by Johnny Diaz
24
Tommy
Ahhh, Miami. The heat. The humidity. The traffic at the airport. The brightness of the South Florida sunlight. The swaying coconut palms on every median and block. Miami. I’m ready for the beach. I can’t wait to bike along the boardwalk and Ocean Drive or run in mid-Beach.
Standing in my flip-flops, shorts, and Boston Red Sox T-shirt, I’m giddy at the airport waiting for the Perez cavalry. A flush of excitement fills me. Oh, I see them now, pulling up in Mary’s champagne BMW. What a diva! What school teacher drives a BMW? She wears her Christian Dior sunglasses. To get my attention, she flashes the high beams of her lease (she cannot afford to own the car on her teacher’s salary in Miami-Dade county). She pops the trunk, and I scurry around the car and dump my carry-on bag inside. I hop into the backseat where my mom scoots to make room.
“Hola, Tommy!” She plants a kiss on my cheek and squeezes it.
“Niño, I am going to cut your hair. It’s longer than mine,” my mother says, using her index and middle fingers to gesture scissors cutting.
“Please, Ma! You know you want this bush of curls for yourself instead of your flat, straight hair. By the way, you need to revisit Sami’s salon. Your grays are showing.”
“Ay, de verdad?” she says with concern, touching the top of her auburn hair.
“Just kidding, Ma.”
She playfully squeezes my knee.
Papi, wearing his favorite Florida Marlins baseball cap, turns around from the front seat and pats me on the head and quietly smiles. With a look of sheer terror, he braces himself on the interior frame of the car as Mary prepares to pull away. She’s an aggressive driver à la Speed Racer.
“Hi, Tomas! Did you have a good flight?” Mary greets me from the rearview mirror. She always calls me by my real name. I hate that.
“Yes, Mary. It was great.”
“Well, that’s good,” Mary says in her monotone voice. That’s all she ever says. That’s good. She’s in teacher-mode 24-7.
She pulls out of the airport, and we’re on our way to la playa, Miami Beach. Home. As Mary treats the highway like her personal Indy 500, I tell them about Boston. I don’t have much to say since we speak every night. Mami starts to rattle off all her imaginary illnesses.
“My arthritis is acting up. The pain travels from my head to my neck to my back and to my knees. This humidity is awful for my joints.”
Mary lifts up her glasses and rolls her eyes at me through the rearview mirror as our mother, the hypochrondriac, complains once again about the humidity even though she grew up in Cuba and has lived in Miami Beach for forty years. She knows nothing but humidity. Papi turns around, gestures with his hand to his head that she’s loca, and says, “What doesn’t your mother have? The pharmacists at Walgreens know her by first name. They see her coming, and they close down because they know your mama will be there for hours.” My mother playfully hits him on the wrist, and he laughs to himself in the front seat.
“Ya, Pepe!” my mother scolds him with a glare that could probably replicate Superman’s heat vision.
We’re climbing the first bridge of the Julia Tuttle Causeway heading east. Mary plays her Enya CD. In the distance, a canyon of pink, white, and light blue condos and hotels rise along Collins Avenue against the Atlantic Ocean. The sunlight shimmers against Biscayne Bay like aqua crystals. Grand colorful cruise ships sit in their berths waiting to embark on their fun voyages. Whenever I visit, I find it hard to leave. I call this condition the Miami blues. I get used to Miami all over again and pick up where I left off before I moved away. This place is so beautiful, a tropical wonderland. I’ve learned to appreciate it more now that I live 1,600 miles north. Maybe one day, I’ll move back. For now, my life and career is in Boston. I have too many good things happening for me there. If I could cut myself in half and leave a part of myself in Miami and a part in Boston, I would. When that is a remote possibility, I’ll keep flying back and forth until I decide where to permanently pot myself like one of these coconut palms we just passed.
“Oye, do you guys think I can invite my friend Carlos for Christmas?” I lean in through the arm rest from the back seat.
“Ese es tu amiguito de Boston, the teacher?” Ma asks.
