by Tif Marcelo
“Fix me a bowl, Edna, please. I’d love to try it,” Flora said, then added, “Margo, come and sit with me.”
Margo did as she was told, pulling the closest chair bedside so it faced Flora. As Edna passed, she patted Margo on the shoulder, which felt like an encouragement of sorts. “I’ll be right outside the door. Is Colette here?”
“She’s in the guest room taking a nap.”
“I’ll let her be.” She turned back to Flora. “Want something else with your food?”
“A shot of bourbon.”
“Sure, with a cigarette, too?”
“The good stuff. Hand-rolled. No filter,” Flora croaked.
Edna threw her head back with a laugh.
Margo waited for the door to close. Watched the elderly woman for a beat. Today, large pearl earrings dotted Flora’s earlobes, and a hefty gold bracelet graced her left wrist. Her hair was loose, thin and wispy, grazing her shoulders. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“No Diana today?”
“She’s on an excursion, with Joshua.”
“Ah.” Flora’s sharp cheekbones raised into a mischievous smile. “I can only imagine their conversations. Joshua has very strong opinions about many things, though he is a very kind soul. As I’m sure your daughter is, too.”
“Yes, but she is a handful sometimes.”
“But that is a blessing, to have such a loving child who is also headstrong. We all need people like that around us, especially during hard times.” The last of her voice scratched, and she pointed at her nightstand, at a cup of water with a straw. Margo handed her the cup and took it back after she sipped. “You’re lucky to still have your children with you. I always prayed for health, for a long life, but no one tells you that it’s at the expense of having to see people move on. No mother should have to bury her child.”
“I’m sorry,” Margo said, and winced. The statement was so empty, so generic. “You’re right, and I pray I’ll never know the pain you’ve experienced.”
“So.” She swallowed a breath. “You opened the briefcase?”
Margo nodded.
“And.”
“There were more letters. But there are still … holes in the story.” Diana flashed in Margo’s head, chanting, “Out with it!,” so Margo strived to do just that. “I’m here because I need to know the truth, and you are the only one who can supply that. You wrote a letter to my mother. You said that he was choosing not to return to the United States, but after reading all of my mother’s letters to my father, I still don’t understand. Why would he choose not to return?”
“Anak, how would it help? Would it change your life if I told you what I knew? Would it matter?”
Margo paused, truly reckoning with the questions. Margo had seen seventy-five birthdays come and go, all without the truth about her father. Despite that, she’d lived a life full of both triumph and challenges. “Yes, it would.”
“What if I said that in telling you everything, about who you are, there’s a responsibility in accepting who you are?”
“What kind of responsibility?”
“The kind that binds you not just to me, but to this estate. Las Cruces, and this country.”
Margo didn’t know what all these leading questions meant. “I … I don’t think I’m worried about that.”
The woman took another sip, and she shut her eyes, inhaling the oxygen through her tube as if to fill herself with courage, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Margo understood that it was she who would need the fortification.
* * *
I was only a young woman, but I knew enough of the dangers of the world. The Japanese had occupied Tacloban. I lived in fear of danger to our lives. But before the war, the situation was already dire. My brother had left for America. He worked the fields in California, although I didn’t know that at the time. He sent money home and that was the only way we survived. My younger sisters wanted to be just like him, wanted to leave because America promised a better life. But as the oldest daughter, I couldn’t leave my family, my parents. I couldn’t leave my home, even as my father began to sell away parcels of our land, and even if we were running out of food.
Our family needed help, and our neighbors became our family, and we all did what we could to survive under the Japanese occupation. Then the American invasion that would save our country destroyed everything first. When we looked out onto the waters, into Leyte Gulf, it was no longer beautiful or serene, but a horizon of boats, the outlines of soldiers coming onto shore. The nights were no longer a quiet peace. We no longer enjoyed the expansive inky sky or the stars dotting us from above. Everything changed, and we had changed, too.
But we were still hopeful. Our brother, Ignacio, had sent a letter early in the war that he was coming home. He was enlisting in the Army and he was an American. He said that no matter where he landed ashore, he would find his way back home.
That was why we stayed where we were. We were waiting for him.
He never came home. Instead, Antonio Cruz appeared at our doorstep. At first, when I opened the door to his uniform and muddied face, I thought it was my brother. I almost leaped into his arms. He looked a lot like him, you see. Over time, I found out that all the soldiers had that same look—gaunt, haunted.
My mother came to the door, curious, and at seeing Antonio, she wailed. Up to that point, I didn’t understand. You see, I was still hopeful. Hope is, essentially, what makes us Filipino. I thought that this Antonio Cruz was simply a messenger, like another one of Ignacio’s letters.
When Antonio fell to his knees, I knew. I knew that my brother was dead. We would never see him again. My heart broke into a million pieces. I thought it had already been broken with the war, with all we’d lost, but this was different. Ignacio was my big brother. I knew him the moment I was born. He was like the sun to me.
