Once Upon a Sunset

by Tif Marcelo

  “What if I don’t?” Margo’s eyes flashed back to her. “Since your granny died, I’ve been feeling like an orphan. Besides you, I have no family. Despite having my best friends still around, it’s frightening to realize that my generation is the oldest, that there’s no one for me to look up to, to look at and compare myself to.”

  Diana nodded; she understood. That was why she had asked her mother to move in with her after Granny died. Her decision had been automatic; she didn’t even discuss it with Carlo. Diana, too, loved her granny—she missed her dearly, every day. Having her mother around, she thought, would ease both their losses.

  And blood came first. Carlo, on the other hand, couldn’t comprehend the scarcity of Diana’s family, not with his five siblings and dozens of relatives scattered in Puerto Rico and on the East Coast. He was able to trace his lineage several generations, while Diana, on the other hand? Nothing beyond her Granny and Antonio. Unfortunately, Diana’s father had died of a heart condition when she was five; and much like her mother, he was a flighty man, in more ways than one, with no family of his own.

  “And now, I consider this time my second chance,” Margo continued, bringing Diana back to earth. “Taking care of your granny, though I would never trade those hard days for anything, opened my eyes. Life is short, Diana. Life is to be celebrated and experienced, and I want that for you, too. Without Carlo. You deserve this second chance, also.” She closed down the laptop. “I don’t need to know more, my love.”

  The sound of the laptop shutting sparked a white-hot frustration. Of course her mother was at peace—she had done exactly what she wanted to do in her life, and she said so herself. But Diana wasn’t looking for a second chance. She was still on her first chance. Her first, and she was alone, with her job in jeopardy.

  “I need to go on my run,” Diana now said simply, and stood, gently taking the laptop from her mother. She didn’t have the headspace for an argument. “What are your plans today?”

  “I’ve got coffee with Roberta and Cameron, to go over our trip.” Margo looked at her clock with a faint smile. “We meet in an hour.”

  And with the reminder that her mother cared more about coordinating her bucket-list trip than their own family tree, Diana headed to the bedroom door, eager for space between them. “All right. I’ll see you then, this afternoon.”

  But before she stepped out, her mother said, “Diana? I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  She spoke over her shoulder. “That’s all I want to do, Ma.”

  * * *

  “Earth to Diana.”

  Diana blinked at the chalkboard menu behind the counter, and then to Sam, in front of her in line. They’d taken a detour after their run, to Old Town Coffee & Tea for Sam’s extra-large Americano and some pastries for the center’s monthly staff meeting.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything? On me?” Sam asked.

  “Nah, I need my stomach to settle after that sprint you took me on.”

  “You know you loved it.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Diana smiled as she took one of the two bags of pastries handed to them. The buttery smell of croissants wafted through the brown bag, and she sniffed it, the act pushing her last conversation with her mother to the periphery. Her mouth watered. “Mmm, maybe I will have one.”

  Sam leaned back against the café front door to open it, and a bell rang to signal their departure. The temperature dropped as they crossed over the threshold, and a chill made its way into Diana’s bones. “So … care to finally catch me up on what’s going on? You were pretty quiet on our run,” Sam said.

  Diana told her about the letters as they walked down Burg Street, chins tucked into their long-sleeve fleece shirts. After she mentioned the private investigator, Sam halted in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Holy shit. What a difference a couple of days make. How are you not parked somewhere either taking shots or scarfing a whole lot of chocolate?” Her breaths came out in puffs of white.

  “I don’t know. I think I’m still in shock.” They’d stopped in front of Rings & Roses, one of two wedding shops in Old Town, and Diana caught herself examining the A-line silhouette of the wedding dress that fit the width of the darkened front bay window.

  She had had an A-line dress on order once upon a time, when she was ninety-nine percent sure Carlo would propose on their third Valentine’s Day together. The store had had a sale going on, and in anticipation of the wedding she was going to have, she’d nabbed her princess dress at 50 percent off.

