21. Lena
It is just an island. I remind myself over and over as we drive, cresting over a hill, and the descent reveals the most sweeping coastal view I have ever seen.
Lush green mountain ridges frame the sea on each side and, on the beach below, what looks like an old train tunnel is carved into the hill. A particularly blinding blue sky seems to vibrate with the sun’s rays, the swaying palm trees, and the crashing waves.
Growing up, I always lived in landlocked cities. I would not say the ocean is meaningful to me. But I fail to understand how one could call this place home and not be in awe of it every day.
Halfway down the sloping road is a lookout point with a Puerto Rican flag eagerly flapping for all to see, in case anyone forgets. “The Island of Enchantment” is right.
I lean forward in the passenger seat and try to take in as much of the seascape as I can as we drive down this scenic route. In 1540, Alonso, Francisco, and their team would have probably cut through narrow, interior rural roads and taken several days to travel on horseback or cart from San Juan to San Germán. For us it will be three hours, from expressway to smaller main roads that seemingly have a stoplight every mile.
We are halfway there, and the stunning view is a welcome distraction from my thoughts. Wind-tossed much like that flag, they go back and forth.
Now that we have driven away from the Morales home, these last few days feel like a fugue state—another dimension where the warmth and laughter of a family is enough to brave any storm. Where discomforts or inconveniences are faced with togetherness and hard work, because it is us against whatever. Where everything can stop because, no matter what, you have each other. A dimension where I could just sit in that room with Rico, read, be read to, listen, and be listened to.
I’m still reeling from having lived for myself what that shelter of belonging feels like—and unavoidably mourning it had to end. As it always has.
Rico has been intent on proving his ankle’s complete recovery. Thankfully, it was his left foot that was sprained, which means his abuela will allow him to drive. I can get around with no problem; but besides being grateful to fully take in these views, I already feel overwhelmed without driving in an unknown place—while Rico watches.
And he has been watching me a lot. I know because I have been watching him a lot.
Since this stunning sea vista appeared, he has had no reaction, that I can tell. Dark aviator sunglasses and strong arms on the steering wheel, his watch catches the light. His profile puts on full display the beard scruff he has now shaped and trimmed to a more permanent fixture. Top Five best ideas he has ever had—maybe Top Three.
I do not know how much he heard of the conversation with Tina and his sisters. When we noticed he had left Julia’s room, it dawned on me how completely personal that conversation was. I blame the entrancingly open women in his family and, yes, some curiosity on my part.
How do his everyday grins hide such deep wounds? How can one have been so hurt and still expose oneself willingly to rely on others? What kind of healing is possible if you have people in your life who won’t let you down?
Awkward tension lingered in the air when I joined him for the last of our usual afternoon reading sessions. I probably made it worse by offering to help him pack. I could not think of anything else to do, anything to say, or even how to meet his gaze.
But, as always, Rico was kinder than anyone deserves. He only gave a quick chuckle and told me his abuela already offered to help with that.
The night ended with Tina’s farewell arroz con gandules (still magnificently using up all those defrosted pigeon peas), a final UNO tournament for the ages, and witnessing Mari’s celebratory boo-yah dance.
I spent my last sleep in the daybed cataloguing every sound, from the gentle warble of Mari’s rainforest sleep app to the thumping bass of car sound systems and exhausts, to the neighbor’s droning newscasts, and even the faint cooing of city chickens. All sounds that have combined to mean a haven to me—sounds that Rico hears every night.
This morning he dutifully had his crutches, which almost certainly were only to appease Tina, as we loaded up his car. The girls and I did the traditional Hispanic goodbye tour: starting in the kitchen with hugs and blubbering, then again at the front porch, and then directly by the car.
We keenly felt the finality of the goodbye, knowing I will fly back to Salamanca when I find the answers I need, hopefully in a few days.
“Escúchame bien , Magdalena.” Tina held me at arm’s length, hands resting on my shoulders. I slouched a little to accommodate our height difference. As solemn as I have seen her, she said, “You have a home here”—I shrugged to thank her for the common polite expression, but she shook me a little to get my attention—“I don’t just mean you have a place to stay for whenever. What I mean is you are family now, and this is your home. Any storm—any kind of storm—you have a home.”
