Don't Date Rosa Santos

by Nina Moreno

  Facing the wide-open sea felt a lot like sitting in front of my altar. Ancestors wanted to be remembered. “We’re bringing her back,” I said, breaking the heavy silence.

  Mom glanced at me. I felt nervous and unsure, but pressed on.

  “Milagro built us an incredible life with love and magic, and never, for one single moment of it, did she stop loving you.” Mom was still watching the sea, her tears falling openly. “I’m Rosa, by the way,” I said past a tight, teary laugh. “I’m Liliana’s daughter, and Milagro’s granddaughter. And yours, too.”

  The boat moved softly as the sun slowly sank into the golden horizon offering us the last of its light. Mom opened the urn and spilled her mother’s ashes into the sea. The calm waters gently rocked our boat. And there on the salty sea breeze, I caught the scent of lemon and rosemary.

  To the sea, my mother whispered, “Nos vemos, Mami.”

  We’ll see each other soon.

  It was nearly fully dark when we got back to the beach. I kicked up sand in my rush to return to the old woman’s side. When I reached her, I blurted, “You’re Tía Nela, aren’t you?”

  She looked me square in the eye and said, “If her cities fall, if we’re all gone, may God watch after her.”

  It was like a punch straight to my solar plexus. Grief seized me. Cold, sharp, broken.

  Finally I exploded.

  “Why couldn’t you have told us? Why this wild-goose chase? You could have stopped at any point and said, Oh, hey, by the by, I’m Nela, but no. God, it’s never a real answer. Be patient, have faith. I’m exhausted.”

  The young boy settled against his boat and watched.

  “Why was she cursed?” I wailed. “She lost everything, but that wasn’t enough? That wasn’t enough payment, so you made Mom pay into it, too? Am I next?” The image of Alex sailing into a storm was a knife stabbed into this bleeding wound. “How many people do we have to lose before our check clears and we’re allowed to live and love again?”

  Nela watched me. I tried to breathe around the ache of missing Mimi.

  “Sometimes a mother gives birth to the mirror her great-grandmother lost,” she said.

  I was so tired of poems. Of essay questions and bad omens. I didn’t know my great-grandmother, didn’t know her name or how she died. I just wanted Mimi.

  “Who are you?” Nela asked me.

  “That’s rich.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “You ask me this now?” I jerked a finger toward the sea. “I’m their granddaughter. And her daughter, but that’s not enough.” My voice small, I turned away and muttered, “It’s never been enough.”

  “You are Rosa de la familia Santos, and it is time to return to the sea.”

  “What?”

  Tía Nela whistled to the boy, who returned to his boat, revved the engine, and drove away. She picked up my backpack from the sand and unzipped it, but when I expected her to reach in and grab my notebook—or Mimi’s—she instead pulled out the herbs and flowers she’d picked on her way here. When had she put them in there? After that came a dark bottle and a coconut. I didn’t want to look away from her even as I wondered what else in the world I’d been carrying around. She cracked the coconut against a nearby rock and drank a sip from both halves before splitting the contents of the dark bottle between them.

  She offered each of us a half.

  Beneath a setting sun, Mom and I drank from the coconut. It burned my throat, but turned nectar-sweet at the end. Next, Nela handed both of us a white shift. We undressed and the cooler night air danced along my bare skin. She lit a bundle of leaves and the sweet smoke rose between us. It filled my nose and made the night hazier. She nodded to the sea.

  “Wait, you want us to go? Now?” It was dark. The water was mostly still, but it was the ocean at night.

  Nela waited.

  Mom shook out her arms like she was preparing to go for a swim. Or fight the ocean.

  “Okay,” I whispered under my breath and bounced my shoulders in an effort to loosen up. “I can do this.” This was Mimi teaching me what words to whisper over a hissing candle. It was her hand over mine as she showed me how to pour anointing oil and crush herbs. This was just me sinking into a warm bath she prepared with flowers and salt to cleanse my energy. I could do this.

  Mom and I walked into the sea as Nela’s chant built with quiet intensity even as her voice never became louder.

