Frankie. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here.”
Safe? How could we really be safe if we were alone, in a strange country? But there was a kindness in George’s eyes that told me he would do his best for us. He reminded me of Papá. The way he carried himself.How he seemed at ease in the huge airport walking among strangers. There was a certain confidence that inspired our trust.
After we got our bags, George made a quick call on a nearby pay phone, and then took us outside to his light green station wagon. It was a sunny day in Miami, exactly the same as in Cuba, but there was a difference. In Cuba, the air seemed to taste sweeter, as if there were mangoes growing nearby or your mother had just cooked your favorite dish. Here, although I was only a couple hundred miles away, everything felt more sterile, like I’d just walked into an office building. The rhythm of life was different, too. The pulsing sound of people speaking Spanish around me, or the music that would surprise your ears as you passed by an open window, was missing. In Miami, the sounds of cars filled the air, but I couldn’t get the pulse of the city. I was sure it was there, so maybe I wasn’t listening close enough. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear.
After we drove a few minutes, much of the landscape seemed to change. The office buildings and shops were replaced with small, flat-roofed houses, and then those houses seemed to fade into flat, empty fields.
George had been talking about American life and telling stories since we’d left the airport, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. I was grateful that we all spoke Spanish, so it wasn’t that I couldn’t understand. I just couldn’t listen. My mind was elsewhere.
“Permiso
, George,” I interrupted, “where did you say we were going again?” I was looking at what seemed to be miles and miles of nothing.
George put out his cigarette in the car ashtray. “Our first stop will be the Kendall facility. It opened up a few months ago.”
“Facility?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, it may look like army barracks, but the people there will make you and Frankie as comfortable as possible. For right now, it’s the only place the church has that can accommodate girls.”
Frankie leaned over the front seat. “Mr. George, you said it was for girls, but I’ll be staying there too, right? I’m her brother.”
“Yes, yes. Boys under twelve stay across the street, in a different camp, but the older boys will go downtown, to the Cuban Home for Boys.”
Frankie spun his head toward me and opened his eyes wide.
“But I’ll get to see Frankie, right? Even if we’re in different buildings?”
George pulled out another cigarette. “Sometimes. They’ll explain everything to you. It’s all very organized.”
My head swirled. How was I supposed to take care of Frankie if we weren’t even in the same place? This couldn’t be what Mamá and Papá wanted for us.
“I’m sorry. Can’t Frankie and I stay together?”
George looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Once we find you a foster family, then maybe. But you have to remember, your parents sent you here for a reason. Now it’s up to you to make them proud. You have to be strong.”
Be strong. That’s what Papá had told me before I left. But he also said to take care of Frankie.
The station wagon pulled into a parking space between two looming gray buildings separated by a narrow road. A woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses stood outside the smaller building’s porch entrance.
“Okay, Lucía. This is where you’re staying.” George pointed to where the lady stood. “Frankie, you’ll be across the road over there. I’ll walk you over as soon as Lucía gets situated. Just wait for me here.”
George stepped out and opened the car door for me.
Frankie pulled my arm. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’ll be right here, Frankie. I’ll figure something out so we can be together. Promise.” I tried to slide out of the car, but
Safe? How could we really be safe if we were alone, in a strange country? But there was a kindness in George’s eyes that told me he would do his best for us. He reminded me of Papá. The way he carried himself.How he seemed at ease in the huge airport walking among strangers. There was a certain confidence that inspired our trust.
After we got our bags, George made a quick call on a nearby pay phone, and then took us outside to his light green station wagon. It was a sunny day in Miami, exactly the same as in Cuba, but there was a difference. In Cuba, the air seemed to taste sweeter, as if there were mangoes growing nearby or your mother had just cooked your favorite dish. Here, although I was only a couple hundred miles away, everything felt more sterile, like I’d just walked into an office building. The rhythm of life was different, too. The pulsing sound of people speaking Spanish around me, or the music that would surprise your ears as you passed by an open window, was missing. In Miami, the sounds of cars filled the air, but I couldn’t get the pulse of the city. I was sure it was there, so maybe I wasn’t listening close enough. Maybe I just didn’t want to hear.
After we drove a few minutes, much of the landscape seemed to change. The office buildings and shops were replaced with small, flat-roofed houses, and then those houses seemed to fade into flat, empty fields.
George had been talking about American life and telling stories since we’d left the airport, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. I was grateful that we all spoke Spanish, so it wasn’t that I couldn’t understand. I just couldn’t listen. My mind was elsewhere.
“Permiso
, George,” I interrupted, “where did you say we were going again?” I was looking at what seemed to be miles and miles of nothing.
George put out his cigarette in the car ashtray. “Our first stop will be the Kendall facility. It opened up a few months ago.”
“Facility?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, it may look like army barracks, but the people there will make you and Frankie as comfortable as possible. For right now, it’s the only place the church has that can accommodate girls.”
Frankie leaned over the front seat. “Mr. George, you said it was for girls, but I’ll be staying there too, right? I’m her brother.”
“Yes, yes. Boys under twelve stay across the street, in a different camp, but the older boys will go downtown, to the Cuban Home for Boys.”
Frankie spun his head toward me and opened his eyes wide.
“But I’ll get to see Frankie, right? Even if we’re in different buildings?”
George pulled out another cigarette. “Sometimes. They’ll explain everything to you. It’s all very organized.”
My head swirled. How was I supposed to take care of Frankie if we weren’t even in the same place? This couldn’t be what Mamá and Papá wanted for us.
“I’m sorry. Can’t Frankie and I stay together?”
George looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Once we find you a foster family, then maybe. But you have to remember, your parents sent you here for a reason. Now it’s up to you to make them proud. You have to be strong.”
Be strong. That’s what Papá had told me before I left. But he also said to take care of Frankie.
The station wagon pulled into a parking space between two looming gray buildings separated by a narrow road. A woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses stood outside the smaller building’s porch entrance.
“Okay, Lucía. This is where you’re staying.” George pointed to where the lady stood. “Frankie, you’ll be across the road over there. I’ll walk you over as soon as Lucía gets situated. Just wait for me here.”
George stepped out and opened the car door for me.
Frankie pulled my arm. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’ll be right here, Frankie. I’ll figure something out so we can be together. Promise.” I tried to slide out of the car, but
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