The Girl by the Duhat Tree

She sat atop the low concrete barrier that ran across the front of Dada’s house. She always wore the same simple black dress, which seemed a bit frayed. She sat with hands on her knees— one in a tight fist, knuckles white, the other palm down. Her head tilted in an angle that made her black hair stream down her face; shoulders hunched; back arched. She was fragilely thin and looked aged in her late teens, her leprous arms and legs sallow and rough as a lizard’s belly. She kept the toes on her naked feet tucked in as if discomfited for not wearing slippers, which overall made her look like a crow from afar. Never did I catch her move and never did I inquire about her presence, a household help or perhaps a cousin’s yaya? I never had a reason to go near her either and I never did; she just sat there.

One summer, an aunt took my sister and me for a weekend in Baguio City. We took a train to La Union and a big black limousine the rest of the way. We went to the usual tourist traps during the day, but at night we stayed in an inn-- in a room rendered in kitschy mint green, along Session Road with nothing to do other than doodle on the misted windows. We only went out for Nido soup at the Star Café. A nightly jaunt the announcement of which instantly propelled me to quickly put on a jacket and ran ahead to the door. And in one of those nights, as I peered through the crack of the half opened door, I saw her— the girl by the Duhat tree. She was sitting on the edge of a sofa in the common area, exactly the way she did back at Dada’s garden. Was she on the train with us? No, she wasn’t. I was quite sure about that. No, she didn’t ride with us on the car either. But, there she sat. As I looked at her, mesmerized; she slowly extended her hand towards me— the one in a tight fist; as if she was about to give me whatever it was she held in it; she then began to open her hand. No, I wasn’t afraid. I was a stupid five-year old who did not know any better, but I was sure I wasn’t afraid. What popped in my head at that singular moment was, of all things, the thermos I left on the table. I almost forgot! Where will we put the bird’s nest soup? I ducked back to the room to grab it; and, just as quick ran back to the door. She wasn’t there. I never saw her again after that, not even by the Duhat tree.