Concealer

My dad died five months ago on November 7th. Ever since his passing, I loved wearing makeup. 

My mom would wake me up at 5:30 AM every day for school, but that was never enough time for me to fix my appearance. We had to leave by 6:15 AM if I wanted to arrive at school on time. Nonetheless, I always did my makeup in the passenger seat of Mom’s car; the car’s vanity mirror made it more convenient to do so. Because of this routine, I didn’t mind red traffic lights anymore either; they gave me ample time to touch up on sensitive areas, such as my eyelashes and waterline, which would otherwise be dangerous to style while being in a moving vehicle.

During those prolonged moments of red traffic lights which started at 199 seconds, my mother, without fail, would always breathe a heavy sigh while shifting the gear lever to park before tilting her head towards her right shoulder, towards me. 

“Ka-arte naman lang sa akong anak oi…” She comments in that baby voice she uses whenever she wants to make “parayg” with the people she dotes on. As her only child, I’ve grown accustomed to such antics, even if it was a bit embarrassing sometimes.

“Ni-mature naman nuon ka nga ga-makeup ka, ‘nak. Ganahan ko nga baby lang unta ka permi…” She adds, and I would never overlook that subtle crack in her voice — a telling of a certain longing for something that could never be. 

My mother grew up in poverty. 

She was the second child of five, and the eldest daughter to an alcoholic father and a beaten mother. From a young age, when she scarcely had anything, Mom knew she couldn’t be wasteful. She was the first in her family to graduate college. After which, she took every job she could manage to support her parents and her siblings. 

My mother never took money or time for granted, she couldn’t afford to. She remained frugal even after she met my father, who, after conceiving me, insisted that she devoted her entire being to motherhood and housekeeping. In return, he would provide for her and her family with anything they needed. 

Even with my mom’s disciplined thriftiness, I am dreadfully aware that it pains her to live with the truth that there are people in her life that she can not save. At the age of 35, she lost a younger brother, and in the same year, she lost a mother at 36 years old. Time’s limited mercy allowed her a few years to nurse scars that would never truly heal, before crushing her twice over when she would lose both her youngest brother and husband in the same year when she was 47 years old. 

Now, I sit in the passenger seat of my almost-48-year-old mother’s car, while she utters trivial remarks. But I can tell from how her voice threatens to falter, and how her irises shift, that her words were anything but nonsensical musings. 

“Hon–” And there goes that Freudian slip that has escaped my mother’s tongue so often since my dad’s passing. “Honey” was the name my parents once called each other, now a name my mother mistakenly calls me whenever the silence in the air that would hang over our heads became too dense to handle. 

This oversight is most frequent when we’re in the car, and I am coating my face with a skin tint, poised where my dad once sat during his frequent car rides to routine check-ups and sudden emergency room visits. I would even argue that more than half of his remaining months were spent on this gray cushioned chair.

It was the dead of night on August 29th when I knew that my dad’s days were numbered. 

I remember waking up to the sound of my mother speaking with someone, my father’s co-worker I would soon come to find out, on the phone. She was holding back her sobs, albeit failing to contain them. 

“Ganahan nako moanha ron pero… Pero akong anak man gud naa pamay klase ugma… Ako sa ni siyang ihatud igka buntag…” I remember her struggling to form coherent sentences with her stuffed nose. 

In the morning, Mom would gently explain to me how my dad was rushed to the hospital last night, and that she needed to be with him as soon as possible. 

My father worked as a mining engineer, a high-ranking one in the company he worked for, at Cavite. My mom and I visited him during that summer of the same year. Already then, he was visibly ill. There was a lump that grew on the side of his cheek – the left or the right or both, I honestly can not accurately remember now. For a time it swoll on one, and then the other, and at the worst point, it was on both sides. 

A few days of our summer vacation in Manila were spent going to the hospital for check-ups, but the doctors never determined what was causing the lump to swell. However, it was clear to Mom and I that his condition was the byproduct of decades of smoking and recklessness. 

