Silence.
“I know it’s hard with Mom being sick, but she would want us to keep going. She’d want you to be in school.”
A little muffled sniffling.
“We need to keep that in mind: What would Mom want us to do?”
“I know what Mom would want us to do,” he admitted.
“Good. Look, do me a favor. Give it your best shot. Stay there with your counselor for a little bit, until you are composed, and then go back to class. I’ll be here at work, thinking of you. Give class an hour. That’s all I’m asking. And then, if you still can’t handle it, I’ll come and get you.”
“Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask, Will. Just give it a shot. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
“Mr. Dylan?” The counselor was back on the line.
“Yes, hi,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I know Will is having a hard time, and I wanted to explain.”
“Please do. He was down here yesterday, too.” She didn’t sound mad, only concerned.
“We are going through a health crisis in our family right now. My wife is very sick. She was in the emergency room, and now she’s back in the hospital,” I explained, conveniently leaving out the mental health part.
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Dylan.”
“Yeah, it hasn’t been easy,” I said. “We’re doing the best we can. She’s going to get better, but Will, he’s worried about his mom.”
“Okay, well, we’ll keep an eye on him,” she replied, and I could tell that she was smiling down at him when she said it. “I hope that your wife recovers quickly.”
Hanging up, I exhaled deeply, acknowledging once again the serious ramifications that Mia’s illness could have on the kids. I was still thinking about this when I drove to the crisis center for daytime visiting hours. Once at the GTC, however, my thoughts immediately shifted to Mia. Would she be in attack mode again?
To my surprise, my visit was immediately accepted. This time, the person who came out to greet me was the same young woman who had admitted Mia. She had a kind disposition, dark hair, and a tattoo on her arm.
“Mr. Dylan,” she said, ushering me into the hallway, “my name is Autumn. I work with Dr. Martinez and have been spending a lot of time with Mia.”
“Nice to meet you,” I responded. “You’re lucky you weren’t with her last night. She wasn’t in a very good mood.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Mia does go through phases. I think you’ll find her much easier to deal with today.”
She opened the door to the crisis center, stepping aside as I walked in. Mia was slumped on one of the couches, staring indifferently ahead. I walked over slowly, sitting down next to her.
“Hi, Mia,” I said with uncertainty.
She glanced at me. “Hi.” She was heavily sedated, her voice groggy.
“How are you doing?” I sensed that she was too subdued to start berating me.
“I’m okay,” she said in a sleepy voice, glancing around the room. “Look at this place, though; it’s messed up. I think there are drug deals going on in the back.” She motioned with her head toward the corner of the room, but no one was there. “And the people tell me fake names. One girl wants me to call her Autumn. She’ll probably start going by Winter next week.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond as Mia’s slow drawl continued. “They poison the water in the drinking fountain here, too. Stay away from that.”
I decided to change the subject. “You look tired, babe.”
“I had to clean the door all morning.”
“Clean the door?”
“Yeah, I wrote on it. It was important, but they made me erase it.”
Of course, I thought to myself. All of those mathematical calculations scribbled on the back of the bedroom door were hers.
The whole visit went that way. We mostly sat in silence; Mia was a zombie, spaced out and tired. The long gaps in conversation were frustrating.
After visiting hours, I returned home feeling dejected. My parents were out, so I wandered into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. I knew staying upbeat was important, especially for the kids, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of hopelessness.
I was thinking about what life would be like after my parents left. I didn’t know how I was going to juggle everything. I was spending half of my time at the treatment center. Mia’s condition was swinging wildly from belligerent to apathetic, and that was when she actually agreed to see me. Will was balancing on the edge of his own emotional breakdown. Jamie was carrying on as if nothing were wrong, and that didn’t seem right, either. I hadn’t had to worry about meals or laundry over the past two weeks, but that was going to change. And then there was work. Although my employers were supportive, I was only putting in a couple of hours a day.
The kids were depending on me. Mia was counting on me, too, not the drugged-up person sitting in the crisis center, but the compassionate woman with whom I had fallen in love. I couldn’t let her down. But how long would it take for her to get better?
I closed my eyes, tears starting to form. What was even wrong with her? Would we ever figure it out?
Sprawled on the bed, consumed by these questions, I suddenly heard someone knocking. My parents wouldn’t have knocked. Puzzled, I stood and tried to compose myself as our dog’s barking echoed through the house. Walking to the front door, I pulled it open, ready to sign for a delivery or greet the neighbor. Instead, I froze in surprise.
There, standing on the porch, was someone completely unexpected. He had left the country a dozen years before, and I hadn’t seen him since. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure that I would ever see him again.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. He looked different: older and thinner, with a darker tan and longer hair. But his sharp blue eyes still carried a look of mischief.
It was Mia’s younger brother, Luke.
10.
The Lost Cuban
Ringside
“Miss You”
2:19–2:48
Although I met Mia’s parents briefly at graduation, the full personality of her family didn’t come through until I traveled down to Florida. I grew up in a small town in Indiana and, other than a trip to Mexico, had never left the country. Being in Miami was like being in another world.