  “You know what’s weird?” Mom asked as we walked in deeper.

  I looked between us and the picture we currently made. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “We just spread Mimi’s ashes. So, technically, all three of us are in the sea.”

  As the water reached our waists we stopped. The sea was calm. Were we meant to just dunk ourselves or keep walking? Nela was still chanting, but I didn’t understand the words. Also, why did the air suddenly smell as green and wild as Mimi’s garden room?

  “What do we do now?” I called over my shoulder.

  Nela stopped chanting and gave me a look. She shouted back, “Patience!”

  “It’s like a lecture from Mimi,” I muttered, slicing my hands through the dark, still water. Moonlight shimmered across it, and I watched the small ripples I made.

  “Your ancestors are very proud of you,” Nela told us, a smile in her voice.

  My head jerked up and whipped around. “What?”

  A wave broke in a deafening roar and consumed me.

  I disappeared. One moment I was in the ocean, and the next I was nothing. My lungs burned from holding my breath, guarding the air I could, but soon I would have to let go. Maybe this was drowning. This was another rip current, and Ana wasn’t here to save me. My chest and throat were on fire, and my arms and legs moved me nowhere. I was dying.

  Breathe, Rosa.

  I gasped and didn’t choke. There was no water. There was nothing. I caught the sound of drumming and smelled the sweet potent scent of night jasmine blooming beneath the moon. My skin warmed as something nearby clattered.

  “Hello?” No response, but I tracked the sound and finally recognized it when the rich smell hit me. I hungrily inhaled. It was Mimi’s soup simmering on the stove and there, right there was the music of her record playing, soft with the crackle of distance and longing. The ache of those familiar sensations were too much, even as the new weight I’d carried in my chest grew lighter.

  Don’t cry, Rosa.

  “Wait!” I ran and moved nowhere. Was I still in the sea? Flashes of voices swept past me in conversation. It was like standing in a never-ending hallway and hearing snatches of words as doors opened and closed around me. Pieces of a language I didn’t know. I was lost and alone until I recognized a voice.

  Mimi’s brushed past as she called out for Alvaro. A deep voice received her with joy. I laughed, delighted. The sharp sweetness of lemon tickled me as I caught the sound of her saying my name. Everything was happening behind doors I could not see, but my name floated past. Once, twice, again. Guiding and arguing. The chimes of soft laughter. A determined defense and inspired pride. They were remembering me. Just as I remembered them.

  Something rumbled. It sounded far away, but was moving fast like a train. Or storm. The air felt heavy with it. Humid and salty. It was getting closer. The pressure was changing as the rolling thunder grew louder and light broke through the inky darkness.

  Lightning cracked and I choked on salt water. It rushed into my nose and mouth, burning my chest and lungs. Air. I needed air. Just when I was sure I was lost or dead, I broke the surface.

  And realized I was still standing on the beach.

  It was daylight, and Mom and I, wracked with desperate coughs, were two drowned sea creatures standing in knee-deep water. The low tide rushed forward over the sand before returning to the sea. The very calm, very blue sea.

  We stumbled onto the sand and crashed down on our backs as we both made a heroic effort to catch our breath. Mom looked as dazed as I felt. She brushed the wild tendrils of her hair out of her face,
met my gaze, and said, “I’m never drinking from a coconut again.”

  We burst into delirious laughter as an older fisherman with wrinkled brown skin passed us, shaking his head. “Santeros,” he mumbled, and we laughed harder.

  The only one waiting for us on the beach was my backpack. Tía Nela was gone. Just as suddenly as she’d appeared, she disappeared. We smelled of oil, herbs, and potent magic, and our dresses were drying in the early morning light. I checked my bag. It only held what we packed. I heaved it onto my shoulder.

  “Do you have any idea how to get back?” I didn’t know if I should ask Mom what happened to her, but I didn’t want to try and explain what happened to me. I simply wanted to hold on to this very real warmth and lightness and carry it forward.

