Chapter Five Jenn
Chapter Five
Jenn
Thursday afternoon
I pick up my rental car, springing for a convertible because, Why not?
The hospital is paying for it, along with a hotel room.
I don’t know how the next few days are going to go, but these people owe me thousands of dollars in therapy, and I aim to start collecting right here, right now.
And, while my pain and suffering warrant a suite at the Four Seasons, I’ll settle for a king-size single at the Marriott with some ridiculously overpriced room service and minibar purchases.
Though I reserve the right to upgrade, depending on how bad this gets.
Braithwaite left about a dozen messages asking me to meet him for dinner, none of which I bothered returning, all of which I promptly deleted.
He can see me in his office tomorrow morning, as previously arranged.
In the meantime I have a date with a Cuban—of both the human and sandwich varieties.
No doubt New York City has some stellar Cuban cuisine but nothing the likes of what you’ll find down here in the tiny Cuba Libre restaurant.
Though I’m probably biased because my family has owned the joint for decades.
The parking gods are smiling upon me, and I’m able to find a spot on the same block.
This whole neighborhood is hopping tonight, and when I walk through the door, there are about ten people already waiting for a table.
I don’t draw any attention to myself, just slip into the back of the line.
It isn’t until I’m almost at the front that Stef spots me, looks away, then looks back again so quickly, I’m sure she’s given herself whiplash.
“?Ay, dios mio!” she shrieks loud enough to get the attention of every patron in the packed dining room.
A moment later she’s pushing past her other customers to scoop me up in a bear hug so tight I’m pretty sure a rib gives.
Stef has always been a shorter, sturdier version of me—same dark eyes, same thick, wavy hair, though hers is worn loose and wild in the way our grandmother Lita used to wear it in old photos.
She’s all warmth and volume and zero awareness of her own upper-body strength.
“Stef, please . . .” I manage to gasp while patting her back, “I can’t breathe . . .”
She releases me, plants her hands on her hips, and gives me that look—chin tipped, one eyebrow doing all the talking. “You don’t come to Miami for ten years, and now you show up without so much as a call?”
I shrug and smile sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It was kind of a last-minute thing. Besides, you were just in New York! I think the sheets in the guest room might still be warm!”
My cousin harrumphs, then grabs my hand and pulls me through the dining room, around the tables, and into the kitchen.
A half dozen men and women in chefs’ whites are too busy chopping, sautéing, and searing to notice us.
Finally we slip out the back door into the alley, settling onto the small bench tucked against the building.
“Dime,” she says. “Tell me. Are you finally ready to make me a tía?”
“Stef,” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “We’ve talked about this.”
Too many times.
She shrugs, soft but stubborn. “Hope springs eternal.”
“Hope needs a hobby,” I mutter. Before she can latch onto the topic again, I barrel ahead. “Actually, it’s work. I’ve got a consulting gig down here for the weekend.”
She perks up. “Really? That’s great, Jenn! Where?”
Here’s the hard part.
“Miami Killian Medical—”
She’s got her lips pursed and is shaking her head before I’ve even gotten the words all the way out of my mouth. “Oh, no. No, no, no, mama. Do not tell me you’re going back there.”
Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have just slipped in and out of town without saying anything. She’d have never known. But I would have. And that’s not who we are.
Our abuelitos, Lito and Lita for short, emigrated to Miami from Cuba during the 1970s.
Stef’s father and my mother are siblings.
She, my sister, Jess, and I grew up together in our grandparents’ home, bonding over Teddy Grahams and Teletubbies from our earliest days.
Now she drops my hand and shifts to face me fully, dark brows arched high enough to touch her widow’s peak hairline.
“Are you out of your mind, Jenn? What if you run into that pendejo—what was his name? Brainwhite?”
“Braithwaite,” I correct, trying not to chuckle. “And he’s the one who asked me to come, actually.”
I get a skeptical chicken neck from my cousin. “And why would he do that?”
“Why not?” I clap back. “I’m good at what I do.”
Stef scowls at me. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it, Jennifer.”
I roll my eyes. “Wow, my full name. Pulling out the big guns now, eh?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?” I ask petulantly as I cross my arms.
There’s just something about her that takes me right back to my inner fourteen-year-old.
“?Oye, chica!” she fires back, poking my shoulder with her index finger.
“Have you forgotten we used to play My Little Pony together? I know you better than just about anyone, including that blond-haired, green-eyed Irishman of yours. So cut the defensive bullshit already and tell me what you’re really doing here. ”
I hunch forward so that my forearms are on my thighs and glance back up at her over my shoulder.
“Okay, first of all, Gabe’s French Alsatian.
And I told you, I’m being brought in to consult on a case.
