The Return

She left Japan once with a plan. She came back without one — only a credit card, a one-way ticket, and the voice of a quiet man who said, "Come now."

When Noel's classes in law began, the routine shifted. He had moved out of the International Residence and was renting a unit in a seven-door apartment building near downtown Sendai. It had a bedroom, living room, kitchen, toilet, and bathroom — all in one rectangular floor. The main door was steel, but the doors inside were sliding, made from wood and paper. The floors in the living room and bedroom were tatami. The kitchen sat to the left of the entrance, and the toilet, washing machine, and bathroom lined the right. Across from the door was the living room, with a low dining table — the Japanese way, sitting on the floor to eat. Sliding glass windows stretched from ceiling to floor on one wall, and the study table was placed in front of them. The bedroom, to the right, had three built-in cabinets: two small ones for clothes, and a large one between them, deep enough to lie down in, for storing the thick blankets and foam mattresses used during winter.

Noel chose classes that used English textbooks because six months of intensive language study was not nearly enough to master Japanese. Some of our co-grantees had reportedly failed to develop the required level and could not continue their studies. But Noel was relentless. He would read with a dictionary beside him — a thick one for English and an electronic one for Japanese — checking every unfamiliar word as he went. He was extremely studious despite his weakness. When I was there, he did not have to struggle alone. I would read a book to him and we would discuss its meaning as we went. When he was assigned to report on a chapter, I would let him prepare his version first, then make my own. We were like competing partners sometimes.

Our conversations had evolved. Where we once talked about history and culture, we now debated politics and governance. I used to let him lead the discussion while I listened. But now that we were both familiar with the subject, we had to find ways to unwind — listening to music, watching television, or shopping at the nearby supermarket. Going in and out of the apartment had become less stressful, so I could walk beside him openly in the neighborhood.

The only problem was his friends from back home. They would make surprise visits. When that happened, we had to act fast — putting away any evidence of my presence. I would carefully close the sliding doors to the bedroom and hide inside the large bedding cabinet. The worst was when someone came while we were eating, because I had to bring the food and all my dishes inside with me. Some neighbors lived in the unit across from his, facing the glass windows, and even when they were out, I was careful not to be seen when hanging or collecting clothes outside.

Back in Akita, a letter I had been waiting for arrived in my mailbox. My teacher training program would end in March, and I would be given a plane ticket home — valid until the end of that month — even though my student visa was good until September. We were required to surrender our Alien Card to immigration upon exit. But according to a guidebook for Monbusho scholars, a re-entry permit would allow me to leave and re-enter Japan while keeping my card. Before my earlier trip home for the graduation, I had taken a single re-entry permit. Now, with a multiple re-entry permit, I could leave and return more than once as long as my visa remained valid.💡This re-entry strategy — and the credit card she got in Chapter 5 — will become the lifeline that makes "The Return" possible.

I thought of my father's uncle in Canada. I used to write to him from Manila but never received a response. I tried again from Japan, asking for his support to visit. With a letter of invitation, I could apply for a tourist visa at the Canadian Embassy. I told my professor about the plan, assuring him I would leave after my research presentation and return to Japan from Canada for the final documentation before scholars went home. He gave his permission.

When I returned to Akita from my trips, I reported to my professor and the university office. I thanked them for everything and said goodbye to everyone. I packed all my things and threw away what I would no longer need. I could only stay in Japan until the end of the month if I wanted to use the free ticket, and there was less than a week left. After settling everything, I left for Sendai to spend the remaining days with Noel.

He was back from visiting his country, and we had not seen each other for quite some time. He was fully aware of my plan to return to Japan eventually, but he also knew it depended on how things turned out in the Philippines. I had a commitment to serve for at least three years after the scholarship, and I had my children. He, on the other hand, could stay in Japan for another five years if his academic performance held. Uncertain of what the future would bring, it was time to say goodbye.

Contrary to what I expected, the meeting was not as warm as it used to be. He was distant. We talked about our trips, and I gathered that his engagement preparations had gone well. I could not think of any reason for the sudden change except that he had spent time with his future wife. Her pictures were on the table. She was young, pretty, and dark — but her complexion was perfect for her kind of beauty. He also had a full-length photo that showed her figure. Several avenues of thought played in my mind. Perhaps the engagement ceremony had touched his heart and he was taking his vow seriously. Perhaps he had realized he had been unfaithful. Perhaps he had seen her beauty and decided I was nothing compared to her. Or perhaps what I had experienced for more than a year were just kind gestures — his way of pleasing me, the way he tried to please everybody.

Whatever it was, I wanted my last days with him to be normal, if not memorable. But he would leave me alone in the apartment for hours even when he had no classes, and he would look at his fiancée's pictures as if trying to make me jealous. He was irritable at times and quiet at others. I managed his moods until the night of my departure came.

