The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba(80)

“It’s yellow fever, isn’t it?”

I haven’t missed how her skin has yellowed over the past few days, and we’ve certainly seen enough of it in the camps to recognize the symptoms ourselves. There’s no point in worrying if I’ll catch it; it’s everywhere, unavoidable in these conditions.

She nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you—” The words stick in my throat.

For so long, Luz has been like a mother to me. I can’t imagine the world without her in it. How will I tell Isabella her grandmother is gone? Or tell Mateo he has lost his mother? How will I carry on without her? How much do we have to lose in this war?

“Do you think she’ll survive?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We’re doing everything we can right now to keep her comfortable, but her immune system was already compromised. She’s malnourished, and—”

Tears fill my eyes, a wave of guilt hitting me. I should have worked more, tried harder to get us food. I should have gotten us out of the camps, shouldn’t have brought us here to begin with. I should have tried to convince my family to take her in alongside Isabella, I should have—

The nurse lays her hand on my arm. “There is nothing you could have done. Yellow fever has ravaged these camps. If it wasn’t that, it would have been something else. In all my years of caring for others, I’ve never seen anything like this place. No one should live like this. No one should have to.”



* * *



—

I spend the evening by Luz’s side, holding her hand as she drifts in and out of consciousness. It’s clear that the disease is ravaging her body now, just as it is obvious that she isn’t going to get better, and despite my fear and grief, I pray she will find a respite from this suffering.

I speak to her the entire time, telling her stories about Mateo, remembering the day Isabella was born, happier memories on our little farm in the country, when the world was an easier place. I have no idea how much she hears or is even aware of, but every so often she’ll squeeze my hand, or I think I see a hint of a smile on her lips before it fades away again.

The nurses are kind to her, stopping by to check on her and wipe her brow, and they seem like angels in their uniforms, ministering to us in our darkest hour. I try to thank them for the extraordinary gift they have given us, leaving their homes to come here and lend us aid, at the risk of catching disease in a place that feels like if you lit a match the whole thing would simply explode.

The more suffering I see, the angrier I become. Blanco’s attempts at reconciliation are for naught. The Spanish have already done their damage to us and to our island. They can’t just expect us to say all will be forgiven because they’ve tossed some crumbs our way. We’ve come too far and lost too much to settle for anything other than unfettered independence.

As the sun rises in the morning, Luz begins to fade.

Death has become such an ordinary occurrence around us that there’s little shock when it happens, but right now, it feels all-consuming.

I wish she’d had a chance to see Mateo again. He should be here beside her, too.

She shouldn’t die like this.

There’s no peace around us, the normal noise of the camp intruding on her final moments, the cries of others suffering, the sounds of the nurses rustling around, trying to ease their pain.

And then she’s gone, the finality of her death hitting me like a lead ball.

I lean over her body, closing her eyes, tears falling down my cheeks.

There will be no funeral, no chance for her family and friends to wish her a final good-bye. Her body will be gathered with those of the other dead and burned, the final indignity for all who have perished in this wretched place.

After they take her away, I gather my things, the little money I’ve made doing laundry and errands for others, and stagger from the camp. I’ve worried her death was coming for days now, but I am unprepared for the grief that takes hold of me and doesn’t let me go.

I walk down the streets, one goal in mind.



* * *



—

I’m exhausted by the time I make it to my family home, but I traverse the familiar path, stopping just out of view of the house, peering through one of the small holes in the stone wall that my brother and I used when we were children to watch people passing by on the street.

My heart pounds as I peek in the backyard.

I hear her before I see her, the sound of Isabella’s laughter a familiar one that’s been largely absent for many months now.

For a moment, I close my eyes and listen to it, reveling in how alive she sounds—

I open my eyes and peek through the hole.

It takes a minute before she dashes into view, chasing another girl I don’t recognize, her lacy white gown flowing around her. Her skin has lost its pallor, her body fuller and healthier. I remember the rich meals we dined on throughout my childhood that I took for granted. She looks like she is well cared for.

I want nothing more than to go around to the front door, to walk through the grand house and out into the backyard, and to take my daughter into my arms and hug her and kiss her, and hold her close. For a moment, I imagine going inside the house and begging my family to take me in, too. I can almost taste the rich food on my tongue, can feel the warm water of a bath the likes of which I haven’t had in over a year. But if I give up now, then what was this all for? So many deaths were in vain if we don’t see this through to the only conclusion that is acceptable—a free Cuba.