Cubanita (12 page)

He sighs. “Listen to yourself.”

Yeah, that's a good one. Has he ever heard his inner voice when he's got it bad for somebody? Not quite the voice of reason, is it? “Should we be doing this?”

“That's up to you. I know how I feel about you, but I haven't heard much from your end.”

He's right. I haven't told him much, either. I guess I have to. I can't keep doubting and defending him, doubting and defending. I have to pick one and stick with it, and if I get hurt, well then, I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

“Andrew…” Sigh. “I've never felt about anybody the way I feel about you, not even Robi.” Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Whatever, keep going. “All I think about is you. At night, I lie in bed, thinking about your eyes, your hands, your voice, your kiss, your everything. Do you understand me?”

He pulls me close. “Yes, I understand.” He kisses me.

Screw everyone. I don't care if Andrew is bad for me. If something so bad can make me feel this good, then I guess I'm going to hell. But first…“Look at me and tell me there's nothing going on with Susy.”

His eyes slice right through me, that wicked look that has made mush out of me since day one. He presses his forehead to mine. “There is nothing going on with Susy.”

I want to believe him so badly. His eyes are killing me. Stop it, Andrew. Stop looking at me like that. God, I'm such a sap! I squeeze his hands. “Okay. I'm taking your word for it.” I watch his face for a few seconds. What am I looking for?
Twitching? Some sign of a lie?

“Isa, I wanted to tell you something the other night, but I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it.”

Okay. I just look at him, waiting.

“I'm falling for you pretty hard. Harder than anyone in a long time. In fact, I think I…no. I'm sure I love you.” His eyes watch mine intensely.

He didn't. Did he? Did he just say that? “That's funny. I thought the same thing too. At the restaurant.” I lean my head on his shoulder and breathe into his neck. Just say it. Say it, Isa. “I love you, too.”

He squeezes me hard.

“I gotta go,” I tell him. “My mom's waiting.”

“All right. Send her my best.”

“I will.”

After one last kiss I start toward the car, but he pulls me toward him again. “Isa, I was thinking about your birthday coming up, and…well, I want to do something nice. It's on a weekday, but maybe the following Saturday?”

“Like what?”

He looks down, scuffing the sidewalk with his sneaker, then looks back up. “Like go somewhere special, just the two of us.”

I see.

“Of course, it's totally up to you, but I was thinking maybe…”

Please say it. No, don't say it. Okay, please say it.

“A room somewhere nice. The Biltmore? Let's really celebrate. Want to?”

Yes!

“Of course, Coach,” I say, reaching around his shoulders and pressing my body against his. The thought of having Andrew all to myself will fuel many dreams tonight. “That would be so wonderful.”

He hugs me tight and whispers, “I think it's what we both need.”

“Need is right,” I say, tugging on my earlobe.

 

Inside her hospital room, my mom looks okay. Tired, drugged, worn, but okay. I just want her to get better already so she can get out of here.

“
Jugo
,” Mom whispers, eyes closed.

“Juice?” I repeat like a dork, since I heard her just fine the first time. “I'll tell the nurse, Mami.” I ease my hand out of hers gently and tiptoe to the corridor to find whoever is assigned to my mother.

The nurse is one step ahead of me. Thin and dark-skinned, she strolls up with a small container of apple juice and brushes past me. “
Señora Díaz, un poco de jugo
,” she says in an accent, Jamaican maybe, a hint of a smile at her lips.

“
Ay, gracias
.” Mami takes the juice and tries peeling back the foil lid.

The nurse helps her. “Take small amounts so you don't get nauseated. Remember your anesthesia is wearing off.”

I watch, feeling very powerless, as she takes a small sip. She looks so frail, so unlike her. After everything she's done for me in my seventeen years, I can't do anything for her now.
Except be here with her. That's it.

The nurse leaves, and I reclaim my spot next to Mami, taking her hand. “Hi.”

She breathes a quiet laugh and closes her eyes again. “Hi,
mi vida
.”

Her IV drips. Slowly. I hesitate, then, “I love you.”

With hardly any strength, she squeezes my hand and dozes off.

I know she knows. But still…I had to say it.

