by Nina Moreno
“I’m alive,” I declared, wonderingly.
“You also owe me a new phone.” Her jeans and shirt were plastered to her skin. “What the hell were you doing? You’re not the strongest swimmer, and since when do you go in the ocean?”
“I don’t know.” Grief was exhausting, and I was a mess covered in salt water and sand, stretched back on the beach. I squinted against the sunlight. “I hate this so much.”
She didn’t tell me she was sorry for my loss or say she understood how I felt. She dropped down beside me, leaned back on her elbows, and tilted her face to the sun instead.
After a while, I finally asked the question knocking around in my heart like a mournful ghost. “Am I still Cuban?”
Ana blinked. “I’m skipping school right now and it’s way too early for this.” She sighed hard at my sincerity and sat up to shake the sand and water from her hair. “Of course you’re still Cuban. That doesn’t just go away because someone…” She hesitated and slid a worried glance over me. “Passes.”
I watched the horizon. In the distance, boats dotted the line between sky and sea. “I gave myself all these markers. If my Spanish was better. If I studied in Cuba. If Mimi could go home again, but now she’s gone and I don’t know. Maybe it all went with her.” Mimi was my island, and now she was gone. I had no map and I could not go back.
“I remember my dad saying that when he died, he still wanted to be buried there.” Ana shrugged and messed with the drying curls of her hair. The idea clearly bothered her, but she was trying to downplay it. “It was so heavy with regret. Like he’s always going to love the other life he didn’t get to live more.” She picked up a piece of driftwood and drew a line in the sand. “Diaspora is weird. So is exile. We’re going to be different on this side of it. That’s not a bad thing.”
I imagined the generations of women living in my blood. The times they must have sat like this and considered their plights. Their heartache and dreams. Their whispers swam through my veins regardless of where I was on a map. The sun was so warm on my face.
“Hey, did you hear? The festival raised enough money.”
I shot up. “Are you serious?” I’d checked out so hard I hadn’t been in the loop on the final count.
“Yup. The university okayed the program, which halted the sale. Jonas said the first bunch of biology nerds should be here as soon as this summer.”
“Wow.” Relief stubbornly pushed its way into my heavy sadness. Down the beach, I could see the busy harbor. Watching movement on the docks filled me with dizzying anticipation. I wanted to see the changes and possibility. For the moment, and maybe for a long time after, we all saved something. This all would stay and hopefully become even stronger. “I should have come out to the beach more.”
“You definitely made a splash for your first time.” Ana stretched out and crossed her feet at her ankles. “So, made a decision about college yet?”
I laughed, the sound rough and just a little bitter. “I have no idea what I’m doing anymore. I was so sure, and now I’m just…tired.” Everything was so heavy now, and trying to think through the fog just winded me more.
“Take a nap, champ.” Ana’s eyes were closed. She looked happy to lie back in the sun as it slowly dried our clothes and hair.
I missed my certainty. Before the study-abroad program was canceled I’d been so sure. “Mimi always said she’d never seen water as blue as Cuba’s.”
Ana made a noise of agreement. “Dad says the same. That’s the Caribbean Sea for you.”
I wanted to see it so much, but god, I just wished Mimi could have seen it again.
My pulse picked up. For the first time since losing Mimi, conviction kicked the door open and cleared out some of the fog. I knew this feeling. I missed this feeling. Ana was halfway to a nap when I leapt on top of her and hugged her, hard. “Thank you,” I whispered fiercely against her ear.
“For what?” She yawned and patted my shoulder.
“Finding me.” I pulled away, jumped to my feet, and grabbed my board. “I have to go. Come see me later.”
“As long as it’s not in the sea, weirdo,” she called after me, but I heard the smile in her voice.
Salt water dripped from my hair and the cotton of my dress as I raced home. In the square, I slowed. The Golden Turtle was still in place right beside Mimi’s bench. I touched both for luck.