An intellectual air surrounded my father wherever he went, but it was always polluted with cigarette smoke. Over the years, doctors and family members, especially my mother, would beg him to quit smoking. My father would comply, for a time, but then he would always return to that red and white packet that contained one-way tickets to lung cancer. 

Looking back at it now, my mom begged my dad for a lot of things. 

That summer, when we were to return to Cebu by the end of June, Mom begged him to come home with us. Stubborn as he always was, my dad refused. My heart weighed heavier the morning of the 29th, not only because of my dad’s concerning condition, but also knowing that my mom would somehow find a way to convince herself that dad’s hospitalization was her fault, that this wouldn’t have happened had she been more insistent for him to come home back in June.

That humid morning, my mom drove me to school in a panicked rush.

“‘Nak, si uncle Nonoy lang ang mukuha nimo sa school this afternoon, ha?” My mom explained, almost out of breath, while we were waiting for the red light to turn green. 

“Siya ug ang ate Annie nimo usa ang mobantay nimo mintras naa pako with dad, okay?” She added, and all I could do to reply was nod. Uncle Nonoy was her eldest brother and ate Annie was his live-in partner. I wasn’t particularly close with either of them.

That afternoon, instead of my mother’s polished gray car coming to pick me up from the school parking lot, I was greeted by my uncle in the waiting area. 

We smiled at each other, awkwardly, and we took a taxi. I had a headache the entire drive home since the car air freshener in the taxi was too putrid for my liking.

When we got home, I spent a portion of the night in my room with a rumbling stomach. It was well beyond dinner time already, yet I had not been called down to eat. Eventually, though, my uncle knocked on my bedroom door, and I almost tripped on my way to answer it. 

“Val, okay na ba ni?” My uncle asked while holding two plates: one containing a pile of broccoli, and the other containing chicken wings, which I knew from first glance were going to be dry. I didn’t eat rice meals during the evenings, my mom must’ve told them that already. I mustered up a smile again, carefully taking those plates before shutting the door.

Starving as I was, I shoveled a spoonful of broccoli into my mouth, only to find that they were completely stone cold. I doubted they were even cooked. I resisted the urge to throw up on the spot. The chicken wings weren’t any better either, since they were as dry as they looked. Even though my body rejected the food they gave me, I couldn’t complain, it would be ungrateful — my mother didn’t raise me like that, so I ate everything regardless. 

Still, after disposing of the empty plates in the sink, I immediately ran up to the bathroom to regurgitate what I had just consumed. And for the rest of the evening, while enduring an unfilled stomach, I cried myself to sleep.

For the remainder of my mother’s absence, neither uncle Nonoy nor ate Annie ever sat with me while I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

I always held the inkling that they never genuinely cared for me. Deep down, I knew the reason they looked after me was because they expected my mom to compensate them with cash and hand-me-down clothes for their son. This routine was so normalized within our family now. I could hardly judge them or act surprised.

It was on the afternoon of September 3rd, just a week before my 18th birthday when my mom came home. This time, she brought Dad with her, and I greeted them both with a hug. 

Dad was discharged from the hospital after a couple days of treatment, and he was allowed to come home with Mom to Cebu. Mom would later confide in me about how she, once again, had to beg my father to come home with her, as even in his precarious condition, he was hesitant to leave his demanding workload in Cavite.

Still, my father was not free of his hospital visits for regular check-ups and further medical tests.

During the afternoons when my mom would come to pick me up from school, she would show me the results from dad’s medical screenings, all of which contained complex jargon and terminologies that I knew I wasn’t even pronouncing properly. Yet, one thing was apparent to both Mom and me. 

“Katung lump ni dad, ‘nak? Most likely tumor daw kuno ‘to according sa results…”

We wouldn’t know for sure so soon, though. Even the day of my 18th birthday came quicker than the results of my dad’s medical tests. 

From a young age, I was always reminded by my titas and ninangs that a girl’s 18th birthday is supposed to be the most important celebration she will ever have, just below getting married to the love of her life. I never wanted such gallant parties, though. I would never be able to withstand the horror that was a hundred-something people packed into one compact space.