But one thing was familiar: Mia’s family felt just like mine. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all gathered for the holidays. They were loud and passionate. It was as if my relatives had been taught Spanish and transported to the tropics.
That was the first time I met Mark. He and Mia were similar, both studious and meticulous. They took after Marcos, who was an engineer. In fact, they both resembled him, with their brown eyes and more aquiline noses. Celia and Luke, with their blue eyes and outgoing personalities, were more like Lucia’s side of the family. They were both smart, too; all the siblings had graduated from Georgetown. But Celia and Luke were less inclined to study, and they didn’t like to follow rules—especially Luke.
He greeted me with enthusiasm every time I saw him. “Patricio, I got nothing but love for you, brother!” He would come in with the bro handshake and then pull me into a hug.
Mia’s extended family was close, but her immediate family was even closer. That being said, I always sensed that the strict upbringing had left some lingering resentment. Mark and Mia had buckled down and obeyed, but Celia and Luke had rebelled.
It still came as a shock when Luke disappeared. Well, I guess he didn’t really disappear; he told everyone he was leaving. One morning, he got into his car and started driving. He drove straight through Mexico and half of Central America and didn’t stop until he reached Costa Rica.
Shortly after, Mark went searching to make sure his little brother was alright. He found Luke living in a beachside shack with no running water, working a
s the crocodile man on some backwoods-type jungle adventure. The photo Mark brought back still hangs on his parents’ wall: Luke using a dead chicken to lure a twelve-foot reptile out of a dirty lagoon.
After that, we heard snippets about Luke once or twice a year. He would call home on Mother’s Day, or he’d send an email for Christmas. There was no pattern to his updates. Every time, he was living in a new place: Mexico, Brazil, Italy, Thailand, Japan, Tunisia, Siberia, the Philippines, Puerto Rico. He never stayed in one place long.
All kinds of theories were proposed to explain why Luke had fled. He had racked up loads of credit card debt, and the banks were after him. He was on the mob’s hit list for some unnamed transgression. They all seemed far-fetched to me. I assumed that he just didn’t want to live the American, material-driven lifestyle.
Whatever the reason, the family was never whole after Luke left. Marcos and Lucia included him at the end of every grace. And God willing, please watch over Luke and keep him safe, wherever he is. Seven grandkids had been born, and none of them had met their long-lost uncle. I had only known Luke for a short while, and I missed him. Mia longed desperately to see him again. Most of us doubted that he would ever come back.
And then, on that otherwise hopeless day in October, I opened the door and found him standing on our doorstep.
***
“Patricio,” he greeted me, but not with his usual excitement. He was more restrained. “I heard about Mia. I’m here for you.”
Luke was like the magical character from a fairy tale, appearing when you needed him most. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe he was actually standing in front of me.
He smiled. “Yo, I still got nothing but love for you, brother.” He didn’t even go for the usual handshake; he just came forward with a hug.
“Luke, wow, it’s so great to see you!” I exclaimed after his presence finally settled in. I went to grab his luggage, but all he had was a green rucksack thrown across his shoulder and a long, thin canvas bag leaning against the wall next to him. He noticed me eyeing the bag warily; it had the shape of a shotgun.
“Mira,” he said. Luke had a habit of throwing Spanish words into any conversation. “These are my spearguns. I thought I could do some spearfishing while I’m here, yeah?”
Luke was in his late thirties, but he looked younger than his age. His long dark hair was pulled tightly into a ponytail, the brown hue matching that of his short-cropped goatee. Their Cuban heritage meant that Mia and her siblings tanned quickly whenever they spent time in the sun. Luke lived on the beach and in the water; his skin was a dark bronze.
He didn’t have an ounce of fat, a natural consequence of living off the sea. But neither was he skinny. His legs and arms were sinewy, the result of fending for himself in God knows what kind of exploits. He was good-looking, and I had no doubt that women in far-off places found his swashbuckling persona attractive. His piercing blue eyes always seemed to be laughing at the world and its inability to control him.
He was wearing a worn-out tank top and a pair of loose-fitting board shorts, both of which had seen way too much mileage. His flip-flops were superfluous; he spent most of his life barefoot. I was pretty sure that all of his worldly belongings were in that rucksack. He didn’t care for material goods; the spearguns and an underwater camera were his prized possessions.
“Um, okay,” I said, glancing uncomfortably at the canvas bag, “but can you put them up on the shelf in the garage? I don’t like the idea of having spearguns in the house.”
“Aces.” He grinned.
We walked into the kitchen. “Where have you been living?” I asked. “Last I heard you were in Italy, maybe, or Thailand?”
“Yeah,” he smirked, “that was a while ago. I been living in Roatán.”
“Roatán? Where the hell is that?”
“It’s an island off the coast of Honduras, near the second-largest barrier reef in the world. I been working as a dive instructor there for four, maybe five months now.”
“Man, you must be in heaven then.” But I wondered how he had ended up at our house. “Luke, how did you know? And how did you get here?”
