My flight to San Francisco the following day was at 11 am. As always, there was no opportunity for serendipity. It had seemed to be an unlucky ride. Although I got a window seat, I got seated next to a frail seventy-ish lady who I suspect has a severe respiratory problem. Her coughs were loud, incessant and deep like her ribs were hollow.
She kept on coughing so forcefully I wouldn’t have been surprised if her dentures or esophagus shot out of her mouth.
Something did shoot out. It was probably Quaker oats she had for breakfast. Good thing she managed to catch the vomit deftly in her handkerchief- not deft enough though to hide the sight from me. I stared at the window and tried to forget what I saw. “Oh boy, it’s gonna be a looooong flight to San Fo”
Her white gnarled hands reminded me of my Lola Olive. I still have vivid memories of my Lola’s hands when she gave me her rosary. The same hands that used to clutch a white hanky which she also used as her improvised wallet; bills neatly folded, secured by two square knots
The hanky of the old lady beside me contained something else. And the thought of it and the long flight ahead made me uneasy.
During our ascent she started out a conversation. She was from Kansas. I told her I was from the Philippines. I did not bother asking how she ended up taking a San Fo Flight from New York. Normally I would have lots of follow up questions to keep the ball rolling but I was half-tired, half-squeamish. Somehow the old lady felt that I was uninterested so the talk ended up abruptly. I decided to browse through the magazines to alleviate the air of uncomfortable silence (save for the occasional coughing).
When the plane steadied and the seat belt signs were off, I stood up and checked out for vacant seats. Great ! Our flight was only half-full; there were plenty of vacancies in the middle. The old lady’s companion, a lady probably in her forties- a caretaker maybe- occupying the aisle seat, somehow read my thoughts and understood my predicament. “ It’s alright young man. You can transfer anytime”. I excused myself from the old lady and clutched my jacket. As I was easing out of our row she threw me a question. “From which part of the Philippines are you?”
“I am from the Philippines” And my mind was like “Yeah, like an old lady from Kansas would have an idea of the places in the Philippines”
“Yeah I already know that. I mean which place? Like Manila for instance”
I was somehow surprised that she knew something about the Philippines, more that it just being a country in the Far East. (Yeah, I know it’s rather mean of me to have underestimated her). It would have taken a lot longer if I told her “ I actually grew up in Antique an island in the Visayas blah blah” so I just said “Yeah I’m from Manila”
I just had to get out of there. And fast.
But then for the first time I stared into her eyes and held her gaze for a moment. She had a deep and penetrating look and it was welling with sadness. There was something about it that tugged the depths of my soul.
What was she conveying? What was it that I saw? What was it that struck me? Sorrow? Pain? Fear? Longing?
Was she afraid of her impending death?
Was she crying for her unbearable loneliness, the kind that you feel when you’ve lost a loved one?
Was she pleading for companionship, like when you’re lost, alone and cut-off from the world ?
Was it really sorrow in her eyes that I saw or maybe it was my own sorrow reflected?
I did consider going back to my seat. For some strange reasons I felt pity to the lady. But I was already on my way and I disliked the idea of appearing foolishly ambivalent.
I transferred to the middle section of the plane where everything was peaceful. I could have easily taken my respite. Yet the pleading look from the old lady haunted me.
There she was, lonely, afraid, longing for a kind soul to talk to and I, the one person who could have made things easier for her, abandoned her.
I felt at that instant that I was the meanest person on earth.
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