  “I don’t even know where we are,” Mom returned, but she didn’t look all that concerned. She smiled and glanced back at the sea like she missed her camera.

  We walked to the road and found a car waiting. The driver was young, dark, and watched us with wide eyes as he climbed out of it. I feared we would have to explain.

  “¿Están listas?” he asked simply.

  Were we ready? Ready for what?

  Mom asked him where he was offering to take us.

  “Havana,” he said.

  “Of course.” I wondered if Nela would be back by the painted blue door. A realization hit me, and I stopped walking.

  “Oh my god,” I said. “She Yoda-ed us.”

  Beside me, Mom laughed so hard she had to grab me to keep from falling. Her laugh was lighter than I’d ever heard it.

  The ride to Havana took a few hours after stopping for a lunch of papaya, rice, and roast chicken. It was a small restaurant off the beaten path, and everyone was friendly and kind, but we must have radiated some serious lingering woo-woo, because they watched us eat almost reverently. We changed back into our clothes in the bathroom. Luis, our driver, realized we were from America, and talked to us the whole way back about baseball and Tom Petty. When we got to the city he dropped us off in the middle of Old Havana.

  “American girls,” Luis said, flashing a big smile and a thumbs-up, before driving away.

  Mom and I faced the wall where this all began. There was no Nela and there was no door.

  But there was a big, beautiful mural of a blue wave.

  “Life, man.” Mom half laughed. “I’ve got to stop being so surprised by it. Come on.” We grabbed a cajita—a small box of roasted pork, rice, and cucumbers marinated in a vinegar dressing—for each of us and walked down to el Malecón, the big seawall separating Havana from the sea.

  “How long until our flight?” I asked as we hopped up to sit on the wall. I crossed my legs and faced the sea as we ate our food.

  “Four hours,” Mom said. After finishing her meal, she leaned back and tipped her face to the sun.

  I took the moment to jot down the memories I’d made in my journal. They were still so bright, sharp, and mine. I uncapped a marker and added my lost family to them. A little girl exploding with laughter as she chased a goat in Viñales. The grandmother who always slipped her extra sweets, when her world was alive with peace and possibility. I added a grinning Alvaro, in full color, rushing up the university steps, a book under his arm and hope in his heart.

  “Not too bad,” Mom said, peeking over my shoulder. After a moment, her voice small and vulnerable, she said, “You don’t have to tell me everything, but just…tell me something so I know he was real.”

  He? “I didn’t see anything.” Her face fell. “But I heard them. I heard Mimi find Alvaro. She called my name. And I think I heard Dad. Wherever we were, whatever that was…they were there, too.”

  Mom’s smile bloomed.

  I had to ask, too. I couldn’t wait any longer. “What’s going to happen with the house? I know you never want to stay in Port Coral, but now that Mimi’s not there, is it still home? Will it still be ours?”

  Mom went to say something but stopped as she struggled to explain. “I’m not her, and I can’t promise to be for you what she was. But that house is ours. It will always be ours, and Port Coral will always be home.” She swung her legs and shrugged. “Maybe I can fit my easels in the garden room and open the window every once in a while.”

  It was the release of my last fear. It floated away like a dark cloud as the sun finally warmed me all the way through.

  “What about you? According to that little journal of yours, tomorrow is May first.”

  “I know.” I took out my phone. I hadn’t charged it since Viñales, and it only had 5 percent battery left. Luckily, el Malecón had Wi-Fi now. It had been a big deal for the people of Havana. I hurried to secure my spot.

  Mom was leaning over my shoulder. “You’re killing me, Rosa.”

  I opened the draft of the only unsent e-mail in my outbox. I hadn’t been totally sure of my answer, but of course, I’d had my acceptance letter all queued up. It waited for the answer I finally found here. I took a deep breath and hit SEND. There it was. I was going to Florida.

  “Really?” Mom asked, curious. “After all of this drama?”

  I twisted my wildly blowing hair into a knot. “It was dramatic for me. Staying and leaving are both big deals. Charleston is great and the campus is beautiful, but it was only about study abroad for me. Being only a few hours from home may not sound exciting, but staying in-state allows me to save money, and that’s important, too. Plus, I can combine my Latin American studies with a minor in sustainability. Learn about places I love but also do something about it.”

