The Distant Marvels by Chantel Acevedo

folded it up again, reminded him to put it back in his pocket, but the drawing only reminded me of my nightmares.

14.
My Story in Other Mouths
    I remember those April days of 1895, though not as clearly as what came before and what followed. We rode trains to Oriente province, headed straight to Dos Rios, where the delegados of the movement for Cuban independence were gathering. The trains were overloaded with people fleeing the chaos in Havana. There had been more bombs throughout the city, and now, half of the buildings had great chunks missing from them, like the prison.
    What I recall is a press of hot bodies, my mother’s arms tight around me, my father’s occasional glare in our direction. I remember how the steam engine rattled so hard that my teeth knocked together and gave me a headache. I remember searching for young people like me, seeing none, and feeling as if I were the last girl on earth, fearing that the Spaniards had wiped us all out, like in the bible stories Lulu told me of Egyptian pharaohs who murdered children.
    This is all I remember of the train to Dos Rios.
    I’m thinking about trains because Ofelia has announced that the railroads are shut down, the tracks inundated. The roads, too, she says, and mentions something about supplies and relief efforts. “All of us are to stay put,” she says. “It won’t be long now,” she adds without looking up.
    â€œHow long exactly?” Noraida asks.
    â€œYes, how long?” Mireya echoes.
    Having sought me out in the morning, Susana sits beside me again. “The rain has stopped,” she says. “Let us go home.”
    Ofelia’s cheeks redden. She gazes levelly at us. “How many of you can swim?” she asks. “Because the water outside is as deep as the Cauto River right now.”
    She can’t be right. I’ve seen the Cauto, swum in the torpid bends, fell in love on its banks. The river is so deep in places I’ve wondered whether there are underwater caverns, portals to the underworld, tunnels to the United States deep in the gloom.
    Noraida has gone to the window, placing her hands against the glass like starfish in a tank. “I’ve swum the Cauto,” she says to her reflection. Her shoulders rise and fall with her deep breaths. Estrella stands beside her and puts one of her fat arms around Noraida’s waist. “Tranquila, mi hermana,” I hear her say. “The waters will be gone soon.”
    Thoughts of water remind me I’ve had to go to bathroom for the last hour.
    It’s down the hall and to the right. I’m grateful for the privacy of the tiny space with the black and white tiles on the floor. The tiles are a renovation from a recent era, and clash with the thick beams of old wood overhead. I relieve myself and suddenly the pain in my side blooms, spreading outward until I’m holding my breath and clutching the edge of the toilet.
    Gasping, I stand, clean myself, and pull the dangling string that flushes the toilet. I steal a glance at the bowl, knowing what I’ll see—streaks of blood in the water. The waters swirl slowly. My heartbeat slows, too. The pain eases.
    It won’t be long now, I whisper, and send up a little prayer that someone, anyone, remembers me after I’m dead. I grab the beam overhead and steady myself. I can imagine so clearly the glow of kerosene lamps in the rooms of Casa Velazquez back in the days when this house was new. Like a vision, I can see my father as a boy, stomping up and down the stairs, his cheeks full and rosy. My memories mingle with the stories he and my mother told me, burrow their way into the present like a persistent, tiny mammal. I am grateful for them, for the stories, for a way of holding on to my parents. It is as if my father were still here, still a child, still putting that cat out in the middle of a storm, still leaving this place after his mother died from consumption, a boy of fourteen,