake, how he had forced the maiden to become his wife.

While they were preoccupied, I rushed to the chair where Maria and Fatima had tossed their robes. I couldn't remember who had worn the silver, and who had worn the purple. Fearing they’d soon find me standing over their clothing, I snatched up the purple, and bounded back to my seat. There, I sat on the robe to keep it hidden.

Soon enough, the girls thought it time to step out of the pool. “Hey! Where’s my robe?” I heard. My cheeks flushed red, as I tried to stifle a laugh. “Joseph, have you seen it?”

I turned around and found Maria wrapped in silver, and Fatima standing before me, brow raised, swimsuit dripping wet. My eyes widened, and my jaw dropped. “Um…” I mumbled, unable to utter anything sensible.

“My robe?” Fatima asked, her hand stretched out.

“Oh!” I jumped to my feet and held it out. “Here.” I stifled a small sigh, hoping the girls read this as just a little prank.

MARIA LEFT A few days after that. I was too embarrassed to say goodbye.

A week later, I decided to show up at Fatima’s house for tutoring. My fear of being humiliated in class was greater than my awkwardness about the robes. I was terrible at Filipino! And I knew it. I resented it for being as complicated and difficult as it was. I was just grateful that Fatima agreed to continue tutoring me twice a week.

“You miss her, don’t you?” Fatima asked one time, when she caught me staring at her during one of our sessions. The rest of the house was quiet, her mother away on a trip to the grocery. We were set up in the living room, our books sprawled across the coffee table, our bare feet rubbing against the thick carpet.

I shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“It’s okay. You can tell me. I know.”

“Know what?”

“Ano ka ba? Sobrang obvious mo kaya.”

I stared at my book and bit my lip. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fatima sigh and shake her head. She planted her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her open palm.

“It’s okay. She doesn’t know,” she finally said.

I looked at her. For a moment, Fatima looked so different from her sister. And for all her familiarity as yet another caramel-skinned girl, she seemed unique. Exciting. Exotic.

“Sorry,” she said. There was a look on her face that just felt too familiar. “So – how is your dad?” she asked.

“My dad’s not coming home until Christmas,” I said.

“My dad might not come back until next year,” she replied.

So Maria might not be back until next year. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“Is it the same for you?” Fatima continued. She began looping her curls around her finger, her eyes staring off into the distance. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t really even miss him. When he comes home sometimes, it’s great. Sometimes, it’s – it’s like, okay, nandiyan ka na. So?” She sighed. “Like he doesn’t belong here. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe my mom and I don’t really belong here.”

I glared at the Filipino textbook lying open in front of me. “I can relate,” I said, thinking of my own father and his stories. “Baka ’yan talaga ugali nating lahat. Eh, kung sa mga alamat nga, may mga pamilyang namumuhay na parang OFW, pa’no pa kaya tayo ngayon, di ba?”

“Naks naman! Galing!” she giggled.

“Ha? Hindi, ah!” I said, my body jumping.

Fatima looked at me and laughed, the sound of her voice echoing throughout the halls of her home, the crease of her lips magnifying the glimmer in her eyes. There was no way that her voice didn’t belong within those walls. It’s what made the place so inviting. It’s what made me feel at home whenever I visited.

“Seryoso. Gumagaling ka na talaga,” she said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I said, unable to keep from smiling myself.

Fatima laughed and bumped her shoulder against mine.

A knot formed in my stomach, and I found myself suddenly short of breath. I chuckled along with her, and forced my thoughts back onto Maria. I probably just missed her, I told myself. Yet being around each sister felt so different. One felt like a faraway dream, an unattainable wish. The other? I shook my head and began to gather my things. “I better get home soon,” I said, flustered.

“Oh. Okay,” she said, and started helping me pack away our materials. Her shoulder brushed against mine in the scuffle, and my hands took on a sudden burst in speed. My books and notebooks fell into my bag like a heap of garbage.

“Oh! Slow down,” she said, and took my hand.

My hand froze. I felt a thumping in my chest. Sweat ran down the sides of my face. And suddenly, my lips were wet. Wet and sticky, as I pressed them against Fatima’s. My fingers wrapped around her taut, slender arms – arms that remained taut, until we parted.

And part we did, that day. That afternoon, Fatima rushed up to her room, leaving the rest of her books and notebooks scattered on the table. I took that as a sign that maybe it was our last session.

I DID GET better at Filipino – even without Fatima’s tutoring – but I was still far behind in class.

My grades were far from acceptable. My mom was frustrated. I could understand. I was more frustrated than she was, especially whenever I was called in class.

