By Allegra Balbuena
The moment I step into the Mauka Chapel of Mililani Memorial Park and Mortuary, the chill of the air bites at the skin on my arms, neck, and face. The amount of electricity needed to produce this icy flow of air that billows down the aisle and into the pews astounds me. Just a year into the pandemic, all funeral attendees are required to get their temperatures checked. I’m surprised when the thermometer flashes green, that the heat emitted from my skin isn’t higher. I had been marinating in the island’s natural humidity for at least an hour. The heat of the morning August sun embedded itself into the fabric of my plain black shirt, black leggings, and black ballet flats as I waited for the doors to open. I haven’t felt this particular heat in nearly ten years, back when he was still alive.
I look down at the end of the aisle and see the casket. There lies Apo Lakay1, never “Grandpa.” Santiago Blue, the patriarch of the Blue family, owner of the Blue house located in the town of Ewa2 where I lived for the majority of my childhood. The Blue house was covered by the shade of two mango trees. In lieu of central AC, my grandma, Apo Baket3, opened every door and window inviting in the warm breeze. My grandparents gained ownership of the home after living in it for over twenty years. They had emigrated from the Philippines to the island of Oahu, where housing was provided for workers of the sugar cane plantation. Upon ownership, they painted the house a light, baby blue, almost gray, for the outer walls (not as dark or deep as the azure blue of the Hawaiian sky) and royal blue trim outlining the windows and edges.
Back in May, an injury on Apo Lakay’s right heel went unnoticed by his caretaker and developed into a gangrene infection. He screamed through the night from the pain because morphine wasn’t strong enough. At one point, Apo Lakay needed a feeding tube because he could no longer swallow on his own. His memory was also slipping away. A couple of weeks later, things seemed to improve. My mom was able to feed him beef stew with white rice, the first solid food he had since his health started to decline. He recognized me and my siblings when we saw our faces on the Facebook Messenger video call. What mattered most to me was that he was able to receive stronger pain medication so that he was able to sleep through the night. The impending funeral that my mom, aunts, and uncles were preparing for seemed to be pushed further and further away.
However, on June 23rd, I received a call from my brother with the news of Apo Lakay’s death. It was official: the funeral was to take place after all.
Nearly two months after Apo Lakay closed his eyes for good, I walk with my siblings down the aisle to get a seat up front. If we can’t sit in the first row with my aunts and uncles, we want to be in the second row at least. My mom is not present. She said goodbye to her father privately and saw no reason to be around her siblings who accused her of stealing my grandparents’ money a few years prior when she was their caretaker. Following his death, Apo Lakay’s children met at a Zippy’s, a chain restaurant that can be found in every town on Oahu where locals eat their everyday meals, not a tourist in sight. They discussed Apo Lakay’s funeral arrangements. It ended with my mom storming out and flipping off all of her brothers and sisters.
Aunty Josie (Josefina) moved to Maryland over thirty years ago and is deathly afraid of flying; she’s like Bigfoot, I have only seen one or two obscure photos of her, am pretty sure she exists, but have never actually seen her in person. Uncle Cesar is the oldest male so all the responsibility has fallen on him whether he wants it or not. He’s the only one without a nickname. Aunty Precy (Priscilla) is sweet but her caked-on three-shades-too-light foundation and two-sizes-too-small clothing, plus the fact that she married my mom’s ex-fiancé, sets off alarm bells in my head. Aunty Oping (Ofelia) lives in Waianae, an hour’s drive away from everyone else and she has no fingernails. Aunty Dodina/Dee (Diodina) is the “pretty” sister who’s a go-getter, owning her own home without the help of a man; she’s the only daughter that’s not married and still carries the Blue name. Uncle Mando (Armando) was overweight, got super into boxing and distanced himself the most from our Filipino culture. My mom, Rebecca, is the life of the party, whether she’s at a party or not. She follows her heart and loves hard, almost always at the expense of her own sanity.
As imperfect as my mother is, I know that it is not all in her head. Months after Apo Lakay’s funeral, Apo Baket’s health began to decline as well, her death imminent. My uncle Cesar, who made all the financial and medical decisions for Apo Lakay and Apo Baket, told my mom that she could not see her dying mother. It was impossible because of the hospital restrictions. Over the phone, I begged my uncle to allow my mom into Apo Baket’s room. It’s unlike me to advocate for others as I can’t even advocate for myself with anything. When my Starbucks order is made incorrectly, I suck it up, literally, walk away from the counter, out of the store, and ultimately, leave my drink untouched in the cupholder of my car. My uncle remained firm and part of me wanted to believe that he was genuine. There was absolutely nothing he could do, as much as he wanted to, I told myself. With the help of a friend, my mom was able to see her mother alive one last time, thank her for taking care of and loving her children (me and my siblings) and tell her that she loved her, what I was ultimately unable to do on the Zoom meeting screen when it was time to say goodbye. I ended up not attending Apo Baket’s funeral primarily to avoid a repeat of Apo Lakay’s funeral.
