Cubanita (8 page)

Where's my fine brush? Oh, there it is. I'm dying to finish this painting already, so I can start a new one when I get to Michigan. The scenery will be different, so it wouldn't make any sense to finish this sandy landscape up there. The whole vibe will be different, like between my mom and me and the whole Sedano's discussion yesterday. You'd think, as the baby in the family, that I'd get along better with her, but we've always lived in different worlds.

Like I remember when I was little…I used to
love
lighting a candle on stormy nights and walking around the house in my long nightgown, pretending to be an actress in some old movie, a visitor at a mad scientist's castle. Every now and then, I'd stop and strike a pose for the imaginary camera before wandering on. My final destination was always the bookcase in our den, the scientist's secret library. Then I'd hear eerie
violin music coming from somewhere within the walls. And just as I'd be about to pull the book on human anatomy (which was really a switch to a secret passageway), Mami would suddenly fling open the door, flick on the light, and demand, “
¿Isabelita, que estás haciendo?
”

“Nothing,” I'd say, and just like that, I was jolted back into reality, into her world.

It's sort of the same thing with my family. Am I Cuban or American? Where do I belong? I was born here, but if I say I'm American, it'll draw
no, mi vida
looks from my folks. If I say I'm Cuban, that wouldn't make any sense either, since the closest I've come to seeing the island was with binoculars on a cruise ship one summer. But I have to know and be comfortable with it before I go to Michigan. Because here, I feel the most
gringa
of all my family, but there, I'll be the Latina girl with an accent I never knew I had.

Why do I think about such lame things when I'm painting? I have to stop staring at this canvas and start already. Maybe I should add something unique to this storm scene, but what?

“Hey, Isa.” Andrew's here—pulling off his orange poncho in the middle of the art room. Talk about being in my own world. I didn't even hear him come in.

“Hey, sweetie!” Whoa, I just called him sweetie.

He looks tired. I totally understand; it's been a long day. He also looks major hot with that new haircut.

“I've been dying to see you,” he says, inching over to my easel, taking the brush right out of my hand, and tossing it aside.

God, help me.
“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He drops his face to mine and pulls me close. And that's the extent of the conversation.

We probably shouldn't be doing this here, with staff members nearby. But that thought goes away quickly, replaced with feelings I never knew I had. Every inch of my body is alive. I always thought that phrase sounded corny in love songs, but I get it now. The butterflies are back, frantically flapping their little wings inside me, as if trying to warn me. About what, I have no idea. Because if there
is
something wrong with Andrew, I just don't care anymore.

Dad loves Home Depot, especially on Monday nights. It's the hardest day of the week for him, so he likes to unwind by taking in the scent of freshly sawed plywood. Me, I like the paint aisles. Maybe I'll start getting ideas for the mural I plan to do in my future home.

Whenever I have a problem or something I don't want to tell my mom about, I talk to Dad at Home Depot. I wonder if he has any wisdom regarding Coach.

“Dad, you know Andrew?”

“Andrew?
Sí, cómo no, ¿qué le pasa?
”

“Nothing's wrong with him.” Dad always has to ask what's wrong with everybody. The family fixer-upper. “That's the problem—nothing's wrong with him.”

“
¿Qué quiere decir eso?
”

“Well, I mean, I really like him. He's great, he's funny,
he's smart, helpful…”

I won't mention how he makes me…Okay, no. I definitely can't tell my father how I have to change my panties after almost every time I'm with Andrew.

“And I shouldn't like him. He lives here, goes to school here, and soon I'll be gone. See what I mean?”

“So what do you want to do,
hija
?” he asks as we turn into the bath appliance aisle.

“I don't know, I don't know.” I run my finger along the dusty shelving, leaving a long, clean trail. “What should I do? Should I not be seeing him?”

“For now? I don't see why not. You'll just have to decide what to do when your time's up, that's all.”

Huh? Is he even listening? He checks out the faucets on sale. For whose bathroom, I don't know. All our faucets are pretty new, but I forget that my dad's on this endless quest to accumulate spare parts in our garage. “
Pero
listen,” he says, eyebrows drawing close.