It’s big, Stef. And there’s a good reason for me to be involved.
But that’s about all I can tell you about it—it’s a privacy thing, you know? ”
She doesn’t look convinced, but I can see her softening—just a little.
“Hmmm,” she murmurs to herself skeptically. “Okay, well, I’m going to take your word for it, but you remember I’m here if you need me. I got your back.”
I sit up, grinning, and knock her shoulder with mine. “Hey, so I’m starving. Any chance you can scare up one of your amazing sammies for me?” I bat my eyelashes coquettishly.
She sighs with feigned irritation and rolls her eyes. “I suppose I could do that. You want regular fries or yuca?”
“What do you think?” I counter.
“Yuca it is!” she declares, grabbing my hand once more and helping me to my feet. When we’re standing, she surveys me for a long, thoughtful moment. “Remind me to send you back to your hotel with mojito ingredients. Something tells me you’re going to need them while you’re here.”
I don’t object, because she’s not wrong.
I’ve seen it again and again—both as a psychiatrist and as a child who once waited for someone who never returned.
A lot of young people never give up hope that their birth parents will come for them. They believe that one day there will be a knock at the door, or a letter, or some dramatic reunion that rewrites everything that went wrong.
My mother, Lorena, certainly knew how to find me if she wanted to. Which, clearly, she did not.
And I was fine with that—eventually. I never went looking for her either, even though I probably could have tracked her down without too much trouble as the internet grew in availability and scope.
I had my grandparents, and they were enough.
It’s my intention to head straight back to the hotel from the restaurant .
. . and I do start in that direction, but I don’t stay that way for long.
Without my making a conscious decision to drive through our old neighborhood, it just sort of happens—and suddenly I’m passing landmarks that are familiar but different.
Despite the years, not much has changed.
The houses on our block look the same, more or less—just different cars in the driveway and different kids playing out front.
When I reach our block, I slow. The sight of that narrow, oak-lined street catches something in my chest. The same cracked sidewalks. The same mailbox with the dent from where Lito backed into it one Thanksgiving.
And then—our house.
Lito and Lita’s old house, still painted the same faded yellow, the porch sagging slightly at one corner, the iron railing rusting at the base.
The hibiscus bushes have grown wild, pink blossoms spilling over onto the walkway.
If I squint, I can almost see them there—Lito in his guayabera, Lita with her sun visor and her pruning shears, both rocking slowly in those squeaky wrought-iron chairs.
I pull over to the curb, kill the engine, and just sit there.
The yard looks smaller than I remember. When I was a kid, it felt like a kingdom—grass tall enough to hide in, the old mimosa tree in the corner like a sentinel watching over us.
There used to be a wooden swing hanging from its lowest branch, worn smooth from a thousand afternoons.
I can see us there—Jess and me. We’re around ten years old, barefoot, hair wild, pushing off with both feet.
“Higher, Jenny! Higher!” my sister hollers.
I’m standing behind her, pretending to drag my heels, just to make her beg.
She always wanted more—more height, more laughter, more everything.
Years later, when the swing snapped unexpectedly, she tumbled backward, taking me down with her.
We hit the ground laughing so hard, our sides ached.
Lita came running out, clutching her rosary like she’d heard a gunshot, scolding us all the way to dinner.
The memory hits so vividly that for a second I could swear I hear it—the creak of the rope, the bark of her laugh, the soft thunk of her sandals landing in the dirt. I grip the steering wheel tighter, waiting for it to fade. It does, but slowly, like a song trailing off.
I look at the tree now—still standing, but the swing is gone. Just a pale groove in the bark where the rope used to rub.
It’s strange, the way the past gets edited by time. The tree stays; the laughter doesn’t.
The house belongs to my aunt and uncle now, Stef’s parents. I’m a little relieved they’re traveling for the holiday weekend so I don’t have to make an excuse not to go inside.
I ease the car back into drive and roll down the block—one, two, three, four—until the road dead-ends at the cemetery fence. The chain link glints in the sun, separating the living from the no-longer.
This is as close as I’ve ever gotten. It’s been more than two decades, and not once have I been able to propel myself through those gates, around the drive, and up the hill to the shady plot under the mimosa tree.
From this exact spot, I can just make out the pale marble headstone. A matching carved angel sits perched atop it, watching over the grave’s occupant, the epitaph carved in curling script:
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.
It’s funny, the symmetry of it—how that same tree grows here too, its blossoms falling on her name every spring. There was a time I thought I’d never get past the sound of her death, that the memory would drown me whole.
But grief has a rhythm of its own. It buries what it must, resurrects what it can, and waits for you to show up again when you’re ready.
“Sleep, sweet Jessica,” I murmur. “Sleep.”