He could hear her weeping, and Jack’s eyes welled with tears. Once again, his birth-his mother’s death-had caused untold pain to someone he loved.

“You see, mi vida, it is not your fault she died. It was my fault. It was all my fault.”

Jack wanted to hold her and shake her at the same time. It was no one’s fault. Why must there always be someone to blame?

Abuela gathered her composure and said, “So, there was something I wanted to tell you. You asked about a sibling.”

Jack put his emotions in check. Abuela had moved beyond the mea culpa. She had something more to tell him. She drew a breath and said, “You should do this now, while you are in Havana. Please, if you get this message, I want you to do it. Go to Zapata and Calle twelve. Look for L thirty-seven. Then, you will have all the answers you need. Good-bye, mi vida. I love you.”

Jack stood motionless, the pay phone still in hand. “I love you, too,” he said, though he knew she wasn’t there.

Are you sure this is the place?” Jack asked the taxidriver.

“Yes,” he said, “Zapata and Calle twelve.”

Jack peered out the open car window. He didn’t doubt that the driver was correct, but he was having trouble processing the implications. They were parked on a street in the Vedado district, the commercial heart of Havana, not far from where Jack had spent the night as Colonel Jiménez’s guest. Directly in front of them was an iron gate. A stone wall ran the length of the entire block. An engraved sign hung over the entrance, an impressive arc of weathered brass letters. It read NECRóPOLIS CRISTóBAL COLóN.

“But this is a cemetery,” said Jack.

“Sí. Cementerio de Colón.”

“I’m looking for L thirty-seven, Zapata and Calle twelve. I presume that’s a building or an apartment.”

“There’s nothing else at this address. Check with the groundskeeper inside. Maybe he can help you.”

Jack paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk. The door slammed, and the taxi pulled away, merging into traffic. Jack turned and studied the entrance, his mind churning. Abuela had sent him to a cemetery. L-37. Perhaps it was a building designation. Maybe he had an older brother or sister who worked here, maybe even lived on the property. But he didn’t think so.

With heavy footsteps, he started toward the gate, pea gravel crunching beneath his feet. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and Jack was squinting until he reached the shade of the jagüeys, broad and leafy trees that lined the streets of Vedado, their long and tangled aerial roots dropping to the ground like Caribbean dreadlocks. He stopped at the main entrance. The distant sounds of Havana were still about him-an occasional horn blasting, the drone of urban traffic-but noise seemed to dissipate as he peered through the iron bars toward the peaceful side of the cemetery wall. Green space was not exactly plentiful, but still he was struck by the vastness of the grounds. Looking left, right, or straight ahead, he spotted scores of major mausoleums, chapels, family vaults, and above-ground tombs. This place was to cemeteries what Manhattan was to skylines. Most of the memorials appeared quite old, many dating back to the nineteenth century. Jack grabbed a map at the entrance, deposited a small monetary donation, and ventured inside.

“Can I help you?” a man said in Spanish.

Jack stopped and looked up from his map. He was an older man, dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap. A thick mustache made it difficult to see his mouth, and crescents of sweat extended from the under-arms of his T-shirt. From the dirt on the man’s knees Jack assumed he was part of grounds maintenance.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “An address, actually.”

The man was clearly struggling with Jack’s Spanish, but English was apparently not an option. “An address?” he said.

“Yes. My grandmother told me to go to L thirty-seven.”

Jack offered his map. The man stepped closer, gave it a quick look, and said, “The cemetery is divided into many different rectangular blocks. The letter tells you the area. The number is the plot.”

Jack’s heart sank. L-37 was definitely not a building. So much for finding his half sibling alive. “Can you take me to it, please?”

“Sure,” the man said.

Jack followed him down a wider path of pea gravel. They passed countless tombs, many adorned with angels, griffins, or cherubs. A few graves were brightened by fresh-cut flowers, but the most impressive splashes of pink, orange, and other flaming colors came from bougainvillea vines and hibiscus bushes that had been planted many years earlier, probably by mourners who had since found permanent rest here. Finally, they came to a tomb that was blanketed with fresh flowers, everything from begonias and orchids to African wild trumpet, scores of bouquets that had been laid neatly on top of the tomb and all around it. The man stopped, and Jack stood beside him. They watched in silence as a young woman laid a yellow bouquet of corteza amarilla near the headstone. Then she crossed herself, rose from her knees, and stepped away. She walked backward, which was odd, never turning her back on the tomb.

The man whispered, “This is La Milagrosa.”

Jack had to think about the man’s words for a moment, but he was pretty sure that they meant the Miraculous One. “Who is La Milagrosa?”

“She was a young woman who died in childbirth in 1901.”

Jack felt a chill. His mother had died in childbirth. “Why all the flowers?”

“Because of the legend,” the man said. “She was buried with her stillborn child at her feet. But many years later, when her tomb was opened, the baby was found cradled in her arms.”

Jack glanced at the young woman stepping backward from the tomb. “Who is that?”

“Another young woman. One without children, for sure. For years they have come here to pay their respects, and to pray in hopes of having children of their own. But you must never turn your back on La Milagrosa. So she walks backward.”

Jack watched a while longer, unable to feel anything but sorrow and pity. The woman seemed more pained than hopeful, but she continued to pray aloud as she put one foot behind the other in her reverent retreat. Finally, she disappeared behind a mausoleum.

“Is this L thirty-seven?” asked Jack.

“No, no. These graves are much older than the ones in Section L. Come.”

They walked along a shaded path until they came to a small clearing. The groundskeeper paused, as if to get his bearings, then continued to the east. The stone markers became less impressive, newer than the ones in the previous sections but hardly new. Most of the departed here had died before Jack was born.

“Here it is,” said the groundskeeper.

Jack stopped and looked down at the plain white headstone. It was about the size of a child’s pillow, no carvings or embellishments of any kind. There was a first name but no last. No traditional born-on/died-on date, either. There was just one date. It read simply:

Ramón

17 Febrero 1961

It was a sobering moment. Jack read it over and over again, but there was only one way to read it. Slowly, almost without thinking about it, he got down on his knees. The coolness of green grass pressed through his trousers. His index finger ran along the grooves on the headstone, tracing the name and the date. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. Mostly, he felt empty, drained of all emotion.

“Ramón,” he whispered. That was his name. He’d lived all of one day.

Jack tried to conjure up an image of the infant, but it wouldn’t come. He was powerless to envision this little person he had never known, but not because he didn’t care. He was suddenly consumed by his own feelings for the mother he had never known, and there simply wasn’t room in his heart for anything or anyone else. It was all so confusing. He knew her better now, having visited this place, but he didn’t feel any better. Ana Maria had given birth to two children. Her first son died on the day he was born, but the mother lived. Her second son lived, but the mother died on day of his birth.