❝There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.❞

-Dracula by Bram Stoker

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I wish I could say that things go uphill immediately. But we go to school that day, and hang out with Macy and do our classwork, and nothing changes. We get pizza for dinner, Kat goes to soccer practice, I work on Spanish IV homework and fall victim to nightmares that night. For any other family, when this type of news would be broken, I'd assume the kids and grandkids would automatically travel to see the ailing grandmother. But with our schedule and the fact that Abuela lives on an island thousands of miles away, it's not that easy for the Cabreras.

Part of me wishes Mor would just appear and whisk us away to Havana, but in the light of day, I realize it may not be that easy. Mor's job is to help me with my bucket list, and if there's nothing on there about visiting my grandmother, I assume he'd be breaking whatever protocol the Reapers follow.

But while Thursday is simply another dreary day in my life, Friday is different. Friday is the day any high school emo dreads for months. Friday is homecoming.

The school is electric, a mood that Kat and I cannot match no matter how hard we try. All the fall athletes - including my sister - are forced to wear their uniforms, proudly displaying the Crimson and Ebony of the Ashdown Jackals.

Where the plaster is breaking in the hall, banners are hung up that read "Let's go Jackals!" and "Howl, cry, fight!" Everyone's talking about their plans tonight, from watching the ever hopeful town-wide parade to getting drunk beneath the student section while the football team tries their luck. I find it strange, how, even after all our losses this season, everybody still has an intense sense of school pride. It all culminates in the mandatory pep rally, which we get out of study hall for right at the end of the day.

The pep rally is a messy blur for me. The student body crowds into the gym, Principal Harmon says a few falsely inspirational words, the marching band plays My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark, all the sports teams come running out, and the poor freshman in the mascot costume leaps around and tries to get the crowd to go wild.

When the football team makes their entrance, led by new captain and quarterback CJ Sykes, everyone around me stands and claps. Numbly, I do too, though I no longer hold any love for this school. If this was any other year, things would be different. I'd be head-to-toe in Ashdown spirit, roaring with the crowd and singing along to the alma mater. Will would be the one leading the football team, and everyone would cheer for him, but he would look straight at me and smile.

Now, the only person looking at me is Kat, sitting with her fellow soccer players. Her eyes are filled with a similar sadness to mine, but on a different level. I'm grieving somebody who's already gone, but she's mourning a woman yet to die. She doesn't know what it's like to get used to the dull ache at the back of your heart. Her pain is fresh and as sharp as a tack.

I wish I could help her.

When the pep rally ends, my sister and I reunite, but we don't say anything, because what is there to say? Students are surrounding us, surging like a tidal wave out of the gym, running at full speed to the parking lot and bus loop. Everyone's got somewhere to be, someone to be with.

Kat and I take our time, but then a honeyed voice comes from behind us:

"Kat, Lila! Wait up!"

In sync, we turn, and see our only peer who tolerates both of us at once is standing there, red and white pom-poms clutched in her brown hands. It's Macy, smiling brightly. She's wearing the long-sleeved mini dress all of the cheerleaders wear, and her hair is tied up with a giant scarlet scrunchie.

"Hey, Macy," I say. "Uh, good job at the pep rally."

Macy's grin grows. "Thanks! It feels like we got the whole school really into it. Hopefully it'll pay off at the game."

"Haven't the guys lost, like every game since the beginning of the season?" Kat asks, raising her eyebrows. Despite the negativity, this question does nothing to undermine our cheerful friend's confidence. Macy's happiness isn't bubbling over like champagne, as it usually is on any given day, but she seems undeterred by the team's football record.

"Yeah. I've heard the juniors that came up to Varsity this year aren't very good. I think morale on the team itself is kinda low-" Macy shrugs- "But maybe the rest of the school's spirit will make up for it!"

Kat and I give each other a look. That's not how it really works, I think to myself. It actually takes tactics to win a game, not just fans.

But I don't say this; instead, I just attempt to return her smile. If she's happy, I'll let her be. I wonder how she'll feel after the Jackals get pummeled at the Ridge tonight, or when they don't make it into playoffs. With most of the previous years' star players off at college, and their saving grace dead, who knows whether the team will win a single game this season, and if the program will even continue after that.