  Diana was much better now, but six months ago had been a different story, when the bottom of what she thought was a well-reinforced box gave out. She and Carlo had adored each other, but soon she’d found that there was a limit to this adoration. That limit was when her attention veered when Granny died, when she no longer treated Carlo as if he were the only light in her world. Then her mother spent more time with them; shortly after, she’d moved into their town house.

  Over time, Carlo became jealous. He hated being the third wheel in an otherwise healthy relationship between mother and child. He hadn’t liked being upstaged, and soon, what they had built split apart seam by seam.

  It didn’t help that he’d already found a fourth wheel. Now, Diana realized that the other woman had been an excuse. And while she had been strong enough to throw him out after she’d discovered his infidelity, still, Diana fell apart.

  Except, it didn’t look that way at first. She’d simply thrown herself into her work; she hardly slept, volunteering for call at every opportunity. She buried herself in anything but emotion, anything to keep her from coming home, where, slowly, pieces of Carlo were disappearing. Because living with someone for five years had meant letting that person seep into every seam of one’s life—crumbs had nestled in deep despite the various attempts to vacuum them out—just when Diana thought that the last of him was gone, she’d find a magnet from a tourist spot they’d once visited. Or a bookmark tucked into one of their shared books. A men’s sock in the wash.

  Work became her solace, where she ignored time, exhaustion, and common sense, until it took an intervention, a check-in with her primary care physician—yes, doctors had their own doctors, too—to make her realize that the grief over her breakup, her Granny’s death, and her mother moving in had taken a toll.

  But no, right now was not like back then, because she was aware of it. Right now, it wasn’t grief she was feeling but surprise. Like everything in her box had spilled onto the floor and she had been handed a completely different box to put everything in, with secret compartments.

  “I see the way you’re looking at me, and no, I’m not thinking about Carlo. I mean, not in the way you think.” Diana glanced at her friend briefly. “My brain is all about the what-ifs. Would I be here today if my grandfather had come back? Would I have met Carlo? Would my mother be as infuriating?”

  “You know you can’t play that game. Like, what if I decided to have a latte instead of an Americano yesterday? Would I have spilled it over the files I was working on, which set me back an hour trying to re-create my documents, only to miss another first date?” She grinned. “Know what I mean? You will drive yourself to madness that way.”

  “You had a first date yesterday and didn’t tell me?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “First dates are important.”

  “See? You and your mother are more alike than you think. You both like to avoid stuff. In your case? Feelings.”

  Diana looked up at the dress, laughed at the memory of trying hers on with Sam and the proprietor of Rings & Roses behind her. “You want emotion? I should have trashed the dress instead of selling it. That would have been more fun, if less economical. Anyway, we should get out of the cold. Your coffee is going to be frigid.”

  Diana walked three steps, then stopped and looked back. Sam hadn’t moved. “Well?”

  “Promise me you will try not to play the what-if game, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,
fine. Let’s go,” Diana said nonchalantly, avoiding her friend’s eyes. And finally, to her relief, Sam picked up her step.

  But as they came around the corner to the center, Diana spied a group of people milling at the entrance. In front was the unmistakably recognizable face and big hair of Ursula Woods, field reporter for Northern Virginia News.

  “What’s she doing here?” Sam asked.

  Ursula, as if signaled about their arrival, raised her face to them. She smiled, then began a steady march in their direction. She spoke while she was still feet away. “Dr. Cary. If I could have your thoughts on the equity of luxury birth suites?”

  “Oh my God,” Diana said. “This isn’t good.”

  “Here, give me all of that.” But instead of waiting, Sam scooped the bag from Diana’s arms. “Just go,” she said over the top of her coffee.

  “But what are you going to—”

  “Are you kidding? This is a good chance for me to do some promo.”

  “But I didn’t get to ask. What should I do? About the PI, about all of it?”

