by Tif Marcelo
But to think that all that time, her father had been here. It didn’t seem real. Her whole life, she’d accepted her mother’s explanations about Antonio Cruz, and they’d been enough for her.
Should Margo have insisted on more, like her daughter had?
“Here it is.” Joshua broke the silence and directed the driver to pull over. Diana exited the vehicle first and came around to Margo’s side, though Joshua beat her to the car door. He helped her out of the car, thank goodness, for even if Margo hadn’t needed the assistance, his firm grip grounded her. “It’s a ways down,” he said.
I like him, she wanted to say to Diana, to whisper in her ear. I like him because he can read between the lines. The car ride had been full of tension because of what Margo could only presume was a misunderstanding between them, and she wanted to ease her daughter’s angst. Diana hadn’t made a mistake with this man, because he was good.
But right now, Margo wasn’t a mother but simply a daughter.
They passed the rows one at a time, and Margo read the names as she walked by, looking at bouquets of small fake flowers. Around one raised cement edifice, a family congregated with flowers and food, in celebration of life. Tiny gifts and expressions of devotion from the living to the dead, to nurture the love they had for that person, to stoke the grief that continued to burn.
How did her mother mourn? Had she found peace and closure? Margo, so young when she first asked about her father, simply chose to accept he had given her mother the best of himself before he left for the war, but not once had she seen Leora grieve for him. Did she leave flowers somewhere special to her? Did she build an altar? Or did Leora simply swallow it all, forget?
“We’re turning left down this path,” Joshua continued.
The immediate landscape changed around them, and then they were flanked by mausoleums. Some enclosed on all four sides, some without walls. All were made of cement or some kind of stone, structures etched with images of the Santo Niño, Our Lady, or Jesus on the cross. One building was built with a Roman influence, another Chinese. Each prominently displayed a last name.
These were family plots.
Margo gripped Joshua’s elbow with greater force upon realizing where they were going. He squeezed back but pushed on, despite her legs fighting against the forward motion. And then she saw it. A bold CRUZ etched on black stone, right above the entrance of a mausoleum.
All her life she had been a Gallagher. It was her mother’s last name. She associated it with her mother’s hard work, her unwavering resiliency. Margo was raised with pride in the name, and though it wasn’t common at the time, she even hyphenated her name when she married her husband, refusing to give up what seemed like her only tie to family.
Now facing the raised tomb, Margo felt him. Antonio. His presence, his spirit, whatever it was. But in this acceptance came a rumble from inside her, like a volcano that had been sleeping for a century.
Finally, Joshua stopped at the foot of the tomb. Margo raised her eyes to the inscription.
Antonio Cruz
CPL
US Army
World War II
August 2, 1918–January 6, 2010
Father, Husband, Friend
Her knees buckled. Margo knew that he had died a decade ago—the date was in the information the private investigator had provided. But Margo hadn’t accepted it. The entire concept of having and then losing a father she’d never known seemed unbelievable. Except now, the name on the marble was indelible proof, the dates undeniable.
There was a stark difference between reading a fact and then actually witnessing proof.
And here was hers.
The man buried in this tomb was her father, Antonio Cruz. And she could have visited him, could have seen him, could have gotten to know him. Had she realized he was still alive, had she sought the truth, she could have met him. Could have heard his stories, held his hand, sat on his lap. Could have been comforted by him.
She crushed the wet grass with her knees; the ground dirtied her flowing skirt. The pain of regret threw her body forward, tears bursting forth in an endless waterfall.
A body hovered behind her, then arms slipped around her shoulders. Her sobs wracked her chest, helpless against the sounds of her daughter’s soothing voice, the caress on her back.
Any other day, Margo would have been embarrassed by this spectacle. Even in her most impulsive state, she was never this distraught; she had been brought up by a mother who put great emphasis on acting right. Being right, especially because they’d stood out, the two of them, markedly different. Even as a young child, Margo knew what they looked like in the land of nuclear families: Like they were a set of china missing a piece. Margo had felt the brunt of it from other children, from the questioning looks of other mothers. From the inquiries about her skin color, her lack of a father.
This man, when alive, would have made them whole.
And the curiosity that she’d felt transformed to anger.
* * *
Silent on the way back to the hotel, Margo noted that Diana and Joshua jumped into a conversation as if they’d been friends for years. While he gregariously spoke like a tour guide, pointing out the different sites as they passed—the SM mall, the famous Manila Hotel where General MacArthur stayed pre-WWII, and Rizal Park—her daughter chatted with such gusto that Margo saw through this charade. Even on her most agreeable days, Diana was a contrarian. About everything.
“You know what, Ma?” her daughter said now, voice pointedly airy. “I think we should cancel the rest of our trip here in Manila. We should just find a nice all-inclusive resort somewhere. What do you think, Joshua?”
“Oh … ah, sure. I know of one in Bohol that’s quite serene. Luxurious amenities, and the food is incredible. Gorgeous views and pristine waters. I would just need to make a phone call.”
Oh yes, they were trying their damnedest to sway the day from morose to cheerful. They tittered and tattered about choices of locations, modes of transportation, and it all blended into the background of noise as the car joined the traffic. But it wasn’t going to be that easy. Margo’s clothes were dirtied, her makeup smeared by her tears, and her heart was bruised.
