by Gaby Triana
“I know, I didn’t tell you everything. It’s not the kind of story a little girl likes to hear.”
“All you’ve said is that your dad died from a heart attack, and your mom from having lost him.” It was something she told me when I was little, and I just accepted it. It sounded so romantic. I’ve spent years wondering if I could ever die from heartache like that.
“Verdad” is all she says.
I stare at the picture. They look like ghosts from a golden age of cuba libres, bongos, and Tropicana. Their smiles sparkle, telling us they’re okay, wherever they are. I glance at my mother. There’s something in her face, something painful; it’s starting to hurt me. “¿Qué pasa, Mami?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales heavily. “Ay, mi hija. It was so long ago. On some days, like today, I can’t even remember what they look like. So I take out this book and try to see their faces in my mind.”
I nod, trying to imagine what that’s like. I don’t think I could ever forget my mother’s face, no matter how much time passes after losing her. It was the first face I saw coming into this world; it’ll be the last in my mind on my way out.
She goes on. “Isa, no murieron así.”
Okay. I always felt there had to be more to that story. Everyone else managed to escape Fidel’s regime, so why not my grandparents? “Then how did they die?”
She stares at the photo, without blinking, urging her brain to go back, to collect scattered pieces of memories. “Ay, Isa, I can’t, mi vida.” She shakes her head out of frustration.
“Mami? What is it?” I put my arm around her.
“Hija, it was so long ago. I was only fifteen, but I can still see it como si fuera ayer.”
Every now and then, my mother remembers things about Cuba that she wants to share with us. The sugary sands of Varadero, a park swing, an ice-cream vendor. Always happy memories, the ones she has no problem retelling. But then there are the others—the ones that hurt too much to talk about.
Her face reflects something dark and tormented. In Spanish, she begins.
“Isa, I was sleeping when they came in. There was a lot of yelling. Their voices scared me, but I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or if it was real. When I sat up in bed, I saw them, holding their rifles. They went into my parents’ room and dragged them out. One of them had my mother by the night-dress, and it tore as he was pulling her. Her shoulder was showing, and I remember thinking that any moment, the dress would come right off of her. They screamed at my father as they beat him, accusing him of things I knew nothing about.”
She drops her head and cries. She sobs until I can’t take it anymore, and I start crying, too. I turn Mami’s face up to search her eyes. “What happened? Did they kill them? Who’s ‘they’?”
“El gobierno, hija.”
“The government? Mami, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.”
“Yo sé, mi vida, but I have to. I should’ve told you this years ago. Besides, we don’t know what will happen to me.”
“Stop that. You’re not going anywhere.”
She wipes her tears and leans back on her pillow, closing her eyes. “They took them. They came in the night and just took my parents, Isabelita. I still remember my mother telling me to run to Tío Raul’s house and stay with him until they returned. But they never did.” She laughs a painful laugh. “I’m still waiting for them.”
“But what happened to them?”
“I was told afterward that they went to separate prisons for sending information to the States. Codes, messages, plotting against Fidel’s regime. I was told they would be released after some interrogation. I was told it would all be cleared up soon. And then I was told they were shot.”
My hands fly to my mouth.
I’d always heard these stories told by other people’s grandparents, the kind of stuff told over a game of dominoes, when they think the kids aren’t listening. But I never thought Mami would be telling it; that it happened to my own flesh and blood.
“Firing squad.” Her face drops into her hands, and she cries. I can hardly stand to see her this way, so I look at the picture of my abuelos instead. Happy, smiling abuelos, never thinking for a moment that Cuba would come to this, that they’d be killed in their own country for having their own views. I focus on their eyes, which seem to stare back, speaking volumes to me of things I will never fully understand.
Mami takes my hand. “Perdóname, hija, por no haberte dicho esto antes.”
“It’s okay, Mami. I don’t think I would’ve understood all that if you’d told me when I was little. I’m glad I didn’t know. I probably would’ve had nightmares or something.”
“Sí. You would have.”
“Do Carmen and Stefan know?”
