Flight to Freedom (12 page)

In Havana there is a road that winds all through the city along the seawall. It's called El Malecón, and sometimes when you sit on the wall, you get sprayed by the ocean. It is the best feeling in the world. A lot of couples go there just to watch the blue sea stretch out until you can't see it anymore. It's a very romantic spot, especially at night, and I know that Alina's father proposed to her mother there under a full moon. We used to go almost every winter Saturday to sit, and Papi would make up stories about the ships and boats we saw out on the horizon.

Miami does not have a Malecón, Tío Pablo said, so instead we went to El Parque de las Palomas. The Cubans call it Pigeon Park because of all the pigeons, but its real name is Bayfront Park. We brought old bread in a paper bag, and it seemed the pigeons knew this because they quickly flocked to us. Amazing how tame they are, coming right up to our hands. There was one pigeon that looked sick. It was puffed up, and its eyes had yucky stuff oozing from them. The other pigeons were very cruel to it and would flap their wings in the sick one's face and steal crumbs from it. Efraín said that's just how animals are. The stronger
ones get the best food, best mates, and best shelter. The group cannot be slowed down by a weak or sick member. Well, I thought that was just plain mean, and I made it a point to feed the sick pigeon. It was afraid to come close to me like the others, so I had to drop crumbs and then wave the stronger birds away.

After we fed the pigeons, we walked around the park's flower gardens and looked across Biscayne Bay through coin telescopes. We saw one fancy yacht, a big one, with several women sitting on deck in very skimpy bathing suits. Efraín whistled at them, but Abuela María gasped and shook her head. She said it was an act of immorality for women to go to the beach almost naked. Then she looked our way and wagged her finger at us in warning. Abuela has nothing to worry about. Can you imagine Papi ever allowing us out of the house in nothing but a bra and panties? Never!

Alina has been absent from school three days. I called her several times this afternoon, but no one answered. I am worried.

Still no Alina. I asked our homeroom teacher if she knew why Alina was out, but she said the office had not received a call to excuse her absences. Jane said maybe she moved, but that can't be right. She would have told us.

I asked Mami to drive by Alina's apartment building. We knocked on her apartment door several times, but nobody answered. All the lights were off, too. I have a bad feeling about this.

I won my first game of Cuban trivia tonight. The question no one knew, but I did—or at least I was the fastest in answering—was: Where and when did Independence hero José Martí die? (Dos Rios, May 1895.) Papi took me to Dairy Queen, and I ordered a vanilla cone dipped in hard chocolate. Hooray for me!

Alina was in school today. She looked awful, like she had been left in one of those big dryers at the
Laundromat too long. She said her mother is in the hospital for a nervous breakdown. I asked her if that meant the loony bin, and she burst out crying. I felt horrible I had said that. She calmed down after she went to the bathroom and washed her face, but all during homeroom I could hear sniffling. Then at lunch, she wouldn't talk about it. I don't even know if she and her brother are still living with the grandparents. What will happen to them? Will they be sent back to Cuba? Will their father come to take care of them?

I told Mami about Alina, and she said that the best thing I can do is to give her an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on. Maybe then she will tell me how we can help her. Poor Alina! Just when she was getting used to all the changes in the new country, this happens. I will say a prayer for her tonight.

Alina looked a little better today. She said her grandparents are very old, but they take good care of her. Her grandfather works rolling cigars at a little shop on Southwest Eighth Street. Her grandmother takes care of two children after school, but they do not have
enough money to pay all the bills. Alina wants to get a job to help out. She knows of a little cafeteria near school owned by a friend of her grandfather's. The owner is willing to pay her to wash dishes and clean counters and help his wife do whatever is needed. I think Alina is too young. I know Papi would never allow me to work, and Jane says the government in this country does not allow workers our age. We would be considered child labor.

No matter how much we argued, though, Alina didn't budge. She seems intent on working at that cafeteria no matter what and insists she has no choice. Her mother is sick, her grandparents are too old, and her brother is too young. She is the only one strong enough to do something about the family's situation. Besides, she says, the job will be easy compared to laboring in the fields in Cuba. The cafeteria even has air-conditioning.

Today I brought home another perfect exam in mathematics, so I decided I should ask my parents—again but more forcefully—about going on the car
trip with Jane and her grandparents. But I hadn't even got the last word out, when Papi said, “I already told you. No! Absolutely not!”

Papi has had a car accident. We are now in a waiting room at his hospital, Jackson Memorial, hoping to hear news. Good news please, dear Virgencita de la Caridad, good news. Mami and Abuela María are with him in the emergency room. A few minutes ago Tío Pablo came to tell us that Papi is scheduled for X rays. He is all right, Tío Pablo insisted, but hurting all over. After the X rays Papi has to undergo other tests. I don't know if all those tests are good or bad, but it must mean that the accident was not just a fender bender. It must be something serious.

I have a very bad headache from holding in the tears.

We are home now, but with no news about Papi. Mami sent us back because it was getting too late. I
cannot possibly go to sleep. I keep hearing noises through the windows, and it is so hot, even with the fan on full blast. I wish we had air-conditioning in the bedrooms like Jane has.

Ileana is screaming at me to turn off the lights. I thought she believed in love and peace and all that stuff. What a hypocrite!

I still cannot sleep. I am so worried about Papi. Virgencita del Cobre, please watch over my dear Papi. He is a good man, and he takes good care of us, and he always tries to do the right thing. He needs you now, Virgencita.

If only the phone would ring with news. Any news. The silence is what makes me so nervous. It is not really silence if you listen closely, because the house creaks and groans, and the refrigerator hums. But if you forget about those noises, there is a quietness that vibrates. Only the swoosh of my pen can be heard.

