The Opposite of Never

by Mary Kathleen Mehuron

  In the foyer, Spencer held Zelda in a long farewell embrace as they whispered fervent promises to each other. “This is the last time I’m going to rehab, Spencer. I am going to do what I have to do to get better. My addiction was like a monster waiting for me out in the dark. I got complacent about my sobriety, I thought I was too busy for meetings and then boom, it attacked. All we have to do is get this stuff out of our bodies and then stay clean. Go to meetings and stay clean. When I lost the baby, I should have called my sponsor immediately and reached out for help.” Zelda’s head was on his left shoulder, and she nuzzled his neck.

  He gripped her tighter by way of a response. “What’s past is past. I don’t know how it got away from us so fast, Zelda. From the first time we went to DeGranit to score the dope, to when we wound up out of control and loaded at Linda’s party, it was less than two months. We still did all our chores every day. We went about our business, and no one suspected anything, but I felt more helpless over the craving with each coming day.”

  Zelda’s expression was desperate as she looked up at him. “We weren’t completely in control during that time. We told your mother we were sick a couple of those days. Remember? We pretty much stayed in bed. She thought we looked terrible and threatened to call Dr. Gluck. Spencer, when I come back, I’m going to be the girl you fell in love with. I promise.”

  He stroked her back with his hand and whispered in her ear, “There’s nothing without you, Zelda. Nothing worth living for. We’ll only be away for three months, and then we’ll be back together again. It will be like all this was a bad dream. I love you, China Doll.”

  “I love you, too.” When she glanced over his shoulder, she saw Georgia looking at her watch. “Okay, Spence. We gotta go. My dad is waiting. I have to do this.” With that, she broke from him and ran out the front door without bothering to close it. Georgia followed her out and quietly pulled the latch until it fully shut.

  Yvonne had already gone upstairs to pack Spencer a bag. Not two seconds after the door closed, Rolland insisted on taking Spencer to Middlebury alone. “I’m worried about your mother,” he told his only child. “Son, she needs to get some sleep. We don’t want her getting sick, too.”

  Up in Spencer’s room, Yvonne threw five T-shirts, flannel pants and sweatpants, and socks and underwear in a leather duffle bag. As she looked at herself in the mirror above her son’s dresser, her knees gave out and she collapsed heavily onto the edge of his bed. If anyone else had been within earshot, they would have been torn apart by her pitiful sobbing. She was actually lurching with emotion, but she was determined to gain control. She took ragged deep breaths in and out until she thought she could walk steadily. There was a bathroom in the hallway where she washed her face, sat for a while on the closed toilet seat to rest, and then, sensing that the time was imminent, scurried downstairs with the bag.

  Spencer stood by the front door next to his father wearing a wool navy peacoat, his dangling empty sleeve a solemn reminder to her that all men, including her son, were mortal. Yvonne tried to steady herself to say goodbye. Her child was looking especially young and vulnerable to her at the moment. A shattering feeling of desolation made her slump against the doorjamb and slide down to the floor. She feared that she might faint as she did, and she cried out, “Spencer you have to give this everything you’ve got. Promise me. I cannot live without you. I won’t do it. Promise me you will try your hardest to get well.”

  It was excruciating for him to pay witness to the depth of his mother’s pain; in his heart of hearts, he knew she deserved much better from him. He quietly sat down next to her on the floor, with his back up against the wall. Spencer patiently waited for her to continue. “I can’t lose you, honey. I won’t make it if you don’t.”

  He told her plainly and with convincing and authentic honesty, “Don’t worry about this anymore, Mom. It’s my turn to take care of you.”

  Thirty-Seven

  “2015 in Old Havana, Ché and Hemingway seem at once like the past and the future.”

  —Mary Kathleen Mehuron

  After hours spent on the Internet, Kenny found a Boston-based travel company called CubaToDo. Georgia asked him, “Cuba to do? Not Cuba to go, or something like that? It sounds off, like they don’t understand our idioms in English.”

