Unfolding, as It Should

By Keith Canedo

According to Filipino island folklore, every life has two stages of destiny—hardships endured as a caterpillar that ultimately guides one’s flight as a butterfly.

Teesa Paruparo’s family needed rescuing.

Her father Manny’s journey began in a cold and rundown orphanage in Carigara at the turn of the century. Its hardships only served to shape his dreams of a better life, but at what cost?

Marita, her mother, lived the life of an island princess in the picturesque fishing village of De La Cruz. Her peaceful, carefree days were shattered when her village was savagely attacked during World War II, resulting in the heartbreaking murder of her father, mother, and brother and in years of struggling to survive as one of thousands of war-refugee children.

Manny and Marita’s caterpillar hardships unfortunately affected their children—Teesa and her four older brothers, Thomas, Pete, Auggie, and Sam. Struggling to discover their own paths in 1960s Los Angeles amid their family dysfunction and abuse brought them to the brink of disintegration. But generations of adversity were infused with a strong common thread of hope. And from hope came understanding and finally forgiveness not only of their parents but also of themselves.

Teesa Paruparo’s family needed rescuing, and it would come from a surprising and unexpected source.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543449006

Keith Canedo

His career as an Industrial Engineering Designer has given Keith Canedo the opportunity to travel the world meeting people of different walks of life and diverse cultures. Combined with years working as a Volunteer Supervisor serving children and their families has made him keenly aware of one universal trait they all share; the love of a good story. And he prides himself as being a good story teller. Unfolding, As It Should is Mr. Canedo’s first novel. He has two beautiful daughters and currently lives in Seattle, Washington, USA

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Marita And Teesa

E ight-year-old Teesa stood paralyzed and scared. Amid the developing confusion all around her, she surveyed the surroundings in an attempt to gain some sort of understanding while hastily searching the area. What’s going on here? Suddenly, it became clear that she was in the middle of one of many uneven dirt roads of her mother’s childhood village. She knew every leaning palm tree and crisp thatched roof as described to her hundreds of times through Marita’s many bedtime stories. Although the familiarity brought some comfort, it wasn’t enough to squelch the dangerous feeling overtaking her. Surprisingly, she was dressed in dirty rags with her bare feet caked in mud. Gone were the pink Converse All-Star Chuck Taylor sneakers that she practically lived in. Normally combed and straight black hair was matted and tangled, which appropriately matched her feelings of confusion.

The normally peaceful blue sky above their island paradise was suddenly heavy with black, thick smoke. Refreshing salt sea air was replaced with a foul stench of spent gunpowder mingled with the tang of spattered blood. Prior generations had cleared away the trees and lush green tropical growth along the coastline to permit the nurturing rays of the sun to shine through and bless their village. Now these clearings only served as unfettered alleyways for the strafing Japanese Kawanishi N1K1 attack planes. The calming sounds of waves lapping the shore were displaced with thundering machine gun bullets and heat from hot piston engines.

Loud bombs exploded everywhere, causing the ground to rumble, knocking little Teesa off her feet and into the mud. The deafening percussion intensified the startling chaos, as if they were individual starting guns to signal the start of the end of the world. Slowly standing up, she regained her balance and brushed away the filth from her clothes, never one to stand being disheveled or dirty. Looking up, she was immediately surrounded by an oncoming stampede of villagers, screaming above the din of explosions as they desperately ran.

Diyos ko, takbo, takbo! Iligtas ang inyong sarili, iligtas ang inyong sarili.

Banal na Inang Maria, tulungan mo kami.

Not sure of the words but most certainly understanding their frantic intent, again, Teesa quickly scanned the area, anxiously looking back and forth, up and down combing the crowd, while trying to stay on her feet despite the hysterical barrage knocking her down again and again. But Teesa’s search for her mother was futile; everything was a blur of confusion.

