Letters from Heaven / Cartas del cielo (2 page)

Inside the package there is another box wrapped in a paper bag with a note folded inside. I immediately recognize the handwriting. It's from Grandma!

Dear Celeste
,

I know you miss me as much as I miss you. Don't be sad. Where there is love, there is no sadness. Remember, just as everything comes, everything goes. It's the same with this sadness you are feeling
.

While I may no longer be there with you, there's a way you can feel that we're still together. When you prepare the meals we used to enjoy, stop for a second and take in the aroma. I promise you that the first bite will take you back to when we were together! Try this whenever you miss me. I know this will work
.

Remember me with love . . . and flavor!

Your grandma that loves you
,

Rosa

I unwrap the box inside and find myself holding a bar of guava paste and a note. On it is Grandma's recipe for Cuban croissants, her
cangrejitos de guayaba con queso
! We used to make them every
Sunday before lunch, or whenever company showed up unexpectedly. Because in our home, people show up unexpectedly all the time. My friends tell me that this doesn't happen at their houses. No matter how old or how young you are, you must call ahead and make an appointment. Grandma used to say that calling ahead was like going to the dentist instead of visiting a friend. But in Cuba, her island, half the fun of visiting friends was to surprise them. I asked her what happened when people came from far away and no one was home.

“They'd wait around for a very long time to see if the family would come back,” she said. “And if they didn't return by the time it got dark, then the visitors would leave a note saying that they'd stopped by. You see, the note was important, because even if you missed the visit, you'd still get to enjoy the surprise . . . To know that someone cared enough about you to come by.”

I smile thinking that Grandma was doing the same thing to me now with her letter.

3          
SYNCHRONIZED EATING

Mami gets home from the factory exhausted, like always. She opens the door, throws her bag on the floor, takes off her shoes and falls onto the couch.

“Mami, Mami! Close your eyes!” I say eagerly.

“
Ay, cielo
. I'm so tired that if I close my eyes I'll fall asleep right here.”

“No, Mami, close your eyes for a second,” I tell her, “and smell.”

I watch her close her eyes and her lips slowly curl up into a little smile.

“Something smells wonderful,” she says.

“Don't open your eyes just yet,” I say, running to get the tray of
cangrejitos
.

“Now,” I tell her.

When she sees them, the smile is erased from her face and she begins to cry. I start to cry too. I place the tray on the table so that they don't get wet with tears and I hug her. We stay like that for a while until we catch the scent of the
cangrejitos
again and we
devour them in silence. I decide not to show her Grandma's letter. I don't want her to cry anymore. Besides, she wouldn't believe it was from her. I don't quite believe it myself . . .

The next day I pack three
cangrejitos
for school. One for Karen, one for Silvia and one for me.

“I have a surprise for you,” I tell them.

They look at me as if I was speaking Chinese.

“Don't you want to see what it is?”

“It's not that,” Silvia says. “You actually talked to us.”

“Shhh, Silvia!” Karen elbows her. “Of course we want to see!”

I show them the
cangrejitos
and Silvia pretends to faint.

“How yummy!” she says. “Just like the ones your grandm . . . ”

“Yeah, my grandma,” I say. “It's okay. You can mention her. That isn't going to make me any sadder than I already am.”

“I'm sorry,” Karen says. “She's dumb.”

“Alright, try them,” I say.

The three of us synchronize ourselves so that we take our first bite at the same time. We close our eyes, spin around and raise our arms as if we're doing the sun salutation from gym class, and then say “Aaaaaaahhhhh!” with our mouths full. It isn't very polite, but it sure is fun.

“So, who made them?” Karen asks. “Surely it wasn't your mom . . . ”

This time it's Silvia who elbows Karen. As if I didn't know that when Mami cooks, the plates taste better than the food . . .

“I made them,” I tell them. “My grandma sent me a package with the guava paste and the recipe. I got it yesterday!”

Right away I realize that I've said something I shouldn't have. They look at each other and then at me. I know that look. It's the look you give someone who tells you the tooth fairy left money under the pillow. Understanding, but also full of pity.

“Don't pity me!” I tell them, furiously. I take my empty lunchbox and leave.

As soon I turn the corner I realize that Amanda, the bully, had been watching us the entire time. She walks over swinging her long blond braids from side to side.

“So the ghost of your grandma writes you letters,” she tells me, mockingly. “Boooo! How scary!”

“Leave me alone!” I tell her and keep walking.

“Be careful that she doesn't take you away and leave your mommies all alone,” she says.

I turn around as if she'd thrown a bucket of ice water onto my back.

“What did you say?” I ask her.

“You don't want to leave your mommy alone,” she repeats, correcting herself.

“Don't bother her, Amanda!” Silvia yells from the other side of the room.

“Thank you, Silvia, but I can take care of myself,” I tell her. “Amanda, I'm going to ask my grandma to show up in your room and scare the sleep out of you.”

“Oh, I'm shaking,” she says.

I walk away. I would've liked to say more, but that was all I could come up with. I want to go home, crawl into my bed and stay there until summer. If only I could hibernate, I'd be so happy.

4          
CONGRÍ

Lisa comes to pick me up. I'm not thrilled about it, because whenever it's her turn we have to walk. Lisa doesn't own a car. She says she doesn't need one, that with her own two feet she can walk or pedal to wherever she has to go. Even though I think she's a little weird, Mami really likes her. She says that Lisa is like her sister, even though they don't look anything alike. Mami likes to wear make-up, even if she's going outside to get the newspaper. Her hair is always fixed and her clothes match perfectly. And she always wears perfume! Lisa, on the other hand, is all natural. I've never seen her with a drop of make-up and the clothes she wears are a bit strange—although I have to admit, she looks very comfortable in her long flowery skirt and old T-shirt. Mami says that Lisa doesn't use make-up because she doesn't need it, and I think she's right. She's very pretty with that long black hair flowing all the way down to her waist. Instead of lipstick she wears a smile.

“Hi, beautiful!” she says cheerfully from the other side of the street.

I half-smile as I cross to meet her. I don't feel much like talking today.

We walk on, in silence. Lisa looks all around, smiling all the while. It's as if the trees and the birds were broadcasting messages that only she can hear.

“Your mami told me that you made some delicious
cangrejitos
. . . ”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any left? I'd die for one.”

“No,” I tell her. I think about challenging her just to see how she responds. “But since Grandma taught me how to make them
yesterday
, I can make them for you whenever.”

I expect some sort of reaction to my madness, but Lisa doesn't say anything. She keeps smiling, as she always does.

“Well that's great,” she says. “Your grandma really did know how to cook. It's such a shame your mami didn't inherit that talent . . . ”

We both look at each other and burst out laughing. I think of the smell of burnt rice from the other night. Most of the rice stayed stuck to the bottom of the pot. Lisa had stopped by to see how Mami was holding up and after smelling the disaster, she turned around, got on her bike and came back with a rotisserie chicken and a loaf of bread. We ate it with such hunger that all that was left were the bones. There wasn't a bite to share with the neighbor's dogs!

At home, I make my
tostaditas
and
café con leche
. I ask Lisa if she wants any, but she says she has a million things to do, and that she'll stop by later. While I wait for the coffee to brew, I look into the pantry to see if there's something to fix for dinner. There are a few cans of tuna, beans, tomato paste, olives, sardines . . . Actually, nothing. I'm hoping Lisa will bring something tonight or otherwise it'll be tuna fish sandwiches again. Or breakfast for dinner . . . another one of my mom's specialties. Translation: cereal with milk.