The Red Umbrella (19 page)

“Oh, right.” Jennifer knew I was dying to see Audrey Hepburn, and that the last movie I’d seen was
La Dolce Vita
back in Cuba. I gave her a halfhearted smile, but I just couldn’t shake my dreariness.

She leaned a little closer to me. “You think you’ll hear from your parents today?”

I shrugged and looked down.

“Hey, look!” Jennifer pointed outside. “It’s snowing!”

A sudden rush of excitement filled the bus as everyone scrambled against the windows. Shouts of “Snow!” and “Woo-hoo!” filled the air.

I, on the other hand, said nothing. I only stared as the small white flakes fell to the ground. It looked like little bits of powdery sand floating in the air. For everyone else on the bus, it was the first snow of the season, but for Frankie and me, it was the first one of our lives.

A moment later, the bus squealed to a stop.

“Hurry, Lucy. Hurry!” Frankie rushed past me and jumped out the door. I could see him out by the now-barren field, trying to catch the snowflakes.

“Bye, Jennifer. Thanks for everything.” I gave her a quick hug and ran outside.

“Try to get one, Lucy,” Frankie called out. “They disappear every time I touch them.”

“Look at your clothes,” I said, staring at the flakes perched on my green coat sleeve. I never knew how intricate their shapes really were.

“How long do you think it’ll be before we can build a snowman?”

“No sé
. Couple of days, maybe? This is all new to me, too.”

Frankie stared straight up. “This is cool,” he muttered. “Everyone should get to see this!” He opened his mouth to try to eat some of it.

A sharp pain sliced through my heart. Mamá and Papá had never seen snow. I wondered if they ever would.

I followed Frankie’s lead and looked up at the falling snow. It felt like soft kisses from heaven landing on my nose and forehead. Almost as if someone were trying to tell me not to be sad. That everything would be all right.

Frankie twirled around and around. “This is great! What a birthday!” he shouted.

As we walked down the small road toward the Baxter farm, the ground started to turn white. By the time we got to the Baxters’ front porch, a thin layer of snow had covered the top railing. Frankie ran his hand over the long piece of wood and quickly flicked a bit of snow toward me.

The white powder scattered against my coat. I dropped my books on the floor of the porch and chased Frankie out into the field. For the next hour, I ran around like a little kid. Swiping at the flurries as the wind blew stronger. And the harder it snowed, the better Frankie and I liked it.

“It’s almost five. You two snow-loving kids need to come inside and get ready for dinner. We have a birthday to celebrate,” Mrs. Baxter yelled from the front door.

We ran inside, shaking the ice crystals off our clothes.

“Gee whiz, is it always like that?” Frankie tossed aside his scarf while he hung up his coat.

“Ahem
. Frankie …” Mrs. Baxter pointed to the scarf.

“Yes, ma’am.” He picked it up and draped it over the large hook.

Mrs. Baxter smiled. “Just wait till tonight. You haven’t seen anything yet!”

“I’m gonna watch it some more!” Frankie ran toward the large picture window.

“Should I go ahead and set the table?” I asked.

“Sure, but Mr. Baxter isn’t home yet. It’s a good thing we’re celebrating your birthday, with the kinda day he’s had.” She opened the bottom drawer of the china cabinet. “He has a soft spot for you kids, you know?”

“Soft spot? I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Baxter took something out of the drawer and held it behind her back as she turned around to face me. “It means he has a warm place in his heart.”

I was confused. “His heart is warm? Is that why he went to the doctor today?”

She laughed. “No, no. The doctor told him his back needs more time to heal. It’ll be another couple of months before he can farm again, but his heart is fine. What I meant to say is that he likes having you and Frankie around.” She gave me a wink. “Keeps his mind off his injury.”

“Oh.” Even though Mr. Baxter never said much, he’d started to toss a ball around with Frankie every night after dinner. He also drove me to Jennifer’s house on Saturdays when he went to work. Maybe he did like us.

“I have something for you.” Mrs. Baxter held a small black box tied with a thin pink ribbon. “It’s not much. I used to wear it when I was your age. But since I never had a daughter … well, I just thought you might like to have it.”

I opened the box. Inside was a gold chain with a small cross. It reminded me of my silver necklace back in Cuba.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

I could barely get the words out. “It’s beautiful. I love it.” I gave Mrs. Baxter a big hug. “Thank you.”

She turned me around and draped the necklace in front of me. As she fastened the clasp in the back, she whispered, “You’re a very special girl, Lucía Álvarez. I’m very glad you came into our lives.”

My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. Feelings of sadness and joy overwhelmed me. I missed Mamá and Papá so much, yet the Baxters were such kind people that I couldn’t be completely unhappy. On a day when I should have been miserable, I actually wanted to laugh.

Mrs. Baxter rubbed my arms. “I think I hear
Mr. Baxter’s car. You and Frankie go wash up. I made your favorites tonight.”

I looked back at her. “You mean …?”

She smiled. “Mmm-hmm. Cheeseburgers, french fries, and chocolate cake for dessert!”