Uh-oh. I hope what's coming next doesn't involve the word
contraceptivo
.

“I need to sit with you and Stefan soon to discuss something.”

Discuss something? How has my boyfriend dilemma made him think of something he needs to discuss with me and Stefan? Could he be any less interested in my problem? “Like what, Papi?”

“Eh, it's better if we talk about it with Stefan.” He turns the faucet box around to read the back.

He's gotta be kidding. “What's so important that we have to have a meeting with Stefan? Why can't you just tell me now?”

I hate when he does this. He brings up something that sounds important, then doesn't tell me what it is. How cruel is that?

“
Nada, chica
. I'm sorry I said anything. We'll talk about it soon.”

“Dad? Don't do that. That's so mean.” But he doesn't reply. It'll have to wait.

We pay for the new faucet and show our receipt at the exit. I hate these people. What is their main purpose anyway? They don't really look at your receipt, and they don't check your bag, either. They just punch a hole in the stupid paper with their stupid pen.

What the heck could my dad have to say?

 

It's 8:30, and the sun is going down. The sky's mottled with pink and purple clouds, framed by pine trees along the canal. We're chugging back home in the Chevy. Dad hasn't mentioned anything since we left the store, and I know better than to bring it up again. He'll speak when he so chooses, not when I give him the evil eye.

This must be my lucky night, because his mouth opens.

“
Mira
, Isa…you're right. I should talk to you now, not with Stefan. But I don't want you to panic,
porque
that would only make your mother worse.”

Panic?

“Eh…” He rubs his brow.

Dad's never had trouble spitting something right out. Why's he even setting this up? Of course, my fingers head straight for my earlobe.

“
Hija
, some time ago, Mami had her annual…you know,
mamografía
.” He pauses. In my peripheral vision, I can see him turning his face to me, maybe for any sign of understanding to make this easier on him.

But I say nothing. I stare straight ahead. A few feet in front of us a cat scrambles across the street, and I don't even flinch.

“The results showed…”

He just better not say it.

“A mass.”

I turn to look at him. I can feel my bottom lip trembling. “What?”

The silence in the car is unsettling. Dad continues to drive, looking forward with stony eyes. God, please tell me this is all a joke. No, it can't be. Dad would never…

“No.” I stare at him blankly, the contour of his nose, the stubble on his face.
A mass
. This can't be happening. Not my mom. I lower my face into my hands and start crying right there, without thinking anymore, without asking for details.

I stare back at him through tears, the streetlights sparkling like starbursts. He's watching the road again, one hand on the wheel, one waving around, trying to express what his words can't. “It was small, Isa. They took a sample with a thin needle. In and out procedure.”

“You mean a biopsy? Mami had a biopsy, and I didn't know?”

Silence.

“Why hasn't she told me this, Dad? When did this happen? Does Carmen know?”

“Yes.
Hija
, she didn't tell you because she didn't want you to worry. It might not have been anything, but—”

It might not have been anything.
“But it is,” I interrupt, searching his face. “That's what you're going to say, isn't it? It's cancer.”

He says nothing.

“Why?” I shout. The sobs come full force this time, so hard I can barely breathe. “She doesn't deserve it!”

All of a sudden images of Mami flicker through my mind—of her singing
Sapo Verde
at my ninth birthday party with a handkerchief in her hair, looking like a movie star, clapping and laughing. Another of her lying next to me in my little bed, just barely fitting, holding me close when I had the flu. She didn't care if she got sick, she just wanted to comfort me because of how bad I felt. At the fair, when I caught her dabbing her eyes looking at my painting of that stupid bird.

I don't believe this! I can't lose my mom! I just can't!

“
Mi hija
,” my dad says, putting his hand at the nape of my neck and kneading my skin, “Mami's not going to die, okay?”

Oh, great. That makes me cry even more. The words “Mami” and “die” in the same sentence are unbearable. I can't speak. Nothing comes out, only sobs and more sobs.