“Rosa!” the viejitos called in unison. “¿Qué pasó? Where are you going?”
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t until I got home, where I burst through the front door. Mom looked up from the table. A jewelry box sat open playing a soft song.
“We’re going to Cuba,” I declared. She closed the music box with a snap. “And we’re taking Mimi with us.”
“What?” They all shouted at once.
Ana, Mrs. Peña, and Malcolm all sat in my living room later that afternoon. Mom carried Penny to the window. This was my moment with my Port Coral family.
“Mom and I are leaving for Cuba tomorrow,” I repeated.
Ana leaned forward. “Oh god, Rosa, were you going to try to swim there?”
“What? No. Well, metaphorically, maybe.”
Ana turned to her mom. “Will you talk to her? Do you have your passport? We should go with her.”
“You have school,” Mrs. Peña pointed out to her. She stared at my mother and asked, “You’re really going to go?” Mom nodded. It felt like a private conversation was happening between them. This hadn’t even been a possibility when they were my age.
“I don’t understand,” Malcolm said, hands on his hips. “Why are you leaving so suddenly, and for how long? You still have three weeks of classes and—” Understanding dawned and his hands fell to his sides. “Mimi.”
Her name held weight for us. Here, in the place she was meant to be, speaking it felt like saying a prayer.
“It’ll only be for a few days. I’ll only miss a couple of assignments, I swear.”
He sighed, his eyes soft and tenderly exasperated with me. “Rosa. It’s your last term. I’m not worried about that, and you shouldn’t be either.”
The door opened and Dan rushed inside in his uniform. “I’m late, I know, but catch me up.”
Malcolm said, “Rosa’s going to Cuba.”
Dan grinned. “Finally.”
The next morning, just before dawn, I set our plane tickets and my packed bag on the kitchen table. Inside was my notebook along with Mimi’s. I wanted to bring everything of hers I could, but the notebook felt most prudent. With careful hands, I wrapped Mimi’s urn in one of her silk scarves. The kitchen was silent. No bracelets. No shuffle of her house slippers. No peppermint soap or Sunday sage. The laundry room window was closed, and I didn’t know if it would ever open again.
Before my flight, I had one last farewell.
Alex sat on the back of his boat with coffee and watched me as I walked up the dock toward him. The sun was rising in a pink lemonade sky, and the marina was mostly still around us. I reached his boat and noted all the new supplies around him. He was preparing for his trip. I tucked my hands into my pockets, afraid to get too close. I’m letting him go, I wanted to scream to the universe. Please keep him safe.
“I’m going to Cuba today,” I told him.
He looked down at the rope in his hands. “It was the big story on the viejitos’ Insta. They’re attempting to track your whole itinerary.” He held up his phone. “They posted three minutes ago that you were headed this way.”
“My god, they are relentless.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Well, we don’t have a real plan,” I admitted. “Grief offers a lot of panicky momentum once you realize how quickly this all can end. We’re just sort of running with it.”
I smiled, but it fell away in the next sea breeze. I wanted to say something significant. I wanted to offer him important words so he knew how much our moments together meant to me. I was running on sorrow and uncertainty, but looking at him on that boat, I remembered how I’d shouted wildly in
to the wind and believed anything was possible. He ducked his head before looking up again with his shy gaze that always warmed for me, and I wanted to forget everything. Walk into his arms and fly away with him. I knew I could give him the words, but standing here, with that empty slip beside us, I would not speak them.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Rosa.”
“Me too.”
He got to his feet and grabbed something off the table. We stood together on the dock. I wanted to reach for him so much, it hurt to hold myself this steady. After a moment of hesitation, he offered me the map again.
“Alex—” I looked at him, confused.
“This was always your trip. It changed around you, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Because I did, too.” He shrugged a shoulder, still holding the map. “Just do me a favor and look at it once you get there. See how far you’ve made it.” He held it out between us.
