Once Upon a Sunset

by Tif Marcelo

  The home appeared from the shroud of trees, halting Diana in her tracks. Its beauty overshadowed the grandeur of Las Cruces Hotel.

  Easily a multimillion-dollar home in the DC area, the family home was nestled in a thicket of trees in the Forbes neighborhood of Makati. It took about an hour’s drive to get them out of Manila this morning, a stop-and-go that turned into a smooth flow, where pedestrian-laden traffic had given way to tree-lined streets and then a winding driveway and gate.

  “Wow, what more?” her mother said as she sucked in a breath, mouth agape at the open architecture. She’d dressed in a neutral safari-green sheath dress today, but her jewelry stood out: a white round plastic-bead necklace and a tower of bracelets that jingled when she walked.

  “No kidding, right?” Diana couldn’t keep the snark out of her voice. The home was a beauty, there wasn’t a doubt. It mimicked the bahay na bato, or stone-fashioned home, reflecting both Spanish and Chinese influences. Multiple pitched rooflines, tall and slim windows with panes shimmering, so it looked like capiz shells. The foundation was made of stone, but everything above was a regal wood. It was clear that despite its matriarch being a hundred years old, this home had been cared for meticulously.

  There was so much … grandeur. The Cruz family had flourished like the citrus of the calamansi trees they’d driven past, burgeoning with fruit, when all the while, her own family, on a weak three legs, had its own struggles. Growing up, Diana had wished for this kind of life, where she wouldn’t need to stop herself from asking for something extra.

  This estate was like the VIP rooms: excessive.

  It made her despise Flora Cruz more.

  An instinct rose inside her like a wave, to turn around and run the opposite direction, to take her mother back to the United States, where they belonged, despite the lack of blood relatives. This whole thing had been a mistake. They had friends, good ones. They had a community waiting for them. Not these people who they wouldn’t have known about had it not been for those letters Leora had kept secret.

  “Here’s the plan.” Diana decided now, before they went through the double doors. She was going to recover this trip. Take away the sadness she’d seen in her mother. Get in, get out, and get Margo to a resort, where she deserved to be pampered. Joshua had already climbed the wooden steps, and the sound of people laughing sprinkled lightly in the air—it was now or never. “We just need to get the truth, and then we’re leaving. We don’t have to stay.”

  “I know.” Her mother’s voice was resolute.

  “Joshua?” Diana called out now, and Joshua turned. The faster they got this meeting done with, the better.

  His face registered an acknowledgment. “I texted Colette. She’ll meet us in front.”

  Diana looked around for her cousin. “I don’t see her.”

  “I mean, inside front.”

  An older man wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt opened the double doors. Diana followed Joshua inside to an open-air covered foyer, the floor made of gleaming brownish red rock. A fountain bubbled in the middle, imposing, a natural stopping point for strangers, but beyond it was a walkway to a second set of doors, with a small wooden crucifix nailed above the doorway.

  The pitter-patter of footsteps echoed after the door opened, and Colette fluttered out, wearing jeans, a white tank taut across her belly, and a flowing white kimono-style silk jacket. Diana relaxed at her cousin’s open-armed welcome. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed a hug, and she felt her body soften from its stiff posture. “Welcome, welcome. Okay, so don’t freak out. We have a lot of people inside. A lot more than we expected.” Her shiny lips wiggled a half-hearted smile.

  “Oh?” Diana glanced at her mother.

  “Yes, um. Sometimes my family doesn’t like to RSVP. They just show up.” She wiggled her fingers with a flourish. “And, well, that’s what a hundredth birthday does. It brings everyone around.”

  “It’s because they all want to be in her good graces, a.k.a. money,” Joshua muttered on the side.

  “Naku, stop.” Colette rolled her eyes. “It’s just the way of it. But they’ve all started drinking, so the mood is quite good. I’ll introduce you and that’s that. It’s probably better they’re all here, so there’s no tsismis.” She glanced at Diana. “Gossip. Better they all hear and see for themselves; that will lessen all the gossip later.”