Ashdown High School is always switching out funding to whatever gives them money back. I know that from experience.

Another cheerleader calls for Macy, and she gives us one last beaming smile. "Sorry, I have to go get ready for the parade. Go-o-o Jackals!" She waves her pom poms, then gambols off to join the squad, her skirt flouncing around her.

Kat frowns. "I don't understand where she gets all that happiness from. I wish I could have some of it."

"Hm." I tighten my grip on the straps of my backpack, pulling it closer to give me some form of comfort. "Don't we all."

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All is normal for another 15 minutes. Kat and I drive home, enter in through the creaking steel door, take our shoes off in the foyer, and go to the kitchen... only to see Mor sitting at our peninsula.

He's leaning back in a chair, admiring the crown moulding that edges our ceiling, but he turns to face us when we enter the room. "Lila, dearest," he flashes me a smile and nods at Kat, "How would you feel about taking a little trip down to Havana?"

I inhale sharply, my heart skipping a beat. Can we really do that?

For the sake of our companion, who's suddenly looking as anxious as me, Mor answers my question out loud. "In black gel pen, with much neater handwriting than before, may I add, you once wrote that you wanted to see your abuela again, so, yes, we can do that."

Before I can emphatically shout a yes, Kat interrupts, "You're supposedly an angel, right? Can you, like, ask God why the hell he's killing off our grandmother?"

"Kat!" I exclaim, although we haven't been to church since Easter, "That sounds extremely blasphemous."

Mor waves his hand dismissively. "I'm afraid I can do no such thing, Katrina, although I appreciate your candor."

"I don't need your appreciation. I need her cancer to go away."

It sounds like she's being purposefully fierce, but I can hear the emotion in her voice. There's a slight quiver when she says cancer. For a moment, I think Mor is going to snark her back, but that human side of him peaks out instead.

"I apologize that she's sick," Mor acquiesces. "Truly, I do. But I have no control over that. I'm merely a pawn in a very, very large game."

What is that supposed to mean? I think at him.

You know I can't tell you more, Lila.

Kat hmphs, but slowly lowers her arms. Her body wilts, like she's letting out a breath she's been holding since we got home. "Can you really take us to Havana?"

Mor holds out his hand, the sunlight coming in through the window dappling his leather gloves, and says, "I can do anything, hurricane. Anything Lila desires, I'm forced to give her."

"So you're like... a dog that follows her around and plays fetch whenever she calls?"

Oh my god, Kat, I think to myself. You're all polite and obedient at school, but the minute you meet a freaking angel you decide to sass him off forever?

I don't give the reaper enough time to react to my sister's comment. I don't want to stand here and squabble - I want to see Abuela. So I tug Kat towards Mor, shove our hands into his, and say goodbye to Ashdown.

Havana, here I come. I don't need to go to the football game; this is my homecoming.

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Like always, the first thing I feel is the temperature. But it's no extreme - it's not the heat of Australia or the coldness of Finland. In fact, it's somewhere in the middle, a cool humidity that clings to my skin and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

I open my eyes and immediately have to put a hand up to shield my vision from the burning sun. It's high in the sky, a bright blue expanse that seems to stretch on in every direction far above La Ciudad de las Columnas.

The blue continues, changing to a deep, shimmering cobalt as I tilt my head down. We're standing along the malecón, a long esplanade that borders the straits of Florida, and from here all I can see is the water.

Turning away from the sound of waves lapping against the sea wall, I'm given the view I've been looking for. Sitting plainly across the street, in line with many similar buildings, is Abuela's apartment building. It's old and stony and painted a pastel peach, with decorative arches holding up the second and third floor. A classic, bright yellow hot rod parked right in front pulls away just as I take a breath.

That's Uncle Camilo's car, I tell myself. Oh my god, Uncle Camilo. I haven't seen him since I was 11.

My mother's oldest brother, unlike his siblings, stayed in Cuba after high school, and has lived here ever since. When Abuelo died, he started taking care of Abuela, and I can only imagine how he feels about the cancer.