  “I think it’s a play on the Spanish word to do. It means everything. They are saying they know everything about Cuba. Or, they can get you everything you want there.”

  “That’s cute. Obviously, it’s me who doesn’t understand their vernacular. I wish I had time to study Spanish. You really think they can get us a visa at this late date? I know Cuba is opening up to Americans, but you still can’t just show up there. As I understand it, you have to have a legitimate reason to go.”

  He handed his laptop across the table to her indicating with a gesture that she should look at the screen. It read:

  “CERTIFICATION for a General License for Cuba Travel

  I understand that Cuba travel-related transactions are prohibited under current United States Law, except for the following categories. I hereby certify by signing my name at the bottom of this Certification that I am authorized to travel to Cuba under Part 515 of 31 CFR, specifically by the Section number in parentheses for the category checked below—tourism is NOT allowed—my travel may require a full-time schedule per my category.”

  She looked over the eleven categories permitted for Americans to travel to Havana. “Well, we can’t claim we’re going for a family visit. We don’t know a soul who lives there. There are educational reasons . . . I am a teacher. Or support for the Cuban people . . . that’s pretty broad. Will the money we will spend there be considered helping them? Let’s just go ahead and pick one category. What have we got to lose?”

  “Okay, support for the Cuban people it is, and then we have to sign the form and scan it and our passports. I’m going to email the files to a guy named Jonathan who sent me all this information. Keep your fingers crossed. We’ll wait to hear what he has to say about our application.”

  “I hope it works out, Kenny. Now is the time to go, just as relations are being normalized between our two countries. We severed ties with Cuba in 1961, but ever since I was a child, I dreamed of going there to experience the music, food, history, architecture, and the people. From what I have read and heard here in the US, I love all things Cuban. Cuban jazz makes me feel dreamy. Even their dogs are adorable, especially the Havanese.

  “I know someone who went to Mexico City and flew from there to Cuba. He kind of snuck onto the island pretending to be a Canadian citizen. I feel like I was waiting for the day when I could go in legally as an American. So you can imagine what a thrill it was for me to see Presidents Barack Obama and Raúl Castro on the news a few months ago when they shook hands at the Summit of the Americas. Talk about a great moment in history! You and I get a chance to go before everyone floods in, and before the US chain restaurants set up shop. Kenny Simmons and Georgia Best can tell their grandchildren they went to Havana before there was a Starbucks.”

  In Jonathan’s email, he had said that there were few actual hotels in Havana, and those that existed were faded from their glory of years past. Apparently most local travelers stayed in a casa particular, which means, in Spanish, a private family establishment. Georgia and Kenny both started reading additional articles posted online and discovered these B&Bs varied widely in size and quality. Some of the stories sounded more like nightmares than vacations. Jonathan had already decided for them where they would stay, and they crossed their fingers that he knew what he was doing.

  Seven days later, CubaToDo sent them an envelope that contained their visas. There were also vouchers for the nights that they would be staying at the B&B Telefónica, tickets for their flights from Miami and back again, and airport transfers. In addition, a small packet full of Ziploc ties for their suitcases was included with a printout explaining how they would help guard against petty theft from the baggage handlers. The Telefóni
ca was on la Calle Amagura where they would be right in the middle of Old Havana—La Habana Vieja.

  Georgia examined the sheets of paperwork. “Kenny, this can’t be right. These vouchers don’t look like real tickets. We could have made them with the laser printer on my desk.”

  Kenny tapped away at his computer and shot CubaToDo an email to ask them some questions about Georgia’s concerns. He received an answer back within five minutes.

  “Georgia, Jonathan swears everything is in order. He says all we have to do is get ourselves to Miami the night before our flight. I’m going to work on the reservations from Vermont to Florida today.”

  Somewhat reassured, she turned her focus to other things. “I’ve read the dress in Havana is pretty casual. It’s a warm climate so it’s mostly shorts and T-shirts. I’ll bring a couple sun-dresses in case we want to go out at night.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll bring a pair of long pants and a few collared shirts.”

