He was frowning like I’d just told him we’d won a free night at the Bedbug Motel. “You know it’s hot as hades in August, right? And that it’s hurricane season?”
“New York will be just as hot, except without the ocean breeze,” I said, but as soon as I heard myself, I realized I was going to need better ammunition. “Hey—we’re talking about Puerto Rico. As in your homeland. Don’t you want to visit?”
“I do,” he said slowly. “The question is, why do you sound upset?”
“I’m not.” More like desperate. “Anyway, remember when we were supposed to be in San Juan last August? You’d said then that hurricane season is several months long and it didn’t make sense to plan around it.”
“True . . .” I could all but see the wheels turning in his head. I just hoped they were turning in the right direction. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get off work.”
Now I had to resist the urge to throw up my hands in exasperation. This was a man who said yes first and figured out the details later. What was his hang-up?
But then I looked at him again from across the room, and unlike me, he wasn’t irritated at all. He just looked . . . tired. My annoyance immediately disappeared. “Hey, you need a break as much as I do,” I said softly. “You’ve been working a ton, and we missed two vacations in a row. Add Charlotte’s diabetes to the mix and . . .” I exhaled. “It’s a lot.”
“You’re right, cutie,” he said, his face softening. “I’ve been kind of stressed.”
He had, I realized. And I didn’t need WebMD to tell me the effect stress could have on a person’s libido.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“Don’t be sorry.” Just say you’ll go. “Will you at least see if Kasey will give you the time off?”
He came and sat beside me on the bed. “Sure, I’ll ask. August is probably the least busy we’ve been all year, so I might be able to switch shifts with a few people if there’s an issue with my schedule.” He brushed a stray curl from my cheek and I felt my spirits rise. Just the mention of Vieques and we were already headed in the right direction. I could only imagine what might happen once we were actually on the island. “What about the tickets?”
“I haven’t searched yet,” I admitted. “But it’s off-season and we have a million miles on our credit card.”
“You sure about this?” Shiloh was looking at me like he couldn’t figure out if I was a lunatic or a genius.
“Yes,” I said, even though I was well aware that I’d just made major plans in the time it took to pack a suitcase. It was half-baked and impulsive—but hadn’t my first visit to Vieques been, as well? Even if this vacation were only a fraction as successful, I’d still end up becoming reacquainted with my enthusiasm for life.
And if my husband and I had a chance to relax and remember how we came together—rekindling our spark in the process—who was I to complain about that?
NINE
As it turned out, the cheapest tickets had been the ones that required us to leave a week and a half later. Shiloh wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the time off on such short notice, but apparently all the extra hours he’d been putting in had bought a whole lot of goodwill with his boss. Meanwhile, I’d left Rupi in charge in my absence, and though I could tell she was disappointed that we’d have to delay our meeting about the camp, she’d told me she was excited to hear the fresh new ideas she was sure I’d come up with the minute I wasn’t glued to my desk.
I’d sooner volunteer for a colonoscopy than devote precious brain cells to “fresh” and “new”; I just wanted to get out of there. I’d hoped my mood would lift at the prospect of visiting my favorite place—and I had been momentarily elated after calling Milagros to tell her we were coming. What I hadn’t anticipated was that instead of making normal life more tolerable, it immediately felt like twice the drag. Had there always been so much laundry to do, so many emails to answer, so many people to weave through just to make it to the subway?
A week in paradise couldn’t come soon enough.
But as our plane descended over San Juan, I was reminded of the beating our paradise had taken. We usually visited Shiloh’s father, who lived outside of Fajardo, at least once a year. After Hurricane Maria hit in September of 2017, though, he’d urged us to stay home. Even after the airports had reopened, many of the roads had remained torn up from the floods, and some hotels and restaurants were shuttered indefinitely. The island slowly began to recover, so we thought we’d visit the following summer, but then came Charlotte’s diagnosis, and seven months later, my father’s death. So it had been two and a half years since our last trip, which had been over winter break. And as it happened, a lot had changed since then.
My stomach sank as I peered through the small plane window and saw one building after another with a bright blue tarp for a roof.
“Why do the houses look like that?” whispered Isa, leaning over my lap to look down at San Juan.
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Puerto Rico as a whole had been given a fraction of the assistance other hurricane-stricken areas in the continental US had received for similar natural disasters, and the little they had been granted had been shamefully slow in arriving. On top of that, the island itself was still struggling from decades of debt, and since the economy relied so heavily on tourism, that debt had only grown after Maria. “Puerto Rico didn’t get the help it needed after the hurricane,” I told her. “So they’ve still got a long way to go. But it’s good for us to be here. The more visitors, the more money people on the island can make, and that can help them make repairs.”
She was frowning as she turned to me. “I hope it looks better once we’re on the ground.”
“I do, too,” I agreed.
But after we landed, gathered our suitcases, and got in a taxi, I saw that “better” was relative. Some buildings were fully intact. As we sped down the highway, however, we saw many others that were missing their facades or had windows blown out; sometimes whole walls had caved in. Equally jarring, it was clear that people were still living in some of those buildings. And for every one tree that was green and flourishing, another was still stripped of its leaves and either dead or dormant. “I can’t believe how much destruction there is, even two years later,” I said quietly to Shiloh.
