The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(50)

When she’s gone, I write letters for a few more people, and then I grip the side of my face, complaining of pain in my tooth.

The jailer gives me leave to visit the prison doctor, a man I’ve seen a handful of times since I’ve been in Recogidas.

“What’s bothering you?” he asks when I’m seated in the infirmary.

“My tooth has been aching for some time now.” I try valiantly to summon tears, thinking of all the things that have been weighing on my mind. “I can’t bear it anymore.”

A tear falls down my cheek.

“Open your mouth and let me see what’s wrong.”

I do as he says and let him examine my “hurt tooth.”

He pulls back after a few seconds. “I don’t see anything. It’ll probably feel better in a day or two.”

I grab his arm before he can turn away. “Please, sir. I can’t take the pain anymore. I wish I were stronger, but it keeps me up at night, and I cannot sleep. If I could just have something for the pain, to ease my suffering. Please.”

“I can’t just give you pain medication,” he sputters.

I flutter my eyelashes through the tears, staring up at his craggy face, imploring him to take pity on me.

“Please. I have prayed for relief, and God has not answered my prayers. If you could help me, I would be eternally grateful.”

It’s not normal practice to give medication to the inmates, but I’ve also learned by now that there isn’t much men won’t do for a pretty face. In Recogidas, rules can be bent if you have the right currencies to trade.

“Please.”

If I have to get down on my knees and beg, I will, pride forgotten. I have no shame. Nothing matters in this moment other than the chance of escape.

He sighs. “It pains me to see you suffering so. I will give you some laudanum, but you must be very careful to not let anyone else know that you have it. You must also be cautious when you take it. This is a serious medicine. It can kill someone.”

My eyes widen. “I didn’t realize it was so dangerous. How many drops would it take to kill a person? I wouldn’t want to make a mistake and accidentally do myself harm.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have to worry about that. Your dosage will be nowhere near deadly. It would take twenty drops to be lethal.”

I smile. “Thank you so much. You’ve saved my life, doctor.”



* * *



—

That afternoon, I make the coffee as I regularly do for the rest of the women who share the dormitory space with me.

The laudanum is clutched in my hand.

I glance over my shoulder, making sure no one is watching me.

I drop the laudanum in the coffee, trying to measure out the drops as quickly as possible, counting them to make sure I stay under the doctor’s recommended dose to keep from administering a fatal one.

I’ve grown to like the women here, and as desperate as I am to escape, I can’t bear the thought of harming them.

When it’s done, I turn, fixing a smile on my face, and offer the coffee to the other women.

Now I wait.



* * *



—

That night, I lie as still as I can in my bed, hoping the doctor was right about the laudanum dosage, that it is enough to induce sleep, and not death. It feels as though an eternity passes, my heart beating unnaturally quickly, but after thirty minutes, an hour, the only sound in our dormitory room is of the other women’s rhythmic breathing and soft snoring.

I push back the blanket and rise from the cot, careful to keep my movements quiet, wincing as the bed creaks beneath me. I dress quickly in a dark gown that blends into the night, and move toward the window, waiting for my rescuers to arrive.

The second-story window, invisible from the street, looks out over a flat roof that covers the lower rooms of the building.

The moon seems nearly as bright as the midday sun. A large gas-lighted lamp illuminates the street below.

A sound startles me, and I whirl around, half expecting to see my jailers enter the room, to learn that this was all a ruse to further entrap me, punishment for the Americans’ attention and the notoriety I have attracted.

Instead, I am greeted by the sight of one of my fellow prisoners, Rosa, turning over in her cot. Her breaths have changed, prolonged as though she is about to speak, but she doesn’t.

I turn back to the window, my heart pounding as I wait.

Every few minutes, Rosa tosses and turns in her cot again, and I wonder if she is dreaming about the baby she sometimes pretends she is holding in her arms, if she is as haunted in her dreams as I am.

Each time she moves, a chill slides down my spine.

Suddenly, Rosa sits up and stares straight at me, and my heart nearly stops.

She opens her mouth to speak, the words tumbling out nearly indecipherable.

I walk toward her to ask her to be quiet, but before I can reach her, she lies back down, silent once more.

I turn back to the window, the urge to scream rising within me, panic bearing down on me. It’s been at least two hours now, and I’ve yet to see a sign of my rescuers. I pray to God, count numbers in my mind, anything and everything I can do to distract myself from this situation I have found myself in, from the fear of being caught. And then I see it—rising over the roof of the house next to the prison.