He always fancied the thought of cuddling a miniature of himself, a legacy, a minute movable statue which could bear the name of his forefathers and his name as well—if his wife, Elena, would consent with the “Junior” trailing behind. But he distinctly remembered she found “Junior” to be too unimpressive and too common. “Why couldn’t you think of a better name, Pa? Not that I do not like your name. But we can surely weave thousand other names from the A-B-C.” Weaved and sewn with the finest letters, he christened him “Julian Alexander.” Alexander, magically crafted from the random ABCs and Julian, from his own name. “Julian Alexander.” In that way, his wife could not clamor, “not that I do not like your name, Pa, but Junior is too common.”
Julian Alexander was one of the many boys who had been widely mouthed with utmost pride. “My son will be one of the greatest lawyers,” Julian raised a glass of red wine and drank to celebrate the 34th week of Julian Alexander’s conception. Although still bathed in fluid, unable to hear, speak and talk, Julian Alexander had already established a reputation among his father’s colleagues. They had etched in their minds that prophesized fate. That this Julian Alexander will be one the greatest diplomats. That he will build a large law firm bearing his forefather’s sur name. (And the “Julian”, of course.) That he will have a staggeringly pulchritudinous wife and three handsome sons who will be named, “Julian Alexander Miguel dela Torre,” “Julian dela Torre” and “Julian Alexander dela Torre, Jr.”
Two more weeks and the liberty of a boy cushioned in his mother’s belly will finally be granted. Julian could hardly wait. Every night, after undressing his wife, fingering her hair and grazing her breasts, he would spend five minutes kissing the bronze bulge as though it was a trophy he bagged for winning a hard-fought boxing tournament. Then he would sweep his lips in her belly and whisper to his mute, tiny, indiscriminate creature, “son, your daddy cannot wait to see you.” His wife would sometimes ache in the weight of his torso whenever he would fall asleep kissing her belly. She would then lace her candle fingers in his hair, sigh and smile with the thought that she was so lucky to find a man who wanted to be a father. Many men would marry so someone would wash their dirty linens, keep their rooms tidy and ensure that they get a full breakfast everyday. She found a man who wanted to be a father and she felt she was lucky.
Leaning languidly in the rocking-chair her late mother used to recline after a meal of blended rice and viand, her dear Julian Alexander was anxiously rocking her. He jolted her and the pricking sensation was benumbing. She knew it was not yet time for delivery—but it might as well be if only to ease the pain. She yelled at her housemaid and ordered to get a taxi and bring her to the nearest hospital. Further, she instructed her to call Julian and ask him to come to her as soon as possible.
Her helper was speedy to react. Five minutes later Elena was lying in the operation table. Her water bag did not break; but something inside her did. The aisle where her husband, Julian, searched during those heated love-making nights, was flooded with red, semi-viscous fluid which was then beginning to clot. The doctor ordered the helper to call Elena’s husband as soon as possible.
The doctors were feigning calm and rational while they watched the clock’s hands moving staggered a couple of degrees to the right. Elena was then bathed in a pool of scarlet poison which was very much like the red wine Julian raised when they celebrated Julian Alexander’s 34th month. Everyone in her periphery was fervently wishing the man of the house would arrive. And at last!
He came five minutes later.
When he came, his face flared like the red traffic. “Why are you not doing anything?”
(They were not doing anything other then attempting to stop her from bleeding.) “We cannot sir, it’s the protocol.” “What protocol?” His eyes were shimmering red, “what protocol?” “Sir, first we need you to sign these papers. That if anything will happen, this hospital will not be held liable.” “Go on! I understand that completely! Now just do whatever you can,” he snorted and instructed them to push through with the operation. “But sir,” the doctor held his breath, “Sir, you will need to choose. Whom will we save? The mother or the baby?”
The world shattered upon impact on the ground when it slipped from his shoulders. He loved her and he loved his son. Why should one be given up for another?