I continued to read aloud with my usual hiccup phrases. “Lim-utin sa ala-ala, ang gili-w mong si Leonora, dito ay may hihi-git pa, sa ka-rang-alan at ganda.” Whenever I wasn’t called on to read, I sat in class, deciphering something else entirely. My thoughts were cut in half – bouncing between lessons in reading, and lessons in reading women.

Once, I was caught nursing my swiveling thoughts.

“Isang sirena sa dagat, ang kaniyang nakakatulad, may ngiting nakakabihag, sa puso ng lumiliyang,” Mrs. Esmero read aloud, savoring every word, her arms flailing wildly with emotion. “Pagka’t di na makatiis, timpiin pa ang pag-ibig, ninakaw ang susong damit, ng prinsesang sakdal dikit.”

Mrs. Esmero paused and looked to me. “Joseph! Ano sa palagay mo ang nangyari?”

“Hala ka, Taeng Lupa. Ikaw na!” Peter cooed.

“Peter Sarmiento!” Mrs. Esmero scolded.

“Um, paki-ulit po ’yung tanong?” I murmured.

Mrs. Esmero repeated the lines and held her breath. I squirmed in my seat and hunched my shoulders. The veins in her pupils began to grow red. I could sense her breath rumbling and churning around in her lungs.

“Uh, ’di ko po alam,” I finally said.

She let out a deep sigh and touched her forehead. “Ano ba naman kasi ’yang pinag-iisipan mo, Joseph?”

“Hinuhubaran na niya si Maria sa utak niya!” Peter squealed.

“Ha?” I squeaked, drawing up a chorus of laughter.

“Bold, pare!” Ferdie chimed. “Bold na si Maria.”

I felt my cheeks flush and burn. My eyes darted to where Fatima was sitting. Her face was buried in her book, her hair pulled over the side of her face.

At lunch, I made it a point to walk up to her. “Fatima,” I said. “Can we talk?”

She nodded.

We walked to a quiet corner of the cafeteria, a place where I was sure we wouldn’t be interrupted by Peter or Ferdie. She sat across from me, hands on her lap, eyes swerving from one side to another, trying to avoid mine.

“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry about the kiss, okay? And –” I paused, rubbing my thumbs together and biting my lower lip. “I’m sorry about earlier. I would never think about your sister that way.”

“Then why do you need to apologize?”

“Ha?” I wheezed. “What are you –”

“Hindi mo kailangan mag-sorry kapag hindi siya totoo.”

“But it’s not!” I yelled, stomping my foot. “I didn’t! I wasn’t –”

“You were still thinking about her, hindi ba?”

“No,” I said, and immediately wondered if my response sounded convincing enough. “No!” I repeated more forcefully.

Fatima snorted and rolled her eyes. I scratched my head and grit my teeth, my eyes shifting from her, to the table, and back again.

“She’s visiting again next week,” she finally said. “And she’s looking for you.”

“Oh,” I said, a bit unsure how I felt about the news. I shuffled my feet and clawed at my scalp. “Will you be there?” I asked.

She shot me a menacing scowl and hissed. “Look, Don Juan. Hindi ka ganoon ka pogi. You don’t really like me. I don’t really like you. Nabulag lang ako sa kaputian mo. Eh, ikaw? Ayaw mo na dito, di ba? Ito na pagkakataon mo.”

“Ha? Wha?” I stared at her, wide-mouthed and wide-eyed.

“Just go with her,” she said, before I could say anything else. “She’ll be at your house at ten. Be ready. Dress nice. Something formal. And tell your mom you’ll be home the next day.”

WHEN THAT TEN o’clock came, I was ready. At least, I thought I was ready. I didn’t exactly know what to expect that night.

Maria arrived at my house a few minutes before ten. Dressed in a cool aquamarine robe and a flower crown, she took my hand and led me to the middle of the street, where we stood before each other. She looked up at the sky, and a beam of light came down on us, pulling our feet off the ground.

I watched as the space between me and the earth grew and stretched, until finally our bodies entered the vessel hovering about seven meters above the ground. The look in my eyes, the gaping of my mouth – these would continue on, as we ascended and finally left the earth’s atmosphere.

Halfway between the earth and the moon, we arrived at a larger ship, one that carried dozens of shuttles just like the one we were in. We landed in one of the docking bays, and stepped onto the platform, my heart thumping and my legs a bit shaky.

We were greeted with several nods, curtsies, and handshakes. Several dozen exchanges, and so many pleasantries. Maria and Mr. Divinagracia were also met by Maria’s mother, a tall, slender, bronze-skinned woman with fierce eyes and an even fiercer head of hair. She greeted me with poised excitement. She patted the back of my hand, and then squeezed it as she thanked me for coming.

