La Americana Read online

  It has been told to me on many occasions that doctors frequently receive throwbacks—dinner at a patient’s house, cash, or a nice bottle of rum—for extra care, as do high-ranking military men, who are the first in line for generous helpings of meat and specialty items that come into the country. Taxi drivers and waiters can make decent money in tips at more popular spots like the Hotel Nacional. Discovering this made me wonder why people even bothered going to school at all, despite the famously good, free education.

  All Cuban citizens are given books for food rations, which they then take to the local bodega to receive about six pounds of rice, ten ounces of beans, six pounds of sugar—three white and three raw—and ten eggs per person for the month. They also get six ounces of coffee, cigarettes for some adults, a half pound of powdered milk (for children under seven), two pounds of potatoes per person, one bar of soap and one bar of dishwashing soap (when the government feels like it, according to a Cuban friend living in the US), and one tube of toothpaste per family. At times they’re also given a quarter of a chicken per person for the month, as well as a quarter pound of vegetable oil and one piece of bread per day for each family member. In addition, they also are allotted a half pound of salt every three months.

  This would explain why someone like Maria Victoria, who we learned was an architect, sought visitors like us to eat in her home.

  “What would you like tomorrow?” she asked us.

  We both preferred seafood to meat. The rest was up to her. She said she would cook fish, beans, rice, and fried plantains if that suited us. The saliva glands in my mouth swelled at the mere mention.

  “OK, great. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Cyn and I overlapped.

  Maria Victoria escorted us back to the door. As we crossed into the hallway, she said in the lower regions of her voice, “Don’t tell anyone you were here, OK?”

  As if the paradox that she was listed in any number of travel guides around the world didn’t exist, we nodded and walked down the stairwell.

  Chapter 7

  Click Clack Go the Tiles

  On the street, white-haired men in faded Guayabera and polo shirts gathered around a table planted in the middle of the broken sidewalk to play dominoes, Cuba’s national game. Deep in concentration, they click-clacked rectangular black-and-white tiles, their fichas, into position while intermittently throwing back sips of una colada, a larger cup of coffee that is served with thimble-sized cups for sharing. The rolling-rain rattle of maracas, metallic clicks of Cuba’s rhythm-carrying wooden claves, and bongo beats of son music carried from a front living room parlor to the street, as if on holiday from the country’s watchful eye. One gentleman smacked his hand on the table, finishing the game, and the others exploded in a raucous mix of laughter and what I presume were blasts of four-letter words.

  In one afternoon scene, there it was. Joy, I noted, was as much an element of Cuba’s culture as language. In essence, joy is a choice.

  I began to study my new surroundings as a way to find my own joy again. If they could, then why couldn’t I?

  Mom’s illness had redefined me, springing brain circuits loose. I felt broken, and my goal was to walk the streets without being blown over by light winds, feel so much with acute precision. It seemed cruel to feel so much.

  Chapter 8

  Hallmark Moments

  Early July 2000

  When I stumbled out of that New York hospital, my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. I walked across the street to a pay phone and called my roommate, Jacque.

  “Hello.”

  I couldn’t even form words. I think I was only sputtering and gasping.

  “Melanie? Melanie?” I heard her say over and over, but I couldn’t respond to my own name.

  “The doctors had only given her two years to live. How was I going to tell my brother? I don’t understand, she was fine. She’s my mother. She’s only fifty-three. Why can’t they DO anything? No chemo, no radiation, no transplants. What the FUCK?” I rambled, Jacque cried. “I have to go, I have to go, I’m sorry,” and I hung up.

  On the corner was a store where I bought sorbet, two vases with two large bouquets, magazines, and water. I pulled myself back together and went back inside the hospital to see my sick mother. I couldn’t say cancer again. Sick was all I could manage. I told Jim to go. He had been there all day and looked awful. Their apartment in the city was nearby.