She got swept up into the throng and started running along with them. Mommy, where are you? Where are you? While some were trying unsuccessfully to hide, others ran for their lives, dragging their injured loved ones with them. At that moment, Teesa and more than one hundred villagers all had a common connection—they were all thrust into the same unbelievable nightmare. Explosions continued to come from all directions, one right on top of the other, or so it seemed, causing many victims to fall, rushing and climbing over each other in a futile attempt to escape the brutal Japanese assault. Gunfire pierced not only the sky but their poor defenseless bodies as well, falling one by one, onto each other into murky pools of their own blood. The sides of the roads were strewn with broken bodies—mothers, fathers, children, and even babies with the flames of adjacent burning huts flickering dancing shadows upon their lifeless mud-spattered faces.

The bordering majestic palm trees that normally bent but never broke, sheltering the village from strong ocean trade winds, lay splintered and burning, entrapping some of them under the smoldering branches as if they were transformed into evil barricades of death.

Teesa looked on in horror to see torched stems falling on top of the innocent wounded, suppressing their unanswered cries. Rows of thatched huts, totally engulfed in flames, billowed noxious clouds, as screams of children still trapped inside were turning mercifully silent. The bombardment continued. Japanese soldiers quickly moved through the village like a swarm of nasty locust, laughing and killing indiscriminately while leaving their arrogant trail of misery—misery and murder. Teesa was now crying as she witnessed this unbelievable mayhem spreading out before her eyes. Never before had she experienced anything so horrific. She was just a normal inner-city kid whose biggest conflict came from not eating all of her lima beans at dinner. As if providence interceded, she looked across the road and, to her amazement, recognized her mother, Marita, in the distance. Fighting off the crowd, she ran toward her, feeling that if she could make contact, everything would be better somehow. Her big brown eyes and the small familiar mole directly below the right side of her mouth was a face Teesa had seen all of her life. And, after all, as commented by many, she looked just like her mother. Even though the Marita in front of her was also a child of about eight years old, she would know her anywhere. She loved her mother very much, but with Marita being a strict disciplinarian, Teesa’s affection was always mixed with fear. At that moment, they were the same. But seeing her as a scared child, just as she was, still didn’t put them on equal standing. Relief of finding her mother notwithstanding, little Marita’s presence instinctively demanded respect from her daughter.

The smoke stung her eyes, making it hard for little Marita to see her feet in front of her. Crying, scared, and lost in confusion, she sat cross-legged on the edge of the dirt road where she and Tomiko were playing only moments before. Under the cover of her arms, she protected her head as best as she could from the flying mud and rocks. Just before being trampled by her neighbors desperately trying to escape the bloody onslaught, someone quickly snatched her up off the ground, up under her arms, carrying her away as they ran.

Through the atmosphere of mass hysteria, she recognized a familiar fragrance amid all of the turmoil, producing a sudden feeling of security and strength. It was Boboy, her father, carrying her to safety. Through the havoc, against the flow of the other villagers, they frantically ran for their lives with little Teesa following right behind them, step for step.

For what seemed like forever, with wafts of bullets whizzing by their heads, they made it to a back row of huts behind a thicket of smoldering trees. Climbing the bloodstained bamboo steps of the farthest shelter, through the thatched doorway, they ran inside and collapsed onto the grass-matted floor while attempting to catch their breath. They knew it wasn’t secure, but being there gave a sense of a safety barrier from the horrors outside. Inside were three wounded Amerikano soldiers, broken and moaning in pain lying on the woven mat.

Boboy took the little girls and placed them down right next to each other. They were both horrified to see the bloodied wounded soldiers and tried hard not to stare at them but could not look away. Marita and Teesa began to cry as Boboy calmly brushed their hair off their faces. His gentle touch and warm smile gave an assurance of security as both girls were nestled in the warm embrace of his outstretched arms. Boboy kissed them both on the top of their heads, making the scared little girls feel better, at least for the moment. He looked directly into his daughter Marita’s eyes and calmly said,

"Stay here kasama ng mga Amerikano. I’m going to get your mother and brother. Keep very quiet. I’ll be right back. Huwag kang umalis hangga’t hindi ako bumabalik (Don’t leave until I return)."

