Take a Trip Down Memory Lane and Try Not to Cry
Back at home, Cleo has never felt safer. No cameras, no reporters—just her and the man she loves. After days of shooting, she can finally rest easy. She doesn’t need to worry about what other people will think of her, and it’s such a relief to stop chasing something that’s never really hers in the first place.
“I’ll come to pick you up tomorrow. Get some rest for now,” Owen says, tucking a strand of Cleo’s hair behind her ear.
Cleo’s grateful to hear those words. They’re not breaking up; they’re making up. She can only hug Owen and kiss his cheek. They know there’s the elephant in the room, but they also know now’s not the right time to talk about it.
“Thank you. Really,” Cleo murmurs, oddly calm and satisfied. Owen gives her a little smile and a peck on the lips. He’s about to leave when Thea suddenly comes down the stairs, holding a mop and catching sight of them on the doorstep. She’d have been cleaning the second floor. She always keeps the house spotless.
“Is that Owen? Come inside! Have dinner.” Thea waves at Owen, looking back and forth between him and Cleo, and understanding dawns on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
Typical of Cleo’s mother. Thea likes to tease, and she doesn’t want to miss out on anything going on in her daughters’ lives and loves. She’s cheeky like that.
“It’s okay, Tita. My family and I have a dinner date,” Owen replies, raising an eyebrow at Thea.
Thea winks at Owen as if there’s a secret just between them, but Cleo can already guess it’s because her mother knows what his family is really like. It’s all pretense, but they’re still his family, and he needs to make an appearance.
“If you say so.” Thea smiles at them before calling out to Anne to help prepare the dinner.
“Tomorrow?” Owen asks, his voice calm, and it soothes Cleo. He’s looking at her softly, and she feels she could break and crumble at any moment, but she’s not doing that. If anything, she feels she’s turned into someone else—a better version of herself.
Cleo bites her lower lip, wanting to say what she’s feeling, but she can’t find words for them just now. She doesn’t want to let him down anymore. “Rain check for tomorrow? But if I don’t have anything, let’s go somewhere far.”
“Hey, I’m sorry.” Owen’s eyes are cast down, looking at their interlocked hands. “And sure. We’ll take things slow.”
Exhausted, Cleo leans into him, dropping her head on his shoulder and whispering, “Thank you. I’m sorry, too. I’ll see you then.”
Five minutes later, Cleo pulls away and says her goodbyes. With longing eyes, she watches Owen leave. He closes their metal gate on his way out and starts his motorcycle. He gives her one last look before speeding off onto the road.
Dinner’s quiet. Usually, Cleo does most of the talking, but this evening she barely says a word. She doesn’t know how to tell her family what happened on the set. She’s chewing the kaldereta’s potato and pork, but she can barely savor it. It’s mildly spicy, so at least she can still identify what she’s eating.
Anne and Thea probably think Cleo doesn’t notice the way they share knowing looks, but she does. She’s hyperaware of what’s going on around her whenever she falls silent. It’s very Sherlock-y of her, and it’s a skill that that’s been very useful to her. This exchange of looks between her mother and sister isn’t new to her. It’s their code for Cleo-has-something-to-say-but-she-needs-time-to-say-it. Maybe she should surprise them, see how they react.
“I’m saying it now. I walked off the set,” Cleo bursts out, eating like there’s no tomorrow.
“We’re not, you know, asking you about it. Right, Ma?” Anne says, pretending not to be dying of curiosity. Cleo knows she and Thea are thinking the same thing—something happened to Cleo today and they’re just waiting for her to spill the tea.
Thea quickly masks her face with a look of astonishment. She’s pretending she doesn’t know what’s bothering Cleo, but of course, it’s on the internet and TV. “Right, right!” Thea says. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, anak.”
Stuffed already, Cleo pats her stomach and says, “I want to be a director.”
Anne chokes on her food. Cleo quickly gives her a bottle of water while Thea thumps her back. Anne drinks her water and stares blankly at Cleo. “Sorry. I—you want to be like you-know-who?”
Thea taps Anne’s back lightly as if to scold her, understanding in her eyes. She’s always been so considerate of what Cleo wants in life, and she never has once stopped believing in her daughters.
“You’ll do great, Cleo,” Thea says with conviction, sweet and firm. Cleo sometimes wonders if her mom had been a life coach in her previous life. Thea’s great at talking and cheering people up. Cleo was convinced that if Thea were to run for president, she’d win by a landslide.
“I don’t want to be like him,” Cleo clarifies to Anne, finishing her dinner and cleaning up their table. “I feel like I’m meant to be something else. I’ve been trying to be an actor a long time now. I didn’t even stop to think about what else might be in store for me. I boxed myself in and made myself a prisoner.”