  “You do what you always do. Triage, diagnose, treat, Diana. Just remember to share your load. Don’t shoulder this entire responsibility. And good luck.”

  So Diana did what she did best—she ran.

  USS General John Pope

  April 9, 1944

  My dearest Leora,

  We have been on this ship for 64 hours and 25 minutes. I know this because my bunkmate reminds me of the date and time each and every morning.

  We are packed in our sleeping quarters as tight as tomatoes in a bushel, our bunks stacked four up from the ground. Like tomatoes, some are already bruised. Some are already homesick. Others are frightened of the water; some say that they have nightmares about drowning. And there are others, like me, who simply want to get to our destination so we can return home.

  Despite his insistence on marking time, I’ve found a friend in my lower bunkmate, and you would like him, too. His name is Ignacio Macapagal. He’s eighteen years old and so very innocent. He is cheerful from the moment he rises until he sleeps, and while he works, he tells stories about his mother in Tacloban, a small barrio in the Leyte province. It’s been four years since he’s seen her, and she was the reason why he enlisted.

  Sometimes I watch him while we play dominoes and tidy up our rack, and I wonder if you and I were as happy as he is when we were eighteen. If we dreamed as much as he does. He doesn’t speak of the possibility that he might not see his family, and part of me is worried that he doesn’t understand that the war has been going on, that the Japanese have already invaded.

  Although we’ve only spent three days on this ship, I am already kin to him. I want to protect him.

  The Filipinos I have met have come from all over the US, and despite the close training before we left port, where I thought I met everyone, I’m meeting new people every day. By the time we reach New Guinea, maybe we will all be friends.

  I bet you want to know details of the ship, so I will share them. It’s suitable. Our bunks fit us nicely, and there’s enough space to put away our things. While it’s dark below deck, up above there is more than enough light and sun and ocean air for all of us. The chow, well … chow is chow, but I’m grateful for a full belly at night. There’s a strict lights-out policy, which I don’t object to, because first call in the morning comes way too quickly.

  We train during the day, study things. Preparation is our only focus during this journey. I read my small pocket Bible at night, though some men brought their own books too and I may ask to trade.

  But mostly I think of you. I think of our last night together. It will be forever imprinted into my heart. Our last time together was special. So special, Leora. Then I think of your travel home and you pretending you weren’t with me, and I want to say I’m sorry for that. It’s shameful to lie, to have lied about us all this time, and I regret that we’ve had to hide who we are.

  When I return, it will be different. This war has made it different. I will march to your father and tell him how much I’ve loved you since we met. I know you doubt him, but I have faith he will accept me, will accept us.

  Almost time for lights out. Write to me, my darling.

  Iniibig kita.

  As always,

  Antonio

  Chapter Eight

  Iniibig kita. I love you.

  Margo mulled over Antonio’s words—her father’s, she reminded herself—as she stuck a spoon in her matcha latte, cutting through the foam flower. Iniibig kita was a formal term of endearment that connoted a devotion, a loyalty. It implied an absolute. Forever.

  It didn’t make any sense. If iniibig kita was written in every single letter her parents wrote, how did their love fall apart? Why were these letters kept secret? What really happened? These were words reserved for commitment, and yet her mother had been left to raise her alone.

  Despite her declaration to Diana that she didn’t need to know more about these letters, Margo still fidgeted with unease. The truth was, she wasn’t sure how she felt about them, except that their presence had caused a wider rift between Diana and her. Diana had become obsessed, barely leaving her computer the last two days, stuck in the past, while all Margo wanted was to move on, and to share the excitement of her trip with her.

  The chair across from her was pulled out with a squeak. A ceramic saucer clinked softly against the table, waking Margo from her trance. She smiled up at her friend Roberta Probst out of habit. Roberta was one of her two brunch dates this morning, a standing date since Leora passed. It was a weekly kind of thing, filled with tea, baked goods, and business chatter, and when Roberta, a vlogger who did reviews and tutorials for mature skin care and makeup, ran over her notes for her next reviews.

