When We Left Cuba(24)
“Why would you move?”
Miami isn’t far, but I’ve grown used to living near one another. I always envisioned us living close together, our homes within walking distance so we could stop by for afternoon chats with ease.
“It’s less expensive, and Juan heard about a good property from a friend of his. It would mean a bigger house, more space for Miguel. And it would be closer to Juan’s work.”
My little sister is a wife now, a mother, with considerations other than the family she was born into. It’s the natural order of things, of course, and still—
I try to smile. “We’ll miss you.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’ll miss you, too. It’s not far, though. Really.”
“It feels far.” It’s not merely the distance; she’s building a life here, putting down roots that will tie her to America forever. I’m happy for her, but at the same time, she’s moving on, and despite the age difference between us, I feel like she’s surpassed me in life somehow.
“How are you?” Elisa asks, a knowing look in her eyes.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm-hmm. The truth now. Not what you tell everyone else. How are you? Really?”
I sigh. “Miserable, mostly.”
The wind kicks up sand near Miguel, and he wails, his nanny scooping him up in her arms. Elisa frowns before turning her attention back to me, even as I can tell a part of her is focused on her son.
I’m always a little amazed at how much she dotes on the baby, how naturally she seems to have adjusted to this change in circumstances, especially considering how quickly she went from wife to mother. It’s even more impressive when you consider our own maternal example. Our nanny, Magda, was the one who soothed our cut knees, who wiped our tears away. Our mother was somewhere in the background of our childhood, swooping into the room in a beautiful gown, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air after she’d moved on to her evening entertainment.
“You’re not happy here, are you?” Elisa asks.
“No, I’m not.”
“Do you think you ever will be?”
“In Palm Beach? Permanently? How could I be? I didn’t choose this. I didn’t want this. It isn’t home. This was just supposed to be temporary, remember? Father said it would take time for everything to sort itself out. Months, maybe. But now it feels like everyone has forgotten. You have a family now. Our parents are so focused on accumulating more money, building the company, our family name, but what about the things we can’t buy back? I miss Magda. I miss my friends who are still in Havana, miss the old house.” I push past the tears clogging my throat. “I want to visit Alejandro’s grave. I want my life back. I want to go home.”
“It’s not the home you remember anymore.” Elisa’s tone is gentle, similar to one I’ve heard her adopt with the baby. There’s acceptance in her voice, as though she has reached a conclusion I am unable to face.
“I know. And that makes me angry, too. It feels like Fidel has won.”
“Not everything has to be a battle, Beatriz. You could just be happy.”
“You say it like happiness is the easiest thing in the world.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. Just that it shouldn’t be so easily discounted. There’s nothing wrong with being happy. Alejandro wouldn’t want you to suffer like this. Wouldn’t want you to punish yourself on his behalf.”
Is that what she thinks I’m doing? Playing the martyr because my brother was murdered? It was Elisa who found me first the day I discovered Alejandro’s dead body; she should understand my motives more than anyone.
“Do you remember that day? Do you remember what I said to you?” I ask.
“I do.”
“Fidel has to pay for what he did. Where is the justice? I can’t live in a world where Fidel reigns over Cuba after all the Cubans he murdered.”
“Beatriz,” Elisa hisses, her gaze darting around the beach before her eyes widen, and it seems to occur to her that we aren’t in Havana anymore, that every word need not be censored for fear of retribution.
For all that I complain about our presence here, I’ve grown used to the freedom to speak my mind.
“How are you not angry anymore? How have you forgotten?”
“I have not forgotten,” Elisa replies. “I will never forget. I can’t forget. But I don’t have the luxury of languishing in my grief or allowing my anger to consume me. I have a son now. He needs me. This revolution has already stolen enough from him.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. I know how you feel, how you’ve always felt about Cuba. But I worry about you. You can’t stop living just because we aren’t home. Who knows how long we will be gone? We can hope for the best, pray one day we will return, but for the moment, that’s all we can do.
“I know it’s hard when our parents don’t want you to go to school. It must be difficult to fill your days, but this isn’t the way to do it. Hating Fidel is not a way to live.”
“Then what would you have me do? I’m not like you. I don’t know that I want to marry and have children. I’ve spent my entire life being told I’m only good at one thing: my role is to be beautiful and charming, but not to have a thought in my head—or heaven forbid, express a controversial opinion—and I’m tired of it. I don’t want to end up married to some man who will want more of the same. I know you’re happy with your life, but the thought of domestic bliss doesn’t bring me peace. It terrifies me.”