A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,27

a family photo against a stormy background of grass and craggy seashore. I pick up the large silver frame. The Maxwells huddle together in wool and tweed under a gray sky. Orion looks about ten or twelve and little Flora clings to her mother’s side, sunshine curls tumbling down her back.

“Ireland. Cliffs of Moher in County Clare.”

I face Orion, his family in my hands. His face tenses like it’s struggling under the weight of untold things. Curiosity wins over politeness, and I ask the boy I accused of asking too many questions, “She’s your mother?”

He takes the frame. Nods. “My mum.”

“Is she… gone?” Like Abuela?

I don’t expect the way his mouth works, angling wry and off center. “Yes and no.”

“She left?” Like Stefanie?

“In a way.” He replaces the photo slowly, almost reverently. “But not the way you think.”

What is wrong with me? Like I’ve been the billboard of soul baring, lately? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” I say through a straggly breath. I hastily grab my purse from the bench. My eyes jump. Pictures. His dad’s travel wall. Kitchen. Front door. “I should go. I can see myself—”

Orion steps in front of me and gestures to the sofa. “Please sit.” May I? speaks from his face as he hesitantly reaches for my black purse, setting it on the bench. “Stay. It’s fine, Lila.”

I nod and sink into thick oxblood leather.

Orion grabs his cider from a sideboard. “Nothing to drink? You sure?”

“Maybe just water.”

He’s back with an etched crystal glass. He cuts the music then sits, one cushion between us. And says nothing.

The silence feels like forever. I raise my glass to the bottle in his hand. “So. Cheers?” I wrinkle my nose. “Or is that weird?”

He evades my reach but the quiet room snaps back into rhythm. “Actually, that could be deadly for both of us, according to the ancient Greeks. The dead used to drink from the River Lethe in the underworld to forget their past lives. So, the Greeks always toasted the dead with water to mark their voyage, via the river, to the underworld.” He gestures broadly. “As a result, toasting somebody with water is considered the same as wishing them and yourself bad luck, or even death.”

“Wow. Okay. No cheers, then. But all these superstitions you’re always rattling off. You don’t really believe in them.” I narrow my gaze. “Right?”

He flinches, looking royally offended. “Hey, what if I do? Is that so bad?”

“Um, really?”

“Yes, really,” he counters.

“There are tons of superstitions from hundreds of cultures.” My free hand flails. “Some of them probably contradict one another. If you believed them all, you literally couldn’t do anything! I mean wrong facing beds and not stepping on cracks and under ladders and treacherous black cats and that’s just a few!”

Orion looks over, a devil on his face. “Your voice rose about two decibels right then.”

Well. He led me right into that one. My cheeks are hot candy apples, no mirror needed. “So you were just trying to bring out my… I won’t say Cuban, because not all Cubans have volcano tempers.” I make a face at him: more overblown smirk than anything.

“No assumptions.” Another sip. “Was actually just going for smart-arse on my part. As usual.” When my smirk curls into a mock snarl he adds, “And no, Lila. About the superstitions, it’s more that I like to collect them. A sort of hobby. I also enjoy the history behind them.” His shoulder bone pops up. “I have for years since…” He darts to a cherrywood bookshelf, returning with a photo. He keeps the framed subject turned toward his chest.

“I wasn’t being evasive about my mum or trying to make you feel bad. It’s a long story. But I’ll tell you the basics.”

I set my glass on a coaster, nodding.

“Seven years ago, she was diagnosed with a type of early-onset dementia called FTLD—frontotemporal lobar degeneration. I was barely twelve and Flora, eight. And Mum was only forty-two.”

His revelation drops inside of me, spinning in silent chaos, bumping away the teasing jabs from just moments ago. My words change. “I’m so sorry,” comes easily. “Is she here? Upstairs?”

“Not anymore. Dad wanted her home as long as possible. We had caregivers, in and out, for years. And my last six months of school I was on home study so I could help.” He stares ahead now. “But about nine months ago, she became too far gone. We moved her into a group home where they take amazing care of