That was her given name, Rebecca.  But to me, she was always “Titabs.” She was my mother’s youngest sister.  She died of cancer in May 1998.  It was Mother’s Day last Sunday and it will be her birthday on June 6.  She’s been on my mind lately.

She was an old maid and not motherly at all.  She was the only responsible adult left in the house with us kids so, she had to mother us when my mother was not around. She cooked dinner for us. With a sigh, she begrudgingly helped us finish our homework and signed the homework slip.  She was my audience of one:  she was the only one who cared enough to sit and listen to me rehearse my declamation pieces.

She let me fix her hair using the electric hair curlers Tita Lily sent from the States.  She let me put make-up on her whenever Tita Lily’s packages arrived with Avon and Maxfactor cosmetics in them.  She let me help bake the fruitcake she always made on Christmas. I was the enthusiastic food critic to her many kitchen concoctions.

There’s this great big window in her mezzanine apartment that overlooked Nueve de Febrero.  The view of the sunset there was breathtaking.  The blazing orange of the sunset contrasted with the gently swaying green boughs of the acacia trees on Acacia Lane a whole block away from our street.  There was no smog yet, no tall buildings to block our view.  Somehow, at sunset, she and I would meet there by that window and listen to the jukebox across the street play “And I Love You So.” She was sentimental.  She had a cookie tin filled with sepia photographs.  She kept old clothes, old books, old shoes, old handbags.  Her whole life was kept tightly lidded in the many boxes she kept under her bed.On rainy days, we’d open a box or two.  For me it was like looking at artifacts: clothes in the 1950s style.  For her, it was a rewind and replay of the movie in her mind that was her life.  She was a swinger.  She loved to boogie.

On hot summer afternoons, I would escape from my mother who was always forcing me to take a siesta.  I’d sneak off to Titab’s place and bother her for a while.  I’d be surprised to find her looking at herself in the full-length mirror, all dressed up and fixing to go out.  “Can I come with you?” I’d ask.

“Maligo ka, magpa-alam ka sa mommy mo.  Pag pumayag siya, sige.”  I’d race down the stairs back to our house next door and I’d shake my mother awake.  My mother, wishing to get rid of me, so she can nap some more, would give me permission.  Then, she’d roll over to her side and go back to sleep.

Titabs and I would cross our street and wait for the Libertad jeep that would take us to the Producer’s Market on Edsa.  There we would wait for the Love Bus.  I loved those sky blue air conditioned buses that had large red, pink and yellow hearts painted on the side with slogans such as “Love Bus,” “Use Bus,” “Save Gas.”  It was Martial Law then and it was at the height of the Oil crisis. We took the bus so as not to waste gasoline.

The bus would turn right from EDSA on to Ayala Avenue.  That’s when Titabs and I would get off.  We would cross Ayala Avenue to walk to Syvel’s.  It was always our first stop.

When I asked why, Titabs explained that when she was a student at UE, she often went to the Syvels’s on Escolta with her friends after school, just to window shop.  Did I mention that she was sentimental?  She was also nostalgic.

After Syvel’s we would go to Anson’s, Plaza Fair, Shoemart and finally to Rustan’s.  By this time, I’d be cranky, sleepy, tired and hungry.  We bought nothing.  We just went around the stores.  Titabs just kept admiring clothes, fitting them.  Finding shoes that match, fitting them, too.  Finding bags that match, admiring purses, belts…..I hated window shopping.  But Titabs loved it. She felt like a kid in a candy shop.

The only thing I like about going with Titabs to Makati is our last stop.  We always go to the hole-in-wall Greenwich pizza.  I liked the brick wall.  I liked the smell of cooking dough. I liked the feeling of getting hungrier and hungrier until at last, our number will be called and the hunger would be satisfied. I liked standing around munching the crispy crust and the chewy middle.  I liked the a stringy mozzarella.  I liked the root beer. And then, before we get on another Love Bus to take us to Crossing, we’d swing by the Coney Island Ice Cream for just one scoop of ice cream. Titabs and I shared it. At that time when the dollar exchange rate was 6:1, one scoop of ice cream was P18.00.  That’s equivalent to $3. That’s why we shared just one scoop.  I liked choosing just one out of the 24 flavors.  I liked arguing with Titabs about which flavor to choose. I always won the argument.  I think she let me win.  I chose weird flavors like peppermint and bubblegum. She pretended to choke on the peppermint and bubblegum bits.

On the bus going home from Ayala, we would usually be standing on the aisle.  The bus was full of employees going home, too.  On the jeep going back to Nueve de Febrero, I’d ask her: “Why did we go to Makati?”

“To window-shop, of course.”  Titabs always replied.

“Why?”  I always expected her to lecture on about how bad life was for us because of  Martial Law, because of the Oil crisis,because of this and because of that; how there wasn’t much cash to go around so she couldn’t really buy the things she wanted.  My mother did that a lot. But not Titabs, she always answered the same way.

“Because I can admire beautiful things without needing to buy them.”  I knew the answer, of course, I’ve asked the same question so many times before.  I thought it was silly to look at nice things you like without buying them.  But I didn’t argue.  If not for Titab’s window-shopping escapades, I’d be taking a siesta instead of sitting in my Sunday best in the cool comfort of a department store. For one afternoon, Titabs and I can feel rich.  Full of pizza, ice cream and root beer, why would I argue with Titabs?

I love you, Titabs.  I miss you.