The mumble coming from the group as we approached suddenly snapped into something recognizable—a prayer, one they all knew. An Our Father or a Hail Mary maybe: I didn’t know the difference, and they were praying in Spanish, which made it even harder for me to tell. The only place I’d heard those sounds before was whenever our parents dragged us to a church for some cousin’s first communion or confirmation, or to see some newly born relative get baptized. Me and Leidy always seemed a step behind, everyone else knowing when to stand, when to sit, when to shout back at the priest up front. My parents were raised Catholic but never prayed outside of these instances, so it always disturbed me to hear those words pour from their mouths without a thought, like some language they knew but kept secret from us, some voice that wasn’t theirs. And that’s how it felt, once we were close enough to see which one was actually my mom—prayers falling from her lips, eyeliner wobbling across her closed, twitching eyelids, her hair pulled back into a tidy but shaking bun: that she couldn’t really be my mom. That my mom wasn’t there.
We stood behind her in the prayer circle, onlookers stepping out of our way thanks to the stroller and Dante and the sacred nature any little boy within twenty miles of that house had taken on. Strings of rosary beads snaked around their palms and dripped into the air below their joined fists. I wondered where my mom had bought hers, if one even buys a rosary or if they’re given out at churches for free. We waited for the chant to end, and when it did (sort of—there was a natural pause and some of the women opened their eyes and looked around, but others didn’t, and my mom was in this second group), I leaned close to my mom’s bun and said, Mami?
She opened her eyes and turned, hands still holding other hands on each side.
—Lizet! she screamed.
And then the smash of beads against my back, whips coming from both sides. My face was in my mother’s neck as she pressed her hands and the rosaries into me. The rest of the circle stood frozen and confused.
She pushed me away and held me at arm’s length, then let me go.
—Es mi hija, she said to the women around her. Everyone! This is my daughter!
All the women in the circle gawked at me, like maybe I was a sign from God, or some evil visiting. Several of them whispered to their neighbors—only one or two words of shock—and I thought maybe I should twirl around or something, but all I did was pull my shirt down at my waist with both hands, which let me hunch my shoulders like a boxer readying for a blow. Mami tugged me closer to the circle’s center.
—What are you doing here? she said.
—I came down for Easter. I came down to get you.
I worried someone somewhere was snapping a picture; Mami was grinning like this was a possibility. The circle collapsed in closer.
—Another gift this Easter, she said. I am so happy you are here for this.
My mom grabbed my hand and squeezed it too hard, like she’d either really missed me or was really mad: the kind of grip you’d throw on the shoulder of a misbehaving toddler as you dragged them around a corner to beat them. I had no idea what to make of her reaction and so searched for Leidy, to read her face and see if she was signaling anything to me: Get out now or You’re on your own or See, I told you or Oh my god you’re bringing her back single-handedly! I couldn’t spot her through the ring of women, so I looked all around me and ventured, This is so great!
—Yes! Our faith is moving mountains. Do you want some water?
I tried shifting a little away from her, just to get her whole body into view, but the women around us made that hard to do. Their black clothes radiated heat, and some had cheeks so red and foreheads so sweaty that I couldn’t believe they hadn’t passed out.
—No, I’m okay, but can we – let’s go home, I said to Mami.
The women all got silent and I said, Just for a little while. It’s so hot. It’s Good Friday. And I want to see you.
—I can’t, she said. We’re here praying, we can’t stop. The court said yesterday that his family has the right to refuse his return, and we are giving thanks and praying it doesn’t get reversed. Because the others, they keep calling.
—The others, I said.
—Janet Reno, Bill Clinton’s people. They think they are bigger than the courts, than history. We are praying for God to intervene. He will. He has. We are praying all weekend and then Monday we’re marching to the courthouse to thank the mayor, God bless him.
—From here?
—He says Ariel will stay, and he told the news that the federal government can’t overrule him.
—I don’t think the mayor gets to say that, Mami.
A current twitched beneath her face, like when I was little and did something in front of people to embarrass her. It meant a secret viselike pinch to the back of my arm was on its way. But it never came, and the hard-line mouth slipped back behind the beatific face.
I took the reprieve and said, But I didn’t know about all that, I was on the plane. I didn’t hear, Mami. Of course you have to keep praying. Of course. Now more than ever.
The women began to spread back out. One close to me wore a large gold brooch in the shape of Cuba, and it pulled on her blouse and sagged at one end, the east end, so that it looked like a smear of metal dripping from her shoulder. It glinted in the sunlight like a just-brandished knife. My mother tugged my arm and pulled me to her, leaned in to my face, her breath another source of heat, and said, I’ll come by later, after I eat with them. When we rotate I can visit you. You’re at the apartment?
She squeezed my arm harder. It was a genuine question.
—Yeah, of course, I said.