Side Chick Nation

by Aya De León

  The aunt interrupted her: “Y sabes qué?” she said. “Ese macho got the fucking escoba and swept the fucking water out of his kitchen. And so to keep our spirits up since the hurricane, whenever we visit them, we just do this.” She held one fist above another as if she were holding a broom and made a sweeping motion. “And all the women can’t stop laughing.”

  Likewise, the women at the table cracked up.

  “Ha roto su record perfecto,” the aunt said.

  “After the gas gets back on it’s not like he’s gonna go in there and cook,” the niece said. “But I’ll bet now he’ll be able to go in and fix himself a goddamn sandwich.”

  “Some of these men are so damn stubborn, it takes a fucking hurricane to change their ways,” the girl from La Yupi said.

  Dulce laughed along with all the women, some of them laughing so hard they cried.

  * * *

  Later that night, Dulce regretted not having taken her blanket out into the rain, as well. The room was totally dark, with just a lantern in the corner where the nurse was talking to a man with a small child.

  Dulce’s body felt tired, but her mind was buzzing. She was hungry after the small dinner, the paltry FEMA rations, and the time she was unconscious and went without eating before that. She had never been so thirsty in her life.

  Not only was her body uncomfortable, but she was never, ever still like this. She felt agitated, raw. There was no light to finish the teen book. Usually, she would watch TV or look at something on her phone. Was her phone even still working?

  She pulled it out of the translucent case for the first time. The phone was dry, as were the charger and cash. Phillip was an asshole, but at least he bought her quality trinkets. Although the water wallet was all that remained.

  When she pressed the power button on the phone, she was afraid that it would be broken, out of charge, or that the screen would be cracked. But instead it sparked to life. Just like any other day. The phone had no idea she had been through a hurricane, knocked out, covered in piss, had slept beside a woman and baby as they died.

  Something about the phone turning on caused her chest to surge with emotion. Not hope exactly, but the idea that something that mattered to her had survived. So her eyes were filled with tears, and it took a moment for her to see the screen clearly and notice that she had messages.

  You’re running low on data. You have 25% remaining

  with eight days left. Get unlimited data on the best 4G

  LTE network in the Caribbean. Switch today.

  She deleted the message. The other one was from a number she didn’t recognize.

  It’s Zavier. Texting from a friend’s phone. Mine is dead.

  At the Lumineer hotel in San Juan with press corps.

  Praying you’re somewhere safe to sit out the hurricane.

  Hit me back when you can. Or better yet come over if you can. xo

  The Lumineer Hotel.

  The tears started up again. Zavier was worried about her. Somebody cared about her. She knew where to find him. He wanted her to come.

  She had a goal now, a destination. She needed to find him and with his help, she could get the hell off this island.

  Chapter 21

  Clive’s boat waited in the Las Palmas harbor. He sat out on the vessel’s deck, next to a young doctor from Cuba. The two men looked out onto the steep hillside of spindly, naked trees, and above it, the actual town of Las Palmas. The doctor only spoke Spanish. Clive only spoke English. But Clive understood what was happening. The doctor had the IVs ready for Zara and the baby. He had the rest of the medical supplies in a mid-sized wheeling suitcase, but Clive couldn’t imagine how they would get it up the muddy, eroding hill on wheels. They’d have to carry it.

  There was a vague track that snaked up the hill. Clive only noticed it after staring at it for hours. Along the track, the treeline was lower, because it had no standing trees, only fallen trunks and branches. Maybe it had once been a road.

  Nobody came all morning. Would he and the doctor have to go up into the town and find Marisol’s cousins? What if they were too sick to come? Or worse, what if he was too late? He wanted to call Marisol to see if she knew anything, but he couldn’t get a signal.

  How could he and the doctor even find them? Just start walking around asking for Nidia Rivera? He had a street address, but how could anyone give them directions? From what he understood, there were no discernible streets anymore.

  Early in the afternoon, there was a rustle of movement at the top of the hill. The doctor saw them first.

  “Mira!”

  Clive sat up and set down his soda.

  The two men saw a small knot of figures emerge from behind a tangle of fallen trees, headed down.

  Wordlessly, the two men started up the hill. The knot of people turned out to be a middle-aged woman carrying a whimpering baby, and an older woman and younger man carrying a young woman who seemed barely conscious.

  Clive and the doctor met them halfway up the hill and helped carry the two of them down.

  The doctor conferred with the older woman, who apparently was named Mrs. Talamantez, and the doctor managed to take both of the patients’ pulses as they picked their way down the hill.

  The middle-aged woman was crying silently, tears streaming down her face as they did their best to hurry toward the boat.

  * * *

  Nidia wiped her tears. She needed to focus. Once onboard, she went below deck with the doctor and Mrs. Talamantez and helped them hook up Zara and the baby to the IVs.

  The doctor sent her above deck to drink water, and she watched as her neighbor helped Clive unload two pallets of bottled water from Jamaica.

  Then Clive handed the suitcase to the man.

  Shortly thereafter, the doctor and Mrs. Talamantez came back above deck and stepped off the boat.

