Andrea Salvador (17)
The Audacity of a Smile
My sister is one of the last ones with the ability to cry. Pretty soon, they’ll all have gone from this world, and the rest of us will remain, left to imagine rivulets of mythical tears stroking our cheeks. We’ll place our hands over phantom streaks, and they’ll come away dry.
My sister was born in late January. The dry spell came at the start of February that very year. If doctors, scientists, even mothers had seen the lack of tears as an affliction, I’m sure we would have figured out why. No—they were too overjoyed at the thought of quiet babies, well-tempered toddlers, and obedient children. How lucky they were, to sleep easily into the night! They could ignore the fair warnings their parents gave them; temper tantrums and spoiled upbringings were morphing into relics of the past.
My sister, despite her outdated ability, has always been a quiet person. I like to think that our temperaments were mismatched in heaven. Despite my perverse inability to cry, I always found ways to warrant attention from my parents and steal second glances from passersby. I screamed, I punched, I shaved my head, I wore bright red lipstick. She was the opposite, trying to talk me out of impulsive decisions. Many times, unsuccessfully.
My sister lives in a high-rise in the heart of the business district solely because she can cry. Her generation learned that they could milk our money by simply showing us tears. Crying turned into a niche; bursting into genuine tears in the street was your ticket to fame if you were spotted by the right person. Her friends have starred in dramatic movies, attended talk shows, and frequented theater companies. My sister, a drama lecturer herself, has revealed that this once-normal skill turned into a gift for them.
My sister admits that she felt the need to keep her tears in. When she confessed this to me, over the phone, I gaped. She had to coax me into speech because I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. “It’s true,” she insisted. “I felt weak for doing it because you acted like nothing ever hurt you.” I told her that she was wrong, that many things had hurt me. It was just no one could figure out when and by how much. “I know,” she replied. “That’s when I began to understand it was all right to cry.”
My sister grew up watching our parents boast about my smile. She meandered in the background of our family photos in front of glittering Christmas trees, pressing together flat lips while my parents coaxed another smile out of me. And another seated on the new sofa. And another by the waxed staircase. Our family photographer doted on me upon learning that I was one of them, the stellar children. “It’s so easy to take photos, nowadays,” he said, adjusting the shutter of his camera. “No more props needed to make you all smile, no more editing screaming children out.” He laughed, leaning into his camera and firing a few trial shots. On the way out, right in front of my older sister, he handed me an embossed card. “If you ever want extra cash, you can model in stock photos for my company.” I told him he had many other children to offer this to, crumpling the card in front of him. It was one of the only times that it felt right, the sardonic smile on my face.
My sister is aware, contrary to our parents’ praises, that I am cursed. The world praised my generation for our resilience and independence, our gritty attitudes, and our gratifying calmness. They turned a blind eye to what we felt, choosing to focus on what they could see: the nothingness in our eyes. I used to look in the mirror and appreciate them, admiring the coldness that somehow made me promising and bright. Now, my mirror lies on the floor of my living room, in twinkling shards.
My sister and I only reconnected when she forced me to go with her to the hospital a few months ago. I’d been stumbling my way back to my apartment with the bundle of groceries covering my peripheral view. When I saw her pacing in front of my doorway, it was too late—she’d gone dizzy from her movement, and she hurled into the potted plant that waved visitors into my entryway. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of a pale hand. “I need you to come with me to the doctor.” After brushing her teeth with a travel kit extra I’d scoured for her, she filled me in on the details. She’d been experiencing sudden, violent migraines for weeks now, and couldn’t stand elevators or moving vehicles. They made her too nauseous; she’d walked the twelve floors up to reach me. We walked the twelve floors down and six whole blocks to the doctor’s office. Two days later, the diagnosis was made official: my sister was suffering from a brain tumor.
