The Red Umbrella

“Flight crew, prepare for landing,” the pilot announced.

The words pulled me out of my daze. I stared out the window as several large hotels came into view. Even from up high, they all seemed bigger than I’d imagined. It was like I had assumed that only Havana had tall buildings.

As the plane flew over the beach, the people down below looked like ants wandering in and out of the water. They seemed so carefree. I’d never been on a plane before, and seeing things from this altitude gave me a new perspective on how small we really were.

I closed my eyes and imagined Mamá and Papá were with us. I wished they could see all of this and that we were just here on a family vacation.

I opened my eyes to the sounds of a little girl sobbing a few seats in front of me. It was no use pretending this was an ordinary trip. We weren’t choosing to come here, and we had no idea when we’d be going back home.

It had been less than an hour since we’d left Cuba, and for the first time, I was entering a different country, a different world, a different life. I remembered Mamá’s umbrella. It was no longer here to protect us, and neither was she.

Frankie leaned over my lap to get a better look out the window.

“Whoa, look at that building! It has to be at least a hundred stories high, don’t you think?” Frankie pointed to the skyline.

“More like twenty … and we have buildings like that in Havana,” I said.

From the air, the beach reminded me of Cuba with its coconut palms, turquoise water, and white sand, but as we went farther inland, the rest of Miami looked very different. Everything seemed to be set up in perfect lines and squares. And just past the tall buildings, everything was flat. There were no lush green mountains or rolling hills falling into the sea.

My stomach somersaulted as the plane dropped again. We were about to touch down and step into a country we didn’t know. Would it really be like the movies I’d seen, with beautiful people everywhere, or would it be a place full of hate and race riots like the Cuban newspapers described?

I wiped my sweaty palms on the armrests and pushed Frankie back into his seat.

The cars and roadways underneath us grew larger. The tires screeched as they hit the ground, then the plane roared to a stop.

My heart pounded. We had landed in Miami. But we had no money, no family, no friends here. How would we know where to go? I had studied English since the third grade, but it had never been my favorite subject in school. Would people understand me? Would I understand them?

I leaned back in my seat, thoughts swirling.

I’d always wanted my parents to give me a little more freedom. Now I was about to experience complete independence.

My stomach churned.

*  *  *  *  *

Frankie gripped my hand as we walked through the terminal.

“There they are.” Laura pointed to a group of people standing behind a thick rope. “The welcoming committee.” She smiled and lowered her voice. “Guess it’s better than the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution.”

I nodded and looked around. It was nice not to see any soldiers. We continued to walk toward the crowd.

“My mom’s godfather, Ernesto, is meeting me. Who’s here for you?” Laura asked.

I bit my lip. “Um, we’re, um …”

“We’re meeting our friend George,” Frankie said, giving me a smile.

“Oh, that’s good.” Laura waved at a short, pudgy man and a woman with gray hair pulled into a bun. “There’s Ernesto and his wife now.” She gave me a quick hug. “I’ll see you back home in a couple of months. Good luck, okay?”

“You too,” I said as Laura walked into the open arms of Ernesto and his wife.

And with that, another tie to Cuba was gone.

“So, now what?” Frankie asked.

I glanced around. Most people were being hugged and greeted. I could see people rush by, but everyone spoke English so quickly that I could only understand a couple of words.

Two teenage boys joined us as we stood by a row of blue leather chairs, waiting for something to happen. In less than a minute, everyone had seemed to figure out where they were supposed to go, except for us. We only knew to ask for George.

But who were we supposed to ask?

A tall, thin man smoking a cigarette approached us. With his dark brown suit, he looked like he might be going to a business meeting. Maybe he would know about George. I hoped he’d speak English slowly.

“Are you four looking for someone?” he asked us in Spanish.

Before I could answer, one of the teenage boys spoke up. “¿Usted conoce a George?”

The man cracked a smile. “Yo soy George. I work with Father Walsh and the Catholic Church.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d found him. Or better said, he’d found us. And he sounded Cuban, so we could all speak Spanish to each other.

The taller of the two boys shook George’s hand. “Nice to meet you. Now, do you know where we’re supposed to go from here? Is it a boarding school or something?”

“No, no.” He chuckled at some private joke and knelt down to speak to Frankie. “Would you like some gum?” He held out a green pack of gum.

Frankie glanced up at me, then slowly nodded. “Gracias,” he said, taking one thin piece.

George smiled and stood up. “The church is doing its very best to give you all a place to stay, but you have to remember that this isn’t a vacation.” With the cigarette still in his left hand, he motioned for us to follow him. “Let’s get your bags and then I’ll find out where you’re each going.”

I hesitated.

He looked back over his shoulder as I stayed holding on to 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 Frankie held on to me.

“But I don’t know anyone there. Lucy, please,” he whispered.

“C’mon, Frankie. You’re a big boy. Let Lucía go,” George said.

The woman with the glasses was checking her watch.

I reached out to touch Frankie. “I have to go, but I’ll try—”

“Fine!” He pushed my hand away and slumped back into the seat.

“He’ll be all right. Give him some time,” George said.

Frankie turned his back on me as George closed the door.

“Come, let me introduce you.” George carried my suitcase to the building’s entrance. “Martha, this is Lucía Álvarez. Lucía, this is Mrs. Eckhart. She’ll help get you settled in.”

I smiled politely.

“Nice to meet you, Lucía. Now,” she said in heavily accented Spanish, “let’s find you a bed.”

As George strode to the car, I glanced back to see Frankie watching me.

I gave him a small wave. Frankie just kept staring.

I bent down, picked up my bag, and walked into the building with Mrs. Eckhart. For such a large building, it was strangely quiet, as if even sounds got lost inside. The hallway seemed to stretch on for miles. The heavy double doors creaked as they closed behind me. I quickly turned back and looked through the doors’ narrow windows. My heart shattered. I could see Frankie’s hands splayed against the station wagon’s side window as I heard his muffled yell. “Luuuciiiaaa!”