  “How about the meeting with Flora?” Diana asked. “That will be solo, and soon, correct?”

  “Yes, of course. We’ll see her now.” Colette nodded, pulling the phone out of her back pocket. “Ah, Johnny just texted.”

  She paused, then gasped. “It’s the results of the test.”

  Diana held her breath and watched Colette’s face switch from fright to joy. Her eyes widened and she giggled.

  “Well?” Joshua said.

  “Okay, here it goes. ‘As requested, the following are the results for the relationship between Colette Cruz Macaraeg, Margaret Gallagher-Cary, and Diana Gallagher-Cary.’ There’s a whole crapload of numbers I don’t understand. Yada yada yada. Diyós! Oh, here! ‘In conclusion, it can be positively concluded that Margaret Gallagher-Cary is the aunt of Colette Cruz Macaraeg, and Diana Gallagher-Cary and Colette Cruz Macaraeg are first cousins.”

  “Holy shit,” Margo said, and reached out to the fountain’s sides.

  “It’s for real,” Diana whispered. She had assumed the DNA results would show a connection; she’d even said it aloud to Colette. But now … now she was unsteady on her feet. These tests were reliable. Irrefutable.

  It changed everything, again. Because now, knowing, for sure, that she was a blood relation to Colette and to some in that hundredth birthday party, she realized that she had every right to be there, too.

  What would Leora do?

  Would she stay, risk being shunned by the rest of the family as Joshua had treated them? Would she insist that her mother endure potential rejection from her newfound family members? Or would she leave, tonight, and tuck away the knowledge that this family didn’t deserve either her or her mother.

  Diana looked at her mother, who was a product of risk. Leora had loved someone she wasn’t supposed to love. She raised a child all alone. Fear of rejection wasn’t in her granny’s vocabulary.

  Here we go.

  “Great. Just great.” Joshua ran his hand through his hair, and it pulled the last tether of Diana’s impatience. She would not tiptoe around him.

  “I think I’ve about had it with you and your underhanded comments. I’ve forced myself to be patient, since we’re stuck with you.”

  “Oh, you’ve been stuck with me?” Incredulity marked itself in his expression.

  “Diana,” her mother pleaded from behind her.

  She lowered her voice but pointed to Joshua. “I’m sorry to sound like a child, but he started it.”

  He put up both palms and took a step back. “Whatever. You won’t hear another peep from me.”

  “Good.” She spun around to Colette, whose belly reminded her that everyone needed to stay calm, damn it. “Shall we see Flora now?”

  Colette plastered on a smile that didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “Actually? Change of plans. Her caregiver just texted, and Lola’s not quite ready. You’re meeting the family first. Is that okay?”

  “Mom? Are you good?” Diana straightened her posture, bolstered now, and tipped her chin up.

  Margo blinked back at her. “I’m okay.”

  “Then let’s get this over with, shall we?”

  * * *

  The house—light-filled with high ceilings with touches of rattan against white walls—crawled with people; the mood was bright and cheerful. Laughter punctuated the guitar music in the background. From somewhere, a person sang. Servers mingled in the space, holding platters of hors d’oeuvre and drinks. Occasionally, a child ran through a crowd.

  “This is what you call a small event?” Diana asked Colette, who flagged down a server. Champagne glasses were shoved into her and her
mother’s hands, and the next second, plates of food.

  “Yes, comparatively. My ninang wanted it to be at the Ayala Museum, but when we were scheduling the party, the museum was closed for renovation. Having it here at home limited our guest list. But we invited the requisite people, including the secretary of the Department of National Defense, our bishop, and the one and only Pichi Lewis.” She pointed at last year’s Miss Universe chatting it up with women with stars in their eyes. “It’s a mixed bag in here.”

  “Wow.”

  “Follow me. Let’s find a space to sit.” Colette led the way, splitting the crowd, and in her wake, curious faces turned, registering their presence. Diana’s cheeks heated at the attention.