Giving Marita another hug and kiss and before running back out into the mayhem, he turned to give the little girls an encouraging smirk and wink. Whenever he did this, Marita knew everything would be OK. Then he quickly ran outside, determined to find Lucita and Tony to bring them back to safety.

As the dreadful sounds of war drew near, angry men outside were shouting. Marita recognized the language to be the one spoken by Tomiko and her family. The only difference being that this time it was followed by the clamor of gunfire. This was clear indication that the aggressors were working their way closer, searching through each hut and not taking prisoners or leaving any alive. A very frightened Teesa sat up close to Marita, clutching her arm. Those furious men and the smell of smoke got stronger as they approached the safe confines of their thatched hiding place. Marita placed a finger on Teesa’s lips and quietly said, "Shh…"

With all of the chaos happening outside, slowly, one of the wounded Amerikano soldiers painfully pulled himself up onto his arms. Leaving a trail of blood, he dragged himself toward the others, wincing in pain as he whispered,

Man, the Japs are getting closer. We gotta move, or we’re dead! Watching this unfold in front of her caused Teesa to gasp with astonishment and disbelief. She was surprised to see that one of the wounded soldiers was her elder brother Pete. She rubbed her eyes trying to get a better focus. What is Pete doing here? she wondered in disbelief but remained frozen next to Marita. He was broken and beaten with his face covered in dirt and blood, as was his tattered Amerikano green soldier’s uniform and helmet. He anxiously looked at Marita and quietly said,

"Mahal, tumakbo na tayo at baka tayo’y patayin nila (Sweetheart, we have to run now, or they will kill us)."

Poor little Marita was scared and confused. She promised her father that she would wait for his return. Closing her eyes, holding the St. Betina Zita medal that she always wore around her neck, in her folded hands, she prayed for a sign from God—any small sign telling her what to do. Suddenly, within the sounds of gunfire and agonizing screams, her fear and anxiety melted away. A smile appeared on her sweet muddied face because among all of the turmoil of their impending discovery by the Japanese soldiers, she heard the music of a familiar voice. It was Tomiko singing.

Mareeeta, Mareeeta, hurry, follow me.

Suddenly, everything was silent and black. Thirty-seven-year-old Teesa jolted up in her bed, out of breath, gasping heavily as if she had just finished one of her sessions of hot yoga. The UCLA T-shirt she wore for sleeping was soaked with perspiration, and she was trembling. It was one of the more-vivid and disturbing dreams yet. Reaching over to switch on the nightstand lamp and sitting up in bed was her husband, Miguel. Already realizing what just happened, he was sympathetic, offering consolation. Placing his arm around her, he spoke softly,

Are you all right, sweetheart? She slowly nodded, still catching her breath, and then she shook her head.

I don’t know if I can make it through the funeral tomorrow, Miguel.

It was just another dream, baby, and it’s over. He took a Kleenex from the nightstand and gently dried her eyes, wiping her face. Grabbing a bottle of water, he offered her a drink that she happily accepted. Miguel removed her soaked T-shirt over her head and threw it into the corner of the room, landing next to her pink sneakers.

Here, put this on, he said as he took off and handed her his lucky sleeveless USC sweatshirt, already warm from his body.

Now try to get some sleep, and I promise we’ll all get through it together, and he gave her a tender kiss.

Resting her head down onto Miguel’s shoulder, they both lay back down. Everything was quiet, a stark contrast from a minute ago. Teesa began to quietly cry, not only because she was back in the warmth and safety of their West Los Angeles bedroom wrapped in the loving arms of her husband but also because of feeling the relief to know that she and Marita were no longer two scared little girls running for their lives in the war-ravaged village of De La Cruz.

CHAPTER TWO

Marita’s Funeral

I t was a typical coastal Southern California Saturday, if only in terms of weather. Nothing else was typical about that West Los Angeles morning. A low blanket of fog rolled in off the Pacific Ocean as it usually did in late October, producing an ominous gray mist, ironically suitable for the occasion. Fortunately, it normally burned off by midmorning, taking along with it the dawn’s early chill. The reason these first-generation Filipino American siblings were together again after years of disconnection was the death of their mother, Marita, the matriarch of the Paruparo family.

Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery was located on the east side of Culver City on an expansive two hundred acres that were elevated above the city by soft rolling green hills. The grounds were skillfully landscaped accented with white statues, small ponds, serene grottos, and waterfalls. It was opened seventy-two years earlier in 1939 by the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles and became the final resting place for many show business professionals of Hollywood. Sprinkled within the surrounds were various burial sites including those of Crosby, Durante, and Hayworth. But most graves and tombs at Holy Cross were occupied by the more common people of the area; many with religious headstones or concrete monuments, others marked with a common eighteen-inch-by-nine-inch concrete slab with the names and the years of their birth and death inscribed. A majority were left unattended, sadly causing varying degrees of deterioration to what once were cherished family memorials. Each grave site location had pretty generous territorial views of the city below. The irony was that these lovely vistas would never be appreciated by its final inhabitants.

Their father Manny’s grave site was one situated with a beautiful view of the city where he spent the latter part of the butterfly phase of his life. And as was planned for by the family when the time came, Marita would be buried right next to him.

Standing together as a family, their filtered shadows were cast down upon the green manicured cemetery lawn. All of the siblings watched as Marita’s casket was slowly lowered into its final earthly destination.

Teesa, the youngest of the siblings, seemed to show the most emotion. She truly was devastated by the passing of their mother, even though they had recently grown worlds apart. It was in her husband, Miguel Sanchez, and their four children, the people she loved the most, where she found comfort. Anne, their eldest daughter, tried her best to console her mom. Teesa was only seventeen years old when she had Anne, who was now twenty and a mother herself. She gave Marita her only great-granddaughter, eighteen-month-old Penny, named after her husband’s mother, Penelope. Anne was an exact replica of her mom, almost. With Josh and Kevin in high school and little ten-year-old Mary by her side, Teesa regretted not pushing her children and granddaughter to have a better relationship with Marita. She realized it would have made a difference in the happiness of their grandmother’s life. Adding to her sadness was the realization that it was now too late to make up with her mom, leaving a gaping hole in her heart. All of the unresolved issues and emotions she had all the time in the world to resolve were no longer possible. She waited too long. Mom, I would give anything for a second chance.

It was with her four elder brothers, the sweet boys that practically raised and protected her all of her life, where she felt the most distant and annoyed. She always remembered them as being young and full of vinegar, and was somewhat surprised to see them all together at the funeral after many years of estrangement. Not that they wouldn’t show their respects by not attending but startled by the change in their physical appearances. As if the funeral services had cast a revealing spotlight on each of them. Thomas Father Pretzels Paruparo was the eldest and, at an imposing six feet two, always exuded intellectual power with his take-charge demeanor. With his silver-gray hair, he seemed quieter and more subdued. Many years of public service showed heavily on his furrowed face. The calling as a Roman Catholic priest took up most of his time, but being assigned to the Archdioceses of Los Angeles at least kept him geographically close to the family. But intended or not, Teesa felt he always kept them all at arm’s length.

The force and energy of the kids was the second-eldest son Pete. That day, Teesa saw him slightly overweight with his balding head and salt-and-pepper beard leaning on his two daughters, Noel and Chris, for support. With Marita gone, so was the key to Pete’s redemption. Like Teesa, he thought there was still time to set things right with Marita, but now their unresolved conflicts would have to remain that way. Pete’s lack of atonement was a result of his and Marita’s procrastination and stubbornness, both shared and strong family traits.

Auggie was her rebellious, free-spirited, long-haired brother. His appearance was the most altered from how he looked growing up. What she saw in his place was a properly coiffured businessman in a black three-pieced Brooks Brothers suit. Standing with Auggie among his estranged siblings was his wife, Allison, and their twin daughters, Ruth and Roxie. Auggie was amazed at how fast the time flew by. The girls were already sixteen years old, and he couldn’t remember the last time they saw their grandmother. Turning toward Allison, he whispered,

I’ve been a real bastard of a son, haven’t I?