Julia and Mari stood a little behind us, arms around each other, nodding and smiling at me with teary eyes. It was too much. I lowered my head and struggled to swallow down what felt like years of ache threatening to come up in ugly sobs.
Rico leaned on the car, quietly looking on. All I could do was take a small step back and tuck myself in to accept Tina’s hug. Despite her tiny frame, her arms completely enveloped me as I forced out my muffled gratitude and weepily repeated, “You will never know how much this has meant to me.”
A second later, more arms wrapped around me when Mari and Julia made it a tight, extended group hug—all four of us sniffing and swaying together on the driveway.
Clearing his throat, Rico pushed away from the car to open his door. We let go of each other, using any available fabric to wipe off evidence of blubbering. After exchanging contact info, I promised all three to stay in touch and waved out the car window until they were completely out of sight, as we drove away. This Morales hurricane retreat will soon be only a memory to sigh over and shove into the corner where I keep things that hurt too much to hope for.
My awe at the current scenery must have been evident, because Rico brings me back to the moment when he comments, “I know, right?”
I nod, but then shake my head in awe. “The sky, the ocean, the beach below. It is almost too much.”
He glances past me at the view and smiles. “It never gets old.”
“Is that a train tunnel?” I ask, pointing to the arched opening in the mountain below.
“Yep, it used to be part of the national railway they built in the early nineteen-hundreds—completing what the Spanish had started.” He dips his head to look over his sunglasses at me as if asking, “Surprised?” and continues, “They cut right into that mountain to connect the canyon. Trains ran until the fifties. Now people can walk through it to get to the beach on the other side.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yeah, growing up, we stopped and walked through almost every time we traveled west. You cross the dark tunnel to go from the nice little beach cove to raging waves smashing on rocks on the other side. But the view is so much better.”
Considering that for a moment, I say, “I guess—I guess crossing the darkness and braving the waves together is worth it.” I shift in my seat since I don’t know where that came from. Or if I completely believe it.
We finish the descent and are back to the stop-and-go traffic lights. The car idles at one when Rico raises his sunglasses to his head and looks right at me. His eyes search mine and then he settles on a knowing smile.
“Look at you making hopeful metaphors out of abandoned train systems.” He looks so proud. And smug.
I huff as I raise my eyes to the car roof and cover my face with both hands. He is so right. Who am I?
Grumbling through my fingers, I reply, “You’re the one who started with all the structural symbolism that day at the Rogativa statue. What? No citizens marching with torches on this coast?”
Rico chuckles as he reaches over and grabs one of my hands to uncover my face. I lower the other one but keep my gaze down on our joined hands. His envelops mine—my very incinerated hand.
Do these traffic lights take forever or did everything stop? Right here, between a tire shop and a tropical smoothie stand, time stalls while our hands intertwine.
A terse honk informs us the stoplight changed, and Rico lets go to drive on, staring ahead. He clears his throat, then smiles casually as he says, “No torches or marching. But at one point, the train did derail and crash into the tunnel.” He shakes his head. “Such a missed opportunity for a ghost tour right there.”
I lean my head back against the seat, missing the distraction of the ocean view. Maybe I could count all the cell phone repair shops along the way. Looking out the window, I finally reply, “Yes, missed opportunity—always a shame.”
Two stoplights later, Rico says, “So . . . let me tell you about this local museum where we’ll meet tomorrow. The Museo de la Historia de San Germán . . .” He lists the small institution’s efforts to catalogue the city’s history starting from the late fifteenth century.
I take out my notepad and jot down anything Rico mentions that I want to remember about the museum and any questions I might have for his contact. Somehow I need to get my focus back on this research and not be preoccupied with scenery, strong hands, and impending goodbye.
Eventually, the rows of small businesses are replaced by rolling valleys of tall grass on either side of the road. The sun glimmers in between the far-off palm trees, and I again have to remind myself: it is just an island.