by Rosa Jordan
If Liliana had not seen the shoes, if she had been standing at the mirror as she normally was in any ladies’ room, smiling at her own reflection, and then . . . no more. Would there have been any way to go on? Celia could imagine Liliana’s absence; she had lived the anguish of that absence not very long ago. More recently she had tried to come to terms with the possibility of losing Liliana in the sense of being physically cut off from her should she decide to stay in Florida. That had seemed intolerable, something she was not at all sure she could bear. But to imagine Liliana out of existence, that she could not do. Easier by far to imagine that she herself had been killed. For what was there, after all, to imagine? Just—the end. The nothing thereafter.
She thought of how her father and her sister had died in explosions half a world apart, and how her mother and Celia Sánchez, both of whom had been in the middle of a war for two years or longer with grenades, gunfire, mortars, and bombs exploding all around them, had not been scratched. They were survivors. She was a survivor.
With that thought came another one: I am the woman they were.
The cocoa was suddenly boiling. She poured it into a mug, returned to the living room, and sat down in a rocker. The room was dark except for moonlight spilling in through the balcony door. The cocoa was too hot to drink but it comforted her to wrap cold fingers around the warm cup and breathe in the sweet steam rising from it.
Directly in front of her was the television screen, empty except for a faint reflection of the white terrycloth robe that had opened to reveal her crossed legs. What she saw in that reflection, though, was a different pair of legs, much thinner than her own, but which, like hers, had a glint of gold about the ankle.
She was a ten-year-old child, sitting on the floor, waiting impatiently for the cocoa that had been placed on the coffee table in front of her to cool. She was not really listening to the conversation between Celia and her mother, would not remember it afterwards. Yet she must have heard what they said; how else could she be hearing it now?
“Dying is overrated,” Celia Sánchez was saying. “A momentary thing, like giving birth or getting married. It’s the afterwards that counts, if there is one. In the case of death, I strongly suspect there isn’t. Not one we would recognize anyway.”
“Ah, Celia, you are so brave.” Her mother began to cry. “You always were.”
“Katrina,” Celia Sánchez spoke sharply. “You asked how I am. I am telling you. But don’t burden me with your feelings—not at this point.” She turned to the child on the floor and said, “How is the cocoa? Too hot, yes?”
“Sí, Compañera Celia,” the girl replied. She was pleased to have been noticed by the lady with the very thin legs, so elegantly crossed at the knees. Then, shyly, “I like your anklet. Is it a present from Fidel?”
Celia Sánchez smiled and instead of answering the question, asked, “What is it you plan to do with your life, my little namesake?”
“Uh, be a doctor,” the child replied quickly, knowing this answer would please the adults.
“That is a very noble thing to aspire to. But it is not easy. You must study hard.”
“She’s a very good student,” her mother bragged, causing the child to duck her head with embarrassed pleasure.
“My father was a doctor,” said Celia Sánchez. “He worked with the poor in the sierra and often took me with him. I watched him ease the suffering of many, and I myself held the hands of some who died. So I know”—here she turned away from the child to speak to her mother—“about death, Katrina. That is why I am not afraid.”
“And you are not in pain?” Katrina asked anxiously.
“Some,” Celia Sánchez admitted. “At times . . . so hard to breathe. But pain I can tolerate. It’s the loss of energy that I find frustrating.”
The women sat quietly for a few moments, having forgotten the child who thought she was not listening anymore, engrossed as she was in testing the hot chocolate with the tip of her pinkie and feeling a prick of pain because the cocoa was still scalding hot.
Celia Sánchez spoke again. “In the beginning we ask, as your daughter should be asking, ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ But at a certain age, Katrina, the question needs to change, and we must ask ourselves, ‘What do I want to have done?’ The Revolution—of course it has not been fully realized. But we always knew it to be an ongoing process, something that, if it was to be a success, had to be worked at generation after generation. It was only ours to begin, and that we have done, yes?”
Celia Sánchez coughed. The child could tell that talking was difficult for her. She wondered why her mother, who talked so much at home, was saying so little, why, in the presence of this older woman she was like a girl herself, shy and respectful.
“I have done all the things I wanted to have done, but for one, and it is almost finished. I have saved all the papers, every note, every instruction Fidel ever put his hand to. Now they are being organized into a national archive, and this I must finish. When we are gone this written record is all there will be, the only thing that tells what we did, how we did it, and why. Fidel said history would absolve him, but only if the history of La Revolución is preserved.”
“Surely you’re not still working on those archives!” Katrina exclaimed. “I heard that there are more than a million documents! There must be other people—!”
“Of course,” Celia Sánchez said. “Not one task in my life have I set out to do that there weren’t others—like you—who joined the struggle.”
She looked again at the child. “That is what it takes if we are to make this island a better place for all of us. Right, little one?”
The child, sucking the finger scorched by the hot cocoa, looked up quickly and nodded, but Celia Sánchez was again speaking to her mother. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Katrina? In the end, what makes death easy is being able to say that you have done what you wanted to do. That is why you must ask, and know the answer. Not at the last minute either. If you wait till the last minute to ask, and the answer is that you have not done what you wanted, then your dying will be a terrible thing. So I’m telling you.” Again the spasm of coughing.
