Side Chick Nation

by Aya De León

  “Hello love,” she croons. “Are you awake? Are you hungry?” She sits down in the nursing chair and pours herself a glass of water. She sets the glass down on the table and pulls out a nursing cover.

  Her husband walks in with a bottle in his hand.

  “I’ve got it,” Xoana says.

  “I just got called to the hospital,” he says. “One of my patients is going into labor. It might be a while. I just want a moment with the baby before I go.”

  “So sweet of you,” Xoana says.

  “Go ahead and finish your nap,” he says. “I’ll be down in a half hour.”

  After she walks out, he picks up the baby, and drinks the glass of water.

  A little while later, Xoana is woken up by her husband, who comes into their bedroom and gives her the baby.

  The husband kisses both of them on the forehead and leaves.

  Later that night, the phone wakes Xoana. She leaps up to get it before it can wake the baby, who is in bed beside her.

  “Yes?” she whispers into the phone. “Yes doctor . . . is everything okay? I assume my husband is in surgery . . . He what? . . . Yes, I’m sitting down.”

  Her face crumples, and she begins to sob silently.

  A few days later, she’s sitting in her living room, when there’s a knock at the door. She finds two police officers on her doorstep.

  “It’s about your husband,” they say.

  “Please come in,” she says. “Can I get you anything?”

  The officers exchange a look.

  “No thanks,” one says.

  “We’ll get right to the point,” the other says. “We’re sorry for your loss señora, but we regret to inform you that it looks like your husband was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” she asks. “But he had a heart attack.”

  “He did,” the first officer says. “But he was a young man, barely forty. The autopsy showed a positive tox screen. Your husband was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Xoana is shocked.

  “Did he eat anything at home that evening?”

  “No,” she says. “He told me he would grab something at the hospital cafeteria.”

  “According to the autopsy, he had some pizza, which was eaten by many other patients and staff. There were no other foods in his stomach. No coffee. Only perhaps water. As near as they can pinpoint it, based on the time of death and estimation of how fast the poison would act is that he would have ingested the poison around dinnertime.”

  “He was here then,” she says. “But he didn’t eat. I don’t know if he drank any water.” She blinked. “Poisoned?”

  “Did your husband have any enemies?”

  “No,” she says. “Everyone loved him. Literally everyone. He had so many families who were grateful to him for delivering their babies.”

  “Any possibility of professional jealousy?”

  “No,” she says. “Everyone on the staff—”

  “Anyone from his past? Anyone who would want to harm him?”

  “Not that I know of . . .”

  “Señora,” the officer says. “We have to ask. There’s always the possibility with poison that he wasn’t the intended victim. Do you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to harm you?”

  It all comes to Xoana in a flash. Izabel demanding that she stay away from Guilherme. The glass of water on the table by the nursing chair. The open window.

  But how can she tell them about Izabel without everything about her own past coming out? Don’t they always suspect the spouse first? Given her history, the police will suspect she killed her husband for his money. The fallen woman, the reasoning goes, is capable of anything evil.

  “No,” Xoana says. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to harm me.”

  Both officers rise, and one offers a card. “Thank you for your time,” he says. “And again, we’re sorry for your loss.”

  “If there’s anything you think of that might help, please don’t hesitate to call us.”

  “Of course,” Xoana says, as she walks them to the door.

  After she closes and locks it, she walks back into the nursery and picks up the baby.

  “With you and God as my witness,” Xoana says. “I will find proof that Izabel killed your father, and I will make her pay.”

  Dulce’s cell phone service didn’t come back on until a few days after the hurricane. Eventually, she got a text from Zavier:

  Headed to Santo Domingo to report on the hurricane.

  Are you and your fam okay? Need anything? We may be in your area tomorrow. Are you up for a visit?”

  She texted back:

  I’m in Puerto Rico. Not sure when I’ll be back in DR. Fam is okay. Wish you and me were on the same island. Next time?

  Why did she keep torturing herself by drawing this out? It wasn’t going to work with Zavier. She needed to stop answering his texts. She deleted his number from her phone. Then later that night, she searched through her deleted photos for the picture she’d taken of his card. She found it and emailed it to herself so she couldn’t lose it, even if she lost the phone. She re-entered his contact info. She shook her head even as she was doing it. This was nuts.

  But she managed not to text him again. No flirty Nashonna tweets, either. A few days later, he texted that he was going back to New York.

  * * *

  One afternoon, a little over a week later, Dulce was napping on the hotel’s king sized bed, and the phone rang. When she answered, it was the front desk.

  “We have you scheduled to check out today,” they said. “Would you like to stay an additional night?”

  “Yes,” Dulce said.

  “Wonderful,” the hotel staff said. “Just come down to the desk with a new credit card.”

  “I’ll be down shortly,” Dulce said.

  She packed up all her stuff, plus everything in the mini bar, all the soaps and freebies. She dressed in her “my flight was canceled” outfit, and walked out of the hotel without a word.

  * * *

  Dulce went down the street to another hotel and sat at the bar. It was practically empty. No one came to buy her a drink.

