Broken Paradise

by Cecilia Samartin

  The day before Lucinda and I were scheduled to be discharged, the family was gathered together in my room. Lucinda sat near me as she preferred to do, listening to the chatter back and forth of new voices intermingled with familiar. Mami was particularly animated as she considered the prospect of going back to California. Papi even spoke of throwing a party to celebrate my homecoming. The thought prompted tears of joy which began to flow down Mami’s cheeks for the third or forth time that day.

  Only a foot or so away, Lucinda reached out and gently touched Mami’s cheek with the tip of her finger. “You’re crying again, señora Regina.”

  Mami nodded, but said nothing.

  Lucinda thought for a moment. Her eyes were shining as she turned fully to face her new relative. “Mami always said it was good to cry as much as you want, as long as your tears fall on someone you love.”

  Mami’s face writhed with agony as she attempted to swallow her distress and battle with that reflex for blatant rejection she’d perfected over the years. She might just as easily have told Lucinda to keep her thoughts to herself. Instead, she swept her up in her arms and wept openly, moistening the top of her curly head with a cloudburst of tears. She did not let her go for a very long time, and ever since, insisted that Lucinda call her Abuela Regina. Now she wouldn’t tolerate any degree of criticism directed toward her precious Lucinda from anyone. When Papi commented on how naive Lucinda was for her age, Mami thrust out her chin and let him have it.

  “José, how you could raise two girls and know nothing about children is beyond me. This child is advanced in every way, and I won’t be surprised if they discover her to be some sort of genius when she gets to a proper school. You mark my words.”

  Mami glowered over me, watching me move the food she’d so carefully prepared around on my plate with growing concern. She and I and everyone else knew I hadn’t eaten for days. The truth is I had no appetite whatever and Cuban food was particularly unpleasant. The richness of the spices and sauces and onions and peppers I once loved so much now caused my stomach to turn with revulsion. I slept most of the time and complained about a heaviness about my chest and stomach that hadn’t left me since my stay in the hospital.

  Mami spoke to Jeremy in hushed tones when he returned from work in the late afternoon, and Jeremy came and sat next to me as I lay on the couch. I’d hardly moved since lunch, being interested only in the way the sun filtered through the trees at sunset creating a wild and lacy pattern on the wall opposite me. I’d been staring at it for what seemed like hours.

  “You’re not going to get well again if you don’t eat, Nora.”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t put on any weight like the doctor said you should. In fact you’ve lost weight and…”

  “I said I know!” I had never before raised my voice to Jeremy and the hurt and confusion in his eyes startled me for a moment, but when he left the room, I didn’t have the energy to do or say anything more about it. I was transfixed once again by the shadows of the encroaching night and the lovely pattern playing in the corners of the darkening room.

  A psychiatrist friend of Jeremy’s from the university came to see me some time after that. He was a nice man with a double chin and thick-framed glasses who insisted I call him Peter instead of Dr. Mills. This was one of the privileges of being an academic’s wife, I thought, and answered his questions as best as I could. Yes, I had very little energy, and there were few things I could think of doing that made me want to get out of bed and get dressed. No, I had no trouble sleeping; in fact I preferred to sleep over anything else because only then was I released from the bitter nothingness that ate at me like a hideous worm. No, I had no appetite, and the sight and smell of food, especially Cuban food, was nauseating to me. No, I hadn’t thought of killing myself, but I had thought about death a lot lately and how peaceful it sounded.

  Peter had been listening to me, nodding his head, seeming to understand it all. With a pudgy finger he nudged his glasses back up his nose so his eyes were clearly focused onto mine. “What do you think is causing your depression?” he asked plainly.

  Should I tell him? Could I tell him? I gazed at his kind bespectacled face. He was a psychiatrist after all and had heard things from his patients more bizarre than anything I could ever say.

  “It’s my heart,” I ventured.

  “Your heart? What’s wrong with it?” he asked, quite curious.

