The Red Umbrella

“Nothing?” I asked as Mrs. Baxter came back inside.

She shook her head. “But I don’t think the mailman has come by yet.” Her purple coat glistened with melted snowflakes. “I know how anxious you are. I’m sure everything is fine. It’s only been about a couple of weeks, and you know the soldiers sometimes stop the letters.”

“I know, but no one’s been at my house when the call gets connected, either. We didn’t even get a Christmas card from them. Something is wrong. I can feel it … here.” I pointed to my gut.

Mrs. Baxter smiled and patted my hand. “We’ll keep trying. Remember, this next call is our Christmas gift to the two of you, no matter when it goes through.”

I nodded, wishing that Frankie and I had gotten them something better than the apron and handkerchiefs I’d sewn in home economics class and the Popsicle ornaments and drawings Frankie had made.

“What are you doing?” Frankie tossed his baseball in and out of the glove.

“Nothing.” I looked outside. There was no sign of the mailman. Normally, he came at two. He was already more than an hour late. “You know, you should practice your Spanish with me. Nowadays, you’re always speaking to me in English. You’d better not forget who you are,” I said.

“Your mouth looks weird,” he answered me in English, ignoring my comment about his Spanish.

“What? No, it doesn’t. Tú eres weird,” I said as he walked back up the stairs to his room.

As soon as he left, I got up to check myself in the small bathroom under the stairs. I gazed at my image in the mirror from different angles. In the last few months, my body had changed and I had more curves. I puckered my bright pink lips. He’s just not used to seeing me with makeup. All the girls at school wore a little bit of makeup, so it had felt strange not wearing any. Now I’d be more like a normal American teenage girl, except for my accent, but that was something Jennifer insisted was part of what made me unique and more interesting.

I heard the front door open. I poked my head out into the hallway and saw Mr. Baxter hanging up his coat.

“My, you’re home early. It’s not even four!” Mrs. Baxter gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Humpf.” Mr. Baxter took off his hat. “It was slow and the store closed early.”

“No wonder. Who wants to go out in this nasty cold weather? Forecasters say it’s dipping below zero tonight, but it’ll be back in the twenties in a couple of days.”

I glanced over at the silent phone.

“Lucía”—Mr. Baxter held out an envelope—“this came.”

“Is that what I think it is?” Mrs. Baxter said.

I looked at the postage. “It’s from Cuba!” I saw there was no return address. It was from Ivette. After her letter to me, I’d written her back describing how life in the U.S. was different, but nice. I’d told her all about the Baxters and Jennifer. I’d even told her how things in this country were nothing like she thought. How people were helpful, and that it felt great to know that I could speak my mind without fear that someone in the government might not approve. For two months, I hadn’t heard from her, until now.

I tore open the envelope.

Dear Lucía,

Happy New Year! I’m mailing this letter way in advance in the hope that it gets to you sometime close to January first. How have you been? Here in Cuba, everything is going great. I’ve become more involved with the brigades and feel so lucky to be able to help the revolution. I’ve enrolled so many new students, and now I realize that devoting myself to the revolution is what I was meant to do.

I shook my head. This didn’t sound like the Ivette that I knew.

After reading your last letter, I worry so much about you living in that capitalist society. You probably still think about silly things like the latest fashions or what the newest rock ’n’ roll song is. I wish you were here so you could learn to appreciate the goals and ideals Castro has for our country. Hopefully, you’ve come to your senses and realized that you can’t trust the Americans. I don’t want to be mean, because I know you must be lonely over there, but I don’t want you to get fooled into thinking that just because they pretend to treat you well, they are actually your friends. They’re not. We here in Cuba are your true friends. Your comrades. I hope you come home soon before it’s too late.

I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. How could I explain to Ivette that she was completely wrong about … well, about everything? I continued reading.

Maybe now, after your father’s accident, your parents will send for you.

Accident? My heart started to race. A huge lump formed in my throat and a small moan escaped from my lips.

“Everything okay, Lucía?” Mrs. Baxter asked.

I didn’t answer. Instead, all my energy was focused on the letter.

I really couldn’t believe it when I heard he’d fallen off a ladder while working on Captain García’s roof. Please let me know how he’s doing. Since he got transferred to the hospital in Holguín, I haven’t heard anything else about him.

I thought back to all my letters where I asked Papá to be careful. I knew that people who didn’t support the revolution sometimes met with so-called accidents. Could someone have tried to hurt Papá on purpose? It was almost too much to take in. A shaking started from deep inside my body. My knees began to quiver.