My bus was leaving around midnight, and the station was about thirty minutes on foot from his place. I prepared early, but even in these last hours, he was still different. He walked alongside his bicycle with me toward the station but took another road when we got close — there were too many people who might recognize us. Before the bus lights went out, I tried to call him on his cellphone for a parting word. But before I could say anything, he said he was in a telephone booth calling his country, and cut the line.

Unlike the other passengers, I could not sleep. There were too many things on my mind. I would push aside my thoughts about Noel and think instead about the problems waiting for me. My school was in deep financial trouble again. Two of the teachers were on a sit-down strike — present in the classroom but refusing to teach. They had not been paid their salaries for months, even though students were paying tuition. Marlon and his sister were to blame again. They were the only ones who handled the money, but neither would admit wrongdoing. I had not sent my last allowance so I could settle the debts myself. I was returning to the same situation I had left — only now, the school building was bigger.

The first thing I did when I got home was climb to the second floor of the building. I had seen it in pictures, but it looked better than I expected. It was a relief to know that some of the scholarship money had been put to good use. I might have lost a significant amount in the process, but now there was one thing I could call mine. It could be my new stepping stone.

Then I listened to everyone's stories. I paid the two teachers' salaries and had all remaining debts listed — the grocery store, the school publications, the parents who had paid for books that were never purchased. But what upset me the most was discovering that my daughter had been using my old bag from teacher training because no one would buy her a new one. Her shoes were worn through. I felt guilty for never asking during our phone conversations, and furious at the negligence of those who shared her blood. She had even been sent to the store to buy food on credit — carrying the shame of asking — just so everyone could eat.

My mother was there when I came, and she became one of my guards at night against Marlon. I would keep my family around me because I could not stand even his shadow. He would still come and attempt to touch me as though no one else was there. He would only leave when I shouted. During the day, he followed me around. It was summer holiday, so the school was like an extension of the house.

I went to my workplace several days after my arrival, carrying copies of my research paper. My co-teachers on the way were surprised at how slim I had become. That was the same reaction inside the campus — and not much else.

I went straight to the Mathematics center hoping to find familiar faces. A new teacher who did not know me was there. Another one recognized me but did not seem happy. I waited for others, but the reception was the same — cold. I knew how tough it must have been for them to handle extra classes while I was away. I could not blame them. I had been insensitive and selfish, and I deserved the treatment.

I reported to the principal, who browsed my research paper and congratulated me. I left the paper at the Mathematics center for my department head, then went looking for someone who would be happy to see me. I met one teacher in the corridor who asked how I had gotten the scholarship. When I told her it was mostly by prayer, she laughed and asked what position I assumed when I prayed. Her tone suggested she thought I had not earned it through the right process. I moved on, found old friends, and invited them to a restaurant. There, for the first time, I began to tell them how my husband had been treating me.

With the cold atmosphere at school and the situation at home, my intention to go back to Japan grew stronger. But I had problems to solve first. I had to take my children away from Marlon. I was not sure if Noel would still welcome me. I had to decide whether to return to teaching or not, and I had only six months left on my visa.

It was still early when I got back to my area one evening, but lights in some houses were already on. As my transport approached, I noticed many people gathered in front of the house. I got off quickly and heard voices urging Marlon to stop. My children and mother were crying. Marlon had his arm wrapped around Junjun's neck and was pulling him out of the house. But he released him when someone told him I was there. He left, shouting something at my brother.

Junjun was studying criminology because he wanted to become a policeman. He had taken whatever was left of my monthly salary during my absence, though there was not much because of the loans. His body was shaking and he wanted to fight back, even though Marlon had grown fat and tall and there was no way he could beat him. But that was not the reason he should let it go. I told him how bright his future could be if he finished his studies and became the policeman he dreamed of being. He should not let Marlon destroy that dream. Marlon did not deserve the honor of being his dream's destroyer.

That night, I took my bicycle and rode to the other side of the village. I had bought it when I returned, partly to keep my weight down and partly for this — I could not call Noel from the school telephone or anywhere near it. My timing was always right; he was always home when I called. But he was consistently quiet, seemingly uninterested in my stories. He would laugh a little every time I told him how I had successfully avoided sleeping with Marlon, though.

I called him from my cellphone and told him what had happened between my brother and my husband, and how I felt about going back to teaching. But he cut me while I was talking.

That was all I needed to hear.

I talked to my mother and asked if she could take my children to Marinduque and look after them. Junjun would continue his studies but move to my sister Vilma's place. She agreed, on the condition that I send money to support them. The next thing I had to do was convince Marlon.

I did not want to leave the school's administration to him and his sister again, so I asked my co-teacher and the municipal engineer to manage it while I was gone. The engineer wanted the arrangement in writing, signed by both me and my husband.

