Monstress by Lysley Tenorio

see the dark shape of his body rise from the bed, moving toward the glowing square of the window. “But I never thought I’d end up in a place like this. How long has this been here anyway?”
    â€œSince the early 1900s. It was built by Americans.”
    â€œGod bless America.” I hear him strike a match. Then I hear him exhale. “And the nuns? What are French nuns doing in a leper colony in this part of the world?”
    When I first arrived, I assumed they had always been here, the true natives of Culion. Only now, when he asks, do I picture them aboard an eastward boat, their habits like sails in the ocean wind. I imagine Sister Marguerite among them, glimpsing the island as the boat draws near, her destiny finally fulfilled.
    â€œSince the beginning, they’ve been here.”
    Wisps of smoke rise, disappear against the ceiling. The curtain suddenly moves toward me; he’s trying to shake my hand through it. “Just to be safe,” he says. “My name’s Jack.”
    I don’t know what else to do, so I take his hand.
    He tells me that he is twenty-six years old, that he was stationed on Clark Air Base when he was nineteen, and that he was often disciplined for various offenses—running card games on the naval base, taking unauthorized shore leave, stealing then selling supplies. He sounds almost proud of himself for breaking the rules. For years he drifted through the Philippines, surviving on odd jobs, money made from gambling. “Not the easiest life, but I was good at it,” he says, “and I intend to make it back.”
    â€œI’ll tell you this once more. There’s no way off this island. Not for us.”
    He says nothing, and for a moment I expect him to throw something else, and I brace myself for the shattering. But he just takes a slow and deep breath, then asks for my name.
    â€œIt’s Teresa,” I say.

    T he next morning I find Sister Marguerite in the hospital nursery, a sleeping infant in her arms. She motions for me to enter, but I do so cautiously, and once inside I stay close to the door. “I’ve been thinking of you,” she whispers. “Your meeting went well?”
    â€œI brought him the food. He ate.”
    â€œYou’re making this easier for him. I’m sure of it.”
    I picture his leather shoes, the only thing I see of him, pacing back and forth along a strip of sunlight. “Maybe.”
    She moves from crib to crib, smiling at each baby inside, and sometimes she closes her eyes for several seconds, as if praying quickly on their behalf. But babies born in Culion have one of two possible futures: if after three years they show signs of the disease, they will be reunited with their sick mothers; if no signs appear, if they are perfectly healthy, then they will be sent to a Manila orphanage, unnamed and undocumented so they can never know who or what they’ve come from.
    I don’t know which future she is praying for.
    â€œSister”—I take a step forward, whispering so I won’t disturb the babies—“when you first sailed to Culion, do you remember seeing the island?”
    She nods.
    â€œAnd what did you think?”
    She glances at the floor for a moment, as though she’ll find her answer there. “It was night when we arrived. The island looked like a shadow. But I knew it was my place, that I was meant to be here.”
    â€œAnd you have no regrets? You never wanted to leave?”
    â€œYou don’t question a calling. You obey it.”
    One of the babies cries from his crib. Sister Marguerite moves toward me, asks me to take the one in her arms. I’ve been in remission for three years. The doctors say I am of no harm to anyone. But I stand still, arms at my side.
    â€œHold her,” she says. “Please.”
    I take the baby. She sleeps soundly but I can barely feel her, as though I’m carrying air.
    â€œDid he say anything