While on his knees, this Antonio said a lot of words, many through tears. I couldn’t understand them, but later on, over the course of years, he would tell me what had happened upon landing in Leyte. Their unit was told that they would be “mopping up operations” from the invasion, as if people were like water to be soaked and then squeezed for discard. As if there wouldn’t be fighting, defending, or dying. My brother had saved Antonio’s life, had thrown his body over Antonio’s, to shield him from harm during a rain of gunfire. My God, Ignacio almost made it home.
Antonio promised his devotion to our family. He had made the pact to my brother as he died, and he made the pact to God.
I hated Antonio and didn’t speak to him for his short stay at Tacloban. The Army continued on to Luzon for the rest of the war and then returned months later, and I still hated him. He lived by himself, worked around town. He helped my parents rebuild our home. He gave my family money and kept largely out of the way. Soon, my parents forgave him, but I didn’t, not for a long, long time.
One day, I accepted his presence. Something happened that year: I realized that he was a good man. We became friends, and in that time I learned about the nightmares, about his fears, and about his love for a woman whose father would never approve of him. The guilt of my brother’s death ate him up inside. But late in 1945, he received a letter, which he wanted me to respond to. He didn’t show me the letter, but he begged for help, said that it would be the last of his past. I was eager to move on, to build a life with him because he was a good man. So, like everyone did in wartime, I did my part to survive. I wrote the letter for him.
* * *
Flora coughed and wheezed, and it became interminable. Margo rose from her chair and rubbed the woman’s back, still in a daze from what had sounded like a fairy tale coming from her lips. Through Flora’s shirt, Margo felt her vertebrae, saw the thin gold chain necklace that held a delicate crucifix. This reminder of her age punctuated her story with even more sadness and regret.
“Your brother was Ignacio?” Margo’s voice shook. She had wanted to be angry. She had wanted to lash out in frustration, but she felt no animosity. Instead
, empathy arose. She half laughed at the convoluted way the truth showed itself. “I didn’t expect for you to say that.”
“Your mother didn’t deserve the letter I sent her, Margo. And I am sorry.”
Margo’s hand stilled on the woman’s back. She came around and sat on the edge of the bed. Flora gripped Margo’s hand.
“Antonio kept secrets. I did, too. And we accepted that we wouldn’t talk about the past, that we wouldn’t force each other to do anything we didn’t want to do. It was our unsaid agreement.”
“What did that letter say? The one that came for him?”
“I don’t know. It was from America, forwarded by the Army.” She shook her head. “At first, I refused to help him, but he begged. I couldn’t bear to see that; he’d suffered too much already. So I did it. I wrote what he dictated.”
“So it wasn’t you?”
“It was me, Margo, but it was Antonio who dictated those words. I didn’t know your mother was pregnant with you.”
Pain pierced through her as Roberta’s words from just a few days ago came flooding back: Prepare yourself for the worst-case scenario.
This was the worst-case scenario. “So my father didn’t want me?”
Flora tore her eyes away from Margo’s face, and that was the confirmation.
It was her father who hadn’t wanted her, not this woman. There was no one to blame but him, and he was dead.
Margo was speechless.
What could one say to that?
“But there’s more, anak. Your father, my husband, had a stipulation in his will. That stipulation is what binds you.” Flora laughed. It was the oddest thing, but she looked up at the ceiling and said, “And now I know why you insisted on writing it so, Tony.”
Margo frowned, jostled back into speech. “What’s that?”
Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Joshua even questioned it, fought it, because he felt it was too vague and muddled. But I understand now. That stubborn, infuriating husband of mine.”
“Joshua?” Margo whispered.
“That boy is precious to me; his mother was a part of this family from the moment she arrived to the day she died, gone too soon, so young. And Antonio—Antonio trusted him. Antonio saw him squarely as a grandson, and it makes more sense now.” A smile graced her face, her eyes staring just above Margo’s head, as if she were getting answers from another plane.
While Margo had witnessed Flora’s clear devotion to her Catholic faith, Margo was far from religious. She considered herself pragmatic and didn’t believe in ghosts. But even she could feel that, right then, the two of them weren’t alone in that room.
“The eldest descendant will inherit the Cruz Estate.” Flora blinked, the glaze in her eyes falling back to clarity. “That was the line in the will, Margo. And that descendant is me. Then I’d assumed my daughter, but she is no longer with us. But, Margo, it’s you. It’s you, then Diana.”
“Who would have come after you, had me or Diana not shown up?”
“Joshua.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The complete tour took only four hours, but to Diana, an entire lifetime had passed. She felt heavy from all the words she’d read in the brochures, from the history explained by the tour guide. It was like trying to digest a dense piece of medical literature all at once, with names and dates and consequences crammed into one page of minuscule writing.
In that half day’s span, the divide between her and Joshua had fallen away. Her small bit of vulnerability had been reciprocated in spades. They walked a little closer, shoulders rubbing every so often, sometimes standing so close that she felt the barrier she’d erected so long ago give a little. Perhaps it was their near-familial bond, now undeniable. Perhaps it was Joshua’s ability to take her breath away when he committed to the moment, as he was now, in his car, with his lips on hers.
