Turns out Noah had been made an honorary family member the last time he’d visited this country. He called Ana “Abuelita,” which affectionately means grandma in Spanish. She’d insisted we stay in her home instead of getting a hotel. Every night she cooked us authentic Cuban food like pork, rice and beans, and fried plantains. Then she’d whip up a delicious mango milkshake for dessert.
Noah agreed that we would stay with her, provided she let him do some work around her house. That physical labor turned out to be more extensive than we’d bargained for, so our Cuba trip stretched longer than we’d planned as we worked together out in the sun, much like we had during our summer on the lake. We knew this was the last leg of our trip, so we weren’t really in any rush to get back.
We were having the time of our lives, yet anytime Noah got even a little tired or—God forbid—complained of a headache, it put me on edge. But I knew I couldn’t live in fear of him having another rupture, so I tried to put those scary thoughts out of my mind.
When Noah and I weren’t working together on Abuelita’s house, we took in Havana’s historic sites. We visited the Gran Teatro with its amazing architecture and toured Old Havana, which was a mix of baroque and neoclassical monuments and narrow streets lined with homes. Havana was the perfect place for people watching and taking lots of photos of urban life. My travel blog had accumulated a ton of followers, and they seemed to love the images we captured here.
On the afternoon of our second-to-last day in Cuba, Noah took me to the area where he’d done the feature on the orphanage six years ago. We were just turning toward Abuelita’s car to drive back when he froze, his eyes fixed on a kid in a wheelchair across the street.
“Come on.” He took my hand and led us toward the boy, who was with a woman.
He stopped a few feet away and said, “It’s him.”
I knew instantly what he meant. “The boy from the orphanage…”
“Daniel. I would recognize his face anywhere. My God, Heather, it’s him. He looks so grown up now.”
We approached them, and Noah began speaking in Spanish. I hadn’t realized until we got to Cuba that he was pretty fluent. He knelt down to be eye-level with Daniel.
The boy reached out and touched Noah’s face. At least on some level, he seemed to remember him. Though he didn’t speak, Daniel typed something on a device that looked like an iPad. He flipped the screen around and showed us what he’d written.
Naranja.
A huge smile engulfed Noah’s face. “That’s right! Naranja. Orange. You remember! I used to bring you little oranges, clementinas.”
My heart turned to mush as Noah embraced him.
Noah continued talking to the woman and then entered some of her information into his phone.
“Bueno. Adios. Hasta mañana,” he said.
“Tell me what you were saying,” I said as they departed.
“She said they had to leave to get him to a doctor’s appointment. Her name is Rosita Jimenez. She adopted Daniel about three years ago, so that would be a couple of years after I visited. All this time, they’ve lived right down the street from where the orphanage used to be. He was placed in foster care and ended up with her. He’s been doing great and making a lot of progress. Since he can’t speak very well, he uses that device to communicate. Even though he was in a wheelchair today, he’s able to walk some now. I got her information so we can go visit them before we leave tomorrow. I want to bring him a whole bunch of clementines.”
“Oh my God, yes. That’s a great idea. It’s so wonderful he remembered that.”
Noah looped my fingers in with his as we continued walking. “Back when I told you the story of my Cuba trip, I didn’t mention that it came very soon after the letter from Opal, during the height of my depression. Meeting Daniel really helped me to stop feeling sorry for myself—seeing how strong he was and how he persevered despite the odds against him. Everything feels more connected than it ever has right now—the way you and I met, being here with you, and running into him on the last full day of our trip. It feels like everything has come full circle.”
He stopped walking and faced me. “When we were in Paris, you were napping at the apartment and I took a walk. I passed a jewelry store. I had no intention of buying anything that day, but then I happened to see a ring in the window. I couldn’t believe how perfect it was for you. I knew I had to at least inquire about it. To be honest, I didn’t really care how much it cost—I knew I wasn’t walking out of there without it.”