Cubanita (10 page)

It's Stefan's twenty-second birthday. We're heading to the Melting Pot for dinner, then he's off to South Beach. He would invite me along, he says, except I won't be able to get into any clubs. I know Susy never found this to be a problem when she was seventeen. She'd find fake IDs from anyone.

The ride to the restaurant seems long. My hands are sweaty. This is the second time Andrew will be joining us for some family fun. Since the day after the barbecue, Mom hasn't asked again how old he is, and I know it's because she's been so distracted with her own worries. I'm just hoping she won't ask before my birthday, when I can say I'm eighteen and can date whoever I want.

At the restaurant they seat us at a superhuge booth, in part because we're a large group, but also because Stefan's date's butt is so big. Where he picked this one up, I have no idea. All
I know is she's very happy to be meeting the folks. My parents are all over her, asking questions in Spanish, laughing like she'd make the perfect
nuera
. They don't realize Stefan will never get married. And from the way she's got her arm hooked around his, giggling at his every stupid joke, neither does she.

Also joining us are my cousins Michael, Gabriel, and Lucas. All over twenty-one. All will be getting sloshed with Stefan tonight. These are my
tía
Clarita's kids, from my dad's side of the family. We don't know many people from my mom's side. Both of her parents died in Cuba. She came to Miami with
Tío
Raul when she was nineteen, and he died a few years ago. At least that's what I've always heard.

I'm telling Andrew all of this when the waitress comes up, introduces herself as Maria, and tells us the specials. Suddenly it occurs to me that I have about ten seconds to tell Andrew something before she starts taking drink orders.

I lean over and whisper, “Don't order a beer tonight.”

For a moment he's in a trance. He whispers back, “Why?”

“Just don't. I haven't told my parents yet how old you are.”

He looks at me. “Wouldn't they know anyway? I don't look seventeen, do I?”

I raise my eyebrows and lean into him. “Definitely not.”

Under the table, he squeezes my thigh.

As the waitress jots down the orders, I notice her long, shiny, black hair, pulled into a sleek ponytail. Her eyebrows are perfectly shaped over bright green eyes, and her full lips have a deep color of their own. She's also got a nice body, and
that's with only boring black pants, a white shirt, and an apron on. Normally I don't get jealous, but all the guys are noticing her, including Andrew.

Stefan's date, who I'll call Booty, since I still don't know her name, is looking around at all the faces, just like I am, so in a matter of seconds, she sees me looking at her. She raises her eyebrows, shaking her head, like
Can you believe these guys?

I give her an empathetic look. “Ahem,” I say to Andrew. It's his turn to order something.

“I'll just have water,” he says with a smile.

Maria nods and smiles back. Maybe I should be proud that other girls check out my boyfriend. Maybe I should gloat that he's mine, all mine. But I'm not. I can't help but hate Maria the Waitress, even though she's done absolutely nothing wrong.

“
An-drroo
?” It's my mom, actually speaking to my date. What could have possibly possessed her? I mean, with Stefan and Booty sitting next to her, what would she want with Andrew?

“Yes, Mrs. Díaz?” He's so cute. And formal. And polite. I love him.

Huh? No, I didn't mean I love him like that, I meant, as in, he's so sweet. It's a wonderful thing that people can't read minds, and another blessed thing that Robi's not here at my mother's invitation.

“You should try the fondue with the seafood since you like fish so
mush
,” Mami says.

Wow! That was pretty good English, as well as a thoughtful thing for her to suggest. “Yeah, Andrew, let's split that one. The platters are for two,” I say.

“Actually, I don't eat seafood,” he says. Mami nods and goes back to reading the menu. I guess she must not have heard him.

“But you go fishing with Iggy and his dad. And you don't like seafood?”

“Nope. I like fishing. I don't like eating fish.”

“You're kidding.”

He shakes his head.

“Man, you are one weird guy.”

“Why?”

“Because! You live in Florida, and you don't like seafood. That's like a vegetarian living in Texas.”

“Then I guess I'm weird. That would make you even weirder for going out with me.”

 

The evening is pleasant, except for Maria the Waitress, who stops the chatter at our table whenever she comes by to refill our glasses. It's unfair that anyone can be so beautiful without trying. It's unfair that Booty and I are left drumming our fingers in her shadow. But not Mami. She looks great tonight, glowing over there, in a category all her own.
Miami Herald
headline reads:
WOMAN WITH CANCER SHINES
.

Stefan sees me noticing Mom and smiles at me all big-brotherly. I guess this whole cancer thing has taken off his edge. Good, he needed it.

Right after finishing the last stuffed mushroom, Andrew excuses himself to use the restroom. Too many water refills. Booty maneuvers her way out of the booth and over to Andrew's spot next to me.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.” Friendly girl. I can't for the life of me remember her name from when Stefan introduced us. I don't suppose she'd appreciate Booty.

“You know, I know your boyfriend from somewhere.”

“Oh yeah?” Boyfriend. Cool.

“Yeah, I can't remember from where, though. Your brother says he goes to UM, so it can't be school. I go to FIU.
No sé
.”