  “It feels like I gave it away or lost it and that now I’m trying to live with a…” I glanced at him to see if he was still following me and was encouraged to see his expression as intent and kind as before. “I’m living with a ghost heart instead of a real heart.” Tears slipped down my face in quiet streams.

  “I see. A ghost heart,” he repeated, still nodding.

  “Beba would know what to do, but she’s very far away in Cuba, and I can’t even write her a letter because she doesn’t read.”

  “Beba?”

  “She was our maid in Cuba and she knows so many things, things that ordinary people don’t know.”

  “I see,” he said, and thought for a moment. “This ghost heart you mentioned, tell me more about it.”

  “I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s the part of yourself you can give away without losing who you are, but somehow I did it wrong and gave away the part that’s real and that’s why I don’t feel anything anymore, not even hunger and I care nothing about getting better. I don’t even care about Jeremy or Lucinda anymore.” I covered my face ashamed by such a horrible disclosure I hadn’t dared admit even to myself until that moment.

  He gave me time to compose myself. “I can see how upsetting this is for you, Nora. I think for now it’s best that you rest as much as you can. Can you do that?”

  I nodded obediently, and Peter left with assurances that he wouldn’t say anything to Jeremy or my mother about how I felt. I knew this would only cause them to worry more. But he said he’d have to talk with Jeremy about his recommendation that I get a good rest.

  Peter hadn’t been gone for five minutes when Jeremy came in the room to sit with me. Lately, he didn’t mind sitting with me for long periods without saying anything if he thought I didn’t feel like talking, but I knew he was the one who needed to talk this time. The little lines around his eyes had deepened, and his mouth was tight with a worry that had grown into an agitation he could hardly contain.

  “Peter thinks you should go to the hospital for a while.”

  “The hospital? Do you mean a mental hospital?”

  “He thinks you’ve been through a lot, much more than most people can take, and that getting some special care might help you.”

  “Do you think I should go too?”

  Jeremy lowered his head and teardrops fell on his hands, thick semi frozen blotches of pain. “I don’t know what to think, Nora. I used to dream of spending the rest of my life with you.” He looked up at me with eyes that had always been so confident and serene, my perpetual sanctuary. Now they were helpless and pleading. “I don’t want to lose you.” He choked down a sob. “I thought I had lost you once and then…” He took hold of my hands. “I just want you well again. I want my Nora back.”

  “Give me until after Christmas,” I begged. “If I’m not better then, I’ll go to whatever hospital you and Peter want me to go to. I promise.”

  Christmas was less than a week away.

  The dream I’d been waiting for arrived during one of those rare nights in Southern California when the temperature dips down below forty degrees. I am a child again. Alicia and I are holding hands by the water’s edge and watching the tide dance upon the shore. We laugh as our feet scoot along the soft sand and we feel the writhing ribbons between our toes. Alicia is urging me forward into the surf, laughing and teasing all the while in her playful way that means no harm. Her fingers lock like a vice on to mine and I am unable to break free as she pulls me into the deeper water, until we’re floating loose like jellyfish, breathing memories and fa
ces through our gills. I look into the ocean depths and see Tony’s mild green eyes glistening with the vision of his beloved, Manuel’s burnt shoulders hunched over the boat as he fishes, Tío Carlos playing his guitar on the porch, Tía Panchita’s curious smile flashing through a haze of cigar smoke and Abuelo, standing at the water’s edge after a long swim.

  Alicia’s fingers loosen and the surf lifts me back to shore as I watch them disappear beyond the sea, receding into an oblivion of peace.

  I woke up on the morning of Christmas Eve to an unusual and noisy commotion. The plan was for Mami and Papi to arrive early and help Jeremy prepare the meal for later that evening. Marta and Eddie and the kids weren’t due to arrive until 5:00 P.M. or so. I dreaded the feast of roast pork and plantains, black beans, rice, and yucca that lay ahead of me, and my stomach churned as I imagined the contents of the grocery bags I heard rustling in the kitchen. The talk between Jeremy and my parents sounded nothing like the good-natured banter typical of them when planning a holiday gathering. It was agitated and strained. Voices were being raised and I distinctly heard Mami’s above the rest. “The doctor said not to upset her. That much I know.”