Four days away, my birthday's been giving me a lot to think about. It's been hard to concentrate on anything else. At least I've been distracted a little with my mom's postsurgery care. The first couple of nights were rough for her with high fevers and some pain, but the Percocet's been taking care of that.

Now she's doing a lot better and is itching to get out of the house. I've got just the thing for her. With Andrew fishing again, it's the perfect day to spend with my family. We've all been home a lot since her operation, and now's a good chance to show her how much she means to me.

“Are you ready?” I ask, peering into her room.

She slips a loose-fitting shirt over her head and fluffs her hair. “
Sí, ya. ¿A dónde vamos?
”

“You'll see. We'll get there soon enough.”

Dad, Stefan, Mom, and I get comfortable in Dad's car, and
there's a real sense of excitement we haven't felt in a while. Since Stefan and I are usually out doing something else, it's been a long time since we hung out as a family. I really miss Carmen today.

My dad drives to the Coconut Grove Convention Center. Mami starts bouncing in her seat because she knows where we're headed. When we get there, we pay the parking fee and find a good spot close to the entrance.

“
Isa,
” my mom says, “
qué bueno que decidiste venir este año. Yo sé que te va a encantar
.”

“I know, Mami. That's why I'm here. I know I'll like it.” Some might say I've come to the Cuba Expo this year to please my mom after the surgery. But that's not why, not really. This is the first time I want to. The story she told me has opened up something in me. I realize there's a whole vault of stories to hear, a whole world of things to understand about who I am. Without them, I can't possibly know where I'm going.

We pay at the entrance and present our tickets. Inside, a band plays
salsa
music. Stefan is already dancing before he passes the turnstile. A group of professional dancers graces the stage, while on the floor, the crowd watches them and dances along. Dad takes Mami's hand and spins her around slowly. Their feet mirror each other with precise steps. Then he tries dipping her, and she refuses with a laugh.

To our right is a giant map of Cuba and the surrounding waters. People are placing pushpins into the spots where they're from. Mami takes one and tacks it right along with
hundreds of others from Havana. My father pushes one into Santiago de Cuba. I know this seems really weird, but I want to place a pin, too, except Miami's not there. Stefan and I look at each other. He rings his arm around me.

After that we stroll the vendors' section of the convention. Everything Cuban you could possibly imagine—from cigars to traditional
guayaberas
, photographs to photo CDs, books to DVDs—all about Cuba, all about culture. Mami buys a little doll, dressed in a traditional folk dress, its hair rolled into a shiny, brown bun at the side of its head. Usually I might see this in a store and think,
God, how tacky
, but today it looks beautiful.

I can't stop thinking about the other end of the expo. The end where artisans have taken shop to display their crafts; the end where an art exhibit will boast its winners. It's making me really nervous, because Mami knows nothing about what's there. I hope it's there. I
did
turn it in on time.

We stop at a food court set up in the back where it's loudest. Nothing like a good spread of Cuban delicacies to stir up people's emotions, get them talking about their memories. Mami and Dad have plates of
carne de puerco, congrí, maduros
, and
yuca
. Staples in Cuban cuisine—shredded pork, rice and beans, fried plantains—the best stuff on Earth, especially with that
mojo
sauce. I'm splitting a
ropa vieja
with Stefan—shredded, saucy beef piled over a huge mound of rice. That and a flan. It's all good, but it's definitely not Mami's.

“
¿Mami, quieres un pedacito de flan?
” I offer her a bite.

“
No, mi vida, gracias
. I don't want to know if it's better than mine.” She laughs.

“
Ay
, Mami, that Key lime pie was not better than yours. Robi didn't know what he was talking about.”

She shrugs. “Have you talked to him again,
hija
?”

“No. He hates me.”

“I doubt that,
mi amor
. He loved you.”

“I know, Mom. I know.” I'm going to leave it right there this time.

“
Déjala
,” my father interjects. Whether he's talking to me or my mom doesn't matter. I guess we both need to get off each other's back.

My mom lets it go. She smiles and folds her hands under her chin. “
Qué bueno es tener mis hijos aquí conmigo.
” She stares at the bubbles in her soda. “I wish Carmen was here.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Me too,” says Stefan.

My father kisses my mom's hair and leans back to stretch. His seat screeches as his arms extend, then his weight takes the bad end of the balance. He tips backward, his feet kicking the underside of the table, making the grains of rice jump on the plates, as his chair and body slam onto the floor.