The rest of the letter just talked about what else Ivette was doing and what her life was like with the brigades. I couldn’t focus on any of those things. I had to get in touch with Mamá. I stuffed the letter into my skirt pocket.

“Lucía, something’s wrong. What is it?” Mrs. Baxter put her arm around me.

“It’s my father. He’s been hurt. I have to talk to Mamá. I have to!”

“I’ll call.” Mr. Baxter picked up the phone and took out the handwritten instructions on how to make an international call to Cuba.

Frankie walked into the room, still tossing the ball. “What’s going on?”

“No, wait,” I said. “She’s not home.” I turned toward Frankie. “Papá had an accident. He was taken to a hospital in Holguín.” A tear streaked down my face as I looked at Mr. Baxter. “It must be bad if they had to take him there.”

“I’ll contact Father Kirkland at St. Mary’s. He can make some calls and try to get us the hospital’s number.”

*  *  *  *  *

That night, all four of us sat together and prayed the rosary. Before going to bed, Mr. Baxter insisted on placing another call to my house in Cuba … just in case.

It was about eleven-thirty when the phone rang.

Mrs. Baxter ran out of her room, curlers in her hair, wearing a light blue velour robe. I met her by the phone in my own flannel pajamas just as she picked up the receiver. Apparently, neither one of us had been able to go to sleep.

“Hello?” She looked at me and nodded. “Yes, operator, please connect us.” She thrust the phone toward me as Mr. Baxter rushed in, still struggling to put on his robe.

“Mamá?” I said.

“¿Lucía? Ay, mi hija. ¡Cómo te extraño!”

“I miss you, too, Mamá. How’s Papá? Ivette told me there was an accident. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sí, mi hija. It happened a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t you get my letters?”

“No, what letters? And how’s Papá?” I braced myself in case the news was really bad.

Mr. and Mrs. Baxter stared at me, not understanding anything I was saying.

“I sent you letters from the hospital telling you everything, and how he was doing better. I’m sure I sent them to the correct address.”

“I never got them. But, Mamá, díme la verdad, is Papá okay?”

“Sí, sí. He was at the top of a ladder when it tipped over. But don’t worry. No fue nada.”

My heart pounded inside my throat. “It was nothing? How can you say that? You’re not telling me everything. They don’t transfer people to the hospital in Holguín for no reason.” I inhaled slowly, trying to stay calm. “Mamá, I’m not a little girl, tell me the truth.”

“You’re right,” she sighed, “you’re not a little girl anymore.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

“He cracked a few ribs and shattered his right leg.”

My hands trembled. “Uh-huh.” I knew there was more she wasn’t saying.

“And he was unconscious for a few days,” she said in a soft voice.

“¿EN COMA?”

Mr. Baxter put his hand on my shoulder, and Mrs. Baxter began to cry.

“No, no. He already woke up. He’s been at the hospital because he punctured one of his lungs, and they may have to operate on his leg again when the swelling goes down. I just came home today to pick up some clothes, and I’ll take the bus back there tomorrow. I’m staying with an old friend of mine in Holguín.”

I looked at the Baxters’ worried faces. “He’s okay,” I whispered.

A sense of relief crossed their faces. Mrs. Baxter went to sit on the living room couch while Mr. Baxter stood next to me.

“Mamá, I can’t talk much longer, but give me the address and phone number of where you’re staying.”

I wrote down the information she gave me.

“¿Y tu hermano? Does he know about your father?”

“Sí. Frankie knows. He’s okay, but he’s sleeping.”

“Wait!” Mrs. Baxter sprang off the couch. She raced to Frankie’s room.

“Mamá, I think Mrs. Baxter went to get him.”

“I love you, Lucía. Your father does, too.”

I smiled. It felt like a boulder had been lifted off my chest. “I love you, too.”

“Don’t do any crazy things.”

I touched my short hair. “Yes, Mamá.”

“Behave like a proper young lady.”

I squeezed the twisted phone cord and thought of my new lipstick. “Sí, Mamá.”

Frankie rushed into the room, still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Frankie’s here. Give Papá a kiss for me. Hopefully, we’ll be together soon.”

“Love you, Lucía. ¡Feliz año nuevo!”

“Happy New Year to you, too.”

I handed Frankie the phone and thought about this new year. Would it really be all that happy?