  Mom and I then forced a change in tempo. We talked about lighter things: my job, things going on in the entertainment world. And it was at that exact moment, at twenty-four years old, that my relationship changed with my mother. It wasn’t in my mother’s nature to dote or to be sappy, but I could see she wanted to tell me something and didn’t know how to say it. We always laughed at overly maternal moments, soap operas, and sickeningly sweet television ads, referring to them as Hallmark moments. Continuing to talk on the surface about seemingly mindless topics to rid our brains of the horror of her predicament, she looked me dead in the eye midsentence and interrupted me.

  “You know that you and Walter are the best children. I couldn’t have asked for more. I love you so much and I am so sorry that this is happening to you.”

  She was crying so hard she almost couldn’t finish the sentence. I fell in to her, cradled her head, and I became the mother.

  “It’s OK, Mom, we’ll be fine. We will be just fine.”

  Suddenly we heard a soft crescendo of sniffling on the other side of the curtain. We both burst into laughter. We forgot there was another woman in the room and found ourselves in one of our own Hallmark moments. If there is a fine line between love and hate, then there certainly is an equally fine line between sadness and hysteria.

  I was there late, until around midnight, I think. When she told me to go home to get some sleep, I agreed and walked out numbly. As I left I heard her begin to cry.

  Chapter 9

  Advanced Cancer

  July 20, 2000

  Monday night Talk hosted a party for Joe Eszterhas, screenwriter of Basic Instinct, who despite all appearances of being a human bulldog, was cordial and even sweet whenever I spoke to him about organizing the event.

  The New York regulars were there: Lauren Hutton, Regis Philbin, tons of press people, Entertainment Tonight. It was a successful party and at the very least, my two weeks of total insanity, filled with last-minute invites, endless RSVP lists, and party prep weren’t completely in vain. On Tuesday morning, physically depleted and mentally wired from too much coffee, I took a cab from work to a 10:00 a.m. appointment at one of the satellite offices of Sloan Kettering. I met Mom and Jim upstairs in the Zen-like room and after greeting both of them, I put my hand in Mom’s and directed my attention to the Japanese-style waterfall that was trickling down in front of me, which proved to be the only thing that could tame my caffeine overdose.

  I don’t think any of us spoke two words. Someone finally called Mom’s name and we all got up and walked past the front desk to one of the back rooms. We were waiting on Dr. Bloomgart, whom Mom spoke of almost mystically. She said there was something really special about him. He was a healer.

  Whoever he was, I needed him to pull my mom out from under this unforgiving thing that was eating all of us alive. We were waiting to hear results from the previous Tuesday’s CAT scan. We were all desperately hoping to hear that her football-sized tumor that seemed to spring out of nowhere was gone. I needed this magician to tell me that Mom had years left, but I was terrified that he wouldn’t say what I needed or that even if he did, he might be wrong. We waited and waited and still none of us spoke. My eyes worked the room. Trash, soiled linen, six small drawers, cabinets, Curity pads, Savoy rubber gloves, something that looked like a dentist’s chair, a bunch of strange-looking instruments, blue shiny floors, Mom’s manicured toes, mine (which desperately needed attention), Jim’s Nikes, two purses, and the wine bag, which was always with Jim. The four daily newspapers that he read were in the bag that morning, but it would be replaced with a bot
tle of crisp, white wine, Brie cheese, and Pepperidge Farm crackers after four o’clock. I heard voices outside the door and sat up straight. The handle turned and the doctor walked in to find three pairs of eyes staring at him intently. Two females in similar white doctor’s coats were standing in the hallway, looking in at us.

  Dr. Bloomgart came in and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek, shook Jim’s hand, and then turned to me. He stared at me a good five seconds before speaking. “You look exactly like your mother,” he said, glancing back at Mom and then at me again. “It’s uncanny.”

  I feigned a smile. “I’ve heard that once or twice before.” Bloomgart sat down on the chair and pulled it closer to Mom, his back almost completely to me. He began to talk about the CAT scan and then stopped, abruptly. He craned his neck around to look at me.