I wonder where he's driving off to, but I'm too relieved to finally be back in Havana to really care in the end.

Kat seems equally as astonished. In a daze, she fixes her gaze on the sunset-colored building and steps forward to the curb. "Oh my god. We're actually here," she marvels.

"You didn't believe me?" Mor asks, quirking an eyebrow.

My sister ignores him and starts to cross the street without us (though, not before looking both ways first). I sigh deeply, but I can't find it in me to be annoyed with her. Not after everything.

I take in the smell of saltwater and savor the feeling of the light on my face. I've dreamed of coming back here for years. Between soaking up the heat and sunshine and bonding with my family, my trips to Havana as a child were always like paradise. The only qualm I ever had about them was being away from Will, whom I always wanted to bring along.

Of course, that desire still applies, although I have much different feelings about it.

Are you aware she's going to get in there before you do? Mor interrupts my thoughts.

He's right. As I look across the street, I see Kat's already standing on the stoop, prepared to enter. I heave another sigh and say, "Not if I can help it."

Rapidly as possible, I weave through the few cars driving along the malecón and approach the apartment building just as my sister opens the big wooden door into the foyer. Mor doesn't follow, and when I look back across the street, I see he's disappeared into thin air.

In the lobby, the ceilings are low and the floor is slightly grimy. Directly to the left of the door is a wall of mailboxes, and past that is the dimly-lit ground hallway, lined with a few housing units. My eyes flit past all of that to the wrought iron spiral stairway in the corner.

"If I remember correctly, Abuela lives on the third story," I think out loud.

"You're right," Kat agrees, "Because I remember Uncle Kosmo complaining about having to walk up all those flights of stairs."

We trot up the stairs, which really isn't that hard, and soon, we find ourselves standing in front of another wooden door. Etched into a metal plaque right below the peephole are the words, Apartment 301 - Sandoval Perez.

They're my grandmother's paternal and maternal last names, per tradition - something most grandparents of all nationalities and races fight passionately for. I've never paid attention to it, but technically my birth name follows the same rule - with Cabrera coming from my father and Diaz coming from my mother.

My grandmother's full name is Beatriz Claudia Sandoval Perez. I know that for a fact, and that's why I'm unafraid as I boldly knock on the door.

It takes a few moments, but I can hear movement within the apartment. The door begins to open, and I can hear a weak but confident voice saying, "Te lo dije, no quiero comprar tu-"

When the door swings open all the way, the voice stops. Abuela is in the threshold, her dark hair permed and her makeup done perfectly regardless of the circumstance. She's wearing slacks and a nice black dress shirt, like something you'd see a kindly old kindergarten teacher wear. I can see in her dark eyes - mine and Kat's eyes - that she's tired, but they light up as they take in what's in front of them. Her lips part, and I smile awkwardly and say, "Uh, sorpresa?" Surprise?

"Ah!" To my own surprise, Abuela takes our arrival relatively calmly. She laughs and says in her thick accent, "Lila, Katrina, you are here! How wonderful!"

Kat and I give each other a look, and I wonder if the old age is starting to get to my grandmother's head. She's apparently not bothered by the fact that her two American, teenage descendants just showed up on her stoop uninvited. No, instead, she embraces us, pulling us both close enough to break our circulation. I can smell her perfume, something floral and woody, and I feel myself relax.

"Come in, come in!" Abuela lets us go and leads us out of the corridor, leaving Kat to close the door. The apartment is small, with yellow walls decorated with pictures of the family circa 1980-something. Directly across from the door is the living space, fit with a olive green couch and outdated TV currently showing a muted documentary. To the right is a hall, off of which I remember houses the two bedrooms and lone bathroom; to the left is the doorway into the kitchen. "Did you eat? I can make ropa vieja."

"We're good," Kat says, "We just wanted to see you." She's making it sound nonchalant, like it's normal for us to just teleport down to Cuba and visit any time we want.

"¡Come algo, esqueleto!" Abuela pokes at Kat's stomach like a middle school boy playing taser. "All that football is making you too skinny!"

