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.