She brought her fingers to her head as she sorted through the facts of her life, all the while being jostled as the car weaved, stopped, and started through the long drive back to Las Cruces. Snippets cycled like an old-fashioned movie reel. Hurt though she was, this couldn’t be it. Just as the epilogue of a book, even if incomplete, sparked interest in the unwritten next chapters of those characters’ lives, there was more to that grave site, and she deserved to understand it all. But first things first. “Shhh. There’s too much information to process. Hold on. What time are we seeing Flora tomorrow?”
“Noon,” Joshua answered back.
Diana glanced at Joshua. “You should tell her now.”
Margo eyed the couple, suspicion rising. “Tell me what?”
“Well, um …” Joshua cleared his throat. “It’s Lola Flora’s one hundredth birthday tomorrow, and you will be meeting her at her party.”
The breath left Margo’s body, and she leaned back, stunned.
Diana twisted in her seat, and in her eyes was resolve, an idea. “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. We don’t have to go to the party. The DNA test will come in, and we can just be on our merry way, do some sightseeing on our own. Or … or! We can just go home. I can change the tickets so we can be on a flight tomorrow morning.”
Confusion crawled up Margo’s chest. “Go home? Why would we want to go home?”
“You said so yourself. This is all too much.”
“Oh, Diana, if I took that stance, I wouldn’t have made it this far. It was always too much, this life. This won’t be the stumbling block to take me down.”
“Mom.”
“For once, dear, listen to me.” She waited for her daughter’s shock to settle. “I admit that I hadn’t prepared myself for that. I didn’t believe that any
of this was true.” She took a breath to keep the tears at bay. And out of respect for Joshua, she kept the rest of her thoughts to herself. Flora Reyes was the woman who wrote the letter to her mother. Because of this woman, Margo had missed out on a lifetime of memories. Because of her, Diana had grown up without a grandfather, and Leora had lived her entire life alone.
When Margo spoke again, her voice was resolute. “Now that we’re here, we’re going to follow through. We’re going to find out about everything. You brought me here for the truth, Diana, and I intend to get it.”
New Guinea
October 9, 1944
My dearest Leora,
Where are you? I haven’t received a letter from you in two weeks. My worry has reached its peak. I’ve written Onofre but haven’t received word from him, either. Every night I wonder how you are doing and where you are. I imagine your belly growing. And while I lament every second I’m not at your side, I hold on to our memories tightly.
Do you remember when we first met?
I do. My father was working for Manong Imbito at the restaurant, and I was just shy of twenty. Manong’s feet were in too much pain, so I needed to deliver a sack of grain to Mrs. Lawley as payment for service. It was a long walk to her shop. A pebble lodged in my shoe. By the time I arrived, my face was caked with dirt and my arms screamed in pain. You were there, though, mending clothing, and you shared a piece of candy with me.
I kept that candy for a long time, sinta. Kept it in my pocket until it became sticky. I held on to it whenever my days were full of struggle. Whenever I wondered why people acted the way they did, why people chose wrong over right.
I kept that candy until the day I saw you walking with a group of friends. Do you remember that day, too? I sprinted across the road to say hello. I know your friends must have teased you, but I could tell you were happy to see me. Soon we found ways to meet, and we read to one another. You shared everything you learned in school. You made my days better. Those days we met at the golden hour, when the sun was just setting and Marysville actually looked beautiful, I forgot all my struggles.
Oh, Leora, write me back. Tell me you are doing well.
I know my letters are starting to sound the same. But this war, the fighting, it feels unimportant when I finally sit down and want to tell you about it. Much of it is grim. Much of it I can’t talk about. But all I know is that I look at things differently. Sometimes for the better, other times worse. The only thing that remains true is the sunset, which comes every night without fail.
Soon we will have our marching orders. So much time has passed. Will you wait? Can you wait? Is it fair for you to wait? Even with child, is your life better without me? Have I made it worse?
My heart yearns for you. Why didn’t I take advantage of every night we slept in the same town, Leora? Why didn’t I do more, give more? At least back then, you were within my grasp. No day was difficult or useless because you were nearby. Now there is this ocean, the creatures under it, the sky above it. And there are days, weeks, months between us. Is it fair to love someone this much, to keep you even when the world has made it impossible? Is it fair that you are doing this alone, that you are facing this struggle all by yourself?
Iniibig kita, Leora Gallagher. I love you, and I’m sorry for leaving. Please write me.
As always,
Antonio
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Diana ended up on the treadmill. She had grand ideas of running on the baywalk, getting up early despite the jet lag, to shake off her nervousness for the day’s events. But after lacing up, pulling her hair into a ponytail, and heading out the front door of the hotel, she’d crashed into a wall of humidity. The air was thick; the smell of rain hung in the air, except the sun was high and bright. Pedestrians milled about; there would have been too many to weave through, and her racing thoughts took her out of the mood before she stepped onto the sidewalk. She hadn’t been ready for it, this extroversion, this effort. So she spun around and navigated herself to the hotel gym instead.