Oh, god. If anything will lift Kat out of her sadness, it's soccer. I watch as my sister grins at the mention of her favorite thing in the world. "I have to be fit, Abuela, it's part of the game. We're always training."

"Which is why you need to eat more!"

Against our protests, Abuela shuffles into the kitchen, and reluctantly, we follow her. She begins to dig into the fridge, and I seriously hope she's not actually starting the tiring process of making ropa vieja. Despite the enthusiasm in her words, the heavy way she's moving betrays her drowsiness.

"Abuela, we're really not hungry," I say, though she ignores me. "We... just wanted to see you one last time. Uncle Kosmo told us about... your sickness."

My grandmother huffs, and under her breath, I think I hear her mutter something about an attitude.

"What?"

The fridge door closes, with the only item coming out being two cans of Materva. Abuela flicks her hand in what I think is a gesture of denial, akthough I can't tell with her frail fingers clenched around the soda. "Nothing. And sometimes, Kosmo needs to keep quiet. I would've rather broken the news myself. But let's not speak about him or that. You're here now, and that's what matters!"

She pops open the aluminum cans and hands them to us; Kat and I side-eye each other again, but obediently sip the soda, to my sister's chagrin. I don't think she's consumed any sort of soft drink since she was a kid, but I suppose she's willing to let go of her diet for the sake of the situation.

The soda's really not bad, anyway. It burns like ginger ale with a tang unfamiliar to my American senses.

"How is it in... uh, Vermont?" my grandmother asks me, then narrows her eyes in thought. "How is that friend of yours, the one you always used to speak about?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Who? Macy? Ver-"

She snaps her fingers with the coming of the epiphany she was looking for. "Will! That was his name, yes?"

Suddenly, the soda feels sour in my throat, the can freezing cold in my hand. For a moment, I feel short of breath, but I squeak out, "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Oh, god," swallowing hard and closing my eyes in pain, my voice goes soft. "Will and I got in a car crash around 4 and a half months ago. He... was killed."

It's here that I especially see Abuela's resemblance to her grandchildren. Her eyes widen and get glassy, just like Kat's do. She's speechless for a moment, then she says, "Oh my, cariño, I am so sorry."

"It's all right."

It's not, of course, and I think Abuela knows this. She delicately pulls me into another hug, nearly squashing the soda can between us.

From the window above the sink, sunshine streams in and glints off of the tile floor. My eyes pass over the room, from the view of the turquoise building next door to the 5 different bottles of pills sitting on the counter. I can only imagine what cocktail of chemicals they're putting into her, and I hope against hope that it's making a difference. That, somehow, the diagnosis is a fluke, and she'll be able to recover one day.

Yet, just like me, Abuela is apparently resigned to her fate. She whispers to me, "I'll tell him you say hello when I see him in Heaven."

My body goes numb, and I almost crumble when my grandmother lets go of me. Clasping her hands together, Abuela scans over Kat and I, and muses, "Oh, girls, you've both grown so old and beautiful. Your mother must be so proud of you. I just knew I had to see you one last time. I was so pleased when she told me I would."

She? Who told her we were coming? Not Mama, who is blissfully unaware we snuck away to a foreign, communist country without her. There's only one being who knows we're here - Mor, which is when the realization dawns on me...

"What?" Kat narrows her eyes. "Who told you we were coming?"

"The pale lady, the one from Heaven."

As if this vague description is a mandatory summoning, a figure appears behind Abuela, tall and nearly skeletal. Outside the window, a cloud passes in front of the sun, causing shadows to fall over the kitchen.

The figure turns from shadows into an East Asian-looking woman. She's wearing a long, ebony cloak over top of an all-black outfit, which consists of an off-the-shoulder top, skin-tight pants, and ankle boots. She could've been any typical goth 20-something, but she's as pale as a sheet, and then there's her face. With her arch-like cheekbones and eyes like a vortex, I know what she is immediately.

A reaper. It's my grandmother's reaper.

Kat's jaw goes slack, her mouth forming the shape of an O. Just like that rainy day when my sister first laid eyes on Mor, her skin reaches a deathly shade of gray. "Oh my god," she breathes, "Not again."