We were led to what looked like a banquet hall, table and chairs strewn about thirty meters across, a buffet table situated at both ends, and a swarm of strangers mingling and walking about.

“Joseph here is from the Philippines,” Maria’s mother said, as she introduced me to some of her acquaintances.

“Ah! A human,” said a heavyset woman, whose neck was shrouded in pearls. Both small and large, they circled her neck like a piece of armor, glinting in the yellow light of the ballroom. She smiled at me and then turned to whisper to her husband. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said, looking more at Maria’s mother than at me. “Excuse us. We’ll just go and find our seats.”

Maybe it was just me, but nearly every introduction I had that evening began and ended just as quickly. At times, some of the family’s friends shifted to their native language. Then they would all break into a fit of laughter, leaving me chuckling and giggling awkwardly beside them.

One of their friends shot me a look when I laughed. “Oh! You speak Migare?” she asked, and then proceeded to ask me questions that I merely nodded to. When she finally realized her mistake, she stopped and smiled. “I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me.” She patted my arm and giggled. “Of course you can’t speak Migare. You’re an Earthling!” Her giggle boomed into a menacing cackle, her escort squawking along with her. She said something to him in Migare, and then they both looked at me and winked.

“You’re a lucky girl, Maria,” she said. “Marrying an Earthling boy.” The wrinkles on her cheeks and at the corners of her eyes flashed, as she gave what struck me as the biggest, most sarcastic smile. She glanced at me, looking me up and down. “Will be such an adventure!” She then turned to her hosts and bowed. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ll just go and find our seats.”

The night seemed to last forever, and near the end of it, Mr. Divinagracia called me up onstage. He asked me to stand by Maria, and then addressed the seated crowd.

I shifted my weight and shuffled my feet the whole time, my eyes darting from guest to guest, studying their smiles and their non-smiles. I had no idea why I was there, or even more, why I was onstage. Slowly, the whole evening had shrunk from wonder and excitement to a queasy anxiety that made my stomach groan.

“We are honored to have you all here today,” Mr. Divinagracia said. “There’s nothing more pleasing to a father than seeing her daughter find a potential match. And tonight, Maria has made her choice. The line must not be cut, even if that means that we take in another people as our brothers and sisters. I was once a foreigner to you all, but you’ve accepted me into your fold. Tonight, we hope to do the same, as we welcome Joseph Jamlang as Maria’s betrothed.”

Betrothed? My eyes widened and my mind emptied. I turned to Maria, who smiled at me and took my hand. She bowed to the crowd, and motioned for me to do the same. All the while, Mr. Divinagracia spoke and clapped and beamed, but his eyes turned to me, and his shoulders seemed to heave a heavy sigh.

LATER THAT EVENING, I tossed and turned in my bed. Unable to sleep, I finally got up and left my room, my feet slowly leading me toward Mr. Divinagracia’s quarters.

When I got to his door, I held up my fist and hesitated. He was probably already sleeping. Besides, what was I going to do? What could I do? What could I say? I’d been set up!

I frowned and then rapped on the door. I figured, at the very least, I was owed an explanation – something no one had bothered to give me before or after the banquet.

Mr. Divinagracia opened the door and saw me standing outside. “You want to know what just happened,” he said, and left it open for me to enter.

“Um, yes, sir.”

Mr. Divinagracia sighed and flopped down onto his bed. “The star maiden chose,” he said. “And she always gets what she wants. Besides, I thought you liked her. Fatima even said so.”

My mouth swung open, but no words came out of it. I crumpled into a chair opposite the bed, and buried my head in my hands. “I di – I mean, I do. I guess. But –”

Mr. Divinagracia smiled. “I understand,” he said. “You’re young. It happens.” He stood and walked toward his bedroom window. Only then did I notice that he was alone, that his bed – though it could fit two people – only comforted one. “I prefer to sleep alone,” he said, reading my thoughts. “I’m sorry if I didn’t warn you earlier. I know what that feels like.”

I looked at him, standing next to the glass window, the stars glittering behind him. I nodded, understanding what he meant by that. “You too?”

“I was already married, Joseph. Fatima had just turned two.” He smiled. “I tried to look on the bright side of things. At least I got to see things I would never have been able to see. The eye of Jupiter. The rings of Saturn. The moon? Joseph, they have a moon base! That, and so many other things beyond our solar system. The time I swam in the lakes of Omarinlo? The Migare love to bathe, for some reason. And those nights that they gather together in a single body of water? Such a glorious sight. Their skin? It’s blinding.”