“It’s hard to see,” he said, staring out the taxi window forlornly. “The island has always had its problems, like anywhere else. But you have to wonder how long it will take to recover from this.”
If it does at all, I thought, only to cringe at the thought—where were my rose-colored glasses when I needed them? After all, this was my husband’s birthplace; though he’d shuttled back and forth between Puerto Rico and the states for several years after his parents divorced, it had been home for most of his life, right up until he moved to the East Coast to be with me. “It’ll recover,” I said, as much to myself as him as my eyes landed on another swath of land that had once been lush and verdant but was now dry and brown. “It has to.”
Our flight hadn’t arrived until late afternoon, so instead of rushing to try to make the last ferry to Vieques, we’d decided to spend a night in the Condado neighborhood of San Juan, where Shiloh had lived before we got married. I sighed with relief when we pulled up to our hotel, not because the hotel was in good shape—though that didn’t hurt—but because I’d spotted the ocean on the other side of the building. Just the sight of it made me feel like somehow, some way, everything was going to work out.
Charlotte and Isa had always loved the water, too; I could still remember the way their faces lit up the first time they dipped their tiny toes in the Atlantic on our first trip to Puerto Rico. I wasn’t surprised that as soon as we dropped our bags in our room, they ran out to the beach.
Shiloh and I followed them to the shore, then stood back watching them splash each other and dive into the waves. From a distance, they could almost pass for children who hadn’t spent the past several days complaining about having to leave their friends for a
whole week (never mind that half their friends were at camp). I wasn’t about to complain about that.
“Things are looking up,” said Shiloh.
“I mean, I don’t want to say I told you so, but . . .”
“But you totally told me so,” he said, bumping my hip with his own.
I grinned. An hour in the land of palm trees and piña coladas and we were flirting like a couple on their third date! I had half a mind to call Paul and tell him that I’d found a cure for coasting, and that he and Charlie should hop on a plane immediately and try it for themselves.
“It’s so good to be here,” I told him.
“It really is,” he agreed. His hair was blowing in the wind, and even from behind his aviator glasses he looked awfully darn content. Which was a relief—even though he’d said he wanted to go on this trip, he’d been so busy with work the past week that I hadn’t gotten a sense as to whether he really meant it. “Aquí, me siento como yo mismo,” he added.
“You feel like yourself here?” I said, attempting to translate. My Spanish had improved a lot over the past thirteen years, but I still managed to say things like “I have poop!” when I was actually trying to say, “I’m afraid.” No surprise, I left the talking to Shiloh when it came to anything important.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling at me.
“Do you not feel like yourself when you’re in New York?” I asked, thinking of how I hadn’t felt right lately, either.
He looked from me to the water and back again, and I could tell he was trying to work out how to respond. “I do,” he said slowly, “because that’s where you and the girls are, and that’s where my home is.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thank you,” I said softly.
“You don’t need to thank me. But I should thank you. I’m glad you wanted to come.”
It felt good to hear him say this. In fact, I could almost ignore the tiny nagging voice deep within me saying that if I’d only done this sooner, I could have avoided flatlining when I should have been hollering hallelujah. Maybe next year we’d leave in June, as soon as the girls were done with school, and make it an annual trip. Heck, maybe at some point we could even spend the whole summer here. It was probably an impossible idea. But as I stared out at the ocean as the sun warmed my skin, I realized an impossible idea was a massive improvement over the Nancy Nostradamus persona I’d been sporting the past couple of weeks.
“Mom! Papi!” Isa was flapping her arms and jumping up and down. “Come in the water!” she said. “Come on!”
My children were inviting me to join them without being bribed or guilted? Score. “Coming,” I called. “But don’t get me wet. I’m not wearing a suit under my sundress.”
“So?” said Charlotte. She motioned to the running shorts she’d worn in lieu of a bikini bottom. “The water’s so warm right now. You have to try it!”
“Okay, okay. Just a little,” I said, putting a foot in the water. It was warm, and the sand was soft beneath my feet. “Hey,” I said to Shiloh. “If I’m doing this, you are, too.”
He grinned and shrugged, then rolled up his shorts and waded in.
“There you go,” teased Isa.
“Was that so bad?” said Charlotte, who looked at Isa and laughed.
“Listen, you two,” I said, splashing them.
“This is war!” said Charlotte. “Isa! You know what to do!”
Isa grinned. “Get her!”
“Not while I’m in my dress!” I protested, but it was too late—they were on top of me, pulling me down into the ocean.
Salt water seeped into my mouth and burned my eyes, which I’d closed a second too late. I didn’t care. I resurfaced with a big smile on my face. “You’ll pay for that!” I yelled before dunking a screaming Charlotte.
Isa attempted to run through the waves away from me, but Shiloh was faster. “Don’t worry, Libby—I’ve got her,” he said, grabbing Isa as she squealed. He lifted her as though she was no lighter than a doll and tossed her into a wave. Seconds later, she popped up, laughing gleefully like she had when she was a toddler.