I took it, my hand gently brushing his. The contact stirred a small, surprised inhale from me. Our gazes held each other before dropping away. When I looked down at the map I realized a string was tied around it. His rope.
“Oh, no, I can’t take this.” He’d had it so long and it meant too much to him. I started to take it off.
“It goes with the map, Rosa. They’re kind of a set. What you’re about to do is a big deal, so when you get nervous, on the plane or after you land, just look at both and remember you’re a great sailor.”
I started to open the map, but his hand shot out to stop me. “Later.”
I smiled. These gifts were subtle, but important. Just like Alex. These last days had reshaped us. I folded the map and put it in my pocket. The rope went around my wrist like a bracelet. Alex smiled, pleased.
“Now I wish I had something to give you,” I said as I looked at the boxes in his boat.
“You gave me plenty. You were my second.”
I laughed. It felt like a hundred years since the regatta.
“Where are you today, Rosa?” he asked.
I smiled past the tears blurring the beautiful sunrise and the dreamiest baker and sailor I knew. I would miss him so much. Without Mimi, I didn’t know where and how Port Coral fit in my life anymore. I would be gone after this summer, but maybe I would get to come back one day and see him down on the docks. He might look up and smile, and we’d both remember a spring that went by too fast, but tasted of tangerine lollipops.
I squinted past the brightness and told him, “I’m on my way across the sea.”
For all the panicked worries and lists of possible problems, everything came down to a piece of paper. I already had my passport because of study abroad, but it was still technically illegal to go to Cuba as an American tourist, so we needed to declare a reason for traveling. The rules were in constant flux with new confusing restrictions and a list of prohibitions of where we could stay, shop, and eat. And once we reached Cuba we had to navigate two different currencies: one for Cubans, another for tourists. Cuban citizens were mostly unable to travel across their own island, so I could put up with this.
“Can I really check family visit?” I stared at my travel visa, anxiously doubting the spelling of my own name. If I messed anything up, I’d have to buy another one. And that would be another hundred dollars. My shoe box of savings was crying.
“Yes. We’re just bringing our family with us,” Mom said. She was already done with hers. “Do you want a coffee before we board?”
“What? There’s no time.” I glanced at my watch again and muttered a prayer as I checked the box. We were ten minutes ahead of the schedule I’d made. There hadn’t been much of a line at the desk and we’d already checked our suitcase filled with supplies I’d read were needed. Things like shoes, toothbrushes, and tampons, especially outside of Havana.
“It’s early and I know you scheduled a preflight coffee break. You underlined it twice.”
“Yes, but our cushion keeps shrinking. We need to get ahead of it.” I adjusted my backpack as panic hit me. “I don’t know enough Spanish to do this.” Mom laughed at me. “I always respond in English and don’t always know how to translate!”
“Yes, welcome to being bilingual. You’re fine.” She checked the signs around us. “You need the coffee more than me. Let’s go.”
We got our cortaditos and went to our gate. While we sat and waited for our boarding call, I charged my phone again and Mom patted my knee every few minutes.
“You keep bouncing it like that and you’re gonna be the one to take off.”
“Don’t forget, Pedro will be at the airport to pick us up,” I told her. I slipped out my notebook from my backpack and double-checked my list. I checked off Drink coffee.
Mom flipped through a magazine. “I remember. From the casa particular.”
“It’s cool that they’re okay with strangers staying at their houses.”
“Tourists make for good income when most Cubans make less than twenty dollars a month,” she said.
My knee took off again. Mom gently soothed it again.
When it came time to board, I shifted to school mode. Get in line, follow directions, wait your turn. It was almost a relief, but before I knew it, I was in my designated seat bound for the Caribbean. The pilot announced our destination, and I still couldn’t believe it. I wanted to cement this moment somehow. I, Rosa Santos, was on an airplane headed to Havana. Mom was busy chatting with the older woman in the seat beside her. I stared out the window and watched as we started to roll down the runway. When we began to ascend, I clutched the Caridad del Cobre medal I now wore around my neck.