C’mon, Auggie, she said, squeezing his hand.

He couldn’t help but think of the many times in the past ten years their mother claimed to be at death’s door. It got to the point of more drama than fact, which, unfortunately, reduced the impact of her messages. Now it was too late to really know whether they were merely the complaints of a mean old woman that felt life dealt her an unfair hand or simply masked cries for help.

And, finally, there was Sammy. Sam Paruparo’s personality was the most like their dad’s, which explained why he was trying so hard to disappear into the background and blend in. Sam and Teesa were the two youngest, and although seven years her senior, growing up, they were best friends. But her little Sammy’s disaffection with Marita caused them to grow apart in the later years, creating a family situation that broke Teesa’s heart. Sam didn’t know about the others, but even through his dark sunglasses, he still certainly felt the good old-fashioned Catholic guilt. Being almost forty-five years old, he stood holding hands with his wife, Angie, and realized the aches in his soul confirmed that Marita still had a hold, even from the grave.

The sad reality was that there was nothing any of them could do to ease Marita’s pain and wash away the accountability they all shared. The chronic reports of ill health just became a normal part of her everyday dialogue and were generally ignored. After all, old Filipino women were notoriously prone to exaggeration. It was because of Marita’s death and the ration of recent dreams that Teesa was experiencing that she was determined to reconnect with all of them. She decided on that overcast solemn day, the family reconciliation process would begin.

CHAPTER THREE

Paglalamay

I n contrast to their father Manny’s funeral, Marita’s was small and quiet; the way Thomas knew his mother wanted. It wasn’t a coincidence. In her later years, she didn’t have many close friends either by choice or necessity. She became somewhat of a recluse.

Father Thomas Paruparo presided over his mother’s brief ceremony using both the spoken words and sign. In Marita’s native Tagalog, young Melinda Rios of the parish choir, accompanying herself on guitar, sang a moving rendition of Tanging Yaman. Along with the calls of the chirping sparrows, it was a solemn scene that would have pleased her. Standing before the congregate, Thomas recited verses from the book of Ecclesiastes,

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to mourn, a time to dance…

Thomas was an accomplished public speaker and was known to occasionally belt out brimstone-like sermons on his Sunday pulpit. But that morning, looking out at the small gathering and at each one of his siblings as he spoke, he was unable to make direct eye contact. Although based on genuine feelings of grief and loss, his attempt at final words of comfort fell short.

Afterward, they made the slow walk down the grassy hill from the tented grave site to their awaiting cars. An attractive young woman, probably thirty-five years old, remained at the grave site as the others departed. She wasn’t dressed in the customary black as most of the others were but had on white pants and blouse and beautiful straight black hair falling onto her shoulders. She turned to the family and smiled. Thomas sensed there was something familiar about her and approached Pete as they made their way down. Gesturing toward Marita’s grave, he asked, Do you know who that is?

I was gonna ask you. I don’t live here, remember? Pete replied.

I saw her in the back of the church and wanted to thank her for coming. Let’s go talk with her. Maybe she’s a relative, said Thomas.

Or maybe just lost, said Pete as they turned and headed back up the hill.

Other than the few friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, the mourners consist of the Paruparo children and their kids. By the time they reached Marita’s grave site, the young woman was gone. Thomas looked around but couldn’t find any trace of her, as if she had vanished. There was, however, a single birds of paradise blossom resting gently among the roses and gardenias, intermingling with the already fragrant perfumes.

I didn’t see that before, commented a bewildered Thomas.

And look at that, as Pete pointed to a neatly arranged pile of small stones placed on the ground adjacent to Marita’s grave. They looked at each other confused, not yet realizing the significance of the rocks or the mystery flower.

C’mon, Father Pretzels. You’ve had a long day, Pete said, smiling, as they walked back down the hill. Thomas smiled back. It had been a long time since anyone called him Father Pretzels.