  The argument continued and I wondered if at the hospital there might be some peace. I’d made little improvement, and I hadn’t forgotten my promise to Jeremy. Surely that’s what the argument was about: when and how to get me to the mental hospital. I tried to garner the strength necessary to get out of bed and begin packing and wondered what to say to Lucinda about my absence. Jeremy had managed to find a school for her even as he juggled his schedule around her medical appointments at UCLA. She’d be starting classes after the Christmas break. She knew I wasn’t able to help Jeremy with this because I wasn’t well, but she attributed my illness to what we’d been through and seemed to understand that talking about it was not in my best interest.

  They were just outside the bedroom now and they were trying to be quiet, but the fear in their voices, caused me to shudder. They burst through the door, their faces flushed.

  “Jeremy, don’t do this,” Mami said, puffed from her agitation.

  “We should talk about this a bit more,” Papi added firmly.

  Jeremy shook his head. “I’ve never kept anything from Nora before, and I don’t intend to start now.”

  “But she’s not the Nora we knew,” Mami implored. “Don’t you realize that? Nora is sick and if she reads this she could get worse.”

  “What’s wrong with Tía Nora?” Lucinda’s small voice from the doorway forced everyone to pause.

  “Nothing, sweetheart.” Mami led her into the room with a protective arm. “Your Tía Nora is a little weak now, but she’ll be fine.”

  Jeremy held out an envelope to me. “This came for you yesterday. It was postmarked a few days before Alicia died. Perhaps it was lost in the mail, or got rerouted or something.” He glanced back at Mami and Papi who were tight with fear as they held on to Lucinda. “Your parents are upset because they believe Alicia’s letters did you more harm than good. They say you’re too vulnerable to read another one right now.” The letter dangled in his fingers between us. “What do you think?”

  With a deep breath I took the envelope from him and turned it over in my hand. The three postmarks printed near the Havana address confirmed Jeremy’s suspicion that the letter had been lost, and I recognized Alicia’s delicate script on the outside of the envelope as well. I stared at it for several long seconds as I imagined Alicia during her last days on the couch.

  “I think I’d like to read this by myself,” I said without looking up. They all turned to leave and I held my hand out to Lucinda. “Stay with me, Lucinda. Your Mami would’ve wanted you here.”

  Lucinda made her way to the bed and nestled in next to me. I felt her head on my shoulder as I tore open the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages of the letter.

  Dear Nora,

  When you read this I want you to imagine that you’re relaxing under our palms at Varadero and looking up at the sky because that’s where I imagine myself at this moment, and you’re next to me listening and smiling as you always do so my worries float away on the breeze. Although I’m tempted, I won’t write you of my worries right now. I’ll write instead about something you always wanted to know ever since we were girls playing on the beach. Even now I can hear your voice asking me as we stare up at the sun through the trees, “Did you see God? What did you ask for?” I guess it’s OK to tell you now that I asked Him for a guardian angel to watch over me always. For years I didn’t think He was listening because the angel didn’t appear as I expected, over my bed with soft feathery wings and a silk gown like I saw in the paintings at church. I know now that you, dear cousin, have been my guardian angel and comfort during the worst moments of my life. Even now I wait for death with peace in my heart knowing you will look after Lucinda with all that you are and for that I would gladly give my life and more.

  In truth, you have not only been my guardian angel but my confessor as well, and I’m afraid I have yet another confession to make. For almost two years I took the American dollars you so carefully folded inside your letters and set them ablaze by the flame of my candle one by one. I didn’t want to admit how much I ached for your American life, your nice house, your hot running water, and twenty-four hour supermarkets, and ranting reporters who hate all politicians and aren’t afraid to insult them on television. I resented your personal telephone ringing off the hook and six brands of toothpaste, and sleeping in a clean bed after a full meal and waking to a strong cup of coffee in the morning and so many things.