Mom clutched my other hand. I expected to see her easy smile, but her eyes were shut tight and her jaw clenched. I squeezed her hand, and she spoke without opening her eyes.
“All my flying, and I’ve never crossed the sea,” she whispered.
I forgot all of my panic. “But you already had your passport.” I didn’t know everywhere she went on her travels, but I’d have bet anything she’d gone overseas.
She took a slow, measured breath. “I always wanted to be brave…or defiant enough, but every time I considered it, all I could picture was lightning striking and someone telling you I was lost at sea.” She finally looked at me, and her hand squeezed mine again.
My fixation on seeing Cuba had never allowed enough room to consider what it meant to Mom. I brought her hand to my lips and laid a quick kiss against her knuckles. “My brave mother, returning to where she first sparked into existence.”
She exhaled slowly and smiled. “Such a poet,” she complained, and relaxed a little.
The energy on the flight was charged. People vibrated with vacation excitement and wonder. But some carried ghosts too. It was such a short flight, the Caribbean Sea already below us. All that blue made me think of Alex. I touched the bracelet at my wrist.
When the island appeared, I put my hand to the glass. My eyes raced over roads, clusters of towns and buildings, and so much green.
The pilot announced we were reaching José Martí International Airport.
Getting off the plane was a haze. I shuffled through lines, straining to look past the shoulders in front of me, my heart racing. I climbed down the steps, and the language and heat felt familiar. Palm trees, concrete. Green, brown. I knew this landscape. Even the airport bustled in a way I understood. There was way more Spanish and everything broadcasted Cuba, but it didn’t feel that far off from Florida.
We got our bag and headed outside with the other travelers and waiting cars. We found an older Black man with our names written on the paper in his hand.
“Hola,” I greeted with a big, nervous grin.
Pedro’s eyes warmed. “¿Liliana y Rosa Santos?”
In friendly, rolling Spanish that sounded like home, he welcomed us to Cuba and led us to his car. It was an old blue Cadillac, and he opened the door and helped us with our bags. He merged into the traffic and the warm, salty air blew through my hair. A rumba song powered through the static on the radio. M
y excitement edged out my fear.
Mom leaned forward between the seats and asked him about the smaller towns around us as he drove to Havana. Beyond the window, everything looked like middle-of-nowhere Florida, and yet my mind kept screaming, You’re in Cuba.
I swept my hair out of my face. Pedro said something I didn’t catch as he smiled at me in the rearview window.
Mom explained, “We’re taking the scenic route.”
We drove alongside the wall that bordered the sea. Huge waves crashed and broke over it, one right after the other. The sidewalk was soaked. I stuck my head out the window and inhaled deeply. Pedro laughed warmly.
He brought us to his house in central Havana. It was a yellow building sitting between a green one and gray one. It was three stories, with balconies on the top two. An older woman opened the front door.
“Mi esposa, Marisol,” he told us. His wife came forward and greeted us. When she heard my mother’s Spanish, we were embraced like long-lost family. The questions came fast: about who Mom’s parents were, what part of Cuba they were from, when they left, and what we thought of Florida. I was grateful to have Mom with me, because my Spanish felt clumsy and insufficient, even though I understood most everything. As Marisol led us through the house, the tile, decor, and open windows felt achingly familiar.
Marisol showed us to our bedroom on the second floor. There were two twin beds and a small fridge. Mom went to get coffee with Marisol while I headed outside on the terrace, where I faced the blue sky, buildings, and sea beyond. A warm breeze kissed my skin. I’d done it. I’d made it to the other side. I placed the urn on the small metal table and set my hand on it. I wished it hadn’t taken this long to come. That my abuela could be here, too. This breeze would sift through her hair as she closed her eyes to breathe it in deep. When she opened her eyes again home wouldn’t disappear.