He goes on. “They're going to remove the lump and some tissue around it. After that, they'll treat her to make sure it doesn't spread into the…
¿cómo se llama eso?
”

“Lymph nodes.” It comes out a whisper. It was in the brochure I read when I went in for my first Pap smear. I remember reading all about breast cancer, never thinking for one second that the info would come to haunt me later. Or my mom, rather. It was the only thing left to read in that little waiting room.

“Right. They found it early.
Dijeron que era
Stage 1.”

My heart eases up a little. I read that women in this stage have a really good chance of surviving. “When? When are they removing it?”

“Her surgery is the twenty-ninth. A Thursday.”

“Are they going to remove her breast?”

I
cannot
believe I'm asking this question. This is just not happening.

“No, it's partial—lumpectomy. After that they'll start her on radiation.”

I just don't believe this. “But Dr. Hernández the other day—”

“She didn't see Dr. Hernández, Isa. She went to an oncologist, a Dr. Weiss.”

An oncologist? All this has been going on, and I haven't known anything? This is why my dad and Carmen have been asking me to take it easy?

“
Hija, no te preocupes
. She's going to be okay. I know it. Your mother has a strong will.”

No kidding, and it's always been her will against mine, which I've always hated. But now, when she'll need it most, it better come into play. She just better kick this in the ass, or…or I don't know what I'll do.

The rest of the ride is silent, except for my sniffling. The sun is completely gone now, though some deep purple sky still remains. My father must figure he's given me enough to think about, as he goes through routine motions—putting on the indicator, turning onto our street, stopping at a stop sign.

But inside me, nothing's routine anymore. Suddenly, the stupid things I've always wanted seem so small. How am I supposed to leave now with her like this? What good is all that independence if I lose my mom? There'd be no one to be independent from. What now? I never expected this.

This totally changes everything.

Later that night I walk into Stefan's room and find him in his boxers, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands. He senses me and looks up. His eyes are all red, his face all wet.

“You're not going out?” I ask.

Stefan shakes his head, then drops it again. His whole body shudders.

I go over, sit next to him, and run my fingers through his hair. He has really nice hair, my brother does. “She's going to make it, nerdhead,” I tell him, fighting the nagging feeling in my stomach that it might not be true.

Stefan leans into me and sobs even more.

 

This is gonna hurt.

“Mami?”

“Mmm?” she answers with eyes closed, head back on her pillow.

I settle next to her on the bed. “I'm calling U-M tomorrow and letting them know I won't be there for the fall semester.” The words are painful, but I can't leave now. It wouldn't feel right, not to mention the guilt trip would be from here to Mongolia.

On TV David Letterman is delivering a monologue, but Mami has the show on mute, so all you see is Letterman pausing for the audience's reaction and straightening his suit. Paul Shaffer says something, and his drummer hits a cymbal.

“
Isa, no seas boba,
” Mami says, running her fingers through my hair. “I'll be fine.”

I nestle deeper into her arms. “I'm not leaving you like this.”

“This shouldn't change anything.” She sighs.

“Shouldn't change anything?” I look up into her warm brown eyes—eyes that'll always be with me anywhere I go. “Are you crazy? Of course it does, Mami.”

“
Mi vida
, do whatever you were going to do before this happened, okay? If you want to go, go. If you want to stay, of course I'm not going to stop you.
¿Tú me entiendes?
”

You see? That's all she had to say. I know she wants me here with her. “I understand what you're saying, but my mind's already made up. I'm not going to Michigan now. I'm staying to take care of you.” Letterman is now acting like Elvis, rotating his hips and doing karate chops in the air.

“
Isa, yo sé que tú me quieres, hija
,
pero
please don't stay
because of me. I know you have your own life,
mi vida
.”

She's testing me. I know it. She really wants me to stay and
not
have Carmen's attitude. She wants me to be by her side, not abandon her. It's a guilt thing.

“Don't worry, Mami. I can always enroll later. This comes first.” I can't believe there's no U-M now. God, this all sucks so bad.