Even though my birthday fell on a school day, we opted for online classes due to an expected storm, which never came. It was a sunny day, as opposed to the predictions. So, I spent my 18th birthday at home, with a so-so birthday lunch we ordered from a so-so restaurant. The entire time, Dad and I had to endure Mom’s comments about how depressing my birthday was due to his current condition.

“Pagpaka-ayo na ug dali, hon. Nangadto na unta ta sa Japan karun kung wala pa lang ka maingon-ana…”

A few days after my 18th birthday, the results of Dad’s extensive medical tests finally came back. My mom relayed them to me while I was refilling a water bottle.

“Lung cancer jud daw ang sakit sa imong daddy, ‘nak…”

She murmured and my breath got caught in my throat. I couldn’t say I was surprised, but to hear it confirmed felt illusory, and it took me a while to fully process what my mom had just announced. So there I stood, speechless, while almost spilling the water bottle I was refilling.

“Stage four,” she added, observing my countenance and knowing that that was what I wanted to ask. “Stage four lung cancer, ‘nak.” Mom reiterated.

She didn’t even realize the weight of her words. I had to explain to her that stage four was the most advanced stage of cancer – something she wasn’t aware of until I made it known to her. At that moment, it was as if I had diagnosed my father and had condemned him to death in front of my mom.

When I tried asking Mom for Dad’s life expectancy, she was quick to shake her head. 

“Your dad is a fighter, maayo rana siya.” She would insist, and I wouldn’t know what to reply. I told her to “be ready”, and she could only grimace. I didn’t explain further. I couldn’t tell her that all of the time she spent nursing Dad, cooking and feeding him, organizing his medication, massaging him whenever he felt pain in his body, and regularly driving to the hospital, were all meaningless in the end if the outcome was fixed — inevitable. I couldn’t invalidate my mother’s inexhaustible, almost pious, love for her husband.

Instead, I half-jokingly asked when Dad would go bald. I wasn’t aware at the time that he wouldn’t live long enough to ever be.

In the weeks that followed, my dad would start radiation therapy.

For a process that was supposed to heal him, my dad looked the worst he had ever been since his diagnosis. His hair became thinner and his skin turned into an unsettling yellowish color. He was also even more fatigued, spending most of his days confined to his and mom’s shared bed. During this time, he also suffered some complications to his spine. It started to twist in a bizarre way, which affected the placement of his jaw, the lower half of it jarringly tilted to the left side of his face.

My father was frequently rushed to the emergency room because he had difficulty breathing. Because of this, my mom was often late to pick me up from school. It wasn’t rare for me to wait outside of the school gates at almost 7 o’clock in the evenings for my mom to fetch me, as my dad wouldn’t allow me to commute home, even though I knew how to. Being fetched late slowed me down when it came to my schoolwork, adding more to the stress that was already piling up.

When my dad was only a few appointments away from finishing his radiation therapy, he spent most of his time confined in a hospital on Osmeña Boulevard.

The hospital was just a few minutes’ drive away from Guadalupe where my research group and I were gathering data for our study. The weather was erratic that day. It would rain for a few minutes, only for the sun to scorch our skin soon after, and then after a few hours, it would rain again. That annoying cycle persisted for the entire day. 

My group mates and I were covered in both rain and sweat when we finally finished our research work.

“Mmy mana mi diri padung nko uli mag commute rko.” I messaged my mom as soon as I boarded the jeepney, feeling as though my entire body was going to collapse as soon as I sat down.

“Pahapiton ka ni daddy nimo diri sa hospital nak pwede nak? Duol raman ka namo sundon lang nato c daddy nak kay na miss pud ka niya nak.” My mom’s messages filled my screen, and my body got twice as heavy. 

By that point, I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw my dad. I wanted to see him, but I knew that my body was longing to reunite with my bed again. I also didn’t want to visit my dad while I was in such an irritable mood having spent the entire day talking with people and exhausting my social stamina. 

“Mobisita rko ni dad pero dle lng sa karun ky i need rest also papahuwaya sako mmy pls.” I typed and sent without much thought, too weary to even sugarcoat how much I wanted to pass out. 

