“Sisterhood.” Margarita shot a mischievous wink at Tressa, a look I could undoubtedly say I’d seen from Tressa on more than one occasion.
“Hush,niña.”
“It’s written all over the angles of her face, Mamá. Padre was a dirty old man long before he came to Cuba.”
Carmelita’s eyes watered with mourning. “Sí,but he was mine.”
Margaritakissed her mother again before wiping at her own set of tears. Once she’d composed herself, she turned and thanked us before quietly exiting the tiny little home, bustling with so much life, even amid sadness.
Tressa was still swirling the remnants of her juice glass around, eyes worried.I’d explained early on that Carmelita practiced a sort of hybrid form of Cuban Catholicism called Santería, a blend of African rituals and dance with holy Catholic saints and traditional prayers. Tressa’s eyes had grown wide, and she’d promptly spent the next few hours Googling everything she could about it. She had such a keen interest in culture and people that I imagined she was soaking up Carmelita’s little fertility recipe regardless of the consequences.
Tressa had already offered to watch a few of the kids in the village to give their parents a much-needed break, a notion many of them hadn’t really had the chance to consider before. I imagined the church would soon be overrun with rug rats, just like St. Mike’s had become with a little of her special brand of TLC. She’d also started taking a lot of photos and videos, sharing the side of Cuba many tourists never got to see and uploading to a new social media travel blog she’d started with the hopes of organizing humanitarian missions to countries in need, especially those hit by environmental hardship or suffering a depletion in natural resources.
Always ambitious and never at a loss for ideas, a rebel warrior, my girl was. She inspired me every day.
And that’s what I’d begun to think love was all about.
Finding inspiration in the world around you, tapping into it, cultivating a universe of good with the set of God-given gifts you’d been given. My view of God hadn’t wavered much in nearly forty years, but a few short weeks with her, and the very notion of love and religion itself was turned on its head.
And it was exhilarating.
Being with her had also brought me to the conclusion that a good relationship required each person to face honesty head on, in themselves and others. Without the individual growth born out of the ashes of our relationship, she and I would have carried on running from all the problems our fragile human hearts feared most. There wasn’t dishonor in vulnerability; there was power and courage in its admittance. Honor in direct confrontation of weakness. She brought out the crusader for humanity and truth that’d slept dormant inside me.
I’d found my sense of purpose right here, at this little table, in this tiny village, helping those with my hands dirty and my heart open. I’d been cautiously avoiding what the future looked like for Tressa and me. Could we do as Carmelita and Padre Juan had done? The same half commitment Tressa’s own mother had suffered through, only to end this life alone with a dream never fully realized?
If Tressa and I chose that path, these people would embrace us. And that sense of unconditional love brought me calm in the chaotic storm.
But I knew that life would never be good enough for Tressa.
I would never allow it to be.
Taking the easy road wasn’t something I was interested in as much as I might have been before. Our lives had changed, motivations altered, souls shifted into a new gear. My priorities were different now; that was the unavoidable truth.
The fact that, overall, this tradition had burned more than redeemed both of us was an unavoidable truth too.
“Mamá!” Santiago sang, pulling me into the present moment. “Look what I found fromPapi!”
Tressa’s gaze flew to mine, the knowledge that Santiago knew Padre Juan was his father rocking both of us more than a little bit.
Carmelita rounded the table, taking the small tin can filled to the brim with old, hand-rolled cigar stubs and an empty bottle of rum from the little boy’s hands.
A soft smile lit her cheeks as she shook her head. “Ah,mi padre.”
Tears brimmed so heavily, she set both items down on the table and rushed from the room, soft rag drying the edges of her eyes as she went.
Santiago shrugged, smiling brightly at us before turning on his heel and hustling out the door, little dog hot behind him.
“Kids are the best,” Tressa whispered, eyes hovering on the bright yellow door he’d left swinging in his wake.
My own eyes shifted to the can of cigar stubs, an idea dawning. “If you had a question about your paternity,” I said the next words, unsure of how they’d land, “I think now would be the time to take action.”
Tressa’s gaze followed mine down to the tin, realization lighting her dark irises. “I should take one.”
I nodded, swiping a napkin from the table and waiting.
She sucked her lips between her teeth, working her fingers back and forth before quickly plucking one of the charred stubs from the tin and plopping it on the napkin. I rolled it gently and tucked it into the pocket of my jacket.
“That could answer a lot of questions,” she murmured.