“Maybe you know his friend Iggy?”

“Wait a minute! No, you know from where? He goes to my gym.”

Gym? He never mentioned belonging to a gym, although I suppose he must, right? You can't get that lean by standing in the PE field all day. “Really?”

“Yes, that's definitely him. I didn't think he had a girlfriend.”

“Well, we've only been going out for about a month.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, becoming real quiet. Maybe she's had her eye on him too. It's hard to miss Andrew. I remember how taken I was with him the first day, even when I thought I wouldn't like him. His presence is hard to ignore.

I watch Mami scoot past Dad with her purse in hand, excusing herself from the table. She looks at me for a
moment and grins, probably pleased that Isa and Stefan's fiancée-to-be are getting along so well.

“You have highlights, right?” Stefan's date asks, squinting at my head. “They're hard to see in here.”

I have no idea what she's talking about. I don't have highlights. Why would she think that? Maybe she's a hair colorist. “Probably from the sun,” I say. “I've been in the pool a lot lately.”

Andrew returns and stands next to us, waiting for his seat back. Stefan's girl takes the hint and gets up. “All right, I'll see you later. You're going, right? With us to the beach?” She quickly scans Andrew's physique.

“No, sorry. I can't get in yet.”

“I can talk to my brother if you want. He can get you a good ID.”

Isn't this lovely. “Thanks, but I'll just wait two more weeks till my birthday. Nice to meet you.” Booty. Booty girl. Highlight-seeking girlfriend-wanna-be.

“Same here, Isa.” She ambles off to the restroom. Everyone's going to the restroom.

“I've seen her somewhere,” Andrew says, settling back in.

“She's seen you, too. You go to a gym?”

“Girelli's? Yeah, why?”

“Nothing. I just didn't know.” I guess there's no reason for him to have ever brought it up. That's like bringing up in conversation that you go grocery shopping once a week. Duh.

“I go every day after work. You're right, that's where I've seen her.”

Maria the Waitress returns with trays of dessert bites for dunking in chocolate fondue, one of which has a lit candle on it. She places it in front of my brother, and we all sing “Happy Birthday.” Then, she lays a tray between Andrew and me and sets our chocolate to warm. Mmm. Too bad my parents are here, or else I'd be ditching these little spears and feeding Andrew chocolate-coated strawberries straight out of my hand.

As my dad finishes paying the bill, I walk out slowly, envisioning the food coma I'll be in later tonight when my head hits the pillow. Andrew stays a few steps behind me to talk to Booty. What
is
her name?

Mami comes up alongside, putting her arm around me. “
Hola, hija
.”

“Mami.” I kiss her cheek.

“
¿Isa, dime por fín, cuántos años tiene ese muchacho?
”

So how old is that boy, she asks. Damn, what do I tell her? I can't lie.

Almost like she knows, she implores without waiting for my response, “
Mi vida, ten cuidado. Por favor, no te enredes
.”

“Shhh, Mami, remember he understands Spanish,” I whisper. “Why are you asking me again not to get involved? I am being careful.”
I haven't slept with him yet, have I?

“Isa—”

“Before you say anything, remember that I'm not leaving anymore. I can stay with him if I like him.”

“
Mi vida
, he's too old for you.”

“What?” I look back to see how far behind Andrew is. He's
out of hearing range. “How do you know how old he is?”

She raises an eyebrow. I guess I should know better than to think my mom is stupid or blind.

“Mom, he's just a few years older. It's not like he's married with children or anything.” Actually, I'm surprised she's not being more forceful with this issue. Maybe she's realizing she'll push me away, like she did with Carmen, so she's taking it easier on me.

“Te pido que por favor lo pienses, hija.”

“There's nothing to think about. Besides, I'll be eighteen
ya pronto
.”

“
Me parece que estoy oyendo a Carmencita
.”

“I'm not Carmen. I'm staying here with you, aren't I? Can't I at least date someone I really like in exchange?” Yes! Good move, Isa. Rationalization at its best.

She thinks about this, but I can tell she's holding back with the guy in question a mere ten feet behind. “
Hablamos despues
,” she says.

But for some reason, I can't hang this up and talk about it later. “What do you have against Andrew? Is it because of Robi? Do you want me to go back with him, is that it? Because I won't.”

“Shhh,
baja la voz. Isa, ese niño
.” She pauses, voice filling with irritation. “
No tiene interés en tí
.”

“Oh, all right, Mom, Andrew's not interested in me. So then why is he here tonight, and why have we been seeing each other for nearly a month, if he's so
not
interested in me?”

“
¡Ay, Isa, por Dios!
T
rrr
ust me.
¡En vez de oir a tu mamá,
siempre tienes que ser tan cabezona!
”

I'm hardheaded? Jeez. And I shouldn't even say anything back to her. It's not worth it in her condition. Very calmly, I say, “Okay, so now I'm stubborn? Because I don't see anything wrong with Andrew, except maybe that he's a few years older than you'd like him to be? Explain that, when Papi's ten years older than you.”