My sister is going to die very soon, and both of us are ready. We’ve laid out specific steps for her funeral, which I have written down in a leather-bound notebook. I keep it nestled in my desk drawer, easy for anyone to find should I be unable to respectfully plan it myself. We have settled on a small attendance, with her two remaining friends on the list and a smattering of our cousins. She will wear a white dress shot through with lavender beads. Her face will be devoid of makeup, while her fingers will be painted a blush pink. If I can bear to be present, I will wear a black veil over my face and I will not give a public eulogy.
My sister asked me, a few days ago, to give my eulogy to her in person. She lay at the foot of the doctor’s bed, swinging her thin legs, trying to make her slender toes reach the floor. Pushing through my shame and bewilderment at her request, I recited my eulogy to her. I’d scribbled lines down on various table napkins once we had gotten her funeral plans underway, repeating them as I walked down the street, in the shower, under the bedsheets. By the time I finished, the last words tinging my lips like a sting, I looked up from my lap. My sister was crying: bold, carelessly, free. The doctor returned to the office right then, wide-eyed, as we both confronted her blubbery mess. “I’ll call you,” she said and tucked her tears back into herself like a hidden sleeve.
My sister hangs up from our weekly call, smacking her lips loud to mimic a kiss. Even though I see her thrice a week, I still find comfort in making sure she’s there over the line. She tells me she loves me and she’s thankful that I’m there for her. She says she can’t wait to see me in a few days, back in the hospital for another check-up. Placing my phone back into its cradle, I am taken back to when the doctor first confirmed her diagnosis. He delivered it in a solemn voice, eyes peering curiously over his clipboard to drink in my sister’s reaction—she delivered. My sister broke down, trying to catch her breath. It still haunts me, my reaction: I turned my head away, my lips giving way to the audacity of a smile, because I had nothing comforting to give her.
Andrea Salvador is a Filipino writer, split between Manila and Melbourne. Her work has been recognized by the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Columbia College Chicago, and Interlochen Arts Academy, while she has participated in writing programs hosted by the Adroit Journal, Speakeasy Project, Adelphi University, and Amherst College's The Common.
The Audacity of a Smile
My sister is one of the last ones with the ability to cry. Pretty soon, they’ll all have gone from this world, and the rest of us will remain, left to imagine rivulets of mythical tears stroking our cheeks. We’ll place our hands over phantom streaks, and they’ll come away dry.
My sister was born in late January. The dry spell came at the start of February that very year. If doctors, scientists, even mothers had seen the lack of tears as an affliction, I’m sure we would have figured out why. No—they were too overjoyed at the thought of quiet babies, well-tempered toddlers, and obedient children. How lucky they were, to sleep easily into the night! They could ignore the fair warnings their parents gave them; temper tantrums and spoiled upbringings were morphing into relics of the past.
My sister, despite her outdated ability, has always been a quiet person. I like to think that our temperaments were mismatched in heaven. Despite my perverse inability to cry, I always found ways to warrant attention from my parents and steal second glances from passersby. I screamed, I punched, I shaved my head, I wore bright red lipstick. She was the opposite, trying to talk me out of impulsive decisions. Many times, unsuccessfully.
My sister lives in a high-rise in the heart of the business district solely because she can cry. Her generation learned that they could milk our money by simply showing us tears. Crying turned into a niche; bursting into genuine tears in the street was your ticket to fame if you were spotted by the right person. Her friends have starred in dramatic movies, attended talk shows, and frequented theater companies. My sister, a drama lecturer herself, has revealed that this once-normal skill turned into a gift for them.
My sister admits that she felt the need to keep her tears in. When she confessed this to me, over the phone, I gaped. She had to coax me into speech because I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. “It’s true,” she insisted. “I felt weak for doing it because you acted like nothing ever hurt you.” I told her that she was wrong, that many things had hurt me. It was just no one could figure out when and by how much. “I know,” she replied. “That’s when I began to understand it was all right to cry.”