  “You’re so reasonable.” Mom smiled.

  “And maybe next semester or year they’ll offer study abroad to Havana or Camagüey or Viñales. Who knows? It’s only two years. Either way, I’ll come back.” I unzipped my backpack and searched for the map of Havana to plan our way to the airport. But when I opened the map, it wasn’t the one of Havana we’d bought. It was the map Alex had given me.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Alex,” I told her. A blue line sailed from Florida across the Caribbean sea to where I stood now, just about.

  I looked at the state of Florida and imagined my hometown, where flowers bloomed, fireworks burst over the harbor, and perceptive black cats led you down boardwalks. You could buy mango Popsicles in the park and some of the best guava-and-cheese pastelitos from a quiet sailor. I traced the lines leading here and my finger came to the coast of Havana. It stopped on a shiny spot of gold.

  That hadn’t been there when Alex first tried to give it to me. I was sure of it.

  I brought the map right up to my face and stared at the spot of gold, expecting it to disappear. It didn’t.

  “What’s the matter? Are we lost again?”

  Words were written in a small, inky black scrawl next to the gold spot. On your last day, I’ll be at the Marina Hemingway. My shocked gaze shot up to Mom’s.

  “What happened?”

  I could barely hear my own voice over my hammering heart. “He’s my Golden Turtle.”

  With my heart in my throat, I dropped the map before snatching it right back up again so it didn’t fall into the sea. This was too wild. Too impossible.

  But the mystery of it. It’s the sort of mess I would have made if anyone left me in charge of the yearbook.

  I remembered my words as we headed to find the turtle. More importantly, he’d remembered my words.

  Mom studied the map, smiling. “Aw, I remember hiding that thing. Your dad and I loved that little island. Very secluded.”

  “Gross.” I checked my watch and then put together what she just said. “Wait, what? You lost it?”

  “We didn’t lose it. We hid it, and then I drew the map and snuck it into the yearbook.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because life happened. After your dad, I wasn’t thinking about adventure and quests.” She smiled. “Not until you. Come on, let’s go.”

  We jumped off the wall and ran. It was my last day, but my
flight left in a few hours. Could he really have sailed here? We raced down alleys, navigating through the traffic with surer steps. Waves crashed into the seawall, and we took off toward the marina. Maybe he knew I was ready and maybe this was all real and last night really happened. I ran faster.

  And remembered I hated running.

  “This is terrible.” I coughed and stopped.

  Mom hailed a taxi. “Just remember that you’re the vieja and not me.” A bright pink Oldsmobile convertible pulled up. Another classic car. Despite our rush, we stood on the street and gawked at the impossible shade of pink. Mom laughed, hard.

  “Who knew my magical seashell would be a hot-pink vintage car in Havana?”

  “I’m always right.” Mom jumped into the car. “Remember that, because it’s here to take you on your next adventure.”

  “¿Pa’ dónde van?” the driver asked us.

  “The Hemingway Marina, and step on it!”

  He jerked around. “¿Qué?”

  “Forget it.” I shrugged at Mom. “That’s what they say in movies at this part.”

  He pulled into traffic and drove down alongside el Malecón where waves broke against the seawall. Crowds were gathering beside a small band. It was too much: the wild ocean, the chant and drumming of the rumba song, the smell of the driver’s sweet cigar smoke. I threw my head back and, like a bird who sighted home, I let out a wild cheer. Here we are, I said to my family’s island, alive.

  The taxi arrived at the bright blue building, and Mom paid the driver as I jumped out and ran. From here, I had no map. I rushed past the pool and what looked to be a small hotel. There was a canal beyond it with boats parked along the sides. Sailboats, yachts, older and newer, but no Alex. My feet faltered and I held my hair back from the strong breeze to peer down the row one more time.

  My hammering heart settled. Silly, and mad, but it had been one hell of a maybe.