Manny and Marita shared a marbled headstone depicting an open Bible with two blank pages and hands folded in prayer. For years, only their dad’s name was inscribed on a single page, Emmanuel 1906–1985. Across the top were the words The Paruparos’ Loving Father. That day displayed the additional inscriptions of Marita 1933–2011 Loving Mother and Grandparents. The headstone celebrating the final resting place of these two extraordinary people honoring their life stages as both caterpillars and butterflies was complete. That morning, for a short time, all five children of Manny and Marita were together again.

All had taken divergent paths and since Manny’s death. It acted like a double-edged sword. With each ensuing year, it became very apparent that Manny was truly the glue that held them all together with his loving and caring heart. In their youth, Marita’s violent outbursts seemed to be more palatable when balanced by the kind and forgiving nature of their father.

At the same time, because of the malice Marita displayed as the boys grew up, they couldn’t wait to get away from her. With Manny gone, there was no reason to stay; the collateral damage being that they were no longer in touch with each other. They had splintered into different directions despite the best efforts of Marita, who relinquished her parental influence long ago. Eventually, her not speaking with some of them for months at a time became more of the rule rather than the exception. The passage Time heals all wounds regrettably did not pertain to the Paruparo children. Time did not forgive the mental and physical cruelty Marita subjected upon her sons when they were young. No communication was perfectly fine therapy as far as the boys were concerned.

Adding to the family dysfunction was not upholding her well-established cultural beliefs. The Filipino traditions Manny and Marita instilled only had credence when their dad was around to lead by example. But as time passed, the teachings lost their effectiveness and fell to the wayside.

Traditionally, a Filipino family was hardworking, close, and loving. A God-fearing culture of unity, respect, and love was its driving force. On the islands, it was so simple, impressed early on, and readily accepted. Parents were owed a debt of gratitude for bringing children into the world, balanced by the belief that parents would make sacrifices for their children for the same reason. Especially important was the prolonged physical and emotional nurturing received by the eldest daughter from the mother, thus creating a unique and unbreakable bond. This was clearly not the case with the Paruparo children and specifically between Marita and Teesa.

One island philosophy that did make a strong, lasting impression was the teaching of buay dalawang.

Everybody has two stages of destiny in their lives: their early life with the joys and hardships as caterpillars that helped to shape their later lives as butterflies. One never overlooked the importance that both stages played when looking back over a lifetime, or their unfolding story was not complete.

If there was any consolation, it was knowing that they at least planted the seeds by raising their five young children with magical and wonderful myths in that fashion.

But what disappointed Marita even more was, deep down, she knew that if Manny had lived, the family bonds and traditional culture would be strong. She realized that these failures were hers alone. The estrangement caused by the early physical abuse inflicted against her boys set them down the inevitable path of detachment. Fair or not, without Manny, they viewed the culture as evil extensions of their mother. She did not possess the loving hold on the children that Manny did. A dear and mutual respect between the children and their father always existed, as if naturally ingrained into their DNA. This relationship only intensified the need for separation from their mother after he was gone.

They all walked silently from her grave, sadly separate, obviously not together as a group. There was hardly a glance shared between some of them.

Dad would hate this, Sam thought to himself. But the clearly noticeable signs of the day did not escape any of them. Was it Divinity or merely coincidence that on that day they were all wrapped within the arms of one of Manny’s beloved brisk Hollywood Park–like fall skies? They couldn’t ignore Marita’s enchanting scents of roses and gardenias from her private garden. Manny and Marita were there all right, present among all of them, and each believed it in their own way. But it was not enough to ease the tension in the air. What did surface and remained indelibly ingrained in the siblings’ collective memories were the terrible nights they spent as children—sometimes crying themselves to sleep because of Marita’s mental and physical cruelty and wondering what they did to cause their mother not to love them enough.

Somehow Teesa felt she had lost more than her brothers did from the passing of their mother. Although not very close, she managed to keep in contact to make sure Marita took her medication and was driven to and from her scheduled doctor appointments. It was Teesa that discovered Marita’s body in the old house on Wagner Street when she passed away. After contacting her husband Miguel and elder brother Thomas, she sat quietly with her mother as she waited for the onslaught of people to arrive. She could still feel her mother’s presence and was certain that the dreams were connected somehow.

