A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,3
burst of memory stings like a rubber band snap.
I look away until Cate squeezes my shoulder. She opens a paneled door and pokes her hand inside. “Here we are. You know where to find me. Supper’s at seven.”
Alone, the bedroom where I will spend the next eighty-five days has an actual four-poster bed. Not some IKEA special, but an authentic piece fit for the regency period. I drop my purse and slide my fingers along the cherry wood grain. Like the rest of the inn, it feels old.
Spencer left my bags next to a gray velvet bench. I survey the space—dresser with TV on top, gray floral loveseat, writing desk. One wall has a generous paned-glass window, now letting in dusky light from the street. The other outside wall has a wider set window, but with crank mechanisms. I shove back cream silk drapes. The window frames let out a paranormal whine as I turn the handle and inch my torso through. Leaning over the sill, I peer just over treetops into a walled church courtyard that bumps closely against my side of the Owl and Crow. My eyes struggle to adjust, trading palm trees and peach stucco for weathered brick and steepled churches—just like the tiny stone parish next door.
My new room is gorgeous. But it doesn’t stop one half of me from wanting to beat my fists against the wall, screaming the feral sounds I’ve had echoing in my mind all day. All March and April and May. It doesn’t stop my other half from wanting to hide underneath the plush down comforter.
I settle for rolling my suitcases toward the door—I’m not ready to organize my new reality. I unzip my large carry-on tote on top of the bed. Miami is inside. Traces of Mami’s lemon-vinegar tile cleaner and my gardenia-scented room spray cling to all the contents I’ll need tonight. Abuela could’ve packed this bag.
Because of her, Pilar and I would never dare board a plane without toting a spare pair of underwear and a change of clothes. After all, the airline could lose your luggage! Abuela never did trust those baggage handlers.
And I hadn’t trusted them with these items. After leggings and a long tee, I remove Abuela’s signature white apron. The one I held on my lap during her funeral. Then, a family photo of myself and my parents and Pilar in my great-uncle’s garden. And another small snapshot of Abuela I took last year, her slight frame topped with a jaunty crop of graying black hair, smiling over her simple breakfast of café con leche and pan tostado.
Abuela and I were the only ones in the family big on keeping los recuerdos—mementos. Pili didn’t get the sentimental gene, and Mami hates clutter. But Mami still hasn’t removed the little altar of cards, photos, figurines, and dried flowers from Abuela’s dresser. She hasn’t turned Abuela’s bedroom into a guest room yet, or moved her worn garden clogs from the patio. For now, even my mother is keeping things.
I set up my transplanted altar, placing my Miami items on the nightstand. My heart snags on the last item in my tote: a white University of Miami t-shirt I bought for Stefanie. It’s un recuerdo of huge proportions, a memento of a best-friend plan I’m not quite ready to stuff into a drawer.
This shirt is the biggest reason I’m here.
Two weeks ago, the back-ordered white tee arrived at Panadería La Paloma on the same day Stefanie’s flight left, like a sick joke. Stef wasn’t going to UM anymore. My friend wasn’t going anywhere in Miami anymore. Not with me.
The beginning of our ending happened two days before the shirt delivery. I’d flopped onto her bed the same way I always had, except now, an enormous duffel bag swallowed Stef’s area rug. Her passport and piles of travel documents and the packet from the Catholic Missionary Fellowship of South Florida covered her desk.
The end of our ending happened as I slammed doors and fled from a house I’d been welcomed inside like family for years.
And in the middle, my best friend admitted she’d been preparing for a two-year health aid post since November. Months of training she never mentioned. Stef had traded her University of Miami acceptance for a remote African village without a word.
Two weeks ago, alone in the bakery office, I’d stared at the UM logo on the t-shirt. The words we’d spewed pelted me like hail.