  “You know about everything with your mom, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He returned his attention to Mom.

  “Since you have an advanced cancer …”

  Advanced cancer, advanced cancer, advanced cancer. I didn’t hear anymore after that. The doctor’s lovely British accent faded and I was stuck on advanced cancer. I suddenly felt as sterile as the needles in their plastic wrapping. I looked at Dr. Bloomgart and the two other female doctors standing behind him. He leaned into Mom when he was talking to her. He was firm, but he was also very gentle with her. Advanced cancer, advanced cancer, advanced cancer. I was going to throw up, right there on the floor. Just hearing those two powerful words made her look weaker, smaller. Her clothes were four sizes too big by then, but she was actually holding up really well.

  He told her that he wanted to do another embolization, which was a relatively new treatment for cancer at that time, in which the medical team inserted an embolus, or foreign object, into her blood vessels to try and “starve” the cancer. Mom cringed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “I know it’s rough, but you reacted so well to the last procedure. Really gave the tumor a hell of a scare.”

  She nodded, defeated. With that, he said that he would call her soon and got up and left the room.

  I felt so tired all of the sudden, but I pushed out a bright face and told Mom that she was going to get it over with and we’d get rid of that nasty thing. And as we walked out of the room and got on the elevator to go back downstairs, I looked at Mom and suddenly succumbed to a fear so large I had to swallow hard to push the sentiment down. Was I going to forget my mom one day? Is that even possible? And if so, what would I do when I needed to hear her voice?

  Chapter 10

  Devastating Blow

  September 6, 2000

  It was 9:00 a.m. on a chilly, sun-filled Wednesday morning. I had taken the day off work and was at Sloan Kettering again with Mom. My stepfather, Jim, had had a heart attack the weekend before in Colorado. As Mom said, our typically quiet family had become like a soap opera.

  We checked her in for the follow-up embolism procedure. She got into a gown and they put her on a gurney and took her down a long, white sterile hallway. They took my mom away and all I could do was watch.

  The good news was that by November we learned that Mom’s embolism had worked. The large tumor had died off, but the bad news was that in complete defiance of my family’s hopes, five more angry tumors had sprouted in her liver over a four-week period. It was a devastating blow.

  I tried to remain positive, but it was increasingly more difficult to keep my anxiety at bay. Though I was kept busy at work with daily tasks, after-work parties, and a side editorial project that I was researching, it was not enough to keep my mind off Mom. At minimum, work was a consistent distraction.

  Chapter 11

  Old Man and the Sea

  Draped hospital rooms were a distant memory when Cynthia and I sat on the marble steps of Casa de la Amistad, a mansion that we discovered behind trees that lined Miramar.

  Cyn and I had walked a small marathon that night, searching for this apparent secret spot, whose beauty and perfection took us both by surprise. I could hear music in the distance as we entered the marble-floored hallway, which pulled us by an invisible rope to the back patio, straight ahead. As we walked out into the night again, long branches of fragrant, red flowers hung low, pocketing small tables with three and four chairs each. This was the music I had listened to so many times in New York.

  Sitting in Havana, I was in the middle of my CD, living it out loud. I couldn’t believe a place could be so beautiful and that this transportation was real, sitting under the stars with a cool breeze, listening to the music that had long soothed me. This was the reason I had sought out this curious country, as if the island itself would trick my heart into beating again for the sole pleasure of dancing to its music.

  So far, it was working.

  The night was perfect. When Luis joined us, he gave us each a kiss on the cheek and then told me he liked the red fabric rose pinned to my black, strapless dress. His look into my eyes pounded me into the ground, like a hammer.

  “Thanks,” I said and smiled coolly.

  “Red roses usually mean you are in love,” he said.

  “I’m not in love,” I mused. “Just happy to be here.”

  He put his hand gently on my back and asked where we’d like to sit.