“We’ll always support you. These people on social media and wherever else—they can only talk about what they see on the surface. You know how they all love gossip. But there’s much depth in you.” Thea helps Cleo wash the dishes, smiling genuinely at her. “You’re more than just an actor.”
“Sorry, Leo, I just . . . don’t want you to be like him, so I got a little panicky when you said you want to direct, that’s all,” Anne adds, filling the pitchers with water and putting them in the refrigerator. “But I’m not gonna stop you from reaching your dreams, so you better top him, Direk Cleo!”
Cleo grinned at Anne and thought about what had happened today. She’s lost the most promising role ever, but she’s also gained a valuable insight: it’s not all about playing lead roles because these roles can’t come to life without the people behind the scenes. She wants to try to be a director and see how it goes. The next time she goes out in the public eye, she’ll make sure she can answer their questions. Speaking of questions, one question from today has been bothering her.
When Anne leaves to fold her newly washed clothes, Cleo follows. She knows Anne must know something. “Anne, I’ve only just thought about this—do you know what mom used to do in her early years?”
Anne freezes for a single beat, then resumes her fold. She doesn’t turn around to face Cleo. “Why?”
“Before I left the set, a reporter said, are you more like your father or your mother?” Cleo air quotes. “What do you think that’s about?”
“It’s probably nothing.”
Cleo knows it’s something, and Anne’s not going to say what. She thought she was observant enough to form a theory, but she could never gather enough clues. Giving up on her sister, she joins Thea in the living room. Her mother’s watching an action teleserye about a great policeman who manages to stay alive no matter how many bullets he takes. The show’s been going on for almost four years already, and people still enjoy it. It’s kind of like a nightly ritual.
“Ma?” Cleo starts, watching the teleserye too. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want you to feel like I’m cornering you—even though it’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“You’ve always been very direct.” Thea laughs heartily, enjoying her play on the word. “You know you can ask me anything.”
Cleo’s wondering why it has only ever occurred to her today to ask about it. “There’s this reporter who asked me if I’m more like, er, dad or you. Why?”
Thea stalls, the way Anne did, so Cleo quickly apologizes, wishing she hadn’t brought up what might be a sensitive subject. “I’m sorry, Ma. Forget I asked.”
But Thea just looked at her for a long moment. Cleo couldn’t read her face. Finally, “I knew this day would come,” Thea said, “And I always said that when it did, I wouldn’t hide anything. How about we go over to the rooftop and talk?”
The photo albums Thea carried with her could be considered antique. They’re covered in dust as if they had been buried in a time capsule that’s not supposed to open until the end of time. There’s an ominous vibe coming from them, the kind of nervousness a person feels when they step into a house of horrors. All Cleo knows is that these albums are heavy with revelations. The floral design on the covers looks cheerful; Cleo can tell the books contain nothing of the sort.
But they’re here, on the edge of their seats with just the company of the moon and stars. The table between Cleo and Thea seems to vibrate with tension with each passing moment. It feels like it’s getting smaller, and soon, the story will be laid out for Cleo like a deck of cards.
“You deserve to hear this story.” Thea’s taking deep breaths, and Cleo recognizes this as a sign of apprehension. She and her mother are not so different, after all. “Honestly, I don’t know where to begin . . .”
Unexpectedly, Anne has also joined them, carrying three bottles of beer. When Thea sees this, she laughs in surprise but ends up opening the bottle for herself. Now that’s something Cleo hasn’t seen her mother ever do before, which makes her curious.
“I thought we might need these,” Anne comments, smiling mischievously at Cleo and Thea. “Beer is a great source of moral support.”
Cleo also takes a bottle, taking a big gulp out of it. Anne’s right. They need the beer for this story because whatever comes out of these photo albums will surely help her decide what she’s going to do from this point on.
Thea clears her throat and then opens the photo albums, spreading the photos on the glass table. They’re pictures of her when she was young. She’s a breathtaking earth goddess with her short hair and chocolate brown skin. Her deep-set eyes are naturally hypnotizing, drawing everyone in with just a look. With the kind of angular face she has, there’s no doubt she can be called the most beautiful girl in the world.
“On the beautiful island of Siquijor in 1995, I lived an ordinary life with my family and grandparents . . . and it had been my home for a good nineteen years or so. It’s filled with the best that nature has to offer, and life was simple then. We didn’t have electricity, so we did everything manually. And maybe that’s why I’m such a neat freak.” Thea laughs, smiling fondly at the memory of it. “The sun rises, and the sun sets, and everything we’ll ever need is on the island. Not a speck of worry in our minds. I used to have my hammock when I was little, and I remember tatay’s happy face whenever he came home with a bucket of fish.”