When it had passed, Celia Sánchez said in a voice that had become hoarse, “Ask yourself now, Katrina. Not the question of a child, ‘What do I want to do with my life?’ but the question of an adult, ‘What is it I want to have done?’ Then get on with it.”
The child, finding the cocoa at last cool enough to sip, understood the words but not their meaning. All she grasped was that Celia Sánchez was behaving like a mother to her own motherless mother, and that she was going to die and was trying to teach her mother about dying, which seemed a silly thing to do, since her mother wasn’t even slightly sick.
They never spoke of that conversation again, not on the walk home, not a dozen years later when Katrina lay dying of the same disease. It was not until now, in this darkened room with chocolate-scented stream rising from the cup in her hands, that Celia wondered, Did you, Mamá? You saved lives in the war, raised Carolina and me, loved our father while he was alive and other men who took your fancy later. Was that enough, or was there more you wanted to have done? You died so young—only a decade older than I am now. And I—what if I had died tonight? What is it I want to do that I would not have got done?
She wouldn’t have wanted her research projects left undone. The studies were not long-term; they would be finished in two years and would contain data that she felt sure would force the government to stop ignoring the health risks second-hand smoke posed for children. She would also show Liliana all the beaches and rivers and mountains and mogotes of this beautiful island. That, for sure, was something she wanted to have done.
Celia listened to the whisper of surf, so ever-present that she normally did not hear it. She watched the patterns cast by moonlight change as the moon moved across the sky, watched the reflection of her legs on the grey television screen fade and disappear. She lifted the cup and sipped th
e cocoa.
After a while she conceded that there was one other thing she wanted to have done. But it would take a little longer.
NINETY-ONE
CELIA was wakened by a telephone call from Dr. Leyva. He said that in televised reports on the bombing he had glimpsed her and Liliana treating the injured and wanted her to know that after such an ordeal he did not expect her to go to México City today; that if she wished, Dr. Cohen could be sent in her place. Celia quickly agreed and hung up with a huge sense of relief.
The next caller was Alma. When Celia reassured her that they were fine, Alma called, “Luis! Come tell Celia what you found out.”
Luis came on the line and in a tired voice informed her that if she had received a call from Joaquín claiming that the terrorist was Luis Posada Carilles, she shouldn’t believe it; that he had just spoken to Captain Quevedo, who said neither of the terrorists were Posada Carilles. He said MININT had good intelligence that Posada was still in Central America and was expected to surface in the United States soon. There he would probably get the same protection accorded to Orlando Bosch, his accomplice in the Barbados airline bombing, who continued to live openly in Miami.
Celia was grateful to get the news from Luis rather than Joaquín, as it allowed her to deal with her frustration and bitterness in private and not have to cope with Joaquín’s at the same time. Luis did not acknowledge her thanks and handed the telephone back to Alma without saying goodbye.
Liliana wandered into the kitchen, dark curls frizzy from the late night washing and no interim combing. She was in surprisingly good spirits and ate breakfast with the television on in order to watch constantly replayed scenes of the chaos following the bombing, some of which showed her assisting the injured with calm efficiency.
After a while Liliana said she was going to unpack. Celia limped after her and sat down on the bed. Simply making herself available had always been the best way to get Liliana to open up. That was especially important this morning, Celia felt, in the aftermath of the hotel bombing.
Liliana exhibited a certain seriousness as she set about unpacking, but did not seem upset or particularly interested in talking about the night before. Celia was about to leave when Liliana lifted the ballerina music box out of her suitcase, carefully unwrapped it, and put it back in its usual place on her dresser.
Celia’s heart gave a painful thud. She knew that this final gift from Carolina was Liliana’s most precious possession. She would have packed it only if she planned to stay in Miami. Celia reached out and touched the music box. In as neutral a voice as she could muster, she said, “You weren’t intending to come back, were you?”
Liliana deftly moved the music box out of her reach. “No. But you’d have come there, wouldn’t you? After a while?”
“No,” Celia said with quiet finality.
Liliana stared at her, disbelieving. “You wouldn’t? Not ever?”
“Never.”
“Why not?” Liliana almost howled the question.
“Because what I want is here.”
“Here? ” Liliana pointed at the floor, indicating their small apartment or possibly the whole shabby building below them.
“I mean here in Cuba,” Celia said, surprised by how surprised Liliana seemed. Surely the girl had known! Then retracted “surely” as she recalled that even she had not been positive that she would never go to Miami. Only now was she certain that, although she would have grieved for Liliana as she had grieved for Carolina, she would not have given up her work, her nationality, and her island.
“I like my life here,” Celia said mildly. “What about you? What was it over there that you wanted so much?” She picked up an issue of Granma lying on the bedside table and pretended to scan headlines so Liliana wouldn’t feel she was being grilled.
“Well, the stuff I can’t have here. Like a car. Or even a good bike.”