  Nidia translated for them. “She says they need to get to a hospital as soon as possible,” she told Clive, struggling again to control her tears.

  “Are they going to be okay?” Clive asked.

  Nidia’s jaw was tight. “We don’t know yet.”

  * * *

  The four of them were in the open sea off the coast of the Dominican Republic when the baby went from a whimper to a proper cry.

  Nidia picked him up.

  “Yes, mi amor!” she cooed, tears streaming, despite her smile. “Tell me all about it.”

  Nidia held the baby in her lap. She sat on the foot of the cot where Zara lay. The IV had successfully rehydrated her, but she was still unresponsive.

  Half an hour later, the baby had stopped crying, and Nidia brought him out onto the deck. The baby blinked, looking out at all the water, and let out a loud laugh when the wind hit his face.

  “How’s the mother?” Clive asked.

  “I’m praying,” Nidia said, biting back tears.

  * * *

  Zara was still unresponsive when the Coast Guard stopped them upon arrival in Miami. Nidia was below deck by her bedside. The IV had hydrated Zara’s body—the vein in the crook of her elbow was even fully raised above the level of the skin. But she still lay inert, her breathing shallow.

  The space was illuminated by a single candle, flickering in a weighted holder.

  “Wake up, mi amor,” Nidia said. “Just like your precious baby did. It’s your turn. Open your eyes. You can do it.”

  The baby lay next to his mother. He had woken up briefly, drank formula, cried for half an hour, and then fallen back to sleep.

  As Nidia squeezed her daughter’s hand in a whispered prayer, an amplified voice came from the Coast Guard ship.

  “Please identify yourself,” the voice thundered. “You do not have authorization to dock in the United States.”

  Zara scrambled up onto the deck. It was night, and she was nearly blinded by the spotlight of the much bigger ship.

  Initially, Nidia was relieved, but Clive stood on the deck with his hands in the air.

  “I have refugees from Pue
rto Rico,” he shouted into the wind.

  “Keep your hands up,” the voice boomed.

  Eventually, two officers came aboard the boat. By then, Nidia had gone down and brought the baby up onto the deck.

  She pulled the passports and the baby’s birth certificate out of a zip lock bag.

  Clive showed his Trinidadian passport, as well.

  “My daughter needs urgent medical attention,” Nidia said.

  “We have a protocol,” the Coast Guard agent said. “Neither this man nor this vessel has permission to enter the United States.”

  “I don’t want to enter the United States,” Clive said. “I was just dropping off these three US citizens so none of them died while your own government wasn’t doing a damn thing to help.”

  One of the agents swiveled around to him. His mouth was tight and his eyes were hidden behind reflective shades. “One more word out of you and you’ll be detained while your boat is impounded.”

  Nidia could see Clive swallow hard. He stood silent and rigid as one agent inspected their documents, then she and her family were allowed aboard the Coast Guard vessel. The first Coast Guard agent watched Clive suspiciously, as if he might run for their boat. Meanwhile, the second agent trooped across the deck with Zara in a fireman’s carry over his shoulder.

  Nidia expected them to turn their boat around and head immediately to the hospital. But instead, they accompanied Clive back out to international waters, and stood anchored for a while as they made sure his boat was headed away from the Florida coast.

  As precious minutes passed, Nidia looked at her unconscious daughter, and her now screaming grandson. She cursed the yanquis under her breath.

  Chapter 22

  On the same day Nidia left Puerto Rico, Dulce woke early with a renewed sense of purpose. She was headed to the Lumineer Hotel in Old San Juan. It was only between ten and fifteen miles away. She could walk.

  What was the protocol for leaving an emergency shelter? She didn’t really know anyone. But she wanted to let them know she was leaving. Most everyone was still sleeping, so she moved around quietly. She folded her pissy blanket. It seemed absurd to fold something so funky, but she couldn’t wash it, and it would be rude to just leave it in a rumpled mess.

  The only other person who was awake was the man in the kitchen. He was fat and gray-haired, with several tattoos on his arms. He had a slew of cook stoves going, and had a large pot on each one with water to boil for oatmeal.

  She asked him for a bottle of water.

  “We’ll be distributing water with breakfast,” he told her.

  “I’m not staying for breakfast,” she said. “I’m about to leave.”

  “Where are you going, mija?” he asked. “It’s not safe out there.”

  “I need to get to . . . my family,” she said.

  “Why don’t you wait?” he asked. “Talk about it with the site supervisor when she gets up.”

  “Everything takes too long,” she said. “By the time breakfast is over, I’ll have lost three hours. I need to go now if I’m gonna make it.”

  He shook his head, but he handed her a pair of sixteen-ounce bottles of spring water, and a bag of peanuts, along with a bag of crackers.

  “Watch out for downed electrical cables,” he warned. “Don’t touch any wires.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Dulce promised.

  “And if you reach any intersections that are clear, be sure to look very carefully, because the traffic signals are all out. There have been a lot of accidents.”

  “I will,” she promised. “Thank you for your work.”

  “But where are you going?” he asked.