  I tried to escape my jealousy by convincing myself that you and everyone like you had betrayed Cuba and that I betrayed her too with my envy. I ask your forgiveness. But I don’t feel guilty anymore and I don’t think you should either, because we did not betray our country, Nora. Our country betrayed us. You and all who left are orphans just like Lucinda. And just as she’ll embrace you as her new mother after I’m gone, so must you embrace your American life with all your heart and soul even if the tears of grief and parting are still moist in your eyes. Because if you wait for your tears to dry, you’ll be waiting forever.

  But never forget, Nora, never forget the Cuba we knew, and tell it to Lucinda and your children before they’re old enough to understand so it becomes a part of them as it has become a part of us. Tell them how we swam in the blue-green waters of the Caribbean and how we ate sweet mangos as the juice dripped down our faces. Tell them about the chaperoned dances and white linen suits and about the way musicians played their music to coax even the moon from its quiet place in the sky.

  And always remember the dream that was…the sounds of enchantment…the breezes that caress the soul…our palm trees in the sky.

  All my love,

  Alicia

  Jeremy knocked softly and, not hearing a response, peeked in to find Lucinda and I embraced and weeping after having read Alicia’s letter three times over. He wasn’t sure about whether or not he should enter, but I held my hand out to him, and he crossed the room swiftly and took us both in his arms.

  “I love you, Jeremy,” I whispered, feeling my strength returning as our tears flowed. “Please, forgive me.”

  Epilogue

  ALMOST A YEAR LATER ALICIA GARCÍA-MCLAUGHLIN WAS BORN. When I brought her home from the hospital, Lucinda gazed at her through triple thick glasses that made her eyes appear as giant emeralds.

  “She smiled at me, Tía Nora. I saw her smile at me.” Lucinda was bursting with delight.

  Later that evening Lucinda laid her head on my lap as I rocked Alicita in my arms. In a few minutes, when he finished grading midterms, I expected Jeremy to poke his head in the nursery and remind Lucinda it was time for her eyedrops and that she needed to brush her teeth before bed and that it didn’t matter if she’d already brushed them once that day. Lucinda would complain she wasn’t tired and try to squeeze a few more minutes from him. These he almost always obliged her knowing, as did I, that it was wond
erful she was behaving as a normal thirteen-year-old girl should.

  “Tell me the story again, Tía Nora,” she said with a little squeeze to my knee.

  “Again?”

  “Yes, but this time start at the part I like; right at the beginning.”

  I cleared my throat and stretched my legs out slowly so as not to wake my little girl, but I gazed into her sleeping face as I spoke, knowing she heard me through her dreams. “What I most love about Cuba is the warmth. The way it spreads out to my fingers and toes so it feels like I’m part of the sun, like it’s growing inside me…”

  “Tía Nora?”

  “Yes, Lucinda.”

  “Will we ever see Cuba again? Will we ever go home?”

  I was tempted to answer her with the same variations of “maybe” that I’d received from my parents after leaving Cuba for the first time all those years ago. “Perhaps if things change” they would say, or “We can’t know for sure what will happen.” These hopeful crumbs did little to satisfy my soul’s longing for home.

  I tugged lightly on one of Lucinda’s springy curls and the silhouette of her cheek plumped up with a smile. But I realized she was anxious for my reply, and I knew I’d have to answer her honestly as I answered everything else.

  I inhaled my own fear, and forced myself to exhale through a heart more resilient than resolved. “Yes, Lucinda,” I told her. “I’m sure that one day we will see Cuba again, but until then and perhaps afterward too, this is our home.”

  Acknowledgments

  I could not, in good conscience, put my name to this work without acknowledging the people who’ve made sharing it possible: my agent, Moses Cardona, of John Hawkins & Associates Inc. I am ever grateful to him for his intelligent guidance and unceasing support; my editors Johanna Castillo and Amy Tannenbaum, who have infused this publication with an enthusiasm and energy that have given new life to the book. With professionals such as these on my side, I can’t possibly lose.