“Team Parent for the win,” said Shiloh, winking at me.
I winked back, though I was on the verge of weeping with happiness. My family was actually enjoying each other’s company! This was the best idea—
My thought was interrupted by a stun gun hitting my calf. At least, that’s what it felt like.
“Oh sugar,” I said, lurching forward to clutch my leg. “Oh, mother plucking sugar.”
“Libby?” asked Shiloh, who was standing a few feet away. “What’s wrong?” He’d been holding Charlotte over his head, but he took one look at my face and let her go.
There was a smacking sound as her torso hit the water, and I swear I could hear her yelling before she even surfaced. “Papi! Ow!”
“Sorry, niña, that was an accident. But Mami’s hurt,” he said over his shoulder. He put his arm around me gently. “You okay?”
No. “I will be.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, kissing the top of my head gently. “Come on, let’s get to the shore.”
Surely the pain will ease up once I’m on land, I told myself. But no—as Shiloh helped me limp back to the beach, the pain only intensified. I took a few steps before throwing myself down on the sand, even though I hadn’t made it to the towel. Crap. Was our vacation over before it even began?
“Uh-oh,” said Shiloh, examining my leg. There were several long strings of welts up and down my right calf. Each welt was circular and perfectly spaced from the next, like beads on a necklace. I would have appreciated the artistry if it hadn’t felt like hundreds of shards of glass implanted in my flesh. “Looks like you had a run-in with a jellyfish,” he said.
Isa, who was standing over me, started to scream. And I mean really scream. “There are jellyfish?! In the water?!”
“Con calma,” said Shiloh. The girls weren’t fully fluent in Spanish, which I knew was my fault; everything I’d read said it took both parents speaking around the clock to really immerse children in a language, and I’d not been capable of that. But he’d always used Spanish phrases to soothe them. To me, he added, “That’s really unusual for this part of the Atlantic, especially so close to the shore. Although maybe global warming . . .”
“Honey,” I said, but then I had to squeeze my eyes closed because my leg had just started throbbing. “It really hurts,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Pee on it!” said Charlotte. “That’s what you’re supposed to do for jellyfish stings—I saw it on YouTube!”
Isa’s face brightened. “Pee on it! Pee on it!” she yelled.
“Pee on it! Pee on it!” chanted Charlotte.
Every beachgoer within a half-mile radius had turned to stare at us. Really, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone walked over and offered to empty their bladder onto my leg just to shut my children up.
“No one is peeing on anything, now knock it off,” Shiloh told them. “Libs? Can you stand on it?”
I could, but it hurt. A lot. “Do you think I need to get to the hospital?” I whispered, one arm slung over his shoulder. I was starting to feel kind of woozy. “What if it’s poisonous?”
“Luckily, the kinds of jellyfish you find in this part of the Atlantic are perfectly harmless. Well,” he said, glancing at my leg, “not harmless, but not poisonous, either. Let’s get back to the hotel so we can clean it out. Girls, grab our towels.”
“But we just got in the water!” said Isa.
Charlotte put her fists on her hips. “We want to stay. I’ll keep an eye on Isa and she can watch me.”
I remembered how Milagros had practically hauled me out of the Caribbean when she saw me swimming alone in an area that hadn’t been designated for swimming. Unlike then, the four of us had been wading in a roped-off part of the ocean, but the receptionist at the hotel had warned us that the current had been particularly strong over the past week. “Until both of you are traine
d as lifeguards, no one is swimming without us,” I said. “Now please come with me and your father.”
“This always happens,” said Isa, trailing behind us.
I didn’t fully catch Charlotte’s response, but I heard her say, “Lame start to our vacation.”
My heart sank. Not because I disagreed—but because she was right.
TEN
Imagine my relief when the concierge at our hotel informed us that vinegar, not urine, was the best way to treat a jellyfish sting. Shiloh plucked a few stray pieces of tentacle from my skin with a pair of tweezers, which is every bit as repulsive as it sounds, then attempted to pickle my calf with the vinegar he’d bought at a convenience store. Afterward I took a warm bath, which reputable online sources said was helpful for easing pain. Not so much—but it was nearly dinnertime, so I tossed back a handful of ibuprofen and pasted on my best poker face.
We’d intended to eat at the Parrot Club, which had been one of our favorite spots in Old San Juan. But when we arrived there, we learned that it had been permanently shuttered several years earlier, though it wasn’t clear if that was a business decision or a result of the hurricane.
“I can’t believe how much of the island has been affected,” muttered Shiloh as we stood in front of another restaurant across the street. The building had a gaping hole in its roof that looked like it had been there since Maria hit. “I should have expected it, but still.”
“Maybe we’ll find something even better,” I suggested, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I knew we had almost the whole vacation ahead of us, but as my throbbing calf was intent on reminding me, we were already seriously off course.
“When?” demanded Isa, leaning against a tree in front of the restaurant. “I’m starving.”
“I am, too,” said Charlotte, who was sitting in a heap on the concrete, not far from Isa’s feet.
Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around Page 6