They were in the back seat, still parked next to the dock. His hands were entangled in her hair. She gripped the front of his shirt. The air around them had spiked several degrees, despite the blasting AC.
Diana worked the buttons of his shirt, inching it down so she could run her fingers across his chest, and he had started to slip his hands under the hem of her shirt when a knock threw them apart.
Diana watched as a gaggle of kids passed them, laughing, making smooching noises in the air. Her heart beat in her throat. Oh my God, they were just making out in the back seat of his car. When was the last time she’d gone parking with a man?
She couldn’t even remember.
He eyed her devilishly. “Damn, Diana.”
She giggled, shocked and impressed with herself. Damn right. “We should go, right?”
“Yeah.” He was still breathing hard. “Home?”
“Yes, home.” Then Diana’s brain woke. “No, not home. My mom is at Sunset Corner.” There was nothing like the thought of her mother to bring her libido back into check, that was for sure. “I’m sorry. But later?”
“It’s a promise.” He took a breath. “I think the only thing that will cure this feeling is a cold shower or some good food. Are you up to eat before we see everyone?”
“Sounds like a great idea.” She already had her phone out, and with one click was in her notes app. “What about this restaurant on my list? I think it’s nearby.” She tilted the phone toward him.
He gave it a cursory glance. “That place isn’t good.”
“But it has five stars.”
“It’s overrated, caters to tourists. Do you want to try something new? Something that might be out of your comfort zone?”
It was a silly challenge, but who did he think he was talking to? When it came to food, there was no such thing as a comfort zone. “I’m down. Take me there. But will there be choices because—”
He touched her wrist, to halt the beginnings of a litany of demands, and it had the desired effect. The gesture was kind, gentle, and in another measure of letting go, she adjusted her hand, opening it so his entwined with hers. For a moment, he just took a breath, and with a quick upturn of his lips, said, “There will be so many choices, your head’s going to spin.”
“Okay.”
They both climbed out of the back seat and into the front. After he started the car, he took Diana’s hand in his. She settled into the leather seat, suddenly aware of how stiff she was, and how clammy her hand was in his. Could he tell she was giddy, that she loved this small bit of affection? That the cold AC blasting from the vents did nothing for the fact that her entire body was steaming hot?
“Tell me about your work.” He tugged on her fingers.
She could feel herself beaming with pride. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” He navigated the car with one hand, as if unaware of the traffic and the assertive drivers around him. The landscape had changed once again, and Diana didn’t recognize where they were headed.
Her cheeks warmed. “I love mamas. I mean, I love babies, too, but I’m in awe of the mother’s part in childbirth. Hence becoming an OB versus a pediatrician. For them, not only is it biologic effort for their bodies to become mothers, but there’s also that emotional effort, too. When I say I’ve seen a pregnant woman go mama bear, I mean it. It happens in labor, when they are literally trusting nature by enduring pain. It happens after the baby is born, when they put aside their own discomfort to care for a little one. Women are amazing, you know?”
“I know,” he said, his voice teasing. “I’m surrounded by women.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” She tugged at his hand. “With that said, being a doctor is a privilege, but I haven’t been happy for a while. I’m tired from the hours I pull, though admittedly that’s somewhat self-inflicted. But the profession is money-driven, not the selfless ideal I had going in, and the hospital I work for caters to the upper crust, so I’m not sure it’s where I belong.”
“Can you do something else?”
“I can, of course, but it’s not that easy. I can’t just leave my job. I’
ve got student loans, responsibilities to my patients.” She shrugged, not wanting to say too much, aware that her thoughts were jumbled and all over the place. Hence the reason why it was always easier for her to just do rather than speak, to act rather than explain. Having to illustrate her intentions just made her sound superficial. “I was raised by a single mom, who was raised by a single mom. My entire family is comprised of women. Women helping women to raise children. Aunts and best friends, neighbors. Ultimately, I’m compelled by a desire to be a contributing member of the village who raised me and feel obliged to it. And have you heard teachers say they feel like their students are like their kids?” she asked him. When he nodded, she said, “That’s how I feel about being a doctor. I feel like I’m the sister, that I’m the aunt who knows what to do in the most vulnerable times in a woman’s life. This is me giving back in the best way I can. I can’t imagine not working with mothers.”
She hadn’t realized that she’d pulled his hand onto her lap until he took it from hers when they reached a red light. He tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, then padded a thumb lightly along her cheek. He held her gaze, and Diana’s heart escalated as she held her breath.
“I totally just spewed my life story right there, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and I loved it.”
Behind them came a cacophony of honking cars. The light had turned green, and the cars next to them had lurched to life, already speeding down the highway. Good thing he looked away from her and to the road; Diana needed a second to catch her breath. This feeling was better than her runner’s high or her doctor’s high. It was the feeling of … belonging.