Voices in the Theater - Chapter 4

Names & Places

Fortunately, it turned out that Karen only wanted to get the research team together to discuss how we would divide the work, "...so we can cover the most material in the shortest possible time."

Even more fortunately, Vanessa told her she had another report group meeting to go to, while Richard just shrugged (a barely visible shrug, considering that Chynna had slinked arms and... arms all over him). So Karen said we would just meet on Monday, 5:00 PM, at the Conservatory.

I almost wanted to stay and talk to Sir Julius, but Migs and Aris already had him cornered. They seemed engrossed in a discussion of energy and light and frequencies and waves. It also seemed like their conversation was going to take more than five minutes, so I decided to duck out of the room before they noticed. Still, I felt Migs' eyes on my back just as I disappeared out of the door.

It was 11:15 a.m. I took the Metro to Buendia Station, then a bus to "Fairview, Ortigas Ilalim." I actually had no idea what those last words meant. All I knew was that if I took this bus, I'd be home in about 15 minutes.

"Home" these days was a three-bedroom apartment in this two-building complex called The Columns, which was right across the building where Dad works. This was also what brought us here to Manila in the first place: Dad had been assigned to manage his company's customer care center in the Philippines, and because it was a five-year assignment, he had the option to relocate and take us with him.

It was an easy decision for him to make, since Mom was Filipina and she really missed the place she grew up in. It wasn't such an easy transition for me. I had to leave behind the only friends I'd ever had and the only home I'd ever known. The home that held all my memories of Grandma Marie. But of course, none of my concerns really mattered to him. So about halfway through senior year they pulled me out of school, sold our house, brought us to this place, and had me home-tutored for about two months so I can get into university.

De La Salle University: the place where I felt like a freak, where most of the girls wondered if I'd already learned to shower every day, and where most of the guys assumed I was easy.

Until maybe this morning. This morning, the people I'd met seemed to have other things on their minds.

It was surprising. In a good way.

By 11:45 I was still on the bus, so I decided to text my mom that I'd be having lunch in Greenbelt instead of at home.

As soon as I saw the waterfall staircase of the Peninsula I prepared to get off. From Rustan's, I walked straight to the underground pass, emerged on the other side of Makati Avenue, then walked two more blocks towards Greenbelt.

The day was humid and sticky, the midday sun mercilessly fried my head, and I knew the brisk walk would further drench my cotton shirt with sweat and make it cling to my back. But I knew it would all be worth it.

Greenbelt, Makati was my real home here.

I remember reading this quote somewhere before:

"A place is nothing, not even space, unless at its heart a figure stands."

Back in New Jersey home was where Libby and I had sleepovers since we were nine, and Grandma Marie baked us cookies and smiled knowingly when we whispered and giggled about boys, and where I spent countless nights writing about dreamy Eric Taylor in my diary... only to find out he was such an asshole.

Here in Manila I was alone and displaced, the freak that everyone looked at and whispered about just because I looked slightly different. Many of the people were warm and welcoming, that's for sure. But a lot of them also held unfair stereotypes that often made me feel I was being judged.

Except here in Greenbelt, where about 50% of the regulars were just like me.

Here the shop names were more familiar, and most days—especially in the middle of the day, when people were still in their offices—the trees and plants, duck and fish, plus the waiting water combined often outnumbered the people. My head was quieter when there were more plants than people. And even when I could hear people's thoughts here, most of them were in a language I easily understood.

I went into Café Breton and took one of the empty 2-seat tables near the window. Before the waitress could give me the menu, I ordered my usual mozzarella cheeseburger and mango shake; the mango crepe would come later for dessert. I smiled as I thought about how this great meal was just gonna cost me five bucks.

In Greenbelt people's thoughts were also more relaxed, and it wasn’t as much of a headache having to listen to them.

Of course, it wasn't accurate to say that I had to listen to them. Thing is, I still don’t really understand how this thing worked. All I know is that most places I go to, I often hear people's thoughts.

There were times when I heard them clearly, there were times when the thoughts sounded muffled, and there were many times when I didn't hear anything at all. I had no control over it; it was just the way it is.

But what happened at that SPRG meeting during Eartha's story was something else. Something that never happened before, and something that I wouldn't wish to happen again.

Listen.

I automatically looked up at the sound, wondering why it was so clear. Usually it meant someone near was directing the thought at me. I looked around, but didn't see anyone looking in my direction.

Listen.

This time I swiveled around my chair to scan the whole restaurant. A man and a woman who both sounded French were sitting near the doors that led into the mall. A small family with an English dad, an Asian mom, a toddler, and an infant were crowded at a table near the counter. Several waiters and waitresses milled about, and two staff people were standing near the register.

None of them were looking at me.

But the voice was so clear. And strangely, I couldn't tell if it belonged to a male or a female.

LISTEN.

I actually jumped in my seat; the voice sounded so urgent. "Listen to what?!" I whispered involuntarily into the air. No one in the restaurant noticed. But the strange voice responded.

The voices. Listen.

Now this was really freaking me out. First that thing in school, and now this.

But unlike my experience this morning, this new situation didn't feel frightening at all. Of course having this strange voice coming out of nowhere and, like, talking to me felt creepy, but it wasn't scaring me the way those other voices did this morning.

Those other voices.

There it was again. But this time I began to understand. I was supposed to listen—to remember—those voices I wanted to forget.

"Why?" I whispered again, into the air.

Listen.

I sighed and closed my eyes. No, I didn't want to remember. But right now I felt like I was supposed to. Like there was something about what happened this morning that I needed to pay attention to.

No, I didn't want to remember. But I did. So easily. Too easily. And then I realized something...

There had been something in those whispering, sinister chorus of voices. In the middle of all their hissing, they were saying something else...