Ha! Got her again.

She scoffs, because apparently I'm still not getting it. “Isa, when I went to the restroom,
lo ví hablando con la camarera
.”

It must be the blank look I'm giving Mami, because she opens her eyes wide and nods her head, as if saying,
See? You should listen to me; I'm your mother.

I pull my earlobe. “So what? I saw him talking to the waitress, too. That doesn't mean he's up to no good. Please, Mom.”

“
Está bien, hija
. Fine.”

She's lost it. Yes, I guess there's always the possibility that he was flirting with the waitress, but I seriously doubt it. She probably started talking to him, and that's what Mami saw. Whatever. She can interpret it however she wants. “I'll ask him and see what he says.
¿Está bien?
”

This satisfies her for the moment, and I know how long Mami can argue a moot point. But then, “
Ese niño es una mosquita muerta
,” she says right before my father catches up with us, putting his arm around Mami's shoulders.

I wait by the door outside, as my parents walk to their car. I feel so damn torn. Mami may be crazy, but she's also usually
right about people. Then again, she's not herself lately, so I don't know that I can trust her judgment.

Andrew meets up with me, pulling a toothpick out of his mouth long enough to kiss my cheek and say, “You look absolutely gorgeous tonight.”

I smile. But quietly I think about him flirting with the waitress and soon I'm obsessing about the last thing my mom said—
That boy is playing you.

For the rest of the weekend, Maria the Waitress wasn't mentioned again. But now it's Sunday evening, and the whole thing is still bothering me, so I call Andrew before he leaves for a softball game. I put the bracelet he gave me in my drawer.

“Hey, babe, what's up? I gotta get outta here or I'll be late.”

“I'll be quick. Andrew, the other night at the restaurant, did you know our waitress or something?”

“Did I know her? Like personally? No, why?”

“Because my mom saw you talking to her when she went to use the restroom, so I was just wondering if maybe you knew her.”

He laughs for a second. “No. I only stopped to ask if she'd bring out dessert with a candle for your brother.”

“Oh.” And how did Mami see this as flirting?

There's a long pause while Andrew waits for any other
dumb questions bred from dumb ideas. “Isa? Don't do that, sweetie.”

“Do what?”

“Get sensitive about things. You know I'm crazy about you.”

I let this sink in. Coach Andrew, the hottie with the mysterious look and beautiful smile, not to mention the billboard body, is crazy about me. I mean, I know I'm pretty, but I'm no Maria the Waitress. “Me too,” I say.

“I'll call you after the game if you'll be up.”

“Don't bother. I'm helping my mom around the house, then going straight to sleep.”

“All right, then. Isa?”

“Yes?”

He blows me a kiss over the phone. “You're awesome, sweetheart.”

That boy is playing you.
Mami's words rush in to taunt me, but I push them aside. She's crazy. This is an established family fact. “So are you. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

I hang up and take the bracelet out of the drawer.

 

Later, I hear the vacuum cleaner running at the other end of the house. I go to tell Mami that I'll take care of it, but when I get there…lo and behold, I almost don't recognize him. Stefan, doing woman's work. My first instinct is to run and get the camera, but instead I decide to lean against the wall and bust his chops.

“What in God's name are you doing?”

He runs the cleaner back and forth over the same area of the living room, neglecting the corners and edges. “What does it look like? Mami needs the help.”

“You dork. Mami has always needed the help.”

“At least I'm doing something.”

“Yes, and you look great with a Hoover. It matches your outfit.” I spin and head toward my parents' room.

“Oh, you're
so
hilarious!” he shouts over the motor.

 

My mother is in bed, looking at an old photo album. I'm talking old. These photos are black and white, not from using Photoshop to get them that way, but because there wasn't color film when they were taken. They're pictures of family from Cuba, an album I've seen a couple of times. Most of them are Dad's. A couple are my mom's. They were smuggled in with family members who came after him.

“
¿Qué haces, Mami?
”

“
Aquí, mirando estas fotos
. Have you ever seen them?”

“Yes, a long time ago.”

She flips to a page somewhere in the middle and pulls out a loose photo. “You've seen this one?” She hands it to me.

It's of a man and woman, arms around each other. Their clothes are from the fifties, sixties maybe. They stand on the wooden stoop of a beautiful white house with palm trees on either side. “Yeah, but it's been a while.” I sit next to her.

She smiles sadly, caressing the photo with the tip of her finger. “
Son Mami y Papi
. One of the only pictures I have.”

“I know.” My grandparents. I loved this picture when I
was little. My grandmother's eyes are bright, squinting in the sun. Her smile is exactly the same as mine and my mother's, though she wore a darker lip color than either of us would ever use. My grandfather was tall, and stood perfectly straight in a white suit, cigar at his mouth, proud of his beautiful wife and home. “
Qué elegantes
. I wish I could've known them.”

“Believe me,
hija
, so do I. You would have loved them. They would have loved you, too.”

“I know you've said they couldn't leave Cuba because of the situation there, but how did they die? You never talk about it.”

“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 show
ing, 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 after
ward. 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.