It is almost 8 A.M., and I must hurry before I run out to the bus stop. Papi has a broken left arm and cuts on his face from the broken windshield. He must stay in the hospital until tomorrow because doctors are watching a bump on his head. It must be a big bump for them to be so careful about it.

Mami already left for the hospital with Tío Pablo, but she woke us up early to let us know that we should not worry about Papi. I couldn't help it, but I burst into tears when she delivered the news. Mami immediately came over and hugged me.

Later Abuela María told us how the accident happened. The other car did not halt at a STOP sign and it hit Papi's car on the driver's side as it was going through the intersection. The other driver is only nineteen years old, and he was going too fast and got hurt very badly.

We expected Papi to be home from the hospital, but now he has an infection. I'm not sure what it is, but doctors have to give him antibiotics. If he is not home
by Tuesday, Mami promised she would sneak us into his room.

Papi is home! He looks like he's been in a boxing match. He has two black eyes, and his nose is red and crooked. He said his face hit the steering wheel so hard he can't believe he didn't lose any teeth. His left arm is in a cast, and the heat makes the cast itch. We all got to sign our names on it. I wrote, “I love you, Papi,” and drew a big heart.

Ileana's boss sent Papi a basket of fruit with a card that said, “Get Well Soon, Mr. and Mrs. F.” We thought it was funny that Mr. F. didn't sign his full name, but Papi was very flattered that someone he doesn't know would be so thoughtful. Ileana must be a good worker if the bosses send her father a get-well gift.

Though the accident was horrible, some good has come from it. Mami and Papi are getting along better, and she has convinced him that he should not return to the weekend militia training. I don't know how long that will last, but for now it makes her happy.

Since everybody was in such a good mood, I
brought up the car trip again. As expected, both my parents immediately said no. But—and this is a good, favorable
but
—they listened to me while I explained why I should be allowed to go.

Alina loves her job. She says she feels very grown-up and is learning to cook, too. She is allowed to eat whatever she wants as long as the customers don't see her. She goes every day after school and stays past dinnertime, when the cafeteria closes up. She worked last Saturday morning and hopes to do so again this weekend. I don't know when she will have time to do homework. We have to turn in a project on the American Revolutionary War by the end of the week, and she hasn't even started. I asked her if her mother was getting better, and she shrugged. I was too embarrassed to ask more.

When we were exercise-walking with Abuelo this afternoon, I told him about Alina. He said that many children her age must work to help their parents make ends meet. This does not happen often in the United States, but it does in other countries. We
should appreciate the opportunity to live here, he said, and never embarrass our people by doing something foolish. I asked him if he missed Cuba, and he smiled and nodded. Then tears began to roll down his cheeks. One hung on to his chin forever, until he finally wiped it away.

“My dear hearts,” he told us, “I think I will die before I see my homeland again.”

That is the saddest statement I have ever heard anybody say, and I wish I had tried to convince my grandfather otherwise. But I didn't say anything. I just stood there, frozen, with my eyes wide and my mouth open, staring at Abuelo's tears, then at Ana Mari. She didn't know what to say, either.

Ana Mari had the final fitting for her First Communion dress. She looks like an angel in white, with the ruffled skirt and the puff sleeves. My mother has also made her a lovely veil. Abuela María bought her white gloves, and Tía Carmen gave her the most beautiful rosary. The beads are made of glass, and when you
hold it up to the light, you can see all kinds of rainbows reflected.

For Mother's Day, we each wore a red carnation on our dress in honor of our mother. That's an old Cuban custom. If your mother is dead, as is Abuela María's and Tía Carmen's, you wear a white carnation. Red flowers are for mothers who are alive. We gave Mami a perfume Papi picked out. It is a very expensive perfume she used to wear at home, so the bottle was no bigger than my thumb. The perfume is called Chanel, and it was very popular in Cuba. When she dabbed it on, though, she began to cry. I thought she was upset we had spent so much money on the gift, but later I found out that's not why she was crying. She was sad because Pepito could not be with us to celebrate the day.

“We are not complete when we are living apart,” she sobbed.

There is something I have noticed about my family. Or maybe it's not just my family, but all families
living in exile. It seems we can never be completely happy. Even when something good happens, something that we can laugh at or celebrate, there is still a sadness buried under our skin, flowing through our veins, because we are not living where we want to be and because we are separated from those we love.

The teachers have assigned so much homework this week that I have not had a moment to myself—or for you. But I could not go to bed without writing the good news: My parents have agreed to talk to Jane's grandparents about the trip. They made it clear that this does not mean I will be allowed to go, but it is still a good sign. I don't want to get my hopes up, though. I know that for them to even consider talking about it is a big victory for me. I've also talked to my grandparents and to Tía Carmen about the trip, telling them how much I would learn by going to see such historic sites as Cape Canaveral and Saint Augustine. Having the rest of the family on my side can only help.

More good news: Alina's mother is home, and
Alina is very happy. She refuses to stop working, though, because she says her family needs the money. I also found out that she lied to the couple that owns the cafeteria. She told them she was sixteen, and she is only fourteen.

Ana Mari's First Communion mass was beautiful, and she knew exactly when to bow her head and when to genuflect and when to stick out her tongue for the Host. She is amazing, Mami said, because no one had any time to practice with her or to check to make sure she knew what she was doing. She also knows her prayers in both languages. I can only recite them in Spanish. (She did not wear the Palm Sunday frond crown on her head as she originally said she would. Thank goodness. She did wear the beautiful gloves and held the glass-bead rosary.)