This is the first time Cleo’s heard this story, and now she’s wondering why she’s only just hearing it now. Siquijor sounds like a fantasy dream island, and she’s itching to go there and have her mother tell the story in the house where she once lived. But despite the beauty of the story’s beginning, Cleo can already sense it will end in disaster.
Thea flips the page of the photo album, and a photo of Thea in her late teens looks out from the page. She still looks young, but her jawline’s much more pronounced, and there’s a hint of mischievousness in her eyes. A flower crown rests on her head, and at her side are three boys whom Cleo can only guess are her suitors.
“They were my playmates back then. We used to do everything under the sun, and then eventually we moved on from the friendship state into a more, hmm . . . how do you say it now? A dating one? They wanted to be my jowa.”
“Oh, mom, don’t say jowa. Just say lover or boyfriend or something else,” Anne groans.
Thea sighs. “Okay, okay. Anyway, I never liked any of them in any way other than as friends. They were just . . . my friends. I was their favorite, you know? I was their island girl. They used to call me Diwata, the goddess of Siquijor.”
Cleo can see why. Her mother exudes nature. Everything about her seems so naturally inviting, and with her serene smile, she looks as if her purpose is to bring peace to this chaotic earth.
“What is it like? Being an island girl?” Cleo asks, trying to picture what Thea’s life was like.
Thea recalls her past.
In the town of Maria in Siquijor, Thea had spent her days watching the incredible rise and fall of the sea waves. The whitewashed sands and crystal-clear waters of Salagdoong Beach were always a sight to behold. She didn’t know any life other than this, and she had no hankering to see what was on the other side, whatever it may be. At night, she’d lie on the soft, warm brown earth as a myriad of fireflies set the island alight like Christmas lights.
“The Spaniards called Siquijor an Isla de Fuegos, an island of fires,” Thea adds. “We’re also known for our folk healing, and some might even say we bewitch people. Some people still think it’s an island of magic and sorcery, but it’s all just traditional healing practices. With all the herbs, barks, and woods over there, you can concoct a love potion, you know.”
“A love potion?” Cleo echoes, amused. She doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, but looking back now, when they didn’t have much money then, her mom turned to herbal medicine. It wasn’t the most practical solution sometimes, but it turned out that the skill she got from her hometown was what helped ease their financial burden.
Thea had once tried making a love potion, out of genuine curiosity. One day, she came out of their Nipa hut house and went around the island, gathering whatever herbs she could find. She took a small rock and smashed her improvised ingredients in one go. Later that afternoon, she splashed the scent around her clothes and looked for Andres, the boy she’d been spending a lot of time with these days. When she found Andres, she gave him a huge, gleeful smile.
“Why are you so happy to see me?” Andres asked. Even in his sando and shorts, he looked good.
Thea shrugged. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
Thea told Andres that she was wearing a special potion just for him. Andres laughed and told her she didn’t need a potion—he liked her already. But Thea knew it was the love potion because, in the days that followed, other boys on the island started professing their love for her. They told her she was the goddess of their life. She respectfully told them she would always care for them as friends.
“Ma, it’s not the love potion. It’s your beauty,” Anne remarks, drinking her beer. “You didn’t need to do that. They’ll follow you anywhere you go.”
“Wow!” Cleo exclaims.
Thea winks at her children, laughing out loud in a way that was classy and regal as well as amused. It’s like she doesn’t have the ability to look silly or awkward. “I know that now. I didn’t know it then, okay? I—”
“You’re oblivious to your beauty, Ma!” Cleo cuts Thea short.
Thea puts down her beer and breathes in and out again. “But beauty can be deceiving. Being the island girl, everyone thought they loved and adored me. They made me the goddess of beauty and love, but I couldn’t love any of them. They didn’t realize it, but the thing they really loved wasn’t me—it was my face.”
Cleo knows how deceiving and tricky beauty can be all too well. Yet, it was her face that had made her able to keep food on the table and aim for other things. She owed her success to it.
“And then the islanders wanted to see Siquijor’s beautiful women all together. They wanted a contest to decide who was fairest of them all,” Thea continues her story.
With Thea’s rising fame, the locals wanted to celebrate their island’s beauty, making a competition out of it. They invited young girls to this contest and made them walk, smile, and run. Thea excelled at everything without fail, and she won the title of the most beautiful girl in Siquijor. Because it made everyone happy, she did everything they asked her to do.
“Thea, our diwata,” the locals cried out.
Thea didn’t mind. She had a lot of friends, and the days were always filled with fun. People got to dress her however they liked while she smiled on. These were Thea’s people, and she was contented with that.
“So, you’re Miss Congeniality?” Cleo butts in.
“Try Miss Naïve,” Thea counters. “And then he came—the dashing American boy with blue eyes and blonde hair.”
Cleo knows that when there’s a boy involved, the story usually heads toward disaster, and she’s not wrong.