I see your ghost

My eyes were on the road but were frequently glancing at the rear-view mirror to see Rachel. My hand was stirring the wheel while the other held a phone up to my ear. Houses, cars, and people passed by like a film of blurring images. 

The bright morning sun washed the pavements and little by little the hand on my lap pressed heavier. It was like this day. Sunny, just a bit of a breeze, just perfect weather as summer bids its goodbye.

"I'm on my way there," I said on the phone, "I just have to drop off Rachel."

"Say hi for me," the woman on the phone said.

"Rachel, you're Tita Blinkey says hi to you."

Rachel waved her hand while playing with a red spaceship. It was her favorite color and toy.

I just arrived from my trip to Tokyo. As we landed on the tarmac, I could already feel it or maybe inside the airplane.

Wheels of baggage dragged on tiles, tourists and domestic passengers scattered on the airport. I called my mom to ask if my daughter was still at school. As usual, she took care of Rachel while I was away

"I'm already home, Ma, I'll be the one to get Rachel. I want to surprise her that I'll be fetching her at school."

From time to time, I would spin around and look for something. But I felt a different presence now. I looked for it but it's already going away, fading. I hung up the phone and called a cab.

Home sweet home. The house with all things in place paved my jet lag away. The closed windows, the four chairs by the table, the picture frames, the plants. I poured myself a fruit concoction to cool down this sizzling afternoon. Then I fished my keys and went to my car right away.

I entered the gate with a sign that said, "St. Therese School for gifted children." 

Nuns as teachers roamed around, a gardener, wearing a rattan hat, was watering the plants. A chorus of children, reciting the alphabet or the multiplication filled the hallways. I stood outside my daughter's classroom and waited. I saw her among the children raising their hands, she was looking through the windows, looking at something maybe she and I could only see.

When the bell rang, I watched her carry her bag and pass the doorway. It still pricked me when her eyes linger on other kids with their mothers.

Then I called to her, "Sweetheart!"

Her eyes widened and yelled, "Papa!" She raised her arms and I carried her in mine.

I helped her get up the car then I jolted, "Careful!" As she bumped her head on the roof of the car.

"Oh my baby," I said but she didn't react, not even a flinch or smile.

On the spot, I pressed my lips on her head and blew air. I massaged her head and closed the door after. Look how fast she's growing, I thought. Beyond the crosswalks I saw her, checking if I'm taking care of our daughter.

Even then, I already knew Rachel's not like the other kids. When taking pictures, she won't smile. I knew all about not labeling your child, about letting them pick their own identity. I opened a Maltese chocolate and gave it to her. Some days she would only eat red-colored food. This one's an exception because of the red wrapper. 

Sometimes she'd say she has an imaginary friend. I too have one. She's here inside the car, sitting next to me, her hand on my lap and pressing. Pressing where the accelerator was and wanting to speed up the car.

"Come with me," she whispered in a plea. I ignored it and glanced in the rearview mirror to see Rachel.

Then I focused my eyes on the road.

"Before I forget," I said when we got home and produced the necklace. I unlocked the necklace and put it around her neck.

"Papa, what's this?" she asked.

"It's your mother's heirloom," I replied, "I want you to take care of it."

I'd cry myself sometimes because I had to raise her all by myself. But it's as if she could already take care of herself ever since her operation.

Rachel was born healthy except she has poor eyesight. When she turned one her eyes were already white as milk. I became worried about her future. With the arduous search for donors of eyes, she hadn't had surgery until she was four years old.

As she grew up, I had to call her, "Here, here's papa" and she would follow my voice and run towards me where she would raise her hands above her head and hold mine. Those soft tiny fingers touched me as if I was the most innocent man with the purest heart. It was a kind sensation.

She's six now. When she could see again for the first time, she smiled with her chubby cheeks and big round eyes.

Sometimes, she's irritated with too much light, that's why we closed the windows in our house.

When I couldn't distinguish dreams or reality, she was my safe haven. Sometimes I would see a figment of my imagination, her ghost, or my hallucinations of her and it would only wash away once I see my daughter. She got her mother's art skills. The way she mixes blue and green when coloring the sea in her coloring book. The way she draws trees with commendable details for the leaves and branches, I knew she got it from her mother.

But I never knew that I'd be seeing her even now.