From here to there (Part 4)

By Jing Villamil

 

IS it true; is it not . . . that heaven and hell is right here on earth?

In four years, Manta had a lot of growing-up to do. She graduated from one of the country’s prestigious colleges in the metropolis, specializing in music and mathematics for kids. Aside from being awarded by her mentors as most innovative in elementary instruction, she would debut on stage as piano and marimba soloist, flutist and jazz ballet dancer! With a bow and a most graceful flourish, she would flow in fluid motion from one discipline to the other. She is her worth in full measure with an octave and a note to spare!

A year after graduation, before she proceeds on to what life has next in store for her, she goes home to thank her parents for their love, support and patience. She knew she was not an easy child to raise.

Then she flies! Chuck’s wait is done! She is now truly rushing to his arms!

She knocks at his door. And is knocked back in great shock. Lo and behold! A woman lives with him! And Manta is but mere child to the sumptuous feast she saw before her eyes!

Manta pales paler than her pale self. She breathes deep and forgets to breathe out. Chuck, in same state of shock by her unexpected arrival, can almost see her heart stop in mid-beat. He grasps her cold hands. He picks her up; he lays her on the sofa. He kneels, gathers her head and shoulders to his chest. He tells her “Listen, my Manta. Breathe! Breathe in our music! Let the lead strings find its way through the thundering drums to your heart.” Or to those effects. He bends his head to speak to her big brown eyes now going blank, going gone.

This fallen god speaks to his nymph from the depth of his heart: that he is bonded to this other woman with his needs, but no, never, with his love. He was hounded by his long wait for Manta. He was haunted by their music. Worse, his other music, oh no but not theirs, started to sound like violins beseeching, a wail ascending to ear-splitting crescendo. And worst, the news of her magnificent splash on metropolitan stage had reached this small northern city fast, and it humbled him to feeling bashfully outgrown, provencal. He felt he was losing her, and that loss he cannot bear. So, he shielded himself with a body, anybody, who was a lot warmer than the distant, and he feared, still-distancing girl-woman he had fallen in love with as he watched her dancing . . . on sunrays shafting through the leaves of trees.

From behind her tears where she had retreated far back unto herself, she hears him but very faintly. So, this is how it feels to be a fish from the sea finding itself suddenly on dry land. Flap! – flap the fins. Gasp! – gasp the gills. She hears her heart break into two, then splinter into pieces. She listens to her mind shutting-out the pain.

Then, it seemed a new persona peeped, then stepped out from behind her tears. She begins to see each drop as a note, then a stream of stings and strings. She was their music emerging from her dark! She hears him clear! What he was saying. And what he was not!

Her tears stop, her eyes flicker. Chuck and Manta had no other intimate memories beyond holding hands, tight hugs, and tender kisses. He was a gentleman all throughout; she was so much a child. A pretty, precocious child! But they had more than these!

She breathes one big gulp of air. Yes, they have much more! Their hearts are one, their souls had intertwined! They play the same music in their minds! And, he did not say he had stopped loving her! As she has not! They are forever in each other’s heart! And come to think of it, these are more than enough, much too much! And from hereon, these will have to do.

Gently, she releases her hands from his tight grip. She wraps her arms around him and hugs him tightly. Then she lets him help her to her feet. She tip-toes up to kiss his mouth, his cheeks. He closes his eyes whispering “I’m so sorry.” She shushes that with a finger to his lips. She whispers to his ears. He opens his eyes. He looks around. She has flown.

Chuck rubs his palms where her arms had gone around him. He touches his face she had dampened with her tearful kisses. Finally, he breathes in the scent of her lingering. This is not even a goodbye, the scent whispers.

And the lightness of her aura speaks to him. It is forgiveness which only she can give. And this, she had given.

She had whispered softly: “This time, I wait.”

I had wished to end her story at this point. Surely, Manta wished it, too, so fervently. A story of “heart-break” deserves an ending of “heart-mend” – a dispensation of good feelings to the one whose story this was, to the writer, and to the readers of the past four series. But . . .

It does not end here. As all true stories go, it simply does not go any which way of the writer’s whim. The writer cannot bend this ending to the might of her will.

So, we continue on to the end.

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