  Georgia said, “Packing will be a breeze.”

  They were excited. They had purchased a travel book about Cuba in general, one specifically about Havana, and an English-Spanish dictionary with important phrases in the front section. In the evenings, after they had eaten dinner and cleaned up, they studied silently for a while. As they each pored over one of the volumes, they stopped from time to time to read aloud when they reached a section they thought would interest the other. On one night leading up to the big trip, they took a drive to Burlington, where they shopped for some last-minute things and picked up Canadian dollars for spending money. One of their books suggested the currency would be much easier to exchange and at a better rate.

  “It feels like we’re going on a honeymoon,” Georgia told Kenny, in the car on the way.

  He did his best imitation of the actor Alec Baldwin, “This is just the warm-up, baby.”

  She laughed. “Nice voice. Hmmm . . . that could be anyone from Jeff Bridges to Ryan Gosling.”

  “I was going for, at least, one of the Baldwins. I guess I should be happy that I sounded like a Hollywood actor. But seriously, this really is a great opportunity for us, on this trip, we get to see how we travel together. Not everyone does well with that, you know? Traveling can be very stressful. My experience has been that it’s often filled with extremes, both good and bad. By the end of this vacation, you may find out you can’t stand me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Georgia was elated to be able to travel. Going with someone who was as much fun as Kenny was beyond any expectation she’d ever had.

  On Saturday, February 28, Georgia and Kenny flew from Vermont to Miami, where Kenny had reserved a room at a midrange hotel that ran a shuttle van to the Miami International Airport. It picked them up at the curb under a sign that read “ARRIVALS” without incident and brought them straight to the check-in desk. Kenny asked the clerk, “We need to take an early shuttle back to the airport tomorrow morning. Can we reserve two seats? What time does your first one depart?”

  “It leaves from the front portico at 4:30 a.m. sharp. Here’s the sign-up list.” He handed them a clipboard and Georgia put their names on it. They would be on Island Air’s 7:30 a.m. departure.

  “I won’t sleep at all because I’ll worry about being late,” Georgia said, although both men ignored her comment.

  Because it was an international flight with additional security measures, CubaToDo had implored them to get to the airport by five. They also highly recommended they have their bags wrapped in cellophane as an additional precaution against theft, and went as far as to send the couple vouchers to pay for it. Kenny had specifically asked the hotel staff and CubaToDo by text message from his phone, “Will that service be available at 5:00 a.m.?”

  Georgia said, “I’ve never seen anyone put plastic around their luggage. Is it like shrink-wrap?”

  Jonathan quickly responded to Kenny’s text. “I was told the wrapping service is available for all flights.”

  Georgia was disoriented when the alarm went off early the next morning. Kenny was already up to shower and dress for their Havana flight. It was still dark out, and she felt like it was the middle of the night. She could have sworn she never fell into a real sleep state, but she had to admit to herself she’d been startled awake by the sound. Now Georgia was grouchy and felt grimy because, by the time she was fully roused, there wasn’t time for her to bathe. The intense humidity added to her discomfort. When they rolled their suitcases over to the front desk a staff member behind the desk told them the shuttle wouldn’t start until five. Georgia lost it.

  “We were told four thirty! If you look on your list, you will see our signatures.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We don’t have a driver available until five. We’ll call for a cab for you, though.”

  Georgia wanted to know, “How much will that cost?”

  “No more than fifty bucks.”

  “Will you credit that money back to our room bill?”

  “Sorry. I’m not allowed to do that, ma’am.”

  Kenny knew that Georgia wasn’t fully awake and he quickly brushed the matter aside. “Please, just call the cab.”

  When they got to the north terminal, Kenny had a sense they were already in Cuba because Spanish was spoken more frequently than English. The employees looked as unhappy to be up at this hour as he and Georgia were. No one was smiling. Both of them desperately needed caffeine. Only one concession stand was open, and it served shots of Cuban coffee that were dark, rich, and delicious. Since the cups were tiny by American standards, Kenny needed three to be anywhere near wide awake.