  “How about over there?” I suggested, nodding to a spot under the branches.

  We spent the night free of much talking, listening to Cuba’s notes in the sky.

  The next day we slept in and made our way to Maria Victoria’s by noon. More confidently we walked up the stairwell in search of our feast.

  We were greeted by Maria Victoria, who was genuinely happy to see us. As we walked in, we each received a big hug and kiss. Her husband, Santiago, greeted us warmly and invited us to sit with him while we waited for Maria Victoria to finish in the kitchen.

  Somewhat mysteriously to me, Spanish unlocked its secret code and my time in Spain began to pay off. I understood with relative ease as he spoke about his family and asked us about ours. As we sat there for some time, young girls and women of all ages came in and out of the door, heading to the back. I guessed they were family and friends because their leisurely entrances and departures were unmonitored.

  Santiago rocked in his chair and asked us what we thought of his city. We loved it, we said. Didn’t understand it, but we loved the energy, the people, and the music.

  For a few moments, he said nothing and then, “It’s sad what’s happened to my city.”

  We sat quietly as he took a healthy pause.

  “It used to be so beautiful here,” he remembered, staring off into the distance, beyond the balcony’s rails. “I feel like we’re all waiting for something, but I don’t know what for.”

  I found myself helpless, without words to comfort or change the situation.

  We said nothing.

  As if on cue, Maria Victoria walked into the main room, stage right, with plates in hand and announced that lunch was ready. The four of us sat and ate the best meal I had had in quite some time. Luis was set to pick us up at 1:30, but I hadn’t as much as looked at a clock. Somehow it felt like we should go, so we thanked Maria Victoria and her husband and headed back outside.

  Luis sat in his Coco and looked up as we swung open the gate at the front stoop. At the top of the stairs, I looked directly at him. He winked at me and boom, it was like a gun right to my heart.

  I smiled, but as I did with any other feelings at that time, I pushed them straight down to my feet and left them on the stairs behind me. I had become the master of pushing away any real emotion before it took hold.

  We small talked about lunch and Luis headed out of Havana toward Hemingway’s house, known as Finca Vigia, or “Lookout Farm.” On the thirty-minute-or-so ride, Cyn and I sat still as the midday sun beat down on us. It was textured heat, nearly bereft of oxygen, and felt akin to a giant fly trap. At times the diesel fumes—eye-level in the PAC-MAN–shaped transport—were so overwhelming that we both pulled
our shirts up over our noses, like little American bandits. I couldn’t imagine how Luis worked in such heaviness all day long, given his obvious affinity for cleanliness—and breathing.

  The heat was visible. It swayed, as did the palm trees, leaving the city’s center and entering an area with bits of houses, battered shacks, children and chickens, and wooden boats along dark rivers. Mangy dogs in packs and a number without limbs ruled the streets, scattered in wild currents, showing no signs of ownership.

  The farther we reached into the suburbs, the more I felt eyes on me. One of my translucent legs hung over the side of the cab. I sensed I was a bit on display, like an unusual bit of pottery, but never threatened.

  At a stoplight, Luis turned slightly to the right toward me and touched my ankle when making a point about something in the area. Boom, another shock, this one up the leg, up the spine, to the back of my neck and head. It was a vast shock of goose bumps, one for every freckle on my body.

  I studied his profile. He was like a painting with his long eyelashes, his lips, his skin. But I turned my focus hard right, studying my surroundings so as to not look at Luis. No more surprises.

  There wasn’t a luminous sign announcing the entrance to Hemingway’s house. There was only a gate with an old man taking money. For foreigners it was a few bucks to get in and an additional two if we wanted to take photos. Well, of course we wanted to take photos. Good God.

  Cyn and I paid our dues and Luis rolled through. We were officially on all fifteen acres of Hemingway’s palm- and vine-covered finca. We parked under a canopy of mango trees and tropical flowers, and walked under its veil to the front of the house. It was absolutely magical and worth every penny, camera and all.