Daughter:

I watch the palm trees wave as we head down the main road. By all accounts it feels like a regular school day, with my Papá behind the wheel. But, today my heart is beating a samba. I glance over at him.

“Papá, mi prima said something strange yesterday.”

“Your Cousin Panchita? Oh, what’d she say?”

“She said that, um… if you and Mamá told me to stay, that I should say ‘no’.”

“Hmm? That’s odd.”

“Do you know why she’d say that?”

“Not really, Pucha,” he says, using his nickname for me. “We’re going to be away for three months, so it might seem to her like we’ll be gone forever.”

“Oh that makes sense. I can’t believe we leave _tomorrow!” _I exclaim with a happy shake.

“Glad to see you’re excited,” he says, smiling. “Alright, here we are.” We pull up to the curb. “Have a good day.”

“Nos vemos!” I reply, kissing my dad on the cheek, then rush out of the car, eager to see my friends. I don’t stop until I reach the first classroom of the day. Then I reach into my bag and walk over to a student perched on her desk.

“Hey?” my best friend says, a quizzical expression on her face as she eyes the object in my outstretched hand.

“Hey… Vivian,” I begin, catching my breath from the jog over. “I need your autograph.”

“My…?” she tilts his head, “And you want it on your…” she takes the offering and flips it over, “Reading Book?”

I nod.

“Um, sure! Didn’t realize I was a celebrity,” she jokes, while grabbing a pen from her bag. “Are you ready for the camping trip tomorrow?”

“To Tarará? No, my family is going on vacation.”

There is a flicker of some emotion on her face, but it’s fleeting. “Oh, I didn’t know. Well, I’m gonna, uh, miss you,” she blurts out before quickly adding, “at the camp.”

“Me too…” I change the subject. “You know, I can’t wait to meet my Italian family.”

“Italy? That’s amazing, wow,” she says as she signs my book.

Soon after, my last class of the day begins as Ms. Alvarez walks into the room. I try to stay focused, but my mind drifts anyway. I’ve only heard stories about my Italian aunts—Zia Maria and Zia Nella. I hope they will like me. Besides Vivian, a few other girls gave their autographs today. The rest I wrote in myself, but my aunts won’t know the difference. They’ll just see I have a lot of friends, I think, reveling in my genius plan.

I walk up to the Canary—the name we give Mamá’s car. It’s a Russian Lada, which are fairly small, but it gets us where we need to go. Most here can’t have a car, let alone afford one. My Mamá told me her chief chemist job at the local sugarmill _let_ her buy it, which I’d always found strange. I shove the thoughts aside as I wave to Papá and get in.

The car ride home is uneventful. We enter the house, and I call out to Mamá. No answer. I walk to her room and open the door without knocking.

“How was school, Táti?” she says, using her nickname for me. She is clearly startled, so I study her a moment. That’s when I notice the tears in her eyes. “Mamá, estabas llorando?”

She quickly wipes her eyes. “Ah, maybe, yes I was. I’m just so happy you’ll finally get to see the rest of your family.”

“Oh, I know. It’s so _exciting_!” I do another little happy shake as I say the last word, genuinely glad to be going. “Have you met them before?”

“I’ve met your Zia Maria. She flew down here once, you know.”

“She came here, I didn’t know that?” I say, surprised.

Her voice lowers. “Before the Revolution, of course.”

I stare at her, hearing her words but not fully grasping their meaning, being born after the Revolution. I start to recall the little I was told about Cuba before Fidel took power, until I’m interrupted.

“Táti, we need to finish packing. Bring me anything you want to take, pictures and drawings and any personal things that…um, you might want to show to your aunts, uncles and cousins.”

I decide to test something. “What about my school books?”

“No need to bring all those? Why do you ask?”

“Well, Panchita said—“

“She was just kidding around, Táti,” my mom quickly interrupts, her lips forming a tight line, then adds. “Just ignore her, okay?”

“Okay, but I’m gonna bring my Reading Book. Today, I asked all my classmates to sign it so I can show it to my zie. That’s the plural of aunt in Italian, right? Or is it zias?”

She stares at me for a moment too long, and I think I’ve said something wrong. But then she replies. “I don’t know, Táti, you’ll have to ask your Papá.”

Before I can say anything, she continues. “We’re leaving early tomorrow morning so don’t take too long gathering your things, okay?”

“Yes, Mamucha,” I reply, using my nickname for her as I always have. I leave the room, and quickly start gathering up my things.