“Carmen, sí.”
Maybe that’s why Mami holds back sometimes. Maybe it’s hard enough that she lost her parents and then Carmen went away. She’s probably afraid of losing me, too.
“So, Tío Raul brought you here with him?”
“No, I lived with him for four years, but then I left to live with Tía Marta in Miami, who had come during the Peter Pan flights. ¿Tú sabes de eso?” She looks at me.
“Yes, when all the kids came from Cuba without their parents, I know. I just didn’t know she was a part of that.”
She rubs her eyes. “Sí. And then Tío Raul joined us afterward. He had followed my mother’s instructions to send me to Miami if anything were to ever happen. That’s when I met your father.”
“I know. Abuelo and Abuela were Tía Marta’s neighbors. Dad used to cut the grass in his undershirt and wink at you. I’ve heard that part a million times.”
She laughs gently. “Sí. Tu papá era tan buen mozo.”
It’s good to see her smiling, remembering a younger Dad. This is all so weird. I know my mother’s never been one to talk about her past, and I see why. But maybe if she’d told me this sooner, I could’ve comforted her, or at the very least, been a little nicer. It helps to know what someone’s been through before you wonder why they act so crazy.
We sit there for a while, as Mami flips through the rest of the photos. I try to imagine what it’d be like if my parents were plucked from our home in the middle of the night. How would I feel, wondering where they were and if they’re even alive? I try imagining the anguish, the lack of answers. I try to imagine myself newly arrived in America, living with my aunt, trying desperately to shut out a memory that will always haunt me. I try seeing myself in a new country, managing without my parents, wondering if I’d ever feel happy again.
I think I’d forever be looking back, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’d see them one last time.
Eighteen
I finish the sign to the right side of the canvas—Lummus Park, Miami Beach. Then I stand back and take in the whole image.
She sits looking out at the ocean, her white linen shirt billowing around her. The storm overhead is ready to come down. The beach has emptied, no one there but her. Her and a nearby food cart, locked up, its owner nowhere in sight. She is ready for the rain, ready to bare her wounds, ready to forget. The water will cleanse her. She watches the waves as they peak and collapse, with quiet resignation. She knows she will never see them again.
I look outside. As the real clouds rumble closer, I think about everything that’s happening—about Mami’s surgery tomorrow, her story about my grandparents, Andrew, not going to college—even Robi. Why? Why is all this happening? Why can’t life just be simple? Nothing has gone as planned, nothing. I don’t know if I can take all this. But I have to. I don’t have a choice.
I wipe tears away from my face. I think I understand this girl now. I think I’m ready to wrap this up. The clock on the art room wall says it’s time to go home. Leaning forward, I finish it off in the left-hand corner. Isa.
Wiping my brushes and trashing the wax paper with the last of my blends, I hurry to beat the real rain waiting outside. I grab my bag, the painting by the edge, and leave the room
. Andrew is gone. I told him I wanted to finish the painting. Susy’s gone. We haven’t talked for over a week. Jonathan’s gone too. Only the cleaning lady is here, sweeping outside the main house. Behind her the door is still open. I say a quick hello to her, then peer inside.
The computers and lights are off. So quiet. Tiptoeing inside, I breathe in the silence of the room. To my left is the bulletin board with its mess of memos. Under the leaves of papers, I search for the bright blue one I saw a couple of weeks ago.
There it is—the flyer for the Cuba Expo art contest. I rip it off the board and tuck it into my bag.
The next day, Baptist Hospital reflects the orangey-peach light of the late afternoon sun. For once the rain has let up, and I am reminded of why Miami has a reputation for beauty. I have time to kill since Mom is in recovery. I can’t see her for a while, so I’m under this gazebo by the lake. These ducks could care less that I’m whistling for their attention.
In the parking lot there’s a guy walking around placing ads under windshield wipers. This is the first time I’ve ever seen one of them. You find the papers on your windshield but never see who puts them there—like magical elves that fix shoes at night. The dude approaches my father’s Infiniti, and I see him leave his flyer under the wipers.