I told Marlon about my plan to go back to Japan, even though I had no guarantee of finding work. I told him about sending the children to school in Marinduque. I tried to explain why the engineer and my co-teacher managing the school would be better for everyone, so he would sign the document. He said he would agree on two conditions: I had to sleep with him, and he wanted the school for himself. No member of my family was to have anything to do with it.

I was caught off guard. I knew he would demand intimacy, but I did not expect him to give up our children so easily in exchange for the school. And I was not willing to hand it over. But I could not have both worlds.

Thirty-five days after I left Japan, I was on a plane back.

I boarded the plane with a one-way ticket bought with my credit card — the one I had gotten on a whim when a bank representative came to campus, the one I never planned to use.💡The credit card she almost didn't apply for back in Chapter 5 became the only way she could afford to return. It was already my seventh flight in less than two years, so I was no longer afraid of takeoff or turbulence. What I feared now was immigration.

I only realized the gravity of my situation when the flight attendant handed out the immigration forms. How I had failed to consider this problem before was unbelievable — but it would have been counterproductive if I had. Fear might have stopped me. I had a student visa, a re-entry permit, and the Alien Card I had not surrendered. But I was required to state my purpose of entry and an address. I could no longer use the International House — my contract had expired. I wrote Noel's apartment address. For purpose, I could not say tourism — I had no money to show. I was holding a student visa, so the only thing I could write was "to study." But what would I say if they asked what? "Why not Law?" I thought. "If Noel could make it, I might be able to, too."

I was so worried that I hardly noticed the landing. I walked with the other passengers toward immigration and fell into line. I had heard that chewing gum helped with earaches after flying. I had two pieces in my mouth, chewing them like I was eating a very chewy pizza — not for an earache, but because it was the only way to hide my fear. My hands grew colder as I got closer to the line. I could feel my heart pounding, but I tried to look relaxed. Then the inspector signaled it was my turn.

He looked at my face as I approached, and I tried to wear a smile. I handed him my passport, the immigration form, and the Alien Card. He flipped the pages, examined the card, and checked if I had filled everything out correctly. I took a deep breath, ready for his question.

But he stamped my passport without asking any.

Ecstatic, I headed to the escalator. The rest of the trip was a piece of cake.

It was still dawn when I reached Noel's apartment. I had returned the duplicate key before I left, and my cellphone subscription had expired. But he knew I was coming, so he opened the door shortly after I knocked. I could tell from his face that he had been in a deep sleep. Without saying anything, he went back to the bedroom and lay down in a fetal position under his blanket.

"Happy Birthday," I said — like I was saying it to my firstborn on her first birthday.

Without moving, he said, "Can we talk later, Marisa? I'm still very sleepy."

I began to like it when he said my name. It was like an assurance that he was fully aware of my existence — that it was me he was talking to.

I closed the sliding door to the bedroom and turned on the lights in the living room. Nothing had changed except the volume of books on the table — notes with markers still spread out, suggesting he had been studying the night before. I sat down and began reading his materials. When the neighborhood started to stir, I decided to shower. I carefully opened my luggage, trying not to make noise. It was cold, but my warm clothes were in the bedroom cabinet. I put on a summer dress from the Philippines — the one from my mother — and went to the bathroom.

When I came out, I noticed a covered pot on the gas range. I lifted the lid. Inside was a dish that Noel and I used to have together. It did not look like a leftover. I put the cover back and reached for my blazer in the cabinet, pulling it on over my dress against the cold. I drew the curtain, turned off the light, and went back to reading at the table.

After some time, the sliding doors of the bedroom moved. Noel was up. He wore his usual clothes and went to the toilet, then I heard him brushing his teeth. I did not move from the table but twisted around in my seat when he returned. I was trying to read his expression. When our eyes met, I said it again: "Happy birthday."

He smiled and said, "You're crazy. Thank you."

Then he came close, standing to my right, and asked what I was reading. He put his left hand on my shoulder and, like a cat, I felt myself leaning toward him. I could feel his fingers near my ear, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. Just like the heat of the sun outside, my body temperature had risen.

He slowly lifted my chin with his right hand, but my eyes were still closed. He pulled me up from the chair and I felt his lips on mine, his arms wrapped around me.

Gradually, the blazer fell to the floor.

She left Japan with nothing resolved — not the marriage, not the school, not the quiet man's feelings. She returned to the Philippines to find her children neglected, her brother attacked, and her school hollowed out by the same people she had trusted. And yet, when the voice on the phone said "come now," she found a way. A credit card she almost never applied for. A stamp from an inspector who asked no questions. A pot of food left on the stove by a man who said he was too sleepy to talk but had cooked for her anyway. The return was not a plan. It was an act of faith — the kind that only makes sense in hindsight, when you realize that every small decision you almost didn't make was leading you back to exactly where you needed to be.