Margo’s thoughts ground to a halt. She leaned in, intent on every word, as was everyone else in the room: Edna, Colette, and Philip silent in their chairs.
“I met Antonio in Tacloban, my hometown. It was destroyed, both by the Japanese and the Americans when they leveled the ground. We hid in the mountains, but many of my friends died. Family. Neighbors. We didn’t know who to trust, or who to thank. That is what happens in war. We weren’t sure who to turn to. We just had to survive, to eat, to live somehow. I was twenty-five, young, though not very optimistic. I knew how to use a machete. I was the eldest of three sisters, and responsibility came with that.”
Flora’s eyes glazed over in memory, and she continued, “Antonio was part of the First Filipino Infantry Regiment, which split up after they arrived in New Guinea, and he was moved to the Sixth Army. In New Guinea, no one knew how entrenched the Japanese were. Antonio said that the country was beautiful but so dangerous, though he never spoke of what happened there, or in Leyte. Not aloud.
“The things Antonio said in his sleep … even after we married. He used to call out Leora’s name.”
Her mother’s name coming out of this woman’s mouth sent a shiver through Margo. In her own research as a young woman, Margo hadn’t found much about the First Filipino Regiment. At some point, in the hustle and bustle of life, she’d put the effort aside, settling for the very basics of history of World War II in the Philippines. Then again, it had been easier to just accept what was told to her. Less painful than digging into the real truth. Her father had been an enigma in story form.
Flora broke out into an incessant cough.
Edna tutted, pushed her chair back, and strode to her side. “Time for bed.”
“I’ll help.” Colette stood.
“No, you won’t.” Philip gently coerced her to her seat and joined Edna.
Margo stood to help, too. She took Flora’s other arm and helped her up from the chair. The woman was so light and fragile that Margo feared too much pressure on her bones would crush them. Earlier, in her beautiful garments and amid the lure of festivities, Flora was a regal matriarch. Now, she was simply an elderly woman who struggled to walk to her bed, shuffling in her slippers.
“I’m here.” A low voice rushed into the space. Dr. Sison had a doctor’s bag in hand. As Flora perched on the mattress, with Margo still on one side, he settled his bag on the bedside table. It was only then Margo noticed the oxygen tank, discreetly tucked behind the bed, a long tube attached to it.
After they’d both settled Flora in bed, the woman’s eyes shut. Margo shared a glance with Edna, who was looking at her lovingly, which struck a cord of regret. That was how Margo had looked at her own mother at the end of her life, when there was little left to do but preserve her dignity at a time when her body was failing her.
Margo didn’t have to pick up a stethoscope to know that Flora was sick; she could hear the crackles of her breathing Still, Dr. Sison did his duty; he listened to her heart and lungs. Gave her the customary warnings and guidelines, and even admonished her for pushing herself today. “And please, you should use your oxygen.”
“I already use it when I’m asleep,” she countered.
He sighed.
“I’ll think about it.”
Dr. Sison grinned. “How about right now?”
“Fine,” she said after a dramatic second.
He pulled the tube out and affixed it onto Flora’s nose with care, then glanced at Margo in triumph.
“Oh, is everything okay?”
Margo looked up at the sound of her daughter’s voice. She halted briefly at the door, then entered, holding a briefcase in her hand. Joshua followed right behind, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“I’m dying,” Flora piped up, making all of them jump, though she still had her eyes closed. “I’m dying, but it’s okay. Now that you are here, Margo. You and Diana. Joshua, did you give Diana the briefcase?”
“Yes, Lola.”
She exhaled, and coughed. “Good. Open it, and I will see you tomorrow afternoon. And I will tell you more.”
Leyte, Philippines
February 24, 1945
My dearest Leora,
I don’t know if it’s any use to write, but here I am, penning another letter. I can’t stop myself. I think of you when something significant happens, good or bad. Today, a terrible thing occurred. I lost a friend who I considered my brother. I thought I could protect him but I couldn’t.
Everything has changed. I have changed, and I feel like I’m at the edge of a large divide, unsure whether to jump. In the past, I would have looked to you for advice, for encouragement. You have always been the one who made quick decisions. You were always more practical than me. Me and my sometimes-wild dreams—you always reminded me what was real. Without you, I don’t know what to do.
I have to make this decision on my own. For all that I may do, I am sorry, Leora. I have tried my best. Know that I love you, and I love our child.
Yours, forever,
Antonio
Chapter Twenty-Two
That night, with a stiff cup of coffee in her belly, Diana sat cross-legged facing her mother, the briefcase on a coffee table between them. Neither one of them had made a move to open it.
“I feel like the wrong combination will set off a bomb,” Diana said. Her initial feeling of entitlement to this briefcase had passed, replaced by fear. The last three days had upended her poorly imagined expectations. She had this version of a reunion in mind, a cerebral Here is your cousin and the wife of your late grandfather, and the entire family history will be bestowed upon you scenario. Not a party, not an almost one-night stand, and then now this object between she and her mother that, going by Flora’s implication, might reveal the truth they wanted.
This trip had been like peeling an onion—one eye-stinging realization after another. She didn’t know how much more she could take.
She would need a vacation from her vacation.
Correction: there would be no time for a vacation after this. The unknown waited for her back in Virginia, too.
Diana gnawed on her lip to clear her head. If she weren’t so intent on being lucid for this, she would’ve had a stiff drink instead.
“Speaking of bombs. You looked like you were going to hurl one at me earlier today at Sunset Corner.”
“Did I?” Diana pressed her lips together. She knew she couldn’t blame being tipsy for her behavior at dinner—her champagne high had been long gone.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.”
So she shook her head. “Everything was coming all at once, is all. I was surprised that you got along with them so well, I guess.”
What else could she have said? That she wanted to forbid her mother from talking to Flora? That it was traitorous? What would that have done? If her mother had been a jerk toward Flora, then they probably wouldn’t have this briefcase here now.
“It’s a lot for me, too. I had to keep remembering that this wasn’t just about Antonio or Flora, but about my mother, too. But Flora said something that rang true today. She said my father was a brave man. That bad things happened, but he was brave. It gave me such comfort to hear that.” Her eyes fluttered upward, meeting Diana’s gaze.