When he’s safely out of sight, I go to the car and pull the ad out. Great, it’s for a new Girelli’s Gym, opening up in Kendall. Now two locations! Join today! I’d heard about this gym even before Andrew mentioned it. Stefan said it’s a meat market and plans to enroll shortly. But it’s also right by UM. Probably why Andrew goes there.
Sigh. Let’s see what Dad’s doing. Inside the hospital I weave my way around staff members, wheelchairs, and a multitude of visitors, who all seem to be strolling at half a mile an hour. A sense of mild claustrophobia chokes me. I reach the waiting room where I left Dad and Stefan, but now my father’s by himself.
“Hey, Dad.”
He looks up. “¿Qué tal, hija? ¿Qué hiciste?”
“Nothing. Just went down to the lake, walked around the parking lot, came back. It’s a beautiful day.”
He nods. His knee bounces up and down at high speed. My father’s never this quiet.
“Dad? Mami’s going to be okay.” Still, I understand how he feels. This surgery just better have stopped the cancer from spreading.
His knee stops bouncing. “I know, hija. I know.”
“¿Y Stefan?”
“He went to the cafeteria. ¿Por qué no te vas un ratico, anda, y te llamo cuando salga Mami?”
I guess he’s right. I should go somewhere. It’ll be a while before I get to see her if she’s in recovery and doesn’t have a room yet. Plus it’s almost dinnertime. But I didn’t bring the truck. “I came with you, Dad.”
Staring ahead, my father leans to one side, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his keys. “Toma.” He hands them to me.
“You want me to bring you something to eat?”
“No, Stefan’s got it. Here.” He gives me his cell phone. “Just in case. I’ll tell Stefan to call you when she’s in a room.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”
“Isa, we’re not going to see her for at least an hour. Go somewhere. Just be careful. Hay tráfico a esta hora.”
“I’ll go opposite traffic. By the time I come back, it should be mostly gone. Bye, Daddy.” I kiss his cheek. And I’m off again, through the halls, at the elevator, past the gift shop, and out the door. Ah, fresh air. What is it about hospitals?
My watch says 5:30. Probably could’ve gone to work today if I’d known the surgery would take this long, but Jonathan said to take the day off to be with Mom. I guess he isn’t as bad as he sometimes seems.
I love the smell of my dad’s G35, nice and leathery. It’s cool that he’s letting me drive it. Wait till Stefan finds out. Dad never lets Stefan drive his car. Let’s see…where do I go? Dadeland Mall? Nah, let Stefan shop for me. Bookstore in the other direction. Nope, bumper to bumper. I know. I pull out the flyer from my pocket and find the address for the gym’s Coral Gables location.
Driving through Coral Gables is like driving through a postcard, with its tree-lined streets, vibrant hues, and old-world architecture. I have to come out here one day and just paint, really capture the colors of this city that, according to Mami, looks a lot like old Havana. Maybe I’ll do that for her next birthday.
I wonder if Andrew’s at the gym already. I can’t wait to surprise him. I’d like to think it would brighten his day. I know I would’ve loved it if he’d shown up at the hospital’s gazebo.
I find the gym, but a parking spot is a different story. The place is packed. Luckily I find a metered space in front of a bridal store. Pulling up, I yank the brake and slide my shades over my eyes.
I get out, feeling the drastic difference between the A/C inside and the oven-hot temperature rising from the pavement. That’s one thing I was really looking forward to about Michigan—a little cold weather after all this heat. There’s a bench outside the bridal store with a view of the gym’s front entrance. I’ll wait there, ’cause I’d stand out if I went in with these jeans and a T-shirt.
I scan the street for Andrew’s car. No white 4Runner anywhere. Then again, there’s a full parking lot on the other side of the building. I’ll keep my eye on the corner. If Andrew left work at his usual time, he should be getting here right about now.