I froze, blushing, as my mind went back to the night I was invited to their home for dinner. She was a glorious sight: Maria, her smooth, golden skin, even more dazzling when crowned with water. He was right. It was bright. It was blinding. I recalled my entrancement, my sudden urge to try and steal her robe, and the mistake of picking up Fatima’s.

“Nabulag lang ako sa kaputian mo,” her voice echoed in my mind.

“Don’t you worry about learning the language,” said Mr. Divinagracia. “It’s much, much easier to pick up than Filipino.”

Another language, I thought. I jumped to my feet and, without thinking, blurted out, “I want to go home.”

Mr. Divinagracia froze, a dry, hoarse breath leaving his lips. He chuckled and smiled, running his hand down his entire face, the muscles around his eyes and cheeks stretching. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I don’t belong here,” I began, an awkward smile on my face. “And my mom’s waiting.”

"Okay," he said, and stood. He slipped a robe over his pajamas and walked with me down the hallway. “The least I can do for you is give you a chance to choose.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, as we began marching toward the docks. “I just don’t think I fit in.”

“Joseph,” he said. “In all the years I’ve been here, I’ve thought about that more than you have.” He sighed and put his arm around my shoulder. “You want to fit in, right? To belong? But if you feel like you don’t belong, here or at home, those feelings won’t change no matter where you go. Ultimately, we – all of us – we’re all just visitors.”

He left me for a moment, and arranged for a shuttle to take me home half an hour later.

SHORTLY AFTER I’D arrived on earth, I found myself standing in front of the Divinagracia’s home. A short distance away, I could hear a rooster crow, the sun creeping up the front lawn. Their door had one of those mats that said, “There’s no place like home.” I smiled as I read it, a warmth invading my chest and my stomach. I lifted my hand to knock, and my smile only grew wider.

A minute later, Fatima stood in front of me, dressed in a pair of shorts and a light t-shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“I came home,” I said, my hands in my pockets, shifting my weight left to right, and then left again.

Fatima frowned. “You’re supposed to be with Maria,” she said, her hand swinging the door to a close. I stuck my shoe in and pried the door open with my hand, Fatima hissing at me as she heaved her whole body against six feet of mahogany. “Go away! You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I don’t belong up there,” I said.

“You don’t belong here either!” she snapped.

“Please, Fatima!”

I felt the weight on the door lessen, a menacing creak shattering the dawn’s calm as I pushed it open.

“Ano ba gusto mo?” she asked, her arms folded across her chest.

“Anong gusto ko?” I said, taking a step forward. Fatima leaned back, furrowing her brow as she bit her lower lip. “Gusto kong – gusto ko lang ng kaibigan. ’Yung makaka – ’yung makakausap ko. ’Yung makikilig – kinig! Sa akin. ’Yung makakaintindi sa akin.”

“Eh, ’yun lang naman pala, eh,” she said, turning away, her lips jutting toward the ceiling. “Dami diyan sa labas. Sige!”

“Never pa ako nakaramdam ng ganito,” I said. “Gets mo? ’Yung parang – parang – Ganito kasi – um – Raagh!” I slammed my foot into the nearest wall, and my leg promptly bounced back with equal force, the sudden strain on my muscle sharp and acute. “Ahh!” I yelped, dropping to the floor.

Fatima’s lips twitched, probably despite herself. Her arms fell to her sides, as she shook her head and sighed. She bent down next to me and took my foot. I watched as she stretched it out, and folded it once more. “Baliw,” she mumbled, loud enough for me to hear.

I breathed, and then took in a few more breaths, readying my mind for what I wanted to say next. I inhaled, and blew out my lips. Her hair swayed and swung to the side of her face, her eyes blinking as she shook the wind from her face.

“Ano ba?” she cried.

“Fatima,” I said. She stopped fussing about her hair and looked at me, her eyes bright and anxious. “I think I finally feel –” I let out a heavy sigh, my body growing lighter as air escaped my lungs. “I feel like I’ve finally come home,” I said, my shoulders suddenly straightening, as though a heavy load had been tossed aside. “I’m home,” I repeated, smiling more to myself than anyone else. It took me a while to understand what Mr. Divinagracia was trying to say. But at that moment, everything became clear.

 

 

Francis Gabriel Concepcion is presently working as a freelance writer and social media content manager, while at the same time trying to build himself up as an authorpreneur. He’s had stories published in Philippine Speculative Fiction volume 6 and A Treat of 100 Short Stories. He is also currently working alongside his brother, self-publishing an online sci-fi graphic novel series titled The Star-Gazers Inn, through their website www.hawkersmag.com.