Again, in London

It took me a minute to see her waving frantically in the crowd, a cardboard sign with my name in her hand. She knew how much I hated that, and that’s why I smiled — because she’d wanted to make sure that the first thing I felt when I saw her was annoyance. But, instead, I was grateful and happy that she still remembered even the smallest detail of our time together. LOUE MAGOO, in her firm, all-caps handwriting, and, of course, it took me back. The first time we met, freshman year of college, we had reached for the same tray in the dining hall. Silly as we both were, we took a moment to try and convince the other, with little hand gestures and nods, that it was okay for her to have it, there were more trays after all.

“Okay, I’ll have it,” she’d finally said with a big smile on her face, “but only if you tell me your name.”

“Louise,” I’d said, blushing a bit. “But you can call me Loue. You need to spell it with an E in the end, though, because I’m a girl.”

“I can see that.” There was something alluring to her voice. She took a second, then added, “Loue, Loue, Loue Magoo.”

The soft singsong of her voice still melts in my ear every time I remember our first encounter. The beginning. Somehow, and for whatever reason, I knew right then and there that this simple moment would define the next four years of my life. I guess I’m one of the few lucky people who know they’re living a special moment right when it’s happening.

Like now.

I ran to her arms and hugged her like never before, with the longing of years, with the immediacy of yesterday, as if we had been apart for not more than a few hours, a day or two maybe, instead of six years. It was almost as if she was coming back from England after summer break, when I’d pick her up at the airport with sunflowers — her favorite, wine waiting for us back at the apartment. And she hadn’t changed a bit, either, her hair still wavy, long below her shoulders, auburn, like she used to call it. But I knew she had let it grow out, because I had stalked her on Instagram, and not long ago she had a sharp blonde bob. I remember thinking she looked nothing like the Mara I knew, and even though I never told her, she’d probably sensed it.

Me, too, I had tried my best to hide the passing of time. My hair was natural once again, the way she liked it, how it used to be when she’d run her fingers through it at night. I made some effort to put back on the few pounds I lost after Leo died early last year. I didn’t want her to see me and think that life had treated me badly while we were apart. First, because it hadn’t, excluding of course my brother’s death. But also because to let those changes appear would be admitting that time had passed and that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t the same two people who had said goodbye at the TPA that Friday in August.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here!” She hugged me again, her smile wide, the one thing I knew would always be the same. “Oh my God, you haven’t changed one bit.”

“Neither have you,” I lied.

“Welcome to London,” she grabbed my hands between hers. “You’ll see, we’ll have a great time! I planned a lot of fun activities, and I’m going to take you to the second floor of the red bus, remember? Like you always wanted.”

So she remembered that, too. I felt my cheeks burn in embarrassment. One night, as we watched a movie set in her hometown, I told Mara that I’d always wanted to ride one of those red buses. “On the top floor, of course,” I’d added, “because otherwise, it doesn’t make any difference.” She laughed sweetly but, for years to come, I’d question if she’d laughed out of pity. We were so different, after all. She, the sophisticated British socialite, trust fund baby, and I, the DACA girl, trying my best to make my parents’ hardships and struggles worth it. It was doomed before it even started, but even things that are meant to end can bring with them moments of infinite happiness.

“I’m sorry about Leo,” she said, as we walked towards the subway.

“It’s okay, I guess,” I lied, again. I wanted to talk about it to someone, to her, but I knew it wasn’t the moment yet.

“How’s your mum holding up?”

“She’s doing well. You know how it is, her life’s just a constant ode to grief and pain. And I guess it doesn’t help that I’m the one who’s left.”

Mara rolled her eyes, and I felt a flutter. She always thought I was so dramatic, and even that I had missed. I smiled because maybe she hadn’t changed that much after all, and neither had I.

When Mami had made the five-hour drive from Miami to Tampa to visit for the first time, we’d tried to hide everything as best we could. Mara would stay in our room and I would move some of my clothes and books to the spare room. We would offer Mami the sleeper sofa and then when I was sure that she was sleeping, I’d slip back into our room. Except that Mami had different plans. The whole week that she was there, she requested to sleep in my bed and insisted that I stay with her. “Mi espalda mija,” she had said, “está bien mala. No aguanto el sofá.” It was true that her back had always hurt, ever since I could remember, ever since she had taken extra shifts cleaning houses and then at the warehouse to make ends meet after Papa had died — she’d done what she had to do to make sure Leo and I would be okay, and that Mamie Louise wouldn’t come to get us and bring us with her to Port-au-Prince. However, she had slept in far worse places than our sleeper sofa and had never made it a problem. I could see by the way she’d look back and forth at us as we stood in the living room, that there was more to her request.

Mami had always been suspicious. They say that mothers know everything, and I guess so did mine. There was a glimpse of hope for her, I think, when I was fifteen and one of her comadres from Church told her that I had lost my virginity to one of tía Maribel’s sons. What Mami didn’t know was that it was José Juan, who was almost twice my age. She also didn’t know that he had tricked me into going to his place promising me I would get to hold his newborn. She also didn’t know that it had happened because my tía was concerned that I seemed un poco muy interesada en las mujeres and she thought her son could help me understand how good it was to be with a man. Sometimes, though, as I stared at the room on one of my many sleepless nights, it’d occur to me that maybe Mami knew all along but didn’t say anything, because whatever could happen to me paled in comparison to what would happen to her if her daughter turned out to be una machorra lesbiana. “Your dad and that stupid name,” she’d told me once, in English to make sure every word cut through me. “Louise, what is Louise? It sounds like Luis, nombre de hombre! But you’re not a man, Louise.”

No, mamá, I’m not a man. I knew that already. I’m Loue, Loue, Loue Magoo, and today I’m happy, with the woman I love, and I’m not letting anything get between us again.