  As she sat down, Roberta gazed at Margo in expectation, smiling too sweetly. “Do you notice anything different about me?” She blinked her dark eyes repeatedly.

  “Um …” Margo scanned her friend’s face. The woman was beautiful—with golden-brown skin from her Mexican heritage, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and prominent round cheekbones—but because she was always testing a new product, over time Margo had become numb to the subtle changes unless Roberta walked in with a completely different palette of makeup colors. “This is a trick question.”

  “Then I was right. This product is a fail.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with coffin-shaped fingertips.

  “But your manicure, on the other hand, is impressive.” Margo grinned.

  A smile melted on Roberta’s face. “Thanks, and you are, as usual, stunning. I love that peacock fascinator. It matches your bow tie perfectly.” She gestured at Margo’s hair. “But I’m talking about my fake eyelashes.”

  “You have lashes on?”

  “Exactly.” She sighed. “They’re supposed to look natural.”

  “Well, they seem to have certainly achieved their goal.” Margo peered closer, then moved back. “Maybe it’s my eyes, but … yes … I guess I see them now.”

  “There’s a fine balance between just enough and too much, especially for our age, and I was hoping this would meet it. It’s the first set that hasn’t irritated my eyes. What a disappointment. I don’t like giving meh reviews. I get such hate mail for them—they’re boring apparently.”

  “Haters gonna hate,” Margo said, imitating what she’d seen on social media. “You do what you want. We’re too old to care.”

  Roberta took a sip of her coffee. “Tell that to Cameron, who’s insisting that I take a stronger view. Apparently the meh reviews don’t get quite as much traffic. He wants me to commit to doing some harsher pans if I don’t like a product.”

  Margo sipped her latte as she listened to her friend complain about Cameron Ayers, the third member of their three-pack of lifelong friends, whom Roberta had guilt-tripped to volunteer as her video editor.

  “Do you think it would be awkward if I fired him?” Roberta asked.

  “You’re not going to fire him. Video media wa
s his career, if you’ve forgotten, and he was, and still is, good at it. And it was you who wanted to monetize your channel.” She eyed her friend, whose red lips were pressed together in a frown. Margo knew Roberta’s facial expressions down to a T, and this one expressed acceptance. She would do what Cameron asked her to.

  Speaking of, Cameron entered the café, pulling his sunglasses off his face. He was wearing a polo shirt tucked into his jeans, his standard everyday attire. His mostly-salt-and-very-little-pepper hair was combed neatly backward, and around his chest was a cross-body bag that carried his must-haves: his computer, a leather notebook, and three trusty gel pens.

  Margo’s insides warmed. Cameron had always been handsome, but these days, he was downright debonair. It was unfair for men to age so gracefully while Roberta was searching for the perfect lashes and Margo was scouring her closet daily for just the right outfit. Cameron had always been Cameron, a little geeky, humble, endearing, and good-looking but clueless to it.

  Did she have a crush on him? Maybe? Yes? Whatever this was, the feeling was long-standing but harmless and safe. She kept it close to her heart; it was a secret she hadn’t shared with anyone. Her friendship with Cameron and Roberta was uncomplicated and perfect, and she had refused to do anything to ruin it.

  She had known them for decades, all of them having grown up in Old Town, which was something special in an area that consisted of more transplants than originals these days. And Cameron and Roberta were home to Margo. They’d witnessed the stages in one another’s lives, good and bad.

  “Ladies.” Cameron unslung his bag and set it on the floor, then sat between them.

  Margo could guess what he would say next: I’m starving.

  “I’m starving.” He echoed her thoughts, and raised his hand to their favorite server, a young woman they had seen grow from a gangly child to a beautiful older teen.

  Can I have a bagel with light cream cheese and a coffee, please?

  “Can I have a bagel with light cream cheese and a coffee, please?” he asked the server.