On my way to the second row of pews, I meet the gaze of my uncle Cesar’s stepdaughter, Nemy, (autocorrect suggests “Enemy”) who is handing out programs and directing people to sign the guestbook. She makes no attempt to address me. She looks back down as if she needs to concentrate. The rest of her siblings greet me with hugs and I remark how crazy it is that their children are babies no longer, how they’re closer to being adults. I remember helping Apo Baket take care of them when they were infants and toddlers. Now, they tower over me and are graduating high school.
When I see my uncle Cesar, he drapes his left arm over me to give a side hug but doesn’t squeeze or pause for a couple of seconds. It’s quick and weightless.
After telling me that it’s good I was able to make it, he asks, “So, how many kids you get now, Alley?”
He calls me by my childhood nickname, which sounds unnatural coming from him. Everyone else who does this is fine: my mom, dad, sister, other aunts and uncles. I have no kids. He should know this. I am actually struggling to have children. I know that he doesn’t know this.
“No, Uncle. No kids yet.”
There’s nothing else to discuss, so I approach the casket. I take a deep breath before looking down. Apo Lakay looks small, the same way that the Blue house and everything in it looked small after moving away from Hawaii and returning during summer for visits. He looks peaceful. He’s no longer in pain.
As I take one last look at Apo Lakay, I tell him one more time that I love him. My sister bursts into tears and I wrap both arms around her and squeeze until she’s ready to let go.
The service begins. I hold the program in one hand and rest my arm around my sister’s shoulders.
At the start of the service, Nemy gives a hula performance. Maybe it’s that I haven’t attended many funerals in Hawaii before but the inclusion of this performance sticks out. The sultry way she sways her hips feels too sexy for a funeral. Maybe I just don’t understand. We couldn’t be more different: her skin tone is the lightest shade of brown possible, she is tall and thin, owns a big new house, has a teenage son whose “first business” is renting out a brand-new car on the Turo app, makes cakes that are Instagram worthy in her free time, posts on social media about not being able to start her day without her Nespresso machine. And she drives a Tesla.
Nemy’s husband, Joe, is the pastor who leads Apo Lakay’s funeral service. I never noticed how much older he is than her, fifteen years at least. I’m excited to hear what he has to say about Apo Lakay. I’m given his date of birth, where he was born, how many children he has, how many grandchildren he has, and what he did for a living; things I already know. Joe ends the speech with a retelling of the day he met Apo Lakay, when he had started dating Nemy. As a writer, I expect to hear the personal details of that meeting, some tension that builds but is eventually resolved somehow and that gives insight into the type of person Apo Lakay was. Joe sucks at storytelling. It takes him ten minutes to tell the story and at the end, Apo Lakay shook his hand and told him to take care of Nemy, which was probably true but is ultimately unsatisfying.
I wanted to be moved by the words. I wanted to laugh and to cry. I wanted to hear about Apo Lakay’s life and the impact he had on others.
Apo Lakay, my mother’s strict father who when teaching her how to drive, told her that she could go 10 miles per hour past the speed limit, and when she got pulled her over for going 60 in a 50-mph zone, she told the cop, “But my dad said it was okay.”
Apo Lakay, who sat down with me one afternoon to explain fractions, how one-fourth is bigger than one-fifth. I’m certain he used pizza slices as an example. Of course, I’d want a slice of a pizza cut into four pieces rather than five pieces. It just made sense.
Apo Lakay, the only one that I consistently picture in my mind, not my dad or mom, as I listen to the songs that played on the radio in Hawaii in the late ’90s and early 2000s. My “Ewa Jams” playlist on Spotify that never fails to calm me down, to transform the inner reds, greens, and grays into blues. When I hear the familiar plucking of ukulele strings or the signature reggae beat in the undertones, I see Apo Lakay driving his blue car home after aunty Oping’s party. All four windows are down, no AC, just the cool salty wind flowing into the car as we drive along the coast, the blue hues (azure, turquoise, and aqua) of the Pacific Ocean never leaving my eyes, never ceasing to take my breath away.