“
¡Coño!”
flies out of his mouth as he hits. Then he's laughing, that wheezy, breezy laugh that always gets me. At other tables, people clap and cheer as Dad quickly scrambles to his feet and takes a bow.

“Hey, Dad, I didn't know you were part of the entertainment this year.” Stefan laughs. “Embarrassed?”

“
Me importa tres pepinos
,” Dad says.

How would I translate that for Andrew?
I don't care three cucumbers?
Whatever, it's way funnier in Spanish anyway.

My stomach starts hurting. Not because of anything I ate, but because we are now slowly heading for the art exhibits. Mami stops at the first set of tables and partitions, and at the second, and at the third. She's enjoying them all, but I wonder if she's looking for something in particular, something that really speaks to her.

Around the corner, we come face-to-face with a long wall covered in canvases. Ribbons of blue, red, and white dot some of the paintings. There are sections labeled senior contestants, adults, teens, and children under twelve. We start at the senior end and work our way down. I quickly scan the entire collection and spot it. My beach girl. I look away and wait for Mami to gravitate toward it.

She speaks to me over her shoulder. “
Ay,
Isa, anything of yours could easily be here,
mi vida
.”

I say nothing. I just nod. My stomach flips again. Dad is ahead of her, admiring the adult entries. He stops to look at one of a mountainside covered in palm trees. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his eyes.

Stefan stands next to me and leans his head on mine. He whispers, “Isa, why don't you paint something Cuban for Mami? Of all the paintings you've made, nothing Hispanic.
Acomplejada
.” There's that complex thing again.

“Be quiet, Stef. I'm not
acomplejada
. I'm ahead of the game.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“Just wait,” I say. “We're almost there.”

He raises his chin and quickly scans for a familiar name among the paintings.

“
Qué bonitos son todos
,” Mami says. She's right, they're all really good. I probably didn't even come close. I probably got one of those honorable mention thingies.

We cross from the adult panel into the teen section. I guess it's a good thing that I'm not eighteen, or they would've placed my painting with all these adult ones. But that gives me an edge in the 13–17 category, doesn't it? I can see it. She hasn't seen it yet, but Dad's almost there. It's got a white ribbon. Third place. I'll take it, considering I didn't enter it for a ribbon anyway.

Mami's standing next to it. I watch her carefully to see if she notices, if it stands out to her. Then her gaze falls on my painting, feet pausing. She could see my name in the bottom corner if she wanted to, but she doesn't. She's focused on the girl—the girl watching the water, gazing down the shore, oblivious to the winds and clouds around her. The girl facing the motherland, hoping her parents might emerge from the sea, come to join her and tell her not to be afraid, that everything will be okay, but they won't. And she knows they won't.

Her face changes from pale to pink. Her hand covers her mouth, her lower lashes glisten. My father stands with her to see. He spots my name, then looks at me. Does he understand? Does he see the connection? Of course he does. He has to.

My heart is beating so fast, I can hardly take it. Have I upset her? Have I forced her to see something she's been avoiding? So she's a
cubanita
at heart. So she'll always be yearning for home. So what? That's who she is.

She finally sees my name, and a low groan escapes her as she cries quietly against my father's shoulder. “
Yo lo sabía
. I've never seen a painting like this in all the years I've been coming here. This tells more than all of these.” She gestures to the length of the exhibit. “It had to be yours,
hija
.”

She grabs my hand, and I suddenly feel very lucky to have her. To have them all, even Carmen somewhere out there. She kisses my hand.

“Mami, I just want you to know something, though.”

“¿
Qué, mi vida
?”

“Home is anywhere, okay? You don't need to be searching for anything. Even your mom and dad are here, too. Cuba's just a place. It's nothing without you, without us.”

She smiles in a way I haven't seen before. It's proud, but it's also something else. It's connection, it's understanding. It's…
finally, my daughter makes a decent attempt to understand me.
She hugs me and kisses my cheeks, over and over, caressing my hair, making a spectacle in front of the folks around us.

“Uh…Mami, people are watching.”

She kisses my cheeks ten more times. “
Me importa tres pepinos
.” The three cucumbers again. I can't explain it. It's a Cuban thing.