Inadvertently, both of them glanced toward the music box that, as far as Celia knew, still contained enough cash to buy a nice bike. She thought she saw a flush come to Liliana’s cheeks. Liliana flopped down on the bed next to her and said petulantly, “You don’t make enough money to buy anything and when I’m a doctor I won’t either. It’s not fair.”
“What is not fair?”
“Having to give up some things to get others. Like, if I moved to the States I couldn’t afford to go to medical school. Tío Joe did say he could get me a job, but it wouldn’t be an important job like that.” She thumped the newspaper in Celia’s lap.
Celia looked down. The article was about Operación Milagro, a new program in which hundreds of Cuban doctors were being sent abroad to work in poor countries.
Liliana continued. “Fidel personally shakes their hand when they leave, and everybody tells them what a great thing they’re doing for humanity. They feel proud. At least, I would.” She stared glumly at the ceiling. “But they don’t earn diddly. Tío Joe said even in the States, do-gooder work—that’s what he called it, do-gooder work—is done mostly by volunteers. He said if I wanted to own a car I’d have to take a real job.”
“It sounds like you’ve been thinking about moving to the States for a long time,” Celia ventured.
“For a while,” Liliana said noncommittally.
“What caused you to change your mind?”
Liliana gave her a surely-you-know look. “The hotel getting bombed!”
“Well, yes. But what difference did that make? What did it change?”
Liliana pulled a brown curl into her mouth and held it between pursed lips. It was a moment before she replied, in a dreamy voice, “It’s like all of a sudden I could see myself actually being what I want to be.”
“Which is?”
Liliana let go of the strand of hair and brushed it away from her face with a laugh. “You know. A doctor. Like you.”
• • •
Neither of the Lago brothers contacted Celia in the month following the bombing. Her first inkling that Luis had also been jolted into making a life-defining decision came when Emily Solana telephoned to say she and Luis were engaged and gushingly invited Celia and Liliana to the wedding.
At first Celia worried that Luis’s decision to get married was some kind of rebound behaviour. However, at the wedding reception Emily recounted how they had met during Liliana’s convalescence, and Celia realized with considerable surprise that they had been seeing each other for many months.
Alma, whose looks and personality had changed little in Celia’s memory, flitted among wedding guests looking more like a woman in her forties than one in her sixties. Unselfconsciously, she repeatedly thanked God for protecting her family and bestowing this blessing: the marriage of a son and promises from her new daughter-in-law that she would soon be surrounded by grandchildren.
Liliana, who regularly visited the Lagos, had passed on to Celia the news that the couple had moved in with Alma. As a wedding present José had given them a king-sized bed to replace the two broken-down single beds that had furnished the brothers’ room for as long as anyone could remember. He had rented an apartment for himself near Hotel Palco and had not called Celia or stopped by since the hotel bombing. She wondered, watching him work his way through the wedding guests toward her, whether it had a noticeable effect on him too.
Apparently something had changed because when they were finally face to face, he barely acknowledged her, and instead, addressed Liliana. “I wonder if you’d mind helping me out with the car?” he said abruptly.
“The car?” Liliana looked as puzzled as Celia felt.
“There’s no parking at my new place and I hate leaving it at Mother’s when I’m out of the country. If you’d learn to drive you could use it when I’m not here.”
Celia supposed this was his way of apologizing to Liliana for having got so angry with her the night of the bombing. But she also sensed that it was another attempt on his part to keep her in his orbit and instantly protested.
“No, I don’t think—”
&nb
sp; José interrupted. “Celia, for God’s sake. It’s the twenty-first century. Driving is a skill she needs, and Alma’s perfectly capable of teaching her.”
Liliana laid a hand on José’s sleeve. “Really, Tío? When can we start?”
“All right.” Celia grudgingly offered the consent that neither of them had bothered to seek. “But leave me out of it. Whatever you decide is between you two.”
• • •
Driving lessons began almost immediately, and by fall Alma pronounced Liliana a competent driver. José presented Liliana with a credit card issued in her name by a Mexican bank, along with a stern warning that its use for anything other than gas would cause her driving privileges to be revoked. After that Celia could hardly deny Liliana the right to practise when the car was available. However, she drew a line at Liliana running around in a convertible loaded with other teens. Her solution was to work straight through during the three weeks each month that Liliana was at school, and then take off work the week Liliana was on break. If José was in Miami and they happened to have the car, she would let Liliana pick a place on the island to visit and they would drive there, Liliana at the wheel.
All José asked was that Liliana drop him at the airport when he left and pick him up on his return—unless she was in school, in which case Alma performed the service. José told Celia he liked the convenience. Liliana told Celia that what Tío Joe really liked was not having to take a taxi like an ordinary traveller, but being picked up by “a classy chica in a classy máquina.”
Celia smiled at Liliana’s description of herself as a “classy chica,” and mused that José might have been less pleased with the arrangement if he knew that Liliana relished details of his personal life and loved sharing them with Celia, Emily, and Alma.
“I found a woman’s shoe in the car,” Liliana would exclaim. “And it’s not the same size as the pair left in the car last month. Are these women so sprung on him that they forget they got in the car wearing shoes? Or leave them on purpose so he’ll see how worn out they are and buy them a new pair?”
