The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(71)
We catch a ride in a horse-drawn cart for most of the journey, and at the end of the block walk together to the big house, Isabella’s hand clutched tightly in mine.
I haven’t told her what we’re doing, but she’s a smart girl, and she must realize something is different about today. No doubt she registered the manner in which Luz hugged her a bit more tightly this morning, her fingers trembling as she caressed Isabella’s cheek. All that has been forgotten, though, as Isabella gawks at her surroundings, the grand Perez mansion that is nothing like the simple houses near us in the country. It’s easy to forget that she has not grown up as I have.
“They’re just houses,” I whisper. “It’s all right.”
“Who do you know who lives here? Who are we going to see?” Isabella asks me.
There’s no privacy to be had in the camp, and I didn’t dare speak of this to Isabella back there when all manner of people might be listening. For as quickly as she’s had to grow up, she’s still a child, and I’ve been loath to put the burden of subterfuge on her.
“We’re going to see your grandmother,” I whisper back. “Your other grandmother. My mother.”
Isabella’s eyes widen.
I’ve told her a bit about my background, but I suppose it’s a different thing seeing the splendor for yourself.
We stop outside the enormous mansion, and I crouch so we are eye level.
“You have been so brave, Isabella. I wish you didn’t have to face the things that you have, wish your father was with us, but I can’t change the circumstances we live in. The camp is full of disease and death. I didn’t think we had a choice when we came here, but I never imagined the conditions would be as bad as they are. So I want you to stay with my family for a while until everything gets better.”
“No. I want to be with you. We’re a family. We should stay together.”
There’s something about the stubborn tilt of her head that reminds me so much of me. When did that happen? It’s as though somewhere along the way she went from a child to a young girl.
“I know.” I struggle to keep my voice steady, to hold the tears at bay, to be strong for my child. “I want nothing more, either. But it’s not safe in the camp. And you haven’t been feeling well for a while. Your cough is getting worse. They’ll take care of you.”
I don’t tell her my deepest fear—
You could die.
Tears fill her beautiful brown eyes, fear swimming there. I have asked her to endure so much, and now I worry I am breaking her heart by sending her away.
“Mami.”
The sound of my name falling from her lips calls to something deep inside me, a yearning to take the pain threaded through her voice and bear it for her so she doesn’t need to suffer.
I would give anything to take her hurt away.
I fight back the tears threatening to spill over my cheeks, summoning whatever strength I have left to make the unendurable somewhat easier for her. “I’ll come see you when I can. We can write each other letters. It won’t be long, I promise.”
I reach out and wrap my arms around her, clasping her tight against me, smelling her scent, holding on to her for one last time.
In that scent, in her embrace, I am transported back in time to so many memories: the first time I felt her kick in my stomach, the movement catching me wholly off guard and filling me with an unspeakable joy; the first time I held her in my arms after she was born when I looked at her face and knew my heart was irrevocably hers; watching her first steps; drying her tears; the times when we were a family filled with laughter and happiness; these last few days when I have prayed and begged and watched over each sleep-filled breath and cough, willing to make any sacrifice, any concession to keep my daughter alive.
“I need you to be brave for me, Isabella. Just for a little bit longer. Things will be better soon. Do you remember what I told you that day by the Harbor when you asked about your father? If you feel afraid or if you miss us, I want you to pick a good memory and I want you to hold on to that.”
She nods, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, too.”
“Did I ever tell you where your name comes from?” I ask her.
Isabella shakes her head, a cough rattling in her chest.
“In my parents’ house, there’s a painting of one of your ancestors. Her name was Isabella like you. When she was not that much older than you, she was shipped from a convent in Spain to come to Cuba and marry a man who was a stranger at the time. She arrived here alone, cut off from her family, her homeland, and she set out to make a new life for herself. She was brave, and she was strong, and she fought for what she believed in. She and her husband built the house my parents live in. They had children and lived happily together for many years. I always admired her story—her strength and courage. I named you after her. No matter what happens, never forget that her blood runs through your veins. Never forget that you are strong, and that you can face anything that comes your way. Whenever you doubt yourself, whenever you are alone, remember who you are.”
When Isabella was born and I held her in my arms the first time, staring down at her little face, at the miracle Mateo and I made, I couldn’t imagine ever being parted from her. I swore I wouldn’t make the same mistakes my parents had made, that I would love her and protect her no matter what. And even as I know this is the right thing to do, the best thing for her, it is impossible to not feel as though I am responsible for her tears.