“The one whose mother died?” Mary follows.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I thought it would be nice if he could hang out at our house for a bit.”
“Of course, Tomasito. Invitalo,” Dad says.
“I can make him some of my flan, but I can’t eat too much. It gives me gas, tu sabes,” my mother announces, rubbing her stomach to emphasize her point.
Papi turns around and repeats the she’s-una-loca look. I raise my eyebrows in loving agreement.
“Uh, thanks, Ma. We’ll keep you away from the flan.”
As Mary guns the BMW over the second Julia Tuttle bridge toward Miami Beach and our early grave, I think to myself that it’s good to be back in Miami.
25
Carlos
It’s Noche Buena, the first without Mami. Papi decided that we should have a quiet evening at home. We ordered pork, yucca, black beans, and rice from Versailles’ take-out. Lourdes popped in a CD of Christmas carols in Spanish by Jon Secada and Christina Aguilera. As we sit around the table, we reminisce over some of our funniest Christmas stories, like the time Papi dressed up as Santa Claus with sunglasses for my kindergarten class.
“Papi, I knew something was strange that day. Since when did Santa wear sunglasses?” I sip some red wine.
“Oye, it was sunny that day in the North Pole. The reindeer had sunglasses too. You and your friends believed me.”
“Well, not completely. When you left, we saw you changing out of your suit. Your old Impala was parked near the classroom window and I remember thinking, ‘Is Papi Santa Claus?’”
“Actually, I thought you looked cool, Papi. The photos were hysterical,” Lou pipes in from across the table. “Mami sent them out that year as our holiday card.”
We all laugh at the memory. The story always made Mami laugh hysterically because she was in the classroom that day. She had baked her gingerbread cookies for the class.
“Remember when tu mama bought the fake big snowman and put him outside the house to stand in the garden?”
“Ay, Papi! Who could forget that? She put a scarf on him and a bunch of hibiscus flowers in his hands,” Lourdes recalls. “And all the little kids in the neighborhood would stop by and take pictures with him. What did Mami call him?”
“Salvadore!” I blurt out.
“Yeah, Salvadore the Snowman,” Lourdes says fondly.
“Why don’t we do a toast to Mami? She really made Christmas so special every year. I wish she was here. This was her favorite time of year.”
Papi’s eyes sadden. Lourdes looks downward and takes another sip from her wine. Jon Secada croons “The First Noel” in the background.
“Okay, I’ll begin. On this night of family and faith, I want to wish you a very Merry Christmas, Mami. We love you, wherever you are. You’re not here physically, but you’re in our hearts. Te quiero, and Salvadore the Snowman misses you too!” A comforting feeling of warmth suddenly embraces me. I look up at the framed photo of all of us on the mantle. A smile flickers across my face.
Papi and Lourdes clink my glass.
“To Mami!” they say in unison.
We drain our flutes.
After dinner, we continue with tradition. We gather in the living room by the Christmas tree. Yesterday after work, Papi walked into the living room, and he was pleasantly surprised to see the tree. He stood before it, studied the ornaments, and quietly grinned. The tree stands eight-feet tall, and the bright white star on top barely touches the ceiling. Since we brought the tree home, an evergreen fragrance has scented the entire house like a holiday perfume. It’s almost like Christmas of years past. Almost. To help recreate the scene from last year, I bring out a plate topped with gingerbread cookies. I baked them yesterday with Lourdes befo
re she went for her daily one-hour jog. I baked a batch of twenty, and these little men taste pretty good.
As we settle into our sofa, Lourdes suddenly gets up with a smirk on her face and announces, “I’ll be right back.” She disappears down the hallway to her bedroom.
Papi then turns to me.
“Carlito, tomorrow I need your help with a project.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“We can talk about that tomorrow. Are you going to be around in the afternoon?”
“Of course. Tommy invited me to his parents’ house, but that’s later. Whatever you need, I’m here for you, Papi.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. I munch on one of the cookies, which rains crumbs on my shirt.
