I’m thinking about going to Nueva York.
She had wanted him to say, No don’t go, or at least say he would be joining her. But he told her instead about one of his trips to Nueva Yol, a job for the Jefe and how the crab at some Cuban restaurant had made him sick. He did not mention his wife, of course, and she did not ask. It would have broken her. Later, when he started coming, she tried to hold onto him, but he wrenched free and came on the dark ruined plane of her back. 
Like chalk on a blackboard, the Gangster joked. 
She was still thinking about him eighteen days later at the airport. 
You don’t have to go, La Inca said suddenly, just before the girl stepped into the line. Too late. 
I want to go.
Her whole life she had tried to be happy, but Santo Domingo…. FUCKING SANTO DOMINGO had foiled her at every turn. I never want to see it again.
Don’t talk that way.
I never want to see it again.
She would be a new person, she vowed. They said no matter how far a mule travels it can never come back a horse, but she would show them all.
Don’t leave like this. Toma, for the trip. Dulce de coco.
On the line to passport control she would throw it away but for now she held the jar.
Remember me. La Inca kissed and embraced her. Remember who you are. You are the third and final daughter of the Family Cabral. You are the daughter of a doctor and a nurse. 
Last sight of La Inca: waving at her with all her might, crying. 

pg169-170