The reaper's cold, unfeeling eyes fly over me in a minute, causing no discernible reaction, but then she looks at Kat and purses her lips. In a steely voice with an unrecognizable accent, she says, "After this amount of time, you'd think you'd know better than this."

For a moment, I'm confused, then I realize she's not talking to me. Her eyes are pointed beyond me, and my body grows cold, like I'm on vacation in Siberia instead of the Caribbean. I think I can feel Mor standing a few feet away from me, then he glides forward into my peripheral vision and says, "After your amount of time, you'd think you'd know not to interrupt." Before the female reaper can say anything more, Mor looks at Kat and I and flashes us a pained smirk. "Lila, Katrina, this is my dearest friend, Amara."

Kat scowls at the female reaper - Amara - and starts to ask, "Are you..."

Amara clenches her jaw. "I'm here to help Beatriz cross over into the afterlife."

"Amara here and I were forced to work out a deal," Mor explains, "Lila wanted to see her grandmother again, and Beatriz wanted to see her granddaughters. So we figured we'd have to get you three together one way or another."

Abuela smiles sadly at us. Next to her reaper, I can start to see how sick she really is. Once lively and vibrant, she doesn't look all that different from the being of death responsible for her soul. Her skin is losing its saturation and growing dry and flaky, while her hands are gnarled and shaky, the veins thick. She's really not that old, but with every ounce of freezing cold, I know she's slowly dying.

This makes me aware of the fact that I'm close to dying as well, yet I don't show it. The only sickness I have is in my emotion-rich and uncontrollable mind. If it's not from disease, how will I die?

"And so, you're here," Amara rasps to Kat and I, interrupting my thoughts. "You had a drink, you said a few things, and I think that's enough. It was nice having you here in Cuba, but-"

Mor gives her a stare of pure ice. "Simmer down, Amara. There's not a problem with them simply having an afternoon together."

Why would there be a problem? I think in Mor's direction.

Amara can rude sometimes, Mor mentally answers, keeping his glare on the subject at hand. She tends to rush though charges and help them 'pass' as quickly as possible. She's afraid that if she spends too much time with her charges, she'll grow fond of them. If you think I'm afraid of going soft, you should see her.

So she's trying to kick us out of here to get this over with quicker? That's terrible.

I agree, but sometimes you can't judge people for their fear of emotion. As I told you, we're not supposed to be making friends with our charges. Emotion is vulnerability. Reapers don't like to be seen as vulnerable.

Perhaps that's why Mor is offended every time I compare him to a human. It's some societal standard to closed off and snarky. I know it must be why Amara is looking at us like we're pests to be rid of and she's about to call the exterminator. Her expression makes my muscles tense.

"You're one to talk." Amara steps towards Mor, the frustration in her voice growing. "You've spent months at a time on every charge you've had. And this one, especially... you've started so early, and she still has a month or so to go. Why give her that much time to mull?"

Mor's false expression of superiority changes to one of actual anger. "Stop telling me how to do my job, Amara," he snaps, similarly leaning forward. "You're not Oleander, you're not god, you have no authority over me."

Oleander? I ask. Who's that?

Mor doesn't give me an answer.

Kat seems extremely confused, her eyebrows both raised and furrowed at once. I know she still believes Mor is a guardian angel, which means she probably thinks the same of Amara. I can only imagine how she's trying to mentally justify this conversation.

Meanwhile, I don't think Abuela is aware of what's going on, because she's smiling at her reaper in a delirious state. Her lids are beginning to droop, and drowsily, she says, "Amara's very nice. She takes me all sorts of places. La playa, el bosque, la tierra de los sueños..."

And just like that, her head slumps over. Aghast, Kat gasps and puts a hand over her heart, but Amara just rolls her eyes. "She's only fallen asleep. It's a symptom of her pain medication. When she gets like this, she needs to go to bed."

She's probably relieved that my grandmother's cancer just gave her an excuse to kick us out.

Kat sighs deeply. "Oh. How long will she sleep for?"

"Hours. Who knows when she'll wake up again," Amara answers matter-of-factly, grabbing Abuela's arm to hold her up. The arrogance in her voice reminds me of Veronica's, before her confession, and I decide I hate it.

