here feels like moving backward. I know I should be grateful to be safe and healthy and in a gorgeous bucket list destination. I know this was the perfect time for this to happen, with my job in limbo and you stuck at the hospital. I also know that when you’re in the thick of living your life, you don’t often get to push pause and reflect on it. It’s just really hard to sit in the moment, and not worry if pause is going to turn into stop.
Jesus, I am bad at having downtime. I need to find a way to keep myself occupied.
Or I need to find a plane. A plane would be good, too.
Love, Diana
----
—
After I’ve been on the island for a little over a week, Abuela invites me to lunch.
I have not been inside her home before now. It is bright and cozy, with a tangle of plants on the windowsills and yellow walls and a crocheted afghan on the couch. There is a ceramic cross hanging over the television set, and the entire space smells delicious. On the stove is a pan; she walks to it and moves the contents around with a spatula before lifting the utensil and pointing at the kitchen table so I will sit down.
“Tigrillo,” she says a moment later, when she sets a plate down in front of me. Plantains, cheese, green pepper, onions, and eggs. She motions for me to take a bite, and I do—it’s delicious—and then with satisfaction, Abuela turns back to the stove and loads a second plate. I think she is going to join me, but instead she calls out, “Beatriz!”
Beatriz is here? I haven’t seen her for four days, not since we built the sandcastle together.
I wonder if she ran away from her dad’s farm again.
From behind a closed door on the other side of the living room comes a flurry of angry response I cannot understand. Abuela mutters something, setting the plate on the table and resting her hands on her hips in frustration.
“Let me try,” I say.
I pick up the plate and walk to the door; knock. The response is another muffled stream of Spanish. “Beatriz?” I say, leaning closer. “It’s Diana.”
When she doesn’t answer, I turn the knob. She is lying on a bed that’s covered by a plain white cotton blanket. She is staring up at the ceiling fan, while tears stream from the corners of her eyes into her hair. It is almost as if she doesn’t realize she is crying. Immediately I set the plate on a dresser and sit next to her. “Talk to me,” I beg. “Let me help you.”
She turns onto her side, presenting her back to me. “Just leave me alone,” she says, crying harder.
After a moment, I stand up and close the door behind me again. Abuela looks at me, her heart in her eyes. “I think she needs help,” I say softly, but Abuela just cocks her head, and my worry is lost in translation.
Suddenly the front door opens and Beatriz’s father stalks in. “Ella no puede seguir haciendo esto,” he says. Abuela steps forward, putting a hand on his arm.
He makes a beeline for the bedroom door. Without thinking twice, I step directly in his path. “Leave her be,” I say.
Gabriel startles, and I realize he has been too furious and single-minded to clock my presence. “Porqué está ella aquí?” he asks Abuela, and then looks at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Can we talk?” I say. “Privately?”
He stares at me. “I’m busy,” he grunts, trying to dodge around me for the doorknob.
I realize I’m not going to be able to divert him, so I pitch my voice lower, assuming that Abuela cannot understand English any better than I can understand Spanish. “Do you know that your daughter cuts herself?” I murmur.
His eyes, already nearly black, manage to darken. “This is none of your business,” he says.
“I just want to help. She’s so…sad. Lost. She misses her school. Her friends. She feels like there’s nothing for her here.”
“ I’m here,” Gabriel says.
I don’t respond, because what if that’s the problem?
A muscle tics in his jaw; he is fighting for patience. “What
Jesus, I am bad at having downtime. I need to find a way to keep myself occupied.
Or I need to find a plane. A plane would be good, too.
Love, Diana
----
—
After I’ve been on the island for a little over a week, Abuela invites me to lunch.
I have not been inside her home before now. It is bright and cozy, with a tangle of plants on the windowsills and yellow walls and a crocheted afghan on the couch. There is a ceramic cross hanging over the television set, and the entire space smells delicious. On the stove is a pan; she walks to it and moves the contents around with a spatula before lifting the utensil and pointing at the kitchen table so I will sit down.
“Tigrillo,” she says a moment later, when she sets a plate down in front of me. Plantains, cheese, green pepper, onions, and eggs. She motions for me to take a bite, and I do—it’s delicious—and then with satisfaction, Abuela turns back to the stove and loads a second plate. I think she is going to join me, but instead she calls out, “Beatriz!”
Beatriz is here? I haven’t seen her for four days, not since we built the sandcastle together.
I wonder if she ran away from her dad’s farm again.
From behind a closed door on the other side of the living room comes a flurry of angry response I cannot understand. Abuela mutters something, setting the plate on the table and resting her hands on her hips in frustration.
“Let me try,” I say.
I pick up the plate and walk to the door; knock. The response is another muffled stream of Spanish. “Beatriz?” I say, leaning closer. “It’s Diana.”
When she doesn’t answer, I turn the knob. She is lying on a bed that’s covered by a plain white cotton blanket. She is staring up at the ceiling fan, while tears stream from the corners of her eyes into her hair. It is almost as if she doesn’t realize she is crying. Immediately I set the plate on a dresser and sit next to her. “Talk to me,” I beg. “Let me help you.”
She turns onto her side, presenting her back to me. “Just leave me alone,” she says, crying harder.
After a moment, I stand up and close the door behind me again. Abuela looks at me, her heart in her eyes. “I think she needs help,” I say softly, but Abuela just cocks her head, and my worry is lost in translation.
Suddenly the front door opens and Beatriz’s father stalks in. “Ella no puede seguir haciendo esto,” he says. Abuela steps forward, putting a hand on his arm.
He makes a beeline for the bedroom door. Without thinking twice, I step directly in his path. “Leave her be,” I say.
Gabriel startles, and I realize he has been too furious and single-minded to clock my presence. “Porqué está ella aquí?” he asks Abuela, and then looks at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Can we talk?” I say. “Privately?”
He stares at me. “I’m busy,” he grunts, trying to dodge around me for the doorknob.
I realize I’m not going to be able to divert him, so I pitch my voice lower, assuming that Abuela cannot understand English any better than I can understand Spanish. “Do you know that your daughter cuts herself?” I murmur.
His eyes, already nearly black, manage to darken. “This is none of your business,” he says.
“I just want to help. She’s so…sad. Lost. She misses her school. Her friends. She feels like there’s nothing for her here.”
“ I’m here,” Gabriel says.
I don’t respond, because what if that’s the problem?
A muscle tics in his jaw; he is fighting for patience. “What
Similar Books