  They found an empty small table toward the rear of the living room. Grateful, Diana felt magnetized to it and pulled a chair out for her mother before sitting down herself, attempting not to stare at the crowd but failing. Everyone but them looked so comfortable in the home. A couple at the antique piano looked at a painting on the wall behind it. An old-world scene right out of a history book, it showed a refined young woman in a Maria Clara dress with regal butterfly sleeves that stood nearly to her ears, the front of her hair teased into a beehive. A man stood next to her in a barong tagalog with the white undershirt beneath. The frame of the painting was gilded, ostentatious in Diana’s opinion.

  Diana’s brain sparked, and she blinked at the painting. The man’s face, though painted, bore a stark resemblance to her mother’s, cheekbones high despite his unsmiling face and a widow’s peak hairline.

  “That’s him.” The sweep of her mother’s voice took Diana from her thoughts.

  Before Diana could answer, Colette arrived with two more plates brimming with food. After her, Joshua arrived with two more glasses of champagne as if he’d known that Diana would need it. She accepted the glass, downing half its contents in one sip.

  Joshua’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You don’t get to judge me,” she said to him, before drinking again. The bubbles tickled her nose, but she refused to make a face.

  “Not judging. Though you might want to eat something. The humidity can fool you, but you’re probably dehydrated.” He pointed to her plate, at the little hills and valleys of colors and textures. “Lola Flora’s favorite foods. Do you know what this is?”

  “Of course I do.” She pointed out the lumpia, but stopped at that, not recognizing anything else. Petty, yes, but it killed her to admit anything to this man that might make her vulnerable, even if it was basic knowledge of Filipino food.

  “The one with the egg is embutido,” he said of what looked like a stuffed meat loaf. “That is tortang alimasag—stuffed crab.”

  “And spaghetti,” she added, willing herself into the conversation with him.

  “Ah, but not spaghetti as you know it. Filipino-style. Sweeter. And once you go sweet, you will never go back.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, wary at his sudden friendliness—he had found another chair and squeezed himself between her and her mother.

  God, this was awkward.

  “Hey. Eat.” Joshua passed her utensils and a napkin, then added at the last minute, under his breath, “Please. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  So she did, grateful for the instructions, in silence as Colette was approached by a woman in a white sarong, hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her cheeks were pink from rouge, eyes lined in a gray charcoal. Her lips eked out a tepid smile. “Colette, my dear.”

  “Ninang Vera.” Colette kissed her on the cheek. “I’m glad you could come.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, you know that.”

  “This is it,” Joshua said, under his breath. He busily cut his food with the side of his spoon. “Her godmother. Once Colette tells her, the news will take ten minutes to travel, tops.”

  “Sino ito?” Vera’s fingers clutched her bag in front of her. “New visitors? I don’t know them.”

  Colette cleared her throat. “Let me introduce you. Ninang Vera, this is Tita Margo.”

  Vera’s penciled-in eyebrows plummeted, confused.

  “Margaret Gallagher-Cary. Daughter of Lolo Antonio. And her daughter, my cousin, Diana. Both from the US.”

  Colette’s voice was the ring of a cowbell, and silence descended around them. Passersby turned. Vera’s right hand crawled to her chest while she choked out a greeting, as if her breath had caught in her lungs.

  Another woman appeared next to them, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. “Ma’am, Manang Flora is ready to see you.”

  “Ninang, we have to go. But talk later, okay?” Colette huddled Diana and Margo together. “Let’s go,” she commanded.

  They were a blob, Diana and her mother, shuffling through people and their whisperings. They went through a second set of double doors, down another wide hallway to a smaller living room and dining room with rattan furniture. And then a third set of doors, where the caregiver knocked. Moments later, she opened them, to a bedroom.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The door yawned open to a cavernous room. It was cozier, old-fashioned compared to the rest of the home, and the sun shone dimly through the windows. The AC wasn’t strong here, the room was markedly warmer, though with the breeze from the windows and the sheers blowing gently, Margo could have pretended to be on some tropical island. Which, she realized, she was, except she wasn’t at all relaxed. Her blood pressure was probably so high that her cardiologist would have had her own heart attack.

