By Kristel Chua
/ Fiction /
In the rearview mirror, Yakima valley resembled a bowl of milk. Clouds swirled in ominous slow-motion, frothing as if barely restraining a terrible storm. Marikay exhaled as the menacing fog retreated from view, and the road wound into the mountainous Snoqualmie Pass. The excuse for her journey: James requested that some items from the Winston bunker be brought to his new dormitory, and Marikay volunteered to drive a truck filled with paintings, vintage rugs, and books to Seattle.
The pass was ill-maintained: potholes peppered what road remained, half-flattened trees threatened to crack and fall, and cartoonishly-sized boulders stood at attention at plateau edges. Despite the danger, once Marikay exited Winston-owned land, she began to enjoy the drive, the warmth of natural light, even the unfiltered smokey air. Nowadays, she was rarely allowed outside. “The waves,” her mother said, “are coming closer and closer. The air chokes the soil. Be grateful you live somewhere safe.”
* * *
The rendezvous point, the Silver Siren, teetered on the edge of a muddy shantytown of above-ground bars, their foundations haphazardly raised with rotten, damp wood. The slipshod settlement, at least according to Marikay’s mother, used to bustle with nightlife. Even amid the suffocating dreariness, a couple of women danced in the center of the room, crooning in raw, damaged voices. After buying a beer she did not intend to drink, Marikay shrunk into a corner and waited.
“Some call Ate Magda an aswang, but don’t disrespect her.” Her mother wagged her finger. “Listen to her, anak, and don’t be afraid.”
Their meeting time elapsed by one hour. Frustration burgeoning in her chest, Marikay abandoned her performative glass of beer and made for the door. Without Magda, she would have to resort to more drastic measures to solve her problem — and quickly. She was beginning to show.
Once outside, she spotted her. A thirty-something-year-old lanky Filipina stood by a mud-crusted, lopsided van, fumbling with her keys. Marikay’s annoyance evaporated immediately, and in its place budded an aching awe—Magda looked like she could be her kin, a fellow maid scrubbing toilets; but instead of an ill-fitting white uniform she wore an audaciously orange sweater and grass-stained torn jeans. Mismatching beads and twinkling esoteric jewelry encased her wrists and neck. Heavy brass earrings weighed down her stretched earlobes, and faded tattoos criss-crossed her skin. Even her lips were rouged! Magda caught her gawking and smiled knowingly. For a split second, her sharp-toothed grin looked as if it stretched too wide for her face.
Aswang. Witch. Manananggal.
Before Marikay could even process what she had thought she’d seen, Magda cried out excitedly. “Marikay!” She ran to smother her cheeks with kisses. “It is so great to meet you. I’m so sorry I’m late, it’s such a bad habit of mine. Ay, you’re shivering! Come inside na!”
Stunned, Marikay yielded to Magda’s whirlwind of upbeat chatter and hospitality. Magda ushered her into the van and seated her on a mountain of hand-stitched and well-loved cushions. The van was dizzily adorned in bodhisattvas, Arabic and baybayin script, crucifixes, and other unfamiliar runes. Bric-a-brac of all colors and cultures littered every surface, and the weighty smell of incense assailed Marikay’s nose. As the maid born into fluorescent, mandatory cleanliness struggled to regain her bearings, Magda draped her in a crocheted throw and slid a mug of tea into her hands. A flower bloomed shyly in the cup. Though her ingrained compulsiveness to tidy up screamed and flailed, it could only beat helplessly against this bastion of warmth, this absurd coziness. Or maybe this warmth was just the effects of the tea?
Magda settled, cross-legged, across from her guest. “I’ve been anxious to meet you since Tita KayKay wrote.” A distant past, both fond and melancholy, reflected in her translucent eyes. “How is your mom?”
Marikay stiffened. “She’s okay.”
Magda eyed her closely, but she did not pry. She sighed. “Yes, she always managed. Just like all the rest of us, diba? Well, no more tsismis. Did Tita KayKay tell you what I do?”
“Yes.”
“For good measure, I’ll tell you again.” Magda paused as Marikay visibly braced herself. “I will eat the fetus out of your womb via your vagina. It works best if you are bent over, but we can adjust so you feel comfortable. I will be gentle and can even make it pleasurable, with your consent. You might feel some discomfort similar to period cramps. If the pain is too much, say so and I’ll stop. It’s not a pretty sight, so I recommend keeping your eyes shut.” At the blunt, almost clinical description, Marikay sank further into the pillows. Noticing this quaver in resolve, Magda stood. “I’ll give you a moment to think about it.”
She stepped outside, leaving Marikay to her thoughts. Marikay’s mind raced, but even the pulsing anxiety could not overwhelm her one truth, the truth that brought her here—she did not want a bunker baby, an unacknowledged child doomed to polish countertops and bow their head and witness the pathetic end of the planet. She resented her mother for keeping her. She resented James for abandoning her for school. Marikay no longer feared Magda or the procedure itself. She feared, instead, that she would be back, or perhaps that she could not come back if needed. She feared Mr. Winston would find out and enact punishment, maybe force her to produce, keep her working womb under a strict schedule to birth an entire generation of meek maids—just as her mother had. “Be grateful,” her mother said, again and again.
But it was that same mother who lovingly held Marikay’s hair back when her stomach emptied itself in unexpected morning sickness. “You must go to see Ate Magda. Do not hesitate, anak.”
Heartbeat steadied, Marikay went to reaffirm her decision. Outside, Magda’s hands tightly gripped a rosary, her glassy eyes contemplating the thick, blanketed skies as she squeezed bead after bead. The muted moonlight revealed Magda’s hidden age, her deep wrinkles and wet eyes, her long struggle. Yes, the centuries-old witch was nonsensical, her very existence unbelievable, and her numerous beliefs seemingly irreconcilable, but she was not totally unfathomable—her faith was a chimera that transformed, adapted, as settlers came and never left, as rising waves of unrest rocked the world, as humanity retreated to their safehouses, leaving the land to sour and decay. Despite it all, and especially despite Magda’s monstrous, cannibal needs, Marikay thought to herself that Magda very well may be the last saint on this earth.
In an unwavering voice, Marikay spoke. “I trust you, Magda.”
The corners of Magda’s eyes crinkled as she smiled a smile a little too wide, but somehow still gentle. “Oh, please. Call me Ate.”
* * *
James Winston’s dorm was a perfect replica of his room from home. Records and books lined the wall in a meticulous alphabetical order; there was not a speck of dust on any surface, which were kept minimally decorated; his bespoke sheets and pillows emanated a delicate lavender perfume. It was, Marikay thought, just like him: endearing and familiar and disgusting and decadent.
Despite herself, she wanted to ask him so many things. What was he studying? What was university like? What are the other students like? Was his new maid as good as she was? Does he miss her?
Instead she said tersely, “I should drive back.”
James opened his mouth, as if he wanted to close the distance, to provide comfort or offer rest. During that pause, youthful laughter rang out as students passed in the hallway, their chatter so bright, too bright. A few feet away, an elderly groundskeeper charged with decorating quietly struggled to secure a purple banner on the wall. James recomposed himself, adopting a paternalistic hardness in voice and posture. He was, after all, his father’s son. “Thank you.”
Marikay inclined her head. A hard habit to kick. “Of course.”
Before departing for home, she stopped to help the groundskeeper drape the heavy collegiate decorations across the gleaming titanium walls.