Italy here we come!

Papá:

I focus on the road, lost in thought. This was really happening. Tomorrow we would be in Italy and my only daughter would meet my sisters and the rest of her family. I recall the trouble we had obtaining the visas, and the words the representative at the Embassy had said:

“You lucked out that your daughter is seven-years old. Had she been one year older, I wouldn’t have been able to approve this travel. Had she been a boy, we wouldn’t even entertain this at your child’s age. As it stands, I still don’t recommend bringing your daughter as kids that age… are… impressionable… if you know what I mean.”

Impressionable. Right. Impressed by a world where you are not a second-class citizen from birth. Where you and your meager earnings are not turned away from a hotel because you live in the same country. My daughter’s voice brings me back to the present.

“Papá, mi prima said something strange yesterday.”

“Your Cousin Panchita? Oh, what’d she say?” I ask, hiding my concern. Who knows what she might have told her.

“She said that, um… if you and Mamá told me to stay, that I should say ‘no’.”

“Hmm? That’s odd.” I make a mental note to call Panchita tonight, and ask her strongly not to fill my daughter’s head with her theories—even if she might be right some of the time.

“Do you know why she’d say that?”

“Not really, Pucha.” I think fast. “We’re going to be away for three months, so it might seem to her like we’ll be gone forever.”

“Oh that makes sense. I can’t believe we leave _tomorrow_!”

“Glad to see you’re excited.” I force a smile, masking my relief that she accepted that answer.“Alright, here we are,” I say, as we pull up to the curb, “Have a good day.”

“Nos vemos!” she replies, then gives me a peck on the cheek as she always does.

As I watch her leave, my mind wanders again. Will everything be okay? Will my daughter be happy? I still agree with my wife’s plan—right?

Mamá:

I wave halfheartedly as my husband leaves to pick up our daughter from school. I make it a few steps into our bedroom before I break down. Tears stream down my cheeks as I again agonize over this decision. Am I doing the right thing? Do we have a choice? I don’t even speak Italian. Does it matter? I continue to play mental ping pong as I pack for all of us, making sure we’re ready for the cold November in Italy, when my door suddenly opens. It’s my daughter. I was so lost in my own head, I didn’t hear the front door.

I spin around. “How was school, Táti?”

She just stares at me, and I wonder what she’s thinking, trying to hide my concern.

“Mamá, estabas llorando?”

Crap! I furiously wipe my eyes, then blurt out. “Ah, maybe, yes I was. I’m just so happy you’ll finally get to see the rest of your family,” I lie awkwardly.

“Oh, I know. It’s so _exciting_!” She makes a show of being excited, then adds. “Have you met them before?”

“I’ve met your Zia Maria,” I reply, happier with this line of questioning. “She flew down here once, you know.”

“She came here, I didn’t know that?” She says, surprised.

I lower my voice. “Before the revolution, of course.”

She stares at me again, and I wish that I could read her mind. Since that’s impossible, I decide to interrupt her thoughts instead.

“Táti, we need to finish packing. Bring me anything you want to take, pictures and drawings and any personal things…,” I start, then get an idea, “that…um, you might want to show to your aunts, uncles and cousins.” Great, as the last thing I want is for her to forget something important to her.

“What about my school books?”

I’m stunned by the question, but quickly recover. “No need to bring all those? Why do you ask?”

“Well, Panchita said—“

“She was just kidding around, Táti,” I interrupt, trying to mask my anger at the mention of Panchita. “Just ignore her, okay?”

“Okay, but I’m gonna bring my Reading Book. Today, I asked all my classmates to sign it so I can show it to my zie. That’s the plural of aunt in Italian, right? Or is it zias?”

I think for a moment—signatures? Does she know? No, it couldn’t be. Just a happenstance. I shove the concern aside. Her question however reminds me of another concern—that I’ll be living in a country where I don’t speak the language. And that I’ll need to in order to find work. Her stare brings me back. “I don’t know, Táti, you’ll have to ask your Papá.”

She’s about to respond, and I cut her off. “We’re leaving early tomorrow morning so don’t take too long gathering your things, okay?”

“Yes, Mamucha.”

She leaves the room and I’m instantly relieved I won’t have to lie to her further. At least for the moment. No more than I have already. Tomorrow we will leave here for good and no one but my husband and I will have known. Tonight, I will pray once again that the psychic was right, and we would have success leaving Cuba.