She says nothing.

Somewhere during Letterman's Top Ten, Mami starts humming an old Cuban folk song, one I've heard a million times but could never tell you the name. Doesn't matter, anyway, it always lulls me to sleep. And that's where I end up spending the night—in my mother's arms, between her and Dad, just like being six again.

 

When I wake up in the morning, I'm still in my parents' bed, but Mami's gone. I run to her closet. It's empty. A hanger swings softly, as if someone has just pulled off the last item in the closet and left. I sprint to the kitchen, but the lights are off, and so are the Cuban coffeemaker and the range. No smells waft throughout the house. No piles of folded laundry on the sofa. Nothing…except a hollow echo when I cry for her.

When I wake up for real, I'm alone in their bed. I can hear my dad in the shower and Mami's clanking in the kitchen. My heart lifts as my eyes spill over. She's still here. Thank you, Lord.

 

At camp this morning I passed Susy in the hallway, and she went, “Hello,” in the most annoying way, like I've hurt her or don't trust her judgment or something. You know, I don't need that kind of attitude right now, with everything going on. So Andrew wants to be with me and not her. So what?

The rest of the day I've thought of nothing but the feeling of emptiness I had in last night's dream. How our home wouldn't be the same without Mami. It made me feel stronger about staying in Miami, even though I know what I'll be giving up. Once I know she'll be okay, I'll enroll. Maybe in the winter.

My painting's really coming alive now. The sense of longing I wanted is starting to show. Surrounding the girl is the most beautiful beach with fine sands and majestic palm trees, but overhead the sky is dark. The seas are choppy. I'm adding the white froth on the waves, trying to get them to look like they're churning just right, when Andrew knocks on the open door.

“Hey!” He drags in his equipment bag and just stands there. “What happened last night? I called you but your mom said you weren't home. So I called again later and your brother told me you'd call me back. So I got worried and e-mailed you, but you didn't—”

“I'm sorry, Andrew.” I wipe the paintbrush on a paper towel. “Something came up.” I chew my lower lip and fight back the urge to lose it. Too late. My eyes are brimming.

He drops his bag and rushes over. “Isa, what happened? Are you okay?” He takes the brush out of my hands and
gently holds my face.

I shake my head. “My mom has breast cancer. I just found out.” I wipe tears away and fling them aside. “Apparently she's known this for a few weeks but didn't tell me. She's going in for surgery on the twenty-ninth to remove a lump.”

Andrew tilts his head. He looks straight into my face, almost like he's trying to see through it. He points a finger at me, just like on our first date. “You're not…”

“Of course I'm not kidding.”

“Just checking.” He lets go of a deep breath and pulls me close, softly pushing my head to rest on his shoulder. “I'm so sorry, baby.”

Baby
. And that's how I feel, too, like a big baby. I cry into his shoulder, breathing in the earthy smell of his neck. Because he's been outside all day, the very scent of the swamp has imprinted itself into his skin.

“Is there anything I can do?”

I think about this, but of course there isn't. “No,” I say, giving in to his arms, letting go of the tension that's suffocating me. “Just stay with me.”

God, I can't remember the last time I cried this much in two days. I didn't even cry when I broke up with Robi. I felt bad for having hurt him, but the tears didn't come.

After a few minutes I wipe my face and force a weak smile. “Sorry. I soaked your shirt.”

He looks at his shoulder and laughs. “You don't have to be sorry. Look, Isa,” he says, taking my hands and leaning back on a table. “This is your mom you're talking about. If you
need space, I understand. I can back off.”

It's funny…in a way, I kind of do need my space. I should be making my life as uncomplicated as possible right now in order to help Mom. But another part of me—a big part of me—needs Andrew. I need his jokes, his shoulder, his beautiful eyes, his hands. Besides, I can indulge in him now. I'm not leaving anymore.

“Coach, listen, I've sort of decided, okay, I've definitely decided, not to go to Michigan for the fall semester. With all this going on, I just need to hang around for a while, until I feel sure that she'll be all right.”