"Something important...?" I asked, as I scrunched my forehead up in concentration.

They were names.

My eyes flew open, startled. There it was again, that strange yet non-threatening voice, and it was answering my questions. Looking around, I still didn't see anyone who seemed particularly interested in me or even glancing in my general direction. I took in another breath.

"Names?" I whispered into the air.

Remember, the voice replied.

By this time I was 100% sure it wasn't coming from anyone around me. At least, not anyone I could see.

Taking out my phone, I searched for an available WiFi network and started browsing. When the Google search box finally came out, I reached out with my mind and tried to grasp at those distinct words—those names—that the genderless chorus of voices had been whispering when Eartha was telling her story.

Katrina Manuel.

I wasn't sure if that was a name. For all I knew, I could have been making it up. But I typed the name into the search box, enclosed it in quotation marks, and added “+ Manila.”

The search results were few, but to the point.

Katrina Manuel's body had been discovered by her roommate, her neck hanging by a rope that was tied to the ceiling beams of her dorm room in the University of the Philippines. The year was 1989.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. When I opened them again I found myself moving more slowly, thinking more slowly. My mind reached out half-heartedly for another name in the memory of those whispers, while wishing I wouldn't find any.

Joseph Yumol.

I typed the words slowly into the box and added “Manila” again.

Three search results.

Joseph Yumol was 47 years old. He'd been working at the same bank for 20 years, climbing the ranks until he reached a VP position, but the bank had to downsize and let him go. His marriage was failing, his kids were still in college, and he still had 10 years' worth of car and house payments to make. One night he shot himself in the mouth, and his wife had a nervous breakdown when she discovered his body in their room.

I pressed "Exit" on my phone, and while it was erasing my browser history I looked away from my phone screen, wishing I could forget the words I'd just read.

"I can't do this,” I whispered, to no one in particular, to the air.

The waitress placed the mango shake in front of me, along with utensils and a napkin. The sight of the shake's thick yellow froth made my stomach churn. Not in a good way.

Names.

It was the voice again, but it sounded slightly gentler, like it knew I was upset.

"I can't.” I whispered back, shaking my head.

Listen...

I wanted to put my arms on the table and bury my head in them, but I would've toppled the shake. So I just turned my head towards the window, where the yellow sunlight seemed to wash every dark shadow away. "Please leave me alone."

The voice didn't respond.

A few minutes later the waitress served my cheeseburger. And when I'd finished my meal almost an hour later, she gave me my mango crepe. Still the voice didn't return.

I took one bite out of my crepe... then I took out my phone. It was like I couldn't help myself. I returned to the Google homepage, took a deep breath. When I closed my eyes another name was already there, waiting for me in my mind.

Mitchie Borja.

After typing in her name and hitting "search," six results instantly appeared.

Mitchie Borja was part of De La Salle University's theater group. In 2005 during her second year in college, she entered the empty Little Theater with a fan knife in her pocket. When her best friend found her, Mitchie had already slit her left wrist in the backstage area and was slowly bleeding to death. He tried to help her. But Mitchie's last words to him were: "You can't stop me… It’s too late, no one can help me."

After which she used the same knife to stab her own throat.

I went straight home after my long lunch. I almost missed my stop, because even though I was staring out of the bus window the whole time I really couldn't see anything... couldn't feel anything.

I refused to.

It was around 6 PM. when mom asked me what I wanted for dinner. Her simple question had me running and throwing up in the bathroom. She looked concerned, but before she could act all parental I told her to leave me alone and locked myself in my room.

Shit! I thought, as I dabbed a moist towel all over my clammy face. I don't want this. I really don't want this.

But at around 9:30 PM, when everything was quiet—which meant dad had gone to his office, and mom was probably asleep—I flipped my laptop open and went online.

There was one more name, I knew. One last name, one last story. After this I could let this go. I wouldn't have to do any more research; I could just tell Karen and the group what I learned about Mitchie Borja, and maybe this last person I was going to look up... but only if he or she died in the Little Theater too.

I closed my eyes, and tried to remember...

...ssppsssttspssttssspssspspspsssttspssttkatrinamanuelsspsppsssttspssttpspppjosephyumolssspssssppsssttspssttssspsssmitchieborjapsppssspssppsssttspssttssspsspssssandrewdavidsonspsssppsssttspssttssspss...

My eyes flew open, and they seemed to automatically lock on the building across our apartment, the building where dad worked.

Andrew Davidson.

That was the last name, the name in the whispers.

"What does this mean?" I asked the air, hoping for an answer but terrified that I would be heard.

Why was my dad's name in those whispers? Why did his name get lumped together with all those other names, all those other suicide cases... all those dead people?

Not knowing what else to do, I typed in "Andrew Davidson" and “Manila” in the search box, thinking it might just be someone with the exact same name as my dad.

Three results, all having to do with my dad and his company—which had lost three major U.S. clients in the last six months due to the worldwide economic slowdown.

"Davidson was expected to increase profitability by the second half of this year," the reports said, "But his deadline has passed and targets haven't been reached. Stakeholders are now on a holding pattern of 'wait and see.'"

"What does this mean?" I asked again, this time with growing anxiety.

Remember.

The voice was back again. Its timing was perfect; it was even calming, in a way. But I didn't know what else I was supposed to remember.

"Remember what?" I asked as my eyes searched for dad's office window, counting the levels by the lights on at each floor. When I finally found his office window, I realized he wasn't there.

Remember the voices.

I closed my eyes against the anxiety, and tried to remember.

The memory that came at me was frightening in its clarity.

...spsssppsssttspssttssspss... ours... ours... ours... hahahahahahaha!!!

My eyes flew open; I felt like I was drowning again. But this time I understood.

Those horrible voices were after my father.

After more than a minute of hesitation, I picked up my phone and called his mobile number.