  Once the stimulant was coursing through their systems, they became more observant. The plastic-wrapping attendant was just opening his station, which looked like a little kiosk. Georgia offered him the two vouchers CubaToDo had sent, but he wouldn’t accept them and, because he was Spanish-speaking, couldn’t explain why. Kenny caught the meaning of a few of the words he spoke and repeated them back to the man. He was trying to make some sense of the situation. In the end, the two gentlemen faced off and shrugged at each other with frustration.

  “Kenny, why did I take French in high school? I feel like an idiot right now. Let’s take a Spanish class this year at the community college. It’s America’s second language, and I need to study it. What should we do about the wrapping?”

  There was a sign stating the price as twenty-five dollars. “Georgia, they seemed to think this was very important. I’ll just pay for it.”

  “That’s expensive. Imagine! For, basically, Saran Wrap.”

  When the attendant had completely covered their suitcases, they searched the concourse to find a board displaying the status of flights. There was only one for the entire enormous terminal.

  “Kenny!” Georgia couldn’t believe what she was seeing, “Our flight’s been changed. Instead of leaving at 7:30, it’s departing at 6:00.”

  “We better hurry and get our bags checked.”

  They rolled from one end of the gate agents’ counters all the way down to other end looking at signs. Georgia asked two people in uniform, “We are trying to find Island Air. Do you know where it is?” The second person pointed to an unmarked table stuck in a corner. He told her, “It’s a charter flight.”

  There was nothing, no signage at all, that indicated the spot belonged to the airline company, so Georgia was relieved when the man took their tickets and passports and then asked, “How many bags to check?”

  They felt rushed to make it through security and board on time, but Georgia had a premonition and she ran back to the big display board for one last check of their flight’s status. Sure enough, their gate had been changed at the last minute.

  While they were loading their toiletries into gray bins, taking their shoes off, and waiting for their things to be X-rayed, Georgia told Kenny, “I don’t know why I thought the security protocol would be more involved than a typical flight. Maybe because we’re going to a communist country?”

  “I know. Isn’t it weird
Cuba is less than an hour’s flying time from the Florida coastline?”

  “Look down there past the conveyor belts. On the left-hand side. I see gate ten.” Georgia sounded relieved, but her tone was a bit sharp.

  On the short, hot flight, they both fell into a deep sleep, waking a little more refreshed. When they landed at José Martí International Airport, they were herded into the customs area where a customs officer asked for their plane tickets, visas from CubaToDo, and passports. He had a large metal stamping device that made a loud thump when he pushed down on it to mark their passports. An official Cuban visa replaced the copy that Jonathan sent them. It was a standard, very official looking form, perforated down the middle. He tore it neatly in half and gave one side to Georgia and Kenny and put the other in a pile of similar-looking documents.

  Kenny said to her, “Put that someplace safe. We’ll probably need it when we leave the country and head back home.”

  The officer indicated with a wave of his hand that they should step through a metal door. On the other side of it was another security line.

  Georgia seemed satisfied and nodded. “So, this is where the extra scrutiny comes in.” All their things were scanned once again. As passengers gathered their belongings together and put their shoes back on, they were urged to keep moving forward, where streams of people converged. A cacophony rose from the chaos.

  Heaps and heaps of plastic-wrapped suitcases and packages of every size and shape lay before them. Some of the piles were over five feet high. Georgia was able to estimate their height because they were taller than she was.

  A metal conveyor belt, carrying luggage, wound around and around the cavernous space in an irregular, winding oval. Every linear inch of its raised platform had stacks amassed on the floor against it. To get a suitcase off the conveyor, you had to scale one of the mounds and reach over. Georgia was awash with anxiety. “Kenny, how will we know which suitcases are ours? Wrapped in that plastic, they all look the same to me.”