*  *  *  *  *

“This is for you, Lucy. I did it myself.” Frankie reached under the table and gave me a frame made out of Popsicle sticks. “You can put that picture of Mamá and Papá with us at the beach in it.”

“Mail came.” Mr. Baxter placed an envelope next to my dinner plate.

Immediately I knew it was a birthday card from my parents.

“Read it,” Frankie said, passing the french fries.

I opened Mamá and Papá’s card. It showed a beautiful girl holding a bouquet of flowers, with the words
“Feliz Cumpleaños”
written in silver letters. I showed everyone at the table.

Inside, Mamá wrote about how she missed me. About how on the day I was born, she realized that the only thing she’d ever wanted to be was my mother. She said that Frankie and I were her most prized possessions, and knowing that we were safe was the only way she could survive being apart from me on my fifteenth birthday.

I took a deep breath.

Papá simply wrote that he loved me very much. He
said that Mamá had made the card sappy enough and that he hoped I was happy celebrating my day. That hopefully we would be together soon.

I smiled. It was typical of Papá to try to get me into a better mood … even from far away.

Frankie took a bite of his cheeseburger. Ketchup squirted out the sides and onto his cheek. “Nothing for me, huh?”

“What did you expect? It’s
my
birthday. Oh, wait, it says here that they send their love to my annoying little brother.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

Mr. Baxter wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Guess everyone gave you their presents.”

I touched the little gold cross. I hoped he wasn’t upset that I’d been given such a nice gift. I could always give it back.

“’Cept me.” He glanced out the window. “Thought if the weather clears up this weekend, I’d teach you how to drive … if you want.”

I wasn’t sure I understood correctly. Even Mamá didn’t know how to drive. She never thought it was necessary. “A car?” I asked.

Mr. Baxter nodded. “You’re fifteen. You can get a learner’s permit.”

I couldn’t believe it. I, Lucía Álvarez, was actually going to learn how to drive!

I jumped up and gave him a hug.

“Oh …” He patted me on the shoulder. “Well, yes, that’ll do.”

I stepped back and smiled. This hadn’t been such a horrible day after all.

*  *  *  *  *

The glow from my desk light created a funny shadow against the room’s wood paneling. I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I didn’t know how to start my letter to my parents. Should I mention the gifts the Baxters gave me? Would that make them happy or sad?

“Um, Lucía.”

I looked up to see Mr. Baxter standing in my doorway. “Yes, sir?”

He took a step in and held out an envelope. “This got mixed in with some of the bills. It’s for you. From Cuba.”

Immediately I reached out for it and noticed it had no return address. Yet I knew the handwriting. It was from Ivette. “It’s from my best friend in Cuba!”

“Hmm.” Mr. Baxter nodded as he turned to go back down the hall.

The familiar handwriting brought back memories of all the notes we used to pass each other in class. Now our notes would have to travel much farther. I sat on the bed and opened the envelope.

I nodded as if she could see me answer her.

My heart leapt into my throat. My parents had asked to leave Cuba? Why hadn’t they told me? I knew exit visas could take months, and sometimes years, to be approved, but why not say something? Did this mean there was no chance of my going home?

My hands trembled as I read more of Ivette’s letter, but the next couple of paragraphs only talked about the
latest school gossip and how the
brigadista
uniform was now considered all the rage. But then her tone got serious.

I silently made the promise.

I gasped. If only I’d been there for her, to help her. I was almost afraid to keep reading. I took a deep breath and looked back at her letter.

My stomach churned. This was much worse than I imagined. I hated the soldiers! All of them!

Unlucky?
This didn’t sound like Ivette. Where was her anger? Her thoughts about payback and getting even. That soldier was scum and something should be done about it.

I sighed. After seeing both countries firsthand, it seemed like Ivette was the one who needed to survive. She signed the letter:

But it was the three words, written in large letters at the very bottom of the page, that sent a chill down my spine. It simply said …

The Baxter house sparkled with multicolored lights and evergreen garlands draped with icicles. The piney scent of a real Christmas tree mixed with the aroma of cinnamon from the gingerbread cookies reminded me of … nothing. Christmas Eve was not like this in Cuba.

Here, everyone talked about Santa Claus bringing presents the next morning, and Mrs. Baxter planned on making a ham, scalloped potatoes, and her special carrot-pineapple gelatin salad for our Christmas Day lunch. But Christmas Eve was like any other day during the holiday season.

For me,
Nochebuena
meant the smell of onions and garlic cooking while my parents prepared the roasted
pig,
ellechón
. We’d also have black beans, rice, and yuca. There’d be music playing, and those rhythmic sounds would get inside me and make me want to dance the whole day. It was wonderful how everyone, Tío Antonio, Abuela (before she died), and even some of our neighbors would come over and have dinner with us. I didn’t have a big family like Ivette, but on Christmas Eve, you’d never guess that. Tables would be set up outside where we’d eat, laugh, and play dominoes under the stars until it was time to go to midnight Mass. It was like one big party.

I bit the edge of the letter I’d just written to Ivette. If only she’d see what it was really like here, she wouldn’t mistrust the Americans so much. I wanted her to see all the similarities, but in the end, there was no comparison. As much as I liked being in the U.S., Cuba was my home.