Stephanie Cuepo Wobby

To the Other Side of the Sea

Excerpt

I never knew what to say to you. Knew, as in, when you could still recognize me, when you could challenge me, give me unwarranted advice until I say, All right, Papang. When you could still say my name without any prompts or reminders; when the association was still clear: this girl, she’s my granddaughter.

I never know what to say to you. Know, as in, I often wonder how you will react when I walk into your room. Sometimes you’re suspicious of me but you entertain my questions, still say, I’m fine, anak ko, when I ask how you’re doing, even though you don’t know whose anak I actually am. You must know that your memory, like your hearing—like your eyesight, like your strength, like your speech—is declining.

O

Once, Lizel tried to describe the decline over the phone. You had told her that you knew her grandfather, that he was a great man. She didn’t want to tell you that you were wrong. Instead, she smiled, left the room, and returned again. This second time, you tried to recognize her. She said, It looked like my name was at the tip of his tongue, Manang. I don’t remember her telling me what happened after that, but I can imagine you staying silent until you thought you got it right, a triumphant smile on your face when you finally said it out loud. I wonder—did she correct you then?

I think that I’m fortunate, in some ways, to only hear secondhand accounts of your memory loss. The first time Ma told me about it, she said, He forgot about Mia. Just like that: He forgot about Mia. She was your brain’s first casualty. It had wiped her existence, and from then on, she would have to remind you of who she was, through relationships that she hoped you would still recognize. Anak ni Febe ken ni June. Kabsat ni May ken ni John ken ni Meagan. I don’t think anyone, including myself, thought to ask Mia how she felt about this sudden erasure. I just remember being afraid that I wasn’t too far behind her. 

All of your grandchildren understood the likelihood of you forgetting us; it was only a matter of when. But I don’t think we even considered the possibility of you forgetting your children. I don’t think we even considered you asking, Who is my daughter?

O

Memory, I thought, worked the same way writing did: if you used that part of your brain every day, then it could only get stronger. With that logic, if you saw them every day—if they fed you, if they changed your clothes for you, if they tucked you in bed and shifted your pillows so your head was comfortable as you watched your movies, if they wheeled you out to the garden so you could sit in the sun for a while, if they moved you from your hospital bed to the bathroom and back—then there was no way that they would be forgotten. But that is where loss comes from. Loss, as in, gone; most times, involuntarily. I suppose that’s far less painful than, say, having the power of selecting which memory to disappear with each passing day.

O

For years, I had worked my way toward speaking with you about the past without coming close to accomplishing that goal. The source of my fear was asking you to not only do the work of remembering and of retelling, but to do it all while I was visiting, which was never often enough or long enough. The request would be selfish. I also knew that if, even in an ideal world, it worked out—that you acquiesced and answered all of my questions before I left—that there would be consequences from your remembering. The request would be irresponsible. 

Of course, I was naive to all of this when I first interviewed you. I was a junior in high school, and it was for a history class. We were on the topic of World War II. I said, My grandfather survived the Bataan Death March. My teacher asked me to ask you about that experience, as if it were that simple. I should have asked, Which experience? The part where his unit was forced to surrender, the part where he almost died, the part where—?

That day, we sat in our backyard and I recorded you with my digital camera. I don’t have to try to imagine what you wore, because I can see it: a white tank top underneath a blue and orange flannel that’s partly unbuttoned. You are sitting in a beige armchair in front of a table covered with a light blue tablecloth, which has random objects on top of it: a blue rubber ball, an orange candleholder that looks like a pumpkin, a phone book, a few water guns, a poinsettia plant in plastic wrapping. There are timestamps for each of your answers. 

I could have just used that recording instead of trying to interview you again. The problem is, I can’t play it. My questions back then were so direct that they were insensitive, callous. They asked for disturbing details. They asked for drama. They didn’t care about what they would do to you. And you cared to help me with my homework, so you answered them, even though I couldn’t imagine asking them now—or them being asked of me, and me not responding with anger.

O

Each time I came home to visit was an opportunity to talk, and each time I had a different reason not to take advantage of it. I thought I should do more research. I thought I should get proper recording equipment. I thought I should wait after your nap, or your meal, or your movie. 

I thought I would have more time.

O

I remember the day. I walked in your bedroom and said, Hi, Papang; can I ask you a few questions? 

You were lying down in your hospital bed, watching something on TV. You were tucked underneath two blankets, even though it was warm outside. I placed my hand on your shoulder, and you turned your head to smile up at me. 

You asked me who I was. 

Stephanie, I said.

Stephanie, you repeated. 

Nothing. 

It took me biting the insides of my cheeks, me concentrating on this different type of pain, to keep myself from crying. 

Auntie Pinne, who was with me, said, Anak ni Dada ken ni Romeo. 

Hmm, you said. You blinked. You looked at me, at my face, as if trying to figure out which of my features looked familiar. And I just stood there, watching you, as if any sudden movement would break your concentration. 

When you finally spoke again, you shifted your gaze towards Auntie Pinne. You said, Can I have some coffee?

About the Author

Stephanie Cuepo Wobby is a Filipino American, a combat veteran, and a nonfiction writer.