But I don’t see him. Of all people, I see Susy coming up the sidewalk, chatting with another girl. Both of them in workout pants and barely there tops, all laced in the back like bikinis. So I guess everybody and their mothers go to this gym but me? Seems more like the place to be than the place to do squats.
Susy doesn’t see me and enters in a rush. I wonder if she’s always come here or if she learned that Andrew did and just joined. Because that would really piss me off, if she thinks for one second she can flirt with him when she knows I won’t be watching.
Andrew’s never mentioned her coming here. Come to think of it, Andrew never mentions anything, and that’s partly my fault because I don’t ask. Because I’m so wrapped up with the way I feel with him that I don’t bother.
Mi vida, ten cuidado. Por favor, no te enredes, Mami’s voice creeps up on me again. I swear I’m cursed. How do I turn her off when I don’t feel like listening to warnings? Suddenly a morbid thought hits me. She’s gone. She’s died from a complication and her ghost is talking to me.
Coño, stop it, Isa. Everything’s really getting to you. I pull out Dad’s cell phone and dial Stefan.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“What’s going on?” I keep my eye on the corner of the building.
“Dad?” Stefan asks.
“Isa, you dork.”
“Duh, I was just playing with you.”
“Is Mami okay?” I ask.
“The doctor just talked to Dad. She’s doing great, no room yet.”
A loud breath escapes me. “Thank God.”
“Yeah, no shit. I’ll call you when we can see her. Where are you?”
“I’m out driving. I’ll be back in a little bit. Tell me when you know anything.”
“Okay. Bye. Driving? Wait—”
I close the phone with a loud smack. Where’s Andrew? Maybe he’s already inside, and I just missed him. How can I find out without standing at the glass like a peeping idiot? Oh, who cares. I get up and walk to the gym’s window, cupping my face at the glass to block the glare.
Inside is a madhouse. Tanned, hard bodies, glistening under neon lights. A few people are actually working out, lifting weights, running on the treadmills. Most are greeting and chatting. Apparently it’s happy hour at Girelli’s.
A spinning class is just getting started, and the instructor shouts even with a headset on. I can see Susy on one of the bicycles, her feet pedaling quickly to keep up with the booming music. She’s crouched over the handlebars, her workout pants stretched down to reveal a thong and a tattoo right above her butt. I never
knew she had one. A tattoo, not a butt. Of what, I can’t really tell. Is that a flower? A sun?
Whatever it is, a second later a hand’s covering it—a guy’s hand, at the small of her back, someone with nice arms kissing her cheek. In fact, those arms look a lot like…wait a minute. That’s Andrew. What the hell?
Suddenly I feel a surge of whoop-ass course through me as I yank the gym door open and make a beeline for my so-called boyfriend.
The girl at the front desk calls me over. “Excuse me…”
“I’m just going to tell someone something, one second,” I explain. “I’ll be right out.”
She lets me go, and I push past a guy who looks like the Michelin tire man, find the spinning class, and stop next to Andrew. “Why, hello there,” I say charmingly, trying to control my breathing.
His eyes open wide. “Isa!”
Turning to Miss Ass Crack, I smile from ear to ear. “Hey, chica. Nice to see you.”
“Hey, what’re you doing here?” She huffs and puffs on her bike. Her dumb friend on the one next to her gives me a look for no reason.
“Oh, nothing. Thought I’d come and see Andrew while my mom recovers from surgery. It’ll be a while before I get to see her.” Under these lights, Susy’s blond highlights stand out. I never noticed them at work.
I turn to Andrew again. “Hi, sweetie.” Definitely no kiss for you, dipshit.
“How’s your mom?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.
A nervous hand, perhaps? “She came out of it okay, but I haven’t seen her yet. Can we talk somewhere?”
“Yeah, sure.” Andrew exchanges looks with Susy.
With Andrew behind me, I spin around and head to the front door, completely aware of many faces looking at me. I could never come to this gym. I already feel like I don’t belong.
Outside I lean against the glass. “Can you tell me what that was about?”
“I’m sorry?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Susy. First, I didn’t know she came here, and second, you were being awfully friendly with her.”
