Chapter 35
I ’M GIVING HIM SPACE. F OR AN ENTIRE DAY, I ’VE SKIRTED around René. Yesterday, I stuck to the corner of the studio or out in the hallway, where I could use the monitor to take notes and direct James through our wireless headphones system.
It was easy enough to stay out of René’s way. He sticks to a routine lately, so I pretty much know where he’s going to be. He works alone in the studio in the mornings, goes for a swim or a boat ride in the afternoons, and then works with Santiago in the studio late into the night.
Maureen loved the photographs I took, so I worked on a few ideas on how we can use them. I also scouted locations for René’s main interview but have yet to find the right spot. The only place I haven’t seen is his cottage.
I have a feeling his room might be the perfect backdrop for this behind-the-scenes. I’ll find a way to slip that in when I finally face him today to schedule his main interview. My plan is to use some psychology instead of asking if he’ll agree to do it. Like I used to do with Meri when she wouldn’t eat her vegetables. Do you want broccoli or carrots? I’m just going to walk right up to René and ask if he wants to do the interview tomorrow or the day after.
I have to try. We have a little over a week left and I worry the closer we get to the finish line, the busier he’ll be in the studio. So today, as soon as I see him, I’m going to walk right up to him and ask.
Which is probably why I’m escaping at the crack of dawn. I borrowed James’s digital camera and called a cab, but now we’re still in the parking lot because I can’t decide where to go.
“You don’t know? You’re more lost than me! That’s saying a lot.” The driver eyes me through the rearview mirror, his thick gray hair sticking out from under a red Kangol cap. Everything about this man feels warm and familiar.
“What about Resaca Beach?” I ask hesitantly, remembering it’s in my father’s song.
“Resaca?” he shouts. “ ?Estás loca? You want to ruin my suspension?” He’s pretending to be upset, but his eyes are smiling. “You can’t get there by car,” he shrieks. My dad used to do this. Act like he was all riled up over the smallest thing. Remembering this particular bit of his personality makes my heart ache.
“Oh, I didn’t know. What about a golf cart?” I wonder how much he’d charge me if I get out of his taxi before he’s had a chance to take me anywhere.
He waves both hands in the air dramatically. “I don’t recommend it. Not with all the rain we had last night. There’s nothing but a long dirt road to get there.” One of his hands keeps swinging to convey just how long it is.
The shiny red golf cart is parked a few feet away. It’s pristine, literally sparkling under the early morning sun. I try to envision myself taking it off-roading. I fly around in that thing when I’m on a paved road. Best-case scenario, I’ll get stuck in the mud. I’ve been able to keep a low profile since René and I spoke on the beach. I don’t want to have to call for help because I’m stranded.
I feel a wave of intense disappointment. I’ve been afraid of seeing the places in my dad’s song. Worried it would be too painful or make me miss him even more, I guess. But today I think they would actually help. I couldn’t miss him any more than I do now, and if I’m going to be sad, I want to be sad in his favorite places. I hear the song so clearly in my mind.
bomba es el latido de mi corazón
Playa Resaca, mi pulmón
en el muelle bajo el mar
encontré la fé y aprendí a amar
—
Bomba is my heartbeat
Resaca Beach, my lungs
on the dock under the sea
I found my faith and learned to love
Maybe there’s somewhere I can listen to bomba music on the island. Maybe at one of the hotels? But it isn’t going to be anywhere at seven in the morning. René was going to ask around about the “dock under the sea,” but I don’t know if he’s had any luck.
“You can take a boat to Resaca,” offers my driver. He has my dad’s accent too and it has a soothing effect on me. If he were the voice on one of those bedtime apps, I’d fall right to sleep.
“It’s okay, I don’t have access to a boat,” I reply, and then I watch as his lips pucker toward the one docked just ahead of us on the property.
“Are you from Culebra?” I ask, leaning forward.
He nods vigorously. “A few generations back on my dad’s side.”
I smile, impressed. “Have you ever heard of a dock beneath the sea?”
“ Qué? No!” he shouts again, pretending to be offended that I’ve stumped him. “What’s that?”
“Nothing. It’s just a place I heard about.” I tap the camera on my lap. “You know what? Can you just take me to any dock? Well, not on this side. I’ve pretty much walked this entire part of the island. Can you take me to a dock on the north side?”
“Which one?” he barks.
“It doesn’t matter. You pick,” I respond brightly, egging him on.
The whole way, I have a good feeling. I’ve never been a gambler but having this man who reminds me of my dad choose makes me feel like we’ll find it.
The road we’re on ends, morphing into a wide cement dock that stretches into the water with large boats parked on either side. I pay him, say goodbye, and head slowly toward the water.
This is definitely not it. No one has ever written a song about this dock. Functional and plain, with a two-foot lip around the edge. It’s so high above the water, the only way this dock would ever be “under the sea” is if it were struck with some treacherous storm surge. Not to mention that it looks relatively new, so it probably wasn’t even around when my dad was here. I stare at it and let out a heavy sigh. To my left, there’s a row of beachfront homes. On the right, the road leads to a public beach, so I set out in that direction.
At least I’ve embraced the dress code. It’s muggy out but I’m comfortable in these denim shorts and the strapless top Meri packed for me.
There are only a few people on the beach, I imagine because it’s early. This side of the island smells different. The air is salty and sweet. The waves are calmer, there are more seashells on the sand, and the neighboring islands are way closer to the shore.
I photograph a black-and-golden-haired mama chicken walking on the sand with her two babies. Then, I linger, up to my knees in the warm water, and observe a human family wading in a few feet away from me. They’re fully clothed and carrying everything they’ve brought to the beach on their heads and shoulders. A large cooler, a small child, a boombox, and grocery bags. They walk determined, their course fixed on the closest island, about fifty yards away.
They graciously agree to let me photograph them, so I stake the beach out for the best vantage points. They remind me of a family of ducks all in a row. On a mission, determined to get where they’re going so they can have a good time.
When they’re far enough from the shore, I frame out the beach and the island, so they appear to be in the middle of the ocean, but with the water always just below their waists. When I head back to the beach, my wet denim shorts dragging, I feel the unfamiliar lightness of doing something just for fun.
“Hold on”—Meri switches our call to video—“check it out. Altogether, twenty-seven dollars.” She aims her phone at her latest haul of vintage finds sprawled out on her bed. A dark green handbag, a white beret, and a pinstriped pencil skirt. “I mean, how perfect is this entire outfit? You have to try on the skirt when you get back.” She aims the camera at herself. “I think it’s going to look great on you.”
“I love it all. Very impressive.”
“Hey, Mom really loved the pictures you sent. She wants to frame the chickens on the beach. You should take a class again.”
“I actually thought about that this morning when