A few seconds later, Lourdes returns with two gift boxes. I dash to my bedroom and grab their gifts. Papi does the same. We meet again in the living room, where we exchange gifts. I furiously rip off the holiday wrapping, which litters the tile floor along with some cookie crumbs. As we open the boxes, we devour gingerbread men. I’m on my third one. They’re delicious. I think I nailed Mami’s recipe.
“Carlito, these taste like your Mami’s.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, little brother, you managed to replicate her cookies. How did you do that?”
“I did it the way Mami baked them, with love and lots of sugar and dabs of ginger.” I wink at my sister.
Lourdes’s gift to me: a green cardigan and a $100 gift card to Wal-Mart, in case I need to buy groceries or knickknacks for the apartment.
Papi’s gift to me: a new leather wallet and a gift card to Barnes & Noble, in case I need to buy new books for school or for pleasure.
I gave Lourdes some gift cards to her favorite stores. I gave Papi a special Red Sox World Series photo book and a DVD produced by The Boston Daily, which Tommy ordered for me with his employee discount.
“Gracias, Carlito. This is a great gift. I am going to show it to my baseball team at Tropical Park Sunday.”
“Great, Papi. What’s the name of your team again?”
“The Cuban Cigars!”
I start to laugh.
“I guess you guys are smoking,” I say.
“More like gasping,” Papi interrupts. “Somos viejos!”
We stack our gifts into individual piles, and Papi informs us that there are two more gifts. He heads back to his bedroom and returns with two small jewelry boxes. One for me and one for Lourdes. Papi watches with a tender expression as we carefully open our gifts.
“These are from your Mami. She bought these for you last year and wanted you to have them this Christmas. She didn’t want you to think she forgot about you this year.”
Ay dios mio! I am completely caught off guard. My emotions, like an incoming tide, overwhelm me. Tears creep down my face. Lourdes looks up and blinks back her tears. We look at each other in amazement of our mother. She always thought of everything. She always thought of us. How did she have time to buy these during the last few months she was in hospice care?
I open the box. Inside is a new silver watch. It catches the glint of the tree’s blinking lights. I turn it over and an inscription reads: Carlito, I am always with you, every minute, every hour, every day. Te quiero, Mami. I wear it on my right wrist, and I caress this beautiful gift with my index finger. Silently, I thank Mami.
Lourdes holds up her gift, which is a pearl necklace. She smiles, snaps it on and pulls out her long hair from under it. She fingers each pearl like it’s the finest gem in the world. Lourdes reads the note that came in the box.
For my beautiful daughter, the pearl in my heart. Te quiero!
I scoot over and admire Lou’s necklace as she gushes over my watch. Papi grabs his digital camera and photographs us with our new gifts. I hold up my watch, and Lou poses, pointing to her necklace.
“Feliz Navidad, familia,” Papi says. The camera flashes and electronically snaps. “Merry Christmas, Mami,” we say in unison.
I spend most of Christmas morning in the pantry, answering phone calls from my aunts, uncles, and distant cousins I haven’t seen in months. I constantly have to click from one line to the other on the house phone because of the flurry of incoming calls. Since I haven’t been to Miami since I moved, I have a lot of people to catch up with. At noon, Tommy’s name pops up on my cell phone. When I answer, he immediately greets me with, “Feliz Navidad, dude!” in his usual chipper tone.
“Merry Christmas, loco! What are you up to? Are you in Miami?”
“Of course. I arrived yesterday afternoon. Ahhh. I love it here. How was your Noche Buena?”
As I talk, my eyes roam out the window to the wilting hibiscus flowers and gardenia tree. Before I head back to Boston, I am going to try and revive them.
“It was pretty nice. I got a gift from my mother.”
“Que cosa?” A loud clack follows. I think Tommy dropped his phone.
“Are you there, loco?”
“Yeah, I just dropped my cell. What did you mean you got something from your mother?” I rest my face against my right fist and explain.
“Mami left Lourdes and me gifts. She knew this Christmas would be hard without her, and she wanted us to know that she was thinking of us.”
“Carlos, that is, wow, amazing. I don’t know what to say. What did she give you?”
