A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,84
the sound’s muted. Then my eyes fall onto the neat single bed and a mother.
“Hello, beautiful,” Orion says to the blond in a pink long-sleeved top. Someone has colored her lips with tinted balm.
She moves, shifting and stirring, but doesn’t look at me or even her own son. We pull up two side chairs. He sits closest and reaches out.
“I always hold her hands or touch her face,” he tells me. Then, straight into the blue eyes they share. “Mum, I’ve brought Lila today. The girl from Miami I’ve been telling you about. And she made quite the stir at reception, bringing treats for everyone. I really wanted you to meet her.”
My heart balloons and he’s right, sadness isn’t the biggest emotion I want to feel. The room is full of love and quiet acceptance. Orion tells stories, bringing life here, pulling bright pieces of it from himself, from me, from music and motorbikes and friends. He pours living into her and fills her with a world she can’t fill herself with anymore.
“Did you tell her about the batter bowl incident?” I ask.
“That same week. And how you got after me—God, your face.” He smiles. “Figured she should know about that.”
He slips into more updates about taking me to see my first castle and us romping around London. A few times, his mother mumbles or nods randomly. Orion notes and savors these sparks of reaction before moving on to more adventurous tales. Is this the room where my storyteller was born?
Soon, I feel comfortable enough to join in. “Flora’s been learning to make bread. She loves kneading it the best because she gets to boss the dough around,” I say, then I tell her more about how proud she should be of her daughter. No matter what, every mom likes to hear that. “And Orion’s the best at knowing when you need a cup of tea or a really big hug. Well, it would actually take me until bedtime to tell you all the things he’s the best at.”
But as our visit lengthens and the sunlight thins, the world between Lila Reyes and Evelyn Maxwell changes. I find myself drifting then falling into full Spanish, letting myself tell Orion’s mother things I can barely tell myself. Los secretos. She gets my secrets as her son splits his gaze between the both of us. I know she can’t comprehend a word. But I don’t give her my mysteries and heart puzzles to make her understand them. I can’t understand them and speaking them is all I have.
So I do, until I’ve said all I can.
Suddenly too aware of myself and Orion, I turn to him, heat filling me. “Sorry. I kind of got carried away.”
“No. Don’t be.” He kisses his mother’s hand then takes mine. “If a Brit tells you not to be sorry, then you’re really, really not supposed to be sorry, okay?”
My mouth jerks sideways. “Right.”
“About what you said, I think I caught the words sister, abuela, airplane, mother, and bakery. And my name’s the same, so…”
Not sorry, but still feeling like he can see right through me, I shift my gaze out the window. “Then you caught the gist.”
* * *
It’s unspoken where we both want to go after Elmwood House. A few visitors picnic on the grass or throw balls to dogs on St. Catherine’s Hill, but we settle inside the shady thicket. Plum-sky dusk bumps into the last stretch of afternoon. We spend ours on the fallen tree log bench, quiet.
“I’ve been watching you shamelessly and verging on creepily,” Orion says after long minutes. “The way your face twitches all sorts of ways, and you move to speak then twist your mouth sideways. Is it about Mum, then?”
“Yes and no. My plane ticket came today, right before we left. I told your mother about it.”
“Oh,” he breathes more than voices. We’re hip to hip, soul to soul. We both knew the date, but I can’t stop seeing the official logo in the e-mail. British Airways LHR—MIA.
“And I also told her—” Eye roll at myself. “Never mind.”
His chin tilts, gaze narrowing. “Don’t you know there’s literally nothing you can’t tell me?”
“Not this, trust me. It’s horrible. Terrible.” Desgraciada—I am wretched and wicked. “Don’t make me say it.”
“I’d never make you do anything. But I’m well used to terrible. I can handle yours.”
Sadness isn’t here, either. Rage taints my blood, reddens the words trapped behind my throat. I dig my fingers into the rough and rigid tree bark.