Page 10 of On the Beat

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“Hey, Mom.” I pick up the phone. The moment I’ve checked into my AirBnB in El Nido, my mom calls. It’s evening here, meaning it’s six am in New York. “It’s awfully early to be calling, don’t you think?”

Ever keen to catch on, she directs the conversation away from my question. “Where are you,bunso? It’s only nine pm in Los Angeles.”

I smile at the term of endearment. Though I’m not the youngest of the family—bunso—I was for a long time. My younger sister, Analyn, was a “happy accident.”

“No, actually, I’m…” I pause, wondering if I should tell her the truth. I hear chatter in the background, my father probably clamouring for the phone now that she’s spoken my name.

Finally, I decide to tell her the truth. “I’m in El Nido,” I say, and brace myself for the storm of questions about to follow.

“What? Why? You didn’t tell us? We could have gone with you. You’re finally taking time off for vacation?” Her barrage of queries is punctuated by my father chiming in on occasion; she must have put me on speaker.

“Yep. The pressures of work finally got to me, so I thought I’d come here,” I say, trying to keep the details brief. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You should visit my sister, Evangeline, while you’re there,” my mom suggests immediately. I picture him and my mother jostling one another for the phone.

We used to go back to the Philippines, taking a trip there every few years, when I was growing up. We would always visit an entire host of relatives, so my mom’s mention of her sister is just one among a sea of faces. “Which sister is she?”

“She’s the oldest sister,” my mom’s voice pipes through the speakers. Her family tree is long, complicated, and far more expansive than most in America. She’s the second oldest of nine children; her parents had four girls and then five boys, in that exact order. I guess Evangeline is the firstborn then.

I rack my brain for any other information. “She has a son and a daughter, right?”

“Yes, yes, Paulo, and Gloria,” she says. “Paulo is a few years older than you, and Goria is Analyn’s age. Don’t you remember visiting them when we went on vacation?”

Family vacations are another thing I sacrificed when I left New York five years ago. I lean against the headboard, the phone pressed to my ear, and shut my eyes, remembering the gaggle of relatives, the never-ending delicious meals, the fresh fruit that was better than any overpriced grocery store produce in Los Angeles; the melding of two cultures, two languages, and two parts of myself. If I squint, I think I remember Paulo, a boy about my brothers’ age, and how the three of them used to splash around in the hotel pool or the ocean while Analyn, Gloria, and I built sandcastles. Still, that was over ten years ago. “Yeah, I think I remember.”

“Great, it’s settled, then. I’ll tell Evangeline you’re going there. Here, write down the address. Cesar, get the address book.” As always, my mom has commandeered the conversation to get me to do whatever she wants, and this time, I’m not even mad about it. I don’t even have the first idea about how to find Ryder Black here, and for now, I’m simply content to go with the flow.

After a moment of marveling that my parents still use an address book, I copy down the address on my ever-present red notebook and hang up with promises to call more and write to them, as well as to come back to New York sometime. My mom tells me she’ll call Paulo to warn him that I’ll be showing up. I find the driver holding a sign with my name on it and embark on the next leg of my already too-long adventure. On the way there, I email Jane and let her know that I’ll be staying with family for a bit.

The driver, thankfully, doesn’t take too long to reach Tita Evangeline’s house. We zip by small houses, gaps between them showing glimpses of the sea. Excitement zings through me, like the swipe of a tuning fork perfectly calibrating each vibration in my body.

The driver eyes my luggage as he pulls my suitcase out of the trunk. “Visiting family?”

“Yes,” I say, because it’s not a lie, and thank him for the ride. “Salamat po.”

“Walang anuman.” He responds withyou’re welcomebefore making an abrupt U-turn to speed out of the cul-de-sac. With that, I’m left with my luggage, my wits, and a pang of growing hunger in the pit of my stomach as I stare at the bungalow in front of me.

Paulo’s house is styled like a beachfront Airbnb, which it very well may be. As I lug my suitcase up the stairs, they creak beneath my Birkenstock sandals, and I wince, finally heaving it onto the porch. Seeing no doorbell, I take a deep breath, and knock on the door.

A young man in his twenties, maybe a few years older than me, with facial features that vaguely resemble my mom’s, greets me. “You must be my cousin, Isla. I’m Paulo. Come in, come in, dinner’s almost ready.”

A Taglish-accented voice calls from further into the house. “Paulo, who are you talking to?”

“Isla’s here, remember Tita Joy called and said she was coming?” he yells back as he steers me into the house. I kick off my sandals, walking barefoot on the hardwood. “They just called and said she was coming, remember?”

Moments later, a petite Filipino woman with a pixie cut and a glowing smile emerges from what I assume is the kitchen, since she’s wearing an apron splattered with sauce and the smell of kare kare follows her out. “Isla! It’s been so long. The last time I saw you, you were a little baby just up to my knees, and now look at you. You’re taller than I am. Come give me a hug.”

I do so, disregarding the sauce-stained apron as my travelling attire is already a mess, and embracing her. She reminds me of my mother, though they have different builds—my mother is taller, stockier, with longer hair—and the hug feels like coming home. “Thank you for having me on such short notice, Tita Evangeline. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

“No, not at all. It’s good that this bungalow has three bedrooms,” she says. “I don’t live here, I’m only cooking for the guest that Paulo has, to give him a proper welcome.”

“So who’s the guest staying here?” A guest? I’m not sure what to expect now that all my plans have been so radically altered, but I wasn’t planning on spending the rest of the year in a beachside bungalow with my cousin, and a stranger. I guess I can’t complain, though.

“Anak, what did you say his name was?” Evangeline turns toward her son expectantly.

“Ryder Black,” says Paulo.

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