  “Sit down here, ma’am.” The caregiver, with a gesture, directed them to a seating area, where they found the silent woman, nestled into a chair with a blanket draped across her legs. Margo startled at this, reconfiguring the pictures from the private investigator and her own imaginings with the reality.

  She had expected a formidable force, a wicked expression, a woman with hair made of snakes. Even after seeing Flora’s painted picture on their wall in the living room, with her fancy dress and hard-as-nails expression, and knowing that the decades would have added wrinkles, posture issues, and a laundry list of aging’s realities, Margo still wasn’t prepared for this. This Flora was frail. Her bony hand rested on the arm of her chair, a ruby ring tilted under its own weight, a silver rosary entwined in her fingers. Her white hair was so thin, Margo could see the tan of her scalp, and her cheeks caved into her facial bones. Her eyes were deep sockets hidden behind glasses.

  Margo had planned to spear her with curse words and accusations, but nothing left her mouth. The woman was a hundred years old today, and despite Margo’s initial desire to spew hate, there was a vulnerability in that. There were times now when she’d catch her reflection in a mirror upon passing and do a double take. Inside, one felt evergreen, but the exterior can be such a jerk.

  And seeing this woman, alive, when her own mother was dead felt more like a gift rather than a curse.

  Against Margo’s better judgment, her heart softened a little.

  “Come. Don’t be afraid.” The woman spoke with a surprisingly energetic voice.

  “She’s not afraid,” Diana piped up from behind.

  Margo sighed and gave her daughter the look that said she would take care of it. She turned to Flora. “Thank you for seeing us … Flora.”

  She wasn’t sure how to address her. Her age seemed to deserve some kind of title, but she couldn’t bear to say Mrs. Cruz. Margo might have been polite, but she wasn’t a fake.

  “Please, sit.” Flora pointed at the settee in front of her, and Margo obliged. She sank into the plush seating, taking in the expanse of the room, the religious wood carvings and paintings that decorated the space. Details that cost more than what she’d made every year. Everything she’d done to make ends meet: working as many photography jobs as possible, applying for every discounted and free school food program, powdered milk, canned fruit and vegetables. S’mores over the gas stove, shoes that wore down over Diana’s toes.

  The fire of anger that had ignited at the cemetery now warmed and bolster
ed her with the thought that she’d done it all without anyone’s help.

  So she sat a little taller, raised her chin at this woman.

  “Can I touch your face?” Flora asked.

  “What?” The words pushed Margo back into her chair. She glanced at her daughter; Diana sported the same look of incredulity.

  “I can’t see very well, even with my glasses.”

  “Um, I suppose.” She stood and went to the woman and bent at the waist.

  Flora leaned in, her eyes canvassing Margo’s face. “Colette told me who you are. And she said you even did a DNA test, but I have to know it’s true.” Her hand grazed Margo’s face, gripped her chin, and turned her face to the side. The examination, surprisingly, did not make Margo cower. Instead, she took that moment to examine this woman back.

  “Good-luck mole, I see.” She pointed to Margo’s beauty mark on her cheek. “And you like fake jewelry.”

  Margo smiled despite herself.

  Flora’s hands dropped to Margo’s, and she held one with surprising grip, then turned it right side up. “You’re fair, but you have his lips, his cheekbones. And his hands. You have his hands. But he had calluses. Tough ones that never seemed to heal, even when he stopped working. He always tried to plant things that I knew would never grow in our soil, but he kept trying. He even had seeds flown in.”

  This was all too much. Seeds flown in? Why wasn’t Margo flown in? Why couldn’t she have made the trip instead of inconsequential seeds? A single tear answered for her, without her permission, and she hated her moment of weakness.

  Flora wiped the tear with her thumb. “Do not cry, anak.” The old woman made her way to stand, pushing her hand against the armchair, shaking as Colette and the caregiver came to her side. Even Diana stood, probably from medical instinct because the woman looked, as she swayed, as if she were going to faint.