“Yo, I got an email from Celia a few days ago sayin’ some shit about Mia. It sounded bad, man. Celia be tripping. So, I packed up my stuff, found a flight . . . pa pa pa, pe pe pe . . . borrowed a car from my parents.”
For the record, I wasn’t sure if pa pa pa, pe pe pe was a colloquial expression that Luke picked up somewhere or a phrase he had created. But he used it all the time. It basically meant the same as “et cetera” or “I’m skipping a bunch of stuff, so try to keep up.”
He was looking around the house, his eyes moving out to our lanai and the pool. He paused. “Damn, dude, y’all been working hard, yeah?”
“Oh, sorry, I forgot that you’ve never been here,” I said, laughing. “Thanks, we like it. Can I show you around?”
“Nah,” he responded, suddenly serious again. “Tell me, what’s going on with Mia?”
I gave him a short update, but he had already heard most of it from Celia and Mark. But even they didn’t know what had happened recently at the crisis center, with the torn-up letters and scrawled-out bedroom door.
“Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit,” he said.
“Yeah, it is,” I agreed, “but Mia isn’t thinking straight. It’s not like she’s meaning to act this way.”
“Nuh-uh, I get you,” he responded with a look of understanding.
“But Luke, it can be tough. Celia had a difficult time with it.”
“Bro, I got stories for you. I seen some shit in my day. It ain’t nothing I can’t handle.”
I could only imagine the things that Luke had experienced. I smiled and shook my head. “I’m sure that’s true. How long can you stick around?”
“Long as it takes, hermano, long as it takes. I got no commitments or deadlines.”
“Wow,” I said, relieved. “I can’t tell you how much that means, for you to put your life on hold for us.”
“It’s family, Patricio.”
Luke said it with finality, like nothing else mattered. Mia had always told me that he was the most caring of her siblings. She would go on and on about how much attention he paid to their grandmother or how he treated their mom. In that moment, I finally understood what she meant.
“Thank you,” I said, holding his gaze. A moment passed, and then I remembered. “Oh, Luke, my parents will be in the guest room for one more night. But we can put you on the futon in the study until tomorrow.”
“No, man, I don’t do beds. Not my thing.”
“What?” I asked, wondering if I understood him correctly. “Did you say that you don’t sleep on beds?”
“Sí,” he confirmed. “Beds make you soft. So long as you got a floor, I’ll be good.”
Having him around was going to be an adventure. “Okay,” I laughed, “we’ve got plenty of floors. Take your pick!”
He threw his rucksack in our back room and was off again. He planned to find a dive shop and sharpen his spearguns. Watching him leave, I realized how perfect he would be for the situation. Mia would enjoy spending time with him, and Luke could certainly handle her condition. He could stay with her during the day and then camp in the back of our house at night. And the kids? They would absolutely love him.
When they came home, I informed them of Luke’s arrival. Jamie didn’t know what to think; she only knew her Uncle Luke from stories. As for Will, he was in a great mood when he got off the bus. Hearing about Luke only widened the smile on his face.
“Dad, I went back to class, just like you said, and after a while I felt better,” he said. “Once it was lunchtime, I knew I could make it!”
“That’s great, Will! See, if you stay in class, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yeah, I just wish I could tell myself that in the mornings.”
Will could talk rationally about his feelings at home. “It’s weird, Dad. It’s like I get worried that I’m going to start getting worried. Does that make any sense?”
“It’s hard for me to understand, but it does make sense. Anxiety runs in our family.” He was listening attentively. “Mom has always been a worrier, and so has Uncle Brad. They’d probably get it, but I’ve never had to deal with anything like that.”
“It’s really hard when it starts happening.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do to calm yourself down?”
“I try, but it’s like my thoughts get out of control.”
“That sounds scary,” I admitted. “Hey, Will, what if I found someone you could talk to about it, a person trained in dealing with anxiety? Would you be open to that?”
“Sure, I guess, if you think it might help.”
I added one more thing to my list, putting it at the top. Maybe Dr. Martinez would have a recommendation, or perhaps the school counselor? Either way, I had to identify a good therapist for Will.
Dinner that night was a riot. Luke returned from his errands, and everyone was excited to see him. The kids were captivated. We had read Treasure Island more than once, and they viewed their uncle as some kind of modern-day pirate.
When I arrived at the crisis center Friday night, I was hopeful that Mia would have more energy than earlier in the day. However, the visit was basically a repeat of the last session. She sat disengaged and half-comatose, and I tried to remain as patient as possible. I left with a familiar feeling of remorse.
The next morning began with much anticipation. My parents were leaving, but before they did, we were all headed to the British restaurant for Jamie’s makeup tea party. We tried to convince Luke to join us, but he wanted to check out the local fishing scene.
I was in a good mood driving from the tea shop to the GTC, and it only improved once I saw Mia. She was sitting at one of the wooden tables, appearing awake and normal. Our conversation was better, too. She asked about the kids, wanting to know how they were doing. It was almost as if the psychosis had cleared completely. Indeed, all seemed fine until visiting hours were over.
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