  “Old San Juan.”

  He gave her directions to the Román Baldorioty de Castro Expressway. When she got closer, she would need to find out which of the bridges from Condado or Santurce were open into Old San Juan.

  “Should I walk along the actual expressway?” Dulce asked.

  “If the roads below are blocked, that’s probably a good idea,” he said. “You should walk on the left side, facing the traffic, so you can see cars coming. From what I hear, they cleared it just enough that vehicles can get through, but driving slow, you know? There’s not much traffic because the businesses and schools are all closed.”

  “Can I get there today?” she asked.

  “On foot?” he asked. “Not by daylight. And they don’t allow anyone out after curfew. You need to get to another emergency shelter to stop for the night. There’s one at another school about halfway along to Old San Juan.”

  “How do I find it?” Dulce asked.

  He gave her directions. Her landmark would be the Suárez Canal near the airport.

  She thanked him again and began to walk out. She had only gotten a few steps when he told her to wait.

  He disappeared into the kitchen, then came out with a battered umbrella that had once been white.

  “To protect you from the sun,” he said.

  She gave him a hug. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Just be careful out there,” he said.

  * * *

  The going was slow. She carefully made her way down the street to the expressway. The only clear part was the area she and the crew had cleared the day before.

  She was careful to avoid the many hanging wires, as she picked her way around open water, fallen branches and trees, and so much of people’s lives, splayed and sodden on the ground. Family portraits, clothes, dishes, furniture, roofing materials. It was as if someone had poked holes in the roof of someone’s house and used it like a salt shaker, sprinkling their belongings indiscriminately onto the land, like a macabre seasoning.

  It took her a half hour just to go a few blocks. At this rate, she’d never get to Old San Juan. She stood at the bottom of the expressway off-ramp and listened for cars. After a few minutes, she heard a single vehicle go by, the engine grumbling in a low gear. Slowly, she walked up the ramp, although it felt terribly wrong.

  “Cuidado,” her mother had said every time she was near a street or road. Now she was walking on an expressway.

  Like the streets, the expressway was covered with branches and fallen trees. On each side of the expressway, a narrow trail snaked through the debris, just wide enough for a single vehicle.

  While keeping out of the way of the cars, she had to climb over the tree trunks, and some of the larger branches. At first, she kicked the smaller branches aside indiscriminately. But later, she began to throw them off onto the shoulder of the road. If she was walking that way anyway, she might as well help clear.

  The umbrella was a godsend. Two of the ribs were broken, but it shaded her head, and that was what mattered. The day began to heat up, and by noon it was blazing. She had eaten the crackers for breakfast. Around one PM, she ate the peanuts. She drank the water slowly, and peed a couple of times on the side of the road.

  She only saw a few people over the sides of the expressway, and they were all out of earshot. In the distance, she could occasionally see movement, either individuals or small groups. But mostly she saw wreckage everywhere, particularly trees.

  By late afternoon, she had finally crossed over the canal near the airport. Through the chain-link fence, she could see much more activity. Only a few planes in sight, but crews with equipment were clearing the runways of branches and debris.

  Her shadow was long across the quiet expressway by the time she had passed the gas station and found the right off-ramp. Her feet hurt in the too-big shoes. She was famished with all the exercise and so little food. She drank the last of the water and hoped there would be more at the rescue center.

  * * *

  She tried to follow the directions the man at the shelter had given her, but the streets between the expressway and the school were completely flooded. Dulce had to walk through waist-deep water.

  “You okay?” a trio of teens called to her from an inflatable raft.

  “I’m trying to get to the shelter,” she said.

&
nbsp; “We’re going that way,” one of them said. “We can take you.” They were two boys and a girl. One of the boys’ arms was in a makeshift sling.

  It took some maneuvering, but eventually, they got Dulce into the raft without tipping it over.

  They exchanged news. Apparently, the US president was finally supposed to visit. Or so they had heard from a friend of a friend, who had heard it on the radio. None of them were particularly hopeful that he would do much to help.

  By the time she appeared at the door of the high school, it was starting to get dark.

  “We just finished dinner,” the woman said. “I’ll see if I can still get you a plate.”

  “Finished?” Dulce asked. It was barely evening.

  “We have to work with the sunlight,” the woman said.

  Dulce recalled that the other school had skylights in both the kitchen and the auditorium. This one didn’t have much natural light, and it was far dimmer inside.

  Instead of rice and beans, they had cooked a huge quantity of pasta with a thin tomato sauce. She ate the small portion and drank another twenty ounces of water. It gave her the illusion that her belly was fuller. Not exactly full, more of a sloshing feeling inside.

  She waited in line for the bathroom for nearly an hour. After she used it, her belly felt empty again and she was totally exhausted. Her body craved meat or beans and rice or even nuts—some sort of protein. But the rations of the day had been exhausted.

  One of the people staffing the place found a cot for her. By then it was nearly dark, and—despite her still-hungry belly—she crashed hard, her body totally drained from the heat and the hours of walking.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, Dulce woke to hear an older man yelling.

  “Her oxygen machine isn’t working!”