Big holes and bigger dreams

I’ve been staring at this hole in the ceiling for hours now. I can’t sleep. I think my body clock was ruined by the long holiday vacation, when all I did was watch television until 3 a.m.

Sometimes I stare at the hole long enough to wonder if ghosts lurk there. There are days when my niece will look at it and ask me if ghosts live there. Sometimes I tell her no, but whenever I need my peace and quiet, I tell her that yes, there are ghosts in there. In the summer the hole emits hot air from the heat of the sun; you’d feel you’re sleeping below an oven.

Sometimes I want to call the landlady and demand that she get it fixed. But she’s this stingy, old woman who’s quick to collect the rent but can’t be reached when a repair job is requested. My family has lived in rented houses all my life, and we’ve lived in five different houses already.

We lived at 2723 Legarda ever since I could remember. It was an old Spanish house that my grandparents rented when they moved from the province and set up the ice business. Over time, the couple returned to Leyte and Nanay Luz, their eldest child, took over the management of the house. The 12 other children pitched in for the house’s monthly rent and hardly anyone ever left even when they were starting a family. The property became a compound full of Moneses. In front, Nanay Luz ran her  sari-sari  store, and beside that was my father’s ice business.

Unlike other compounds, 2723 Legarda had one big public wash area where everyone had to wait their turn to wash the dishes, take a bath, or do their laundry while talking about the latest scandal. I believe that area was the most sinful of all because of the gossip, cat fights, and, sometimes, even peeping toms. That I loathed 2723 Legarda is an understatement.

When I was in the third grade, my mom got into a big fight with one of my aunts, and my father decided that we should leave. Within weeks we packed our bags and moved to a nearby building. Life got better. I liked that place. It was clean, my mom was the only loud person around, and the area was huge enough for us to play patintero  inside.

But the rent was sky-high and my parents decided to move to a cheaper place in Loreto in the summer of 1997. We stayed there for only a year because during the monsoon, the floodwaters were waist-high, never mind that we lived on the second floor. I remember that our school bus driver’s wife would carry us to and from the vehicle whenever there was a flood. Thankfully, I weighed like a feather, so she carried me like a baby.

By the time I was 12, that mysterious but beautiful house in front of my grandma’s house had gone up for rent. I always imagined it to be a posh place when I was a kid, and I was so giddy that we were going to live there. We moved in for P7,000 a month.

I loved that house. It was my favorite among the houses we lived in despite the creepy vibe. My siblings and I believed that spirits prowled inside. There were occasional footsteps at night. The terrace gave me goose bumps (we never hung out there), and the kitchen felt like someone was looking at you. But other than those things, we loved it. On the stairs I took three steps up and jumped to the last step so I’d have my

period for only three days. Our living room witnessed N’Sync’s concert over and over until the VCD wouldn’t play it anymore. I have the fondest memories of that house.

In time the owner said the house was for sale. But we didn’t have the money to buy it, so we had to move back to 2723 Legarda, the hellhole. It was also during this time that my father announced his grand plan of running as barangay chair. We moved back in May 2001.

Life at 2723 Legarda was no fun. The roof had too many holes that our room usually got wet from the rain. We had a makeshift sink so we didn’t have to fall in line to wash our dishes. I seldom brought friends home because our quarters were in the innermost part of the compound; we had to get past everyone and that just sucked, in all levels imaginable.

The entire house was noisy and rowdy and, I really think, just a foot away from shabby. It was still okay compared to other houses, but I knew that my family could do better.

As for my father’s political plan, he lost in 2004. He did win in 2007, but the election returns got switched and he had to find a lawyer to invalidate his rival’s win. Then there were so many election cases that we ate law jargon even before breakfast was served. He won in the end, but he was able to serve for only three months. He ran again in 2010, lost, and gave up the pipe dream. I thought that was it: the end of our dilemma. But no.

Since my father was not the man in power anymore, by the time 2723 Legarda was in neck-deep debt the owners were asking us to leave. My father and his siblings didn’t want to, so we lawyered up. It was another year of experiencing the slow justice system, but this time, it pretty much worked to our advantage. Because there was a pending case we were not paying rent—until the court reached a decision.

We lost the case and were asked to vacate the house one Saturday morning. It was the most humiliating time of my life. We began packing frantically as workers began their  demolition job.

My father didn’t want to leave. He just sat on the sofa, looking like a lost pup, while we were packing. My sister and I had to pause now and then to tell him that it was over. He said we had left him hanging. I said we were never really going to win that battle, we had just bought ourselves some time. He then got hold of himself, began unscrewing bolts, and carried off the big stuff we couldn’t move. My brothers’ friends also came over to help; it was very touching.

Thankfully, my mother found a house where we could move in on the same day we were shooed from our old house. She wouldn’t let us have a day with no roof above our heads.

And now we’re here: the fifth house. I’m lying in bed, having a staring game with the illustration-board-size hole above me.

Sometime ago I saw 2723 Legarda again, or what remains of it. A gas station now stands on where our old house stood. I felt a rush of memories sweep over me. I had spent 20 years there. Twenty birthdays, Christmases and New Year’s Eves, countless fears, tears and joys were witnessed by that house. Now all I could see was this gas station. All my childhood memories are gone, lost to oblivion.

I can’t even picture anymore where my family’s quarters were. I wonder if 10 years from now, people would remember that “Armel’s Store” and “Mones Ice Delivery” once stood there.

There are days that I miss 2723 Legarda. But on most days, I’m glad that it was demolished and that we’re on to a fresh start, building our brick house that will not be taken down by the big bad wolf’s huff and puff. I do not dream of having a big, empty house. As long as my kids will feel secure and won’t be ashamed to bring friends over, and I will be able to fill it with the kind of love my parents showered us, it will be perfect by me.

Carmina Giezzelle G. Mones, 25, works as segment producer in a media station. She says she works hard to build her dream house soon.