He stares at me like he's just heard the dumbest thing ever. “You're kidding.”

“No, why?”

“Why would you do that? You're registered and everything's planned out. You're set to go.”

“Because I can't go with her like this. I can't, Andrew.”

“Yeah, but I've always admired that about you. The way you think so differently from your mom, no offense…the way you're willing to stand up for your beliefs and are so sure of what you want. Now you're just going to forget all that?”

“Of course not, but what am I supposed to do? Just leave her? She needs me. Believe me, it kills me that I'm not going now, but I can't. I just can't.”

“I understand you feel obligated to stay, but wouldn't she want you to go anyway? I mean, it's your college education.”

I laugh. “Uh, no. You don't know my mom.” But then I remember last night when she told me that I should go
anyway. Was that for real? Probably not. That was just reverse psychology at its finest. I think.

“Seriously. Wouldn't she want you to go on with your life and not worry about her? I know my mom would.”

“Andrew, you don't understand. Going away to college isn't such a big thing in our family. Education is, but going away to get it isn't. In fact, most people I graduated with are going to Florida International University and Miami-Dade just to stay close to their families. Family is a big deal to us, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Oh, and what are you saying? That family isn't important to a
gringo
like me?”

“No, that's not what I'm saying.
¡Ay!
” I stamp my foot on the concrete floor. “It's just different between you and me sometimes, okay? Like, when was the last time you talked to your mom? Or your dad?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer. Think, when was the last time?”

“I don't know, two weeks ago, but so what? That doesn't mean I love my folks any less than you do yours.”

“Of course not, that's not what I'm saying. But look, if I moved to Michigan, even with that great feeling of independence and all, I'd still be calling my mom every other night just to hear her voice. That's how it is with us. My cousin Lloyd goes to FSU in Tallahassee, but he drives home for every long weekend, holiday, and sometimes just for the hell of it. He just can't stay away.”

He stops to ponder this. “You have a cousin named Lloyd?”

Silence.

“Shut up, dork.” I punch his arm.

“Ow!” He doubles up laughing. “All right, Isa, I don't want to argue with you. All I'm saying is maybe you should give it some time. Let a few days pass. You're in shock, but that shouldn't make you change your plans for college. That's just how I feel.”

“Look, you want me to go? Is that it? 'Cause I thought you'd be happy that I'm staying. Besides, I didn't say it was forever, just until she's better.”

“Of course I don't want you to go. It's just that…well, I think it's what's best for you. But hey, what do I know?” He smiles and takes my hands again. “You're a smart girl. And a smart girl will make a smart decision. Do what you feel is right, babe.”

I wasn't really asking for his advice on the matter, but still, it's nice to know he cares about me. “That's better. You were starting to scare me there.” I walk closer to him and press my body against his, lowering my head to kiss him for the first time since Friday.

“So I guess you're going to spend the weekend with your mom and forget me, huh?”

Go away. Forget me
. Good God, Andrew, shut up already.

“Actually my mom insisted I go out this weekend; that I can't help by keeping surveillance over her. So why don't we do something Friday?”

“Uh…okay. Movie?” he asks.

I caress his arms softly. I remember seeing these solid
arms the first day of camp, and now they're here in front of me, and I'm caressing them. So weird sometimes to think that we're actually together. Me and Mystery Man, Underwear Ad Guy. “Sure, but why don't we rent one and take it to your place? You've never invited me over.”

He stares. Underneath his brow, his eyes are sullen but sexy. “I didn't want you getting the wrong impression.”

Where've I heard that before? “Now you sound like my mother.” Behind him I catch a glimpse of the clock, high on the wall. 5:45. “Damn, I didn't realize it was so late. I didn't even finish this.”

I think Andrew stopped listening to me after I said “your place.” Without another word he pulls me to him, and I can feel that I was right. His kiss is more intense than ever. There's something behind it, raw and simple, something out of a human sexuality textbook. He doesn't need to say anything. I feel it too. I don't know how far we'll go on Friday, but this much I know—

I want him. Bad.