“A beautiful watch with an inscription. I’m wearing it now.”
“I can’t wait to see it. I wish I could have met your mother, chico. She sounds like she was an incredibly sweet woman.”
“I know, loco. Anyway, how’s your Christmas going?”
“We just exchanged gifts, and we’re about to have our holiday brunch. It’s one big meal for the entire day. You’re still coming over later, right?”
“Yeah. I have to do something later with my father, but I should be free in the afternoon. I can’t wait to meet your parents and sister.”
“Cool. See you later.”
“Merry Christmas, loco.”
“You too, Carlos.”
Two hours and fifteen phone calls later, I’ve succeeded in catching up with the entire Martin family. Some neighbors also called and said they would drop by and see me before I leave for Boston. I stretch and rise from the small wooden coffee table in the pantry when Papi enters the kitchen. He grabs a Materva soda can and pulls the lid open, unleashing an oozing, fizzing sound. He approaches me with a gentle expression on his face.
“Can you help me with something?” He takes a swig from the sweet golden soda.
“Yeah, Papi. What do you want me to do? You’ve been so mysterious.”
“Bueno, come with me to the bedroom, and I’ll show you. I think it’s time that we do this.”
I follow Papi down the hallway to his bedroom. I haven’t been in here since Mami passed away. When I walk in, I gasp. Mami’s jewelry, keepsakes, and clothing are displayed on the bed. I wasn’t expecting this. He wants to give away some of Mami’s belongings, and in a way, I understand why. I can’t imagine what it must be like for my father to have these constant reminders in their bedroom.
“Ay, Papi. Do we have to? Are you sure?” My eyes start to well up.
“It’s time, Carlito. Tu hermana has already picked out what she wants. Now it’s your turn. She would want you to have some of her favorite things, in case you have children in the future, perhaps a daughter. I didn’t want to wait until your next trip. It’s too…” Papi sighs sorrowfully and continues, “hard to have these things here.”
It’s bittersweet for me to see what is displayed on the bed. Mami’s favorite blouses and pants. A neat row of bracelets, necklaces, and brooches. Some are gifts that I gave her over the years. They include ceramic mugs, earrings, and Mother’s Day and birthday cards. Several of her weathered gardening books sit on the corner of the bed. Mami’s presence is very strong in this room because all her favorite things are here. They carry her essence. One by one, I hold the various pieces of jewelry and immediately picture them on her. I smell he
r blouses and pants and they exude her scent, a mix of lavender and an Estée Lauder floral perfume. A shawl that she would wear out to family dinners and functions still has some of her light brown strands of hair.
“Papi, I can’t do this. We should leave her things here.” I stand at the edge of the bed. Papi puts his right arm around me.
“These are my gifts to you and Lourdes. Your sister took your mami’s wedding ring because she wants to wear it the day she gets married. She also took some of her gold earrings to give to her future children. She wants to keep some of the dresses that your mother wore and adored. I’m keeping some of the jewelry, the gifts I have given to your mama from over the years. I want to keep those forever, hijo.”
Papi and I sit at the edge of the bed, and I caress each item. Seeing these familiar pieces of clothing and jewels before me only underscores that Mami is gone forever and that Papi, Lourdes, and I are really on our own. All we have is each other. As much as I miss her, I can’t imagine what these last few months must have been like for Papi. He has been constantly surrounded by Mami’s spirit. I can’t blame him for wanting to part with some of these items. I realize this was a loving gesture, allowing Lourdes and me to take the items that will always remind us of the things she enjoyed. I do my best to be strong for Papi. I agree to take the gardening books and Mami’s shawl, because it also carries her scent. I tell Papi that I would like some of her brooches. Not that I would wear them but to store in a jewelry box for safekeeping in Boston. It means so much to possess and care for these things. She always taught us to be compassionate and generous. In that spirit, I suggest that we donate whatever is left over of her clothing to the Salvation Army so that the gifts may continue giving.
“Papi, let’s do some good with Mami’s belongings. Her clothing can benefit a needy mother or family. Mami would like that. I can handle this for you.”