“Cge okay amping ha. Na okay ra c dad nak amping ha. I love you.” My mom replied shortly, causing me to release a dense sigh of relief, but also with a tinge of guilt.

“Okay mmy thank you. I love you too.”

At that time, I thought that I would have another opportunity to visit my dad. I would have willingly walked, through storm or sunshine, all the way from Guadalupe to Osmeña Boulevard, even if it meant getting lost within the streets or further draining my feet, had I known that a week later I would lose my father.

I still remember the numbers that hung above my mother’s message: 11/7/23, 3:46 PM.

“Nak c uncle nonoy nimo ang mokuha nimo sa school nak kay c daddy nak nipahuway na wala na c daddy nak luoya ni daddy nimo nak oi.”

I was with three of my friends in the school’s waiting area when I was informed of my father’s passing. The sound of my friends’ bickering was drowned out by the sharp static that pierced my eardrums as I read and reread my mother’s message projected on my phone screen. Even now, I still remember how hard it was to breathe or think or move. How would you have reacted if the weight of the sky fell on your bones?

“Guys… My dad died.” I announced, just so I could confirm if this was reality or a nightmare. 

The three of them went silent as they stared at me, their eyes looking as if a part of the sky had fallen on their bodies as well. In almost perfect unison, they muttered an apology. One of my friends offered to go somewhere quieter, perhaps wanting to give me a place to cry or scream or pull at my hair, but I didn’t want to do any of that — I had yet to accept that I was living in a reality where my father was no longer breathing. 

The four of us sat in silence for a long while, my friends unsure of how to comfort me, and I unsure of what to reply to my mom.  I knew that she was probably crying. I could visualize her from where I sat frozen — her bloodshot eyes overflowing with tears, her entire face flushed, and her hair disheveled. And when the jingle from the ice cream vendor’s cart outside the school gates paused for a moment, I could even make out my mother’s whimpers and incoherent ramblings, the same ones I heard months prior when her younger brother passed.

“Okay rka dira mmy? moanha nlng kaha ko.” I typed and sent it. I didn’t even know where she was, if she was still at the hospital or processing the funeral fees. But above all, I wanted to be by her side more than anything. We needed each other, we’re all we’ve got left now.

A few minutes pass and my uncle arrives to come pick me up. He doesn’t take me to where Mom is, despite my protests, but instead takes me home. Uncle Nonoy leaves soon after to take care of another errand, leaving me alone to wallow in even more silence. 

A message from my friend shone through the darkness that enveloped my room: “Stay strong for us Valerie.” And that was the first time that I cried for my dead father — bearing the reality as heavy as the entire sky that fell on me.

The wake would be held at a memorial chapel which was a thirty-minute drive away from our home. 

I never would have known that the next time I saw my father, he would be encased in an ivory-clad box, surrounded by propped-up flowers with sashes that read “Condolences” and “In loving memory of”. When I peered over to look at him, a sigh filled with regret and longing left my lips. 

I’ve heard the saying “When you die of cancer, the cancer dies too, so it’s not a loss, it’s a draw.” But as my father lay motionless, he didn’t look at peace or aggravated, he looked confused. Even with his eyes permanently closed, he probably couldn’t recognize his daughter; it had been so long since he last saw her.

Admittedly, it felt like I was spitting on my dad’s coffin every time I had to excuse myself and leave early after every mass. 

My excuses seemed so irrelevant. “I have a dance routine to practice for PE,” “I have to finish an essay that’s due tomorrow,” and “I have to memorize my lines for a school play,” all sounded ridiculous when the voice at the back of my mind screamed at me, “So what? Your father just died!”

But I always left early anyway, and I even missed a day of the wake because of a dance practice. Even when I knew that the immediate death of a family member was a valid reason to be excused from school activities, I still couldn’t miss a second of school — my identity as a student starved of academic validation completely overshadowed my being a grieving daughter.

My father was buried on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Danao, the city where I grew up. 

My mind refuses to recall much of that day, but I remember wearing white, and like a coward, I tried so desperately not to sob, especially when they were lowering my father’s casket six feet underground, and my mom’s distressed wails rang the loudest out of everybody’s. But I closed my eyes and bit my lip.