Finally in the air-conditioned gym, she got into her stride. The treadmill faced an exterior window, with a section of busy Roxas Boulevard below her. From high up, the view was colorful. A haphazard line of cars with the occasional bus, dotted with jeepneys, vying for space. Horse-drawn carriages for tourists meandered among them. Beyond the waterline was the outline of barges, and for a moment she imagined they were transport carriers, taking young men to war, idealistic and sometimes sad men like her grandfather. She imagined their weeks of being out of touch with family, the necessary acceptance of the unknown. Today’s military still did this despite social media to ease the distance. Diana saw some of these soldiers in DC: wearing their uniforms on the metro, sometimes running in their unit shirts on the Mount Vernon Trail. Soldiers hoping to make the right decisions, and wondering if the things they did would matter generations from today.
These emotions were evergreen; Diana, too, felt them. It was why she chose her profession, why she was here in Manila. She wanted to make a difference; she wanted the truth, but it seemed that despite her concerted effort to do the right thing, she had led her mother into a mess.
Diana’s legs kept time against the rolling mat underneath her; her pink shoes stamped down the worry of what might face her at Alexandria Specialty when she returned. That maybe—maybe—it hadn’t been a good idea to come here after all. Yesterday was traumatic. Watching her mother fall to her knees had been the worst of it. Even now, Diana shut her eyes for a brief moment in a small wish that it hadn’t happened at all.
One of her steps came off too short and she stumbled, her eyes flying open. She reached for the emergency cord and the treadmill slowed as she steadied herself, arms out on the hand rails, shaking her head.
Pay attention—you could have gotten hurt.
When her vision refocused on the scene in front of her, she caught the reflection of someone else walking into the gym. Pressing a towel to her forehead, she disembarked.
She turned to face the exit, out of habit, and the guest.
It was Joshua, hair askew, wearing wireless headphones. He was in a tank and shorts, and to Diana’s dismay, looked just as good as he did the other night, naked, in her room. It was ridiculous and silly and immature—it wasn’t as if there weren’t good-looking men in DC, or like her workplace wasn’t staffed with men—but this one was, objectively, handsome. He made her slightly giddy. All at once, snippets of their escapade flipped like a slideshow in her head, and she gripped the towel to remind herself that despite not being related, they were for all intents and purposes, cousins. She might have been impressed with the way he handled himself with her mother yesterday, but it didn’t solve this … whatever this was … between them.
From across the room he raised his hand in acknowledgment, and she did the same. Her heart drummed a faster beat in both excitement and dread.
She couldn’t allow this awkwardness to go on the entire time she was in Manila. They would be seeing each other later on today. He would be at every turn of the corner.
It was time to address the elephant in the room.
It was time to talk about their night and move on from it.
He had taken a seat on a workout bench and took off his headphones at her approach. “Hey. How’s your mom?”
“Better. Rested as soon as we got back last night. She was quiet, but okay.” She relaxed at his question. “I just wanted to chat about—”
He shook his head. “No need. It was a mistake. If I had known, I wouldn’t have—”
She was struck by a double-edge sword. She, too, regretted that it happened, but his statement came off like it hadn’t meant a thing to him.
She admonished herself. It didn’t mean a thing. “I wouldn’t have, either.”
“So how do you like the Grand Suite? Enjoying the free stay?”
She caught the edge in his voice, and thank God she was adept at dealing with the grumpy, the whiny, and the confusing.
Sometimes, all at once. Right now, he was trying to egg her on, and for what reason, she didn’t fully understand. “I do in fact. Comfy beds, great view.”
“Only the best.”
She changed the subject. “I wanted to confirm about today. What time should we expect you?”
Grabbing his water bottle from the floor, he squeezed a stream into his mouth, flippantly, making her wait. “Eleven. Is that enough time to get yourself ready?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She peered at him. “What’s with this tone?”
“What tone?” He turned away, setting his water bottle down and tucking his hand into a black lifting glove. She opened her mouth to answer, but in perfect timing, he ripped the Velcro tab open. She closed her mouth and tried again.
“That—”
Rip.
She steeled herself. “Does this have anything to do with what you told me, the other night? About nefarious intentions?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Because you sure are acting like I kicked your cat.”
He frowned at her. “Is that some American phrase?”
“No, it’s my phrase. It means that for someone who doesn’t know me, and as someone who you almost slept with, you have a pretty sour attitude toward me. For the record, my mother and I don’t want anything from your family but the truth.” She cackled. “When you left that night, I was disappointed it was cut short, but now I’m counting my lucky stars.”
He shrugged, then lifted a weight and rested it on his thighs. A dismissal.
She walked away, waved a hand in his direction. If he wanted to play this game, then she would be all in for it.
* * *
By noon, jet lag had hit Diana hard, and when they arrived at the Cruz family home, her headache was excruciating. It was not helped by the anxiety thrumming through her; today would be the day of truth. They would find out the DNA results; they would meet Flora, and hell, even the entire family in a few moments. With her mother by her side, it took all of Diana’s concentration to follow the back of Joshua’s striped short-sleeve oxford shirt as she stepped carefully over the paved walkway.