Frowning, I step towards Abuela and question, "Does... does that mean we have to leave? Already?"

I mean, it's exactly what I wrote down. My only requirements were to visit Abuela again. I never said we had to spend a whole day together, but I'm still disappointed. The next time I see my grandmother, we'll both be dead. I press my lips together and try to look Amara in the eyes.

"Unless you'd like to stay and watch her sleep, I'd say so."

At that moment, I hear the sounds of a motor coming close to the house, before it dies down and a car door slams shut. It could be another tenant of the apartment building, but it could also be Uncle Camilo. And though Abuela accepted our presence easily, I highly doubt my uncle would just be okay with us being here on our own.

"Or," Amara continues, thinking the same thing I am, "You could answer to your uncle."

I step back, towards the safety of Mor and Kat. Just like that, Kat is even more distraught. She shakes her head vigorously and laments, "You can't be serious. I don't want to leave her. She's dying!"

Oh, Kat, always fighting, never settling. Most times, I disagree with her, but now I understand why she's not ready to give up. Even though Abuela is currently sleeping standing up, and Camilo is almost here, and we'd have to continue facing Amara, Kat and I both want to stay. This isn't fair. Abuela doesn't deserve to die, I tell myself, although I'm preaching to the choir.

I may be okay with dying, but that's only because I have no plans for the future and only 6 or 7 people even vaguely care about me. In this case, however, my extended maternal family is humongous, and Abuela is beloved to every generation. The amount of people that will be grieving when she passes could fill up a football stadium.

But there's nothing we can do now. I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

Mor says to me, "Lila, I believe I have to take you home. Unless you would like to deal with your uncle."

"No, no," I surrender, "If my uncle found out, my mom would too, and that would not be good. We need to go."

Kat exhales dramatically, almost whimpering, as we grab Mor's hands. I take one last look at the smoke in Amara's eyes, the now-muted Cuban skies outside the window, and Abuela, sleeping peacefully.

I'll see you soon, Abuela. Rest well.

I know she can't hear me, but it makes me slightly more ready to relinquish the island and journey back to Vermont.

Within a minute, it's back to the stuffy, oppressive air of my farmhouse. The yellow walls and decorative tiles are gone; now it's all sleek counters and brown cabinets. The only remnant of our trip is my soda, which I didn't realize I was still holding in my hand.

Crestfallen, Kat sighs for what seems like the 100th time and looks at her shoes. "For messengers of God, Angels are real dickheads. And so is cancer." Taking a deep breath, she glances up at Mor and I and grumbles, "I'm gonna go do my chem. homework."

With that, my sister trudges out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Mor and I watch her go, before he grumbles, "I hope she at least got something out of the trip. I don't want to be that much of a failure at my job."

"She did," I assure him, turning away from the stairs. "I could see it in the way she smiled. I think she's just mad that she was forced to leave."

Mor narrows his eyes, avoiding my gaze. Grimly, he says, "I apologize for the way Amara acted. I know she seems heartless, but we all have reasons for our behavior."

That dark tint is back to his voice, and it makes me wonder what his "reasons" are.

But I understand what he's saying better than anyone. Ashdown is overflowing with people who are masters of hiding emotions. Kat's always acted distant because she resents me for abandoning her all those years, Veronica's acted rude to me the past few months because she didn't want me to get too close, Mama's thrown herself into her work because she can't tolerate being happy without Papa. And then there's me, an amalgam of sloppy feelings and intolerable memories, acting like I have no soul when in fact my soul just hurts too much to acknowledge it.

"It's all right," I concede, "I'm just relieved I got to see Abuela alive one last time."

Because the next time I see her, we'll both be dead.

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A/N: Ugh so much for shorter chapters ://

Anyway I've never been to Cuba so hopefully I didn't mess the depiction up too much!! Havana seems like a really pretty city and I wish Americans could travel there more freely.

I had finals last week, and this week begins my second semester, which means new classes and all that jazz. I don't know if I'll be able to update regularly, but I'll try. Thanks for reading, and please vote and comment!! <3

xoxo, Athena

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