The car ride home to Talisay with my mom was mostly spent in silence.

Upon arriving home, I immediately locked myself in my room. I hugged my knees to my chest, then buried my head into my pillows. I wept until it was a struggle to even keep my eyes open. I screamed until I almost lost my voice. In this space, for the first time, where no one else’s grievances existed but my own, I could be vulnerable.

“Dad… I’m sorry for everything… I miss you… I love you… Lisura ani oi… Unsaon man nako ni?” I mourned until I fell asleep.

On Monday morning, I went to school with eyes so swollen that they looked twice as small as they already were. My seatmate greeted me with “Are you okay?” I gulped, I nodded, I lied.

The first week following my father’s burial, I became more easily distracted than usual. 

While forced to sit through a boring lesson, I found myself scrolling through an online shopping site looking for cheap thrills. A makeup set worth 450 pesos, which I’ve been seeing advertisements for a while now, caught my attention, and my seatmate’s as well.

“I think you should get it. Even for that low of a price, it’s safe, and good quality too!” She beamed, and so I took her advice, added the item to my cart, and pressed “check out.”

It only took a few days for the makeup kit to arrive. 

I painted my face with the products as soon as I opened the parcel, not without doubting the step-by-step instructions I found online after a quick search. After around ten minutes of putting on the makeup, with much hesitation, I decided to examine my appearance on the big mirror in the bathroom.

When I was greeted by the reflection, I could hardly understand what I was looking at. For once, the bags that hung under my eyes from countless nights of muffled cries ceased from existence. And no more were my cheeks that became fuller or the pimples that stubbornly sprouted on the bridge of my nose.

The reflection embodied that of an entirely different person — a daughter who hadn’t lost her father.

Admittedly, and perhaps one of my greatest faults, I had rarely verbalized my suffering for Dad’s passing. How could I when my mother was already drowning in her own grief? What kind of foul, selfish creature would I be to add more agony to her own? 

There was also the question of if I even deserved to grieve for my father in the first place, having done nothing for him. I never took part in nursing him, never went to the hospital to see him, and I didn’t even remain for the entirety of his wake. I never acted like his daughter, so I assumed that I didn’t have the right to mourn and behave like I was.

For my supposed indifference, my mother named me “strong”. Strong for apparently accepting my father’s fate and moving on so easily. But if she paid as much attention to my deteriorating appearance as she did to my silence whenever the topic of Dad came up, she would know that that was far from the truth.

I examined the reflection again. It still looks unrecognizable, but underneath the layers, I am aware that it’s still me in all my unsightliness. 

Maybe if I attended family gatherings wearing this mask, the “Liwata jud sa imong amahan oi!” comments would finally be silenced, and maybe then I could live with myself knowing that the dead man’s face that I displayed died with him, along with a part of me that I c0uld never take back no matter how much I covered up my loss.

But perhaps over time, makeup would be something that I could hide behind until it felt as comfortable as donning my skin. So I stood there, smiling at my facade, as a singular tear trickled down my cheek, erasing my foundation and leaving a noticeable trail from where it came. 

“Oh well, it is cheap makeup.” I shrugged and wiped the tear away.

Nevertheless, I eventually shifted to higher-quality makeup products. I figured my skin deserved better treatment. So now I sat in my mother’s car with a makeup bag filled with so many products that it was difficult to zip it close. 

I glanced away from the car’s vanity mirror, fixing my eyes on the red traffic light that indicated there were only 21 seconds left until it turned green again. I return my gaze to the mirror, and from my peripheral vision, I notice my mom’s grimace as she watches me put on my concealer — under and on the sides of my eyes, and on the bridge of my nose.

 “‘Nak, mobisita diay ko ni dad karun.” She announces, and I remember that it’s a Monday. She always visits his grave on Mondays. 

My mom reaches for her purse, which she always carries with her. After opening it, she pulls out a matte rouge lipstick. After unscrewing the lipstick’s cap and gently twisting its base to release the contents, she applies the lipstick to her lips.

Then, just as the traffic light turns green, she tilts her head towards her right shoulder, towards me, and smiles.