And so, when the doctor stepped out of the room and trolleyed a boy to the incubating room with the pinkest flush, Julian fell to his knees and wailed. He could vividly remember the night when he pretended to fall asleep with his face flat on her belly. “I am so lucky I found a man who wants to be a father,” she would say. He remembered her saying that and he cried and cried even harder.
Julian Alexander was one of the many boys who had been widely mouthed with utmost pride. “My son will be one of the greatest lawyers,” Julian raised a glass of red wine and drank to celebrate the 34th week of Julian Alexander’s conception. Although still bathed in fluid, unable to hear, speak and talk, Julian Alexander had already established a reputation among his father’s colleagues. They had etched in their minds that prophesized fate. That this Julian Alexander will be one the greatest diplomats. That he will build a large law firm bearing his forefather’s sur name. (And the “Julian”, of course.) That he will have a staggeringly pulchritudinous wife and three handsome sons who will be named, “Julian Alexander Miguel dela Torre,” “Julian dela Torre” and “Julian Alexander dela Torre, Jr.”
Two more weeks and the liberty of a boy cushioned in his mother’s belly will finally be granted. Julian could hardly wait. Every night, after undressing his wife, fingering her hair and grazing her breasts, he would spend five minutes kissing the bronze bulge as though it was a trophy he bagged for winning a hard-fought boxing tournament. Then he would sweep his lips in her belly and whisper to his mute, tiny, indiscriminate creature, “son, your daddy cannot wait to see you.” His wife would sometimes ache in the weight of his torso whenever he would fall asleep kissing her belly. She would then lace her candle fingers in his hair, sigh and smile with the thought that she was so lucky to find a man who wanted to be a father. Many men would marry so someone would wash their dirty linens, keep their rooms tidy and ensure that they get a full breakfast everyday. She found a man who wanted to be a father and she felt she was lucky.
Leaning languidly in the rocking-chair her late mother used to recline after a meal of blended rice and viand, her dear Julian Alexander was anxiously rocking her. He jolted her and the pricking sensation was benumbing. She knew it was not yet time for delivery—but it might as well be if only to ease the pain. She yelled at her housemaid and ordered to get a taxi and bring her to the nearest hospital. Further, she instructed her to call Julian and ask him to come to her as soon as possible.
Her helper was speedy to react. Five minutes later Elena was lying in the operation table. Her water bag did not break; but something inside her did. The aisle where her husband, Julian, searched during those heated love-making nights, was flooded with red, semi-viscous fluid which was then beginning to clot. The doctor ordered the helper to call Elena’s husband as soon as possible.
The doctors were feigning calm and rational while they watched the clock’s hands moving staggered a couple of degrees to the right. Elena was then bathed in a pool of scarlet poison which was very much like the red wine Julian raised when they celebrated Julian Alexander’s 34th month. Everyone in her periphery was fervently wishing the man of the house would arrive. And at last!
He came five minutes later.
When he came, his face flared like the red traffic. “Why are you not doing anything?”
(They were not doing anything other then attempting to stop her from bleeding.) “We cannot sir, it’s the protocol.” “What protocol?” His eyes were shimmering red, “what protocol?” “Sir, first we need you to sign these papers. That if anything will happen, this hospital will not be held liable.” “Go on! I understand that completely! Now just do whatever you can,” he snorted and instructed them to push through with the operation. “But sir,” the doctor held his breath, “Sir, you will need to choose. Whom will we save? The mother or the baby?”
The world shattered upon impact on the ground when it slipped from his shoulders. He loved her and he loved his son. Why should one be given up for another?
And so, when the doctor stepped out of the room and trolleyed a boy to the incubating room with the pinkest flush, Julian fell to his knees and wailed. He could vividly remember the night when he pretended to fall asleep with his face flat on her belly. “I am so lucky I found a man who wants to be a father,” she would say. He remembered her saying that and he cried and cried even harder.
1 comments:
I ended the story in haste because I am sooooooooooooo sleepy. yikes. ^__^
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