After the funeral, as Marita’s paglalamay, or vigil wake, was going on inside the house, Teesa sat alone in the backyard at the old wooden picnic table, one they brought with them from the projects days. It held fond memories and was the table she had played on many times growing up, sharing wonderful tea parties with Minnie Mouse and Cinderella. She noticed her name T-E-E-S-A carved on the silvery weathered tabletop. She thought back on that sunny day when she was only five years old. Watching Pete carve each letter, she could still smell the fragrance of freshly cut cedar.

There you go, sweetheart. You will be there forever, said Pete as he brushed the specs of wood slivers from the table and closed his pocket knife.

T-E-E-S-A, she happily read.

She immediately jumped onto his lap and gave her big brother a big hug and kiss.

The normal sounds of crickets filling the night air along with the clatter emanating from the activity inside of the house were blocked out as Teesa sat in deafening silence. She reread the confirmation document just received from Queenscare, formerly known as the Queen of Angels Hospital in Los Angeles. It was a copy of Pete’s birth certificate. It read, August 26, 1954, Paruparo boy PETER JOSEPH—full-term stillborn. Died at birth, time of death 2:05 a.m. She laid down the paper and ran her fingers over the smooth indented letters of her carved name.

The burial ceremony for their mother did little to reunite the Paruparo children and bring them back to the days when they were all a family. Now with both of their parents gone, it was more unlikely to everyone but Teesa. But demonstrated by her recent vivid dreams and the legal confusion surrounding Pete’s birth, things were obviously far from settled, and there was much hindi tapos, or unfinished business.

As she sat alone, outside, under the night sky thick with stars, it became increasingly clear that their mother still had something to say to them. Putting Teesa on the path of discovery for caterpillars, butterflies, and family mysteries was probably Marita’s plan all along.

CHAPTER FOUR

Manny

E mmanuel Manny Paruparo never knew his real family. His earliest recollection was time spent in a Catholic Church–run orphanage. It was called Bahay Ampunan ng Ina ng Pinagpalang Birhen (Our Lady of the Blessed Virgin Orphanage) in the town of Carigara on the island province of Leyte. Carigara was a coastal town located on the northern shore. It was bordered by Carigara Bay to the north and surrounded by wide rice fields fanning out toward the distant mountains to the south. The city founding date of January 25, 1521, even preceded the founding date of the major city of Manila. Manny later learned he was left with the sisters as an infant in the spring of 1907.

The entire parish was run by the no-nonsense strong hand of the Reverend Father Doroteo Ayaso, cura parroco, a large man standing about six feet three with a wide girth and a larger heart. He preached his sermons with a very hard, deep, gravelly, and commanding voice. It was only through his strength and compassion that made the administration of Our Lady run smoothly. Although he was in his sixties with his thinning hair as white as snow, there was no one in the entire town of Carigara that would ever challenge him.

The orphanage itself was an old decaying two-story red brick building that stayed very hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. It was part of an assembly of older buildings owned by the church. There was the schoolhouse on the opposite side of the grounds with the convent for the sisters and the rectory for the visiting fathers. The crude medical facility along with the dining hall, kitchen, and dormitories were contained within the large orphanage building.

The dorms were also housed in the orphanage building with cots neatly lined up next to each other. Kerosene lanterns hung from the leaking ceilings, barely shedding enough light to illuminate the spaces. The large windows rattled and whistled as the winter winds blew through them, but each child felt very blessed to be there as opposed to finding shelter on their own in the streets. Makeshift showers were fashioned from leaky rubber hoses attached to the walls and fed by old wooden barrels above. The toilet rooms were no more than openings in the floor with adjacent pales of water and wooden dippers. These rooms were divided and located on either side of the common sleeping areas. Some nights, hot water was available and transported by buckets from the kitchen if the decrepit old coal-burning stoves were in a generous mood. But most nights, it was clean cold water, and that in itself was another blessing. The water supply still had to be carried in from the main city well adjacent to the orphanage on a daily basis. The middle third of