My sister grew up watching our parents boast about my smile. She meandered in the background of our family photos in front of glittering Christmas trees, pressing together flat lips while my parents coaxed another smile out of me. And another seated on the new sofa. And another by the waxed staircase. Our family photographer doted on me upon learning that I was one of them, the stellar children. “It’s so easy to take photos, nowadays,” he said, adjusting the shutter of his camera. “No more props needed to make you all smile, no more editing screaming children out.” He laughed, leaning into his camera and firing a few trial shots. On the way out, right in front of my older sister, he handed me an embossed card. “If you ever want extra cash, you can model in stock photos for my company.” I told him he had many other children to offer this to, crumpling the card in front of him. It was one of the only times that it felt right, the sardonic smile on my face.
My sister is aware, contrary to our parents’ praises, that I am cursed. The world praised my generation for our resilience and independence, our gritty attitudes, and our gratifying calmness. They turned a blind eye to what we felt, choosing to focus on what they could see: the nothingness in our eyes. I used to look in the mirror and appreciate them, admiring the coldness that somehow made me promising and bright. Now, my mirror lies on the floor of my living room, in twinkling shards.
My sister and I only reconnected when she forced me to go with her to the hospital a few months ago. I’d been stumbling my way back to my apartment with the bundle of groceries covering my peripheral view. When I saw her pacing in front of my doorway, it was too late—she’d gone dizzy from her movement, and she hurled into the potted plant that waved visitors into my entryway. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of a pale hand. “I need you to come with me to the doctor.” After brushing her teeth with a travel kit extra I’d scoured for her, she filled me in on the details. She’d been experiencing sudden, violent migraines for weeks now, and couldn’t stand elevators or moving vehicles. They made her too nauseous; she’d walked the twelve floors up to reach me. We walked the twelve floors down and six whole blocks to the doctor’s office. Two days later, the diagnosis was made official: my sister was suffering from a brain tumor.
My sister is going to die very soon, and both of us are ready. We’ve laid out specific steps for her funeral, which I have written down in a leather-bound notebook. I keep it nestled in my desk drawer, easy for anyone to find should I be unable to respectfully plan it myself. We have settled on a small attendance, with her two remaining friends on the list and a smattering of our cousins. She will wear a white dress shot through with lavender beads. Her face will be devoid of makeup, while her fingers will be painted a blush pink. If I can bear to be present, I will wear a black veil over my face and I will not give a public eulogy.
My sister asked me, a few days ago, to give my eulogy to her in person. She lay at the foot of the doctor’s bed, swinging her thin legs, trying to make her slender toes reach the floor. Pushing through my shame and bewilderment at her request, I recited my eulogy to her. I’d scribbled lines down on various table napkins once we had gotten her funeral plans underway, repeating them as I walked down the street, in the shower, under the bedsheets. By the time I finished, the last words tinging my lips like a sting, I looked up from my lap. My sister was crying: bold, carelessly, free. The doctor returned to the office right then, wide-eyed, as we both confronted her blubbery mess. “I’ll call you,” she said and tucked her tears back into herself like a hidden sleeve.
My sister hangs up from our weekly call, smacking her lips loud to mimic a kiss. Even though I see her thrice a week, I still find comfort in making sure she’s there over the line. She tells me she loves me and she’s thankful that I’m there for her. She says she can’t wait to see me in a few days, back in the hospital for another check-up. Placing my phone back into its cradle, I am taken back to when the doctor first confirmed her diagnosis. He delivered it in a solemn voice, eyes peering curiously over his clipboard to drink in my sister’s reaction—she delivered. My sister broke down, trying to catch her breath. It still haunts me, my reaction: I turned my head away, my lips giving way to the audacity of a smile, because I had nothing comforting to give her.
Andrea Salvador is a Filipino writer, split between Manila and Melbourne. Her work has been recognized by the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Columbia College Chicago, and Interlochen Arts Academy, while she has participated in writing programs hosted by the Adroit Journal, Speakeasy Project, Adelphi University, and Amherst College's The Common.