  “What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.

  Dulce ordered a cola. She was surprised when it was four dollars. She waited for an hour, but didn’t find any prospects. A few couples sat at tables. The barstools were empty except for hers.

  She tried a second bar, this time just asking for a glass of water. “I’m waiting on a friend.”

  But no new friends showed up.

  After the third bar was a bust, Dulce realized she would need someplace to stay. She went to the bathroom and counted her cash. Over eleven hundred dollars. Her “airline change fees” plus a little of the money she’d brought from Miami. Damn, was that all she had left? She could have had so much more. But when men were always treating her, she didn’t bother to keep track of where her own money went.

  Lodging was the first priority. She couldn’t go online for a cheap AirBnB, because they didn’t take cash, and she only had enough on her credit card for Uber rides. She looked through a guidebook and found a coupon for a great hotel deal. She took an Uber to the address, only to find out that hotel still didn’t have power. She found another hotel in the guidebook, and this time she called first.

  The small room with the double bed and no air conditioning was a step down, but she’d find a new sugar daddy tomorrow.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, September 16—Four days before landfall

  A couple days later, she hadn’t met anyone new. Hurricane Irma had put a damper on the tourist trade, and there was a temporary lack of businessmen from the States.

  She stayed in her hotel on a night-to-night basis. Checking out at noon and checking back in late in the evening, after she hadn’t found anyone to stay with.

  That Saturday, while she was in the bar of a more upscale hotel, she caught a news report. There was another storm brewing over the Atlantic Ocean. “Potential Trop
ical Cyclone 15.” This meant that possibly another hurricane was on its way.

  Two hurricanes in a row? It seemed unreal.

  Yet everywhere she went, newscasters were talking about “Tropical Storm 15,” and later, “Tropical Storm María.” By the end of the evening, forecasters were definitely predicting a hurricane.

  So that was that. Dulce shrugged. She’d had a good run in Puerto Rico. But now it was time to get the fuck out. Maybe back to New York. Or back to the DR. Miami was still too dangerous.

  * * *

  Sunday, September 17—Three days before landfall

  The next morning, she asked for a late checkout. She wanted to enjoy every moment she’d paid for at that damn hotel. It was early afternoon when she wheeled her designer bag out in front of the hotel and caught an Uber to the airport.

  On her lap in the back of the car, she counted her cash. Money went quickly in Puerto Rico. At least it went quickly when she was paying her own way. Three days in a hotel. Paying for her own food. Paying for taxis and Ubers to get around. She was down to $700.

  * * *

  The airport was madness. Lines everywhere. People were agitated, but underneath it all was panic.

  Long before Dulce had made it to a counter, she heard that almost all the flights were full. The rare available seat was selling for thousands. She checked several travel sites on her phone. Nothing cheaper than $1,500 to Miami. $2,000 to New York.

  And there were people lining up to get them. All her cash wasn’t going to be enough.

  First she called Gerard.

  He picked up his cell on the third ring.

  “Hey beautiful lady,” he said. “I hope you’re calling to say you’re in Miami, and you’re waiting in a hotel wearing only a sheet.”

  “I wish I had such good news,” she said. “Actually, it’s kind of the opposite. I stayed in Puerto Rico for a while, and now I’m stuck. I’m sure you’ve heard about the hurricane. Is there any way you could help me get a ticket to Miami? They’re the cheapest ones.”

  “Sorry, honey,” he said. “I’m here with my wife, and she would notice if a couple thousand went suddenly missing.” He had a little edge in his voice.

  “Of course,” she said. She didn’t want to piss him off. She might need him in the future. “Sorry to overstep.”

  With a sigh, she called her sister in New York. Her sister never had much in the way of money, but she had a decent job now. Maybe she could do something.

  “Oh, so now you call wanting me to give you some money?” her sister said. “But I saw your ass on Instagram. That picture you posted. Why don’t you get your ‘friends’ with their Mercedes and designer shit to help you, huh?” Dulce could hear the baby fussing in the background. “When you were living large did you even think about sending us any money? Of course not. I’m up here supporting Mami and everybody. Not to mention that you’re the only one from this family that’s set foot on the island in over a decade, and I’ll bet you didn’t even bother to visit your brother Santiago in jail before you left, did you? But now that you need something you call? Not to mention that titi said you went off with some guy to la capital and never came back. Was that your ‘friend’ with the Mercedes?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Dulce said. Suddenly, she wished she had handled that differently. If she hadn’t gone with Gerard, maybe she’d be safe in Santo Domingo now. And she should have visited her brother. She would the next time she was back there. Maybe going off with Gerard had been the wrong choice. Maybe if she had turned him down, she would have a boyfriend like Zavier who would have called her from New York to check on her, instead of someone who was married and didn’t really give a damn.

  “Well however it was, with whoever you left titi’s house with, I can’t help you,” her sister said. Then yelled in the background. “Will you please shut up Dario? I’m on the fucking phone.”

  Dulce apologized and signed off with her sister. Now who could she call? There were only a few numbers in this new phone. Her ex in Miami, her mom, her sister, Zavier, Gerard, and the men she’d stayed with in Puerto Rican hotels.

  But there was one number she knew by heart. Dulce dialed the cell phone of Marisol Rivera. All circuits were busy, so it took twenty minutes just to place the call. Finally, it was ringing.

  Disconnected.

  Fuck!

  Well if Marisol had a new cell, at least she could call her at work. It took another half hour to get the number for the clinic and place that call, but she finally got through.

  “María de la Vega clinic, how can I direct your call?”

  “I’m looking for the director, Marisol Rivera,” Dulce said, and held her breath.

  “Sorry,” the girl said. “She’s no longer working here. Would you like the new director, Tyesha Couvillier?”

  Dulce shook her head, but then realized the woman couldn’t see her. “Does Marisol have . . . any new contact information?”

  “She’s on our board of directors,” the woman offered. “You can send a general email to the board and it will get to her eventually.”

  Dulce took down the email, and the letters on her phone screen blurred. She was stuck. With barely enough cash to get through a week and a sinking feeling in her gut. She reached for a tissue. She didn’t want the tears to mar the silk of her designer dress.

  * * *

  Hotels were out of the question now. She had to save money. On her way out of the airport, she took the bus. Traffic was jammed and travel was slow. Everyone was talking about the storm. According to the National Weather Service, María was now a dangerous hurricane that was likely to hit Puerto Rico hard.

  Two hours later, she arrived at a storage space in Carolina, a little bit inland from San Juan. It was the kind where you got a key and could come and go twenty-four hours.

  She spoke English to the clerk. If she spoke Spanish, they’d hear her Dominican accent and she might not be treated as well.

  “I’m worried about my condo,” she said. “We’re near the beach, and I want to store a few things a little more inland, you know?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She paid cash for a month, which was their minimum. Actually she paid for two months, because the first month was free. She got the smallest space they had, eight by ten feet, and it cost less than one night at any hotel that wasn’t a dump.

  Outside, someone had discarded a small card table made of flimsy metal. She scooped it up and it was the first thing she put in the space.

  Overhead, there was a bare fixture that hung from the ceiling, but it had an electrical outlet in the side above the bulb. She made a note to buy an extension cord. This might work.

  * * *

  On her way out to get food that evening, she saw a woman dragging a mattress out onto the street.

  “Do you need help with that?” Dulce asked.

  The woman thanked her profusely. “My granddaughter was supposed to come help me, but everything is moving so slow since the hurricane. The first one, Irma.”

  Dulce grabbed the other end and together, they pulled it out onto the street.

  “Such a shame you’re getting rid of this,” Dulce said. “It’s memory foam.”

  The woman shook her head. “My son in the US got it for me. He works for a mattress company. But the house flooded in the hurricane.”

  “It got wet?” Dulce asked.

  The woman nodded as they set it on the street. “Mildew. I’m getting rid of it now.”

  “It doesn’t seem moldy at all,” Dulce said.

  “Not now,” the woman said. “But in a few months?” She shook her head.

  “Can I take it?” Dulce asked.

  “You don’t want a moldy mattress,” the woman said. “Let me connect you with my son. He can get you a deal.”

  “Just for a couple of weeks or so til I leave Puerto Rico,” Dulce said. “It shouldn’t be that bad for a short time.”

  “Okay,” the woman said. But she insisted on giving Dulc
e the name of the mattress company and of her son. Dulce picked up her phone as if she was writing them down. But instead, she was calling an Uber big enough to take the mattress to her storage space.

  * * *

  She went out again, and returned to the storage space after dark on the bus. She carried a large box, containing only a bag of groceries, an extension cord, and some takeout. You were supposed to enter with a car, but she entered the code and walked in, even as the gate slid wide enough to admit a vehicle.

  “Excuse me,” she heard a male voice behind her. She turned to see a security guard in the bright exterior lighting.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said. His words were offering assistance, but the sly grin was all come-on.

  “No need,” Dulce said. “It’s light.”

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t help the customers,” he said.

  Dulce looked and saw an older man lugging a trunk on a hand cart to a small hatchback.

  “How sweet of you to offer,” Dulce said, then called to the elderly man. “Señor, do you need help?”

  “Sí, por favor,” he said.

  “This security guard can help the customers,” Dulce said. She smiled at the guard. “Thanks so much for the offer.” And she disappeared around the corner as the guard went grudgingly to help the old man.

  Dulce made sure no one was looking as she slipped into the storage space. She plugged in an extension cord and screwed in a much dimmer bulb. She didn’t want anyone to be able to see the light from outside.

  She set up the latest episode of A Woman’s Dark Past, on her phone, then watched it on her mattress and ate the takeout. She had a bottle of rum, a few RampUp! energy drinks, some peanut butter cookies, yucca chips, and a gallon of water. Now that she had the mattress, this place was practically a palace.

  Chapter 12

  Monday, September 18—Two days before landfall

  By five AM, it was official. There was a hurricane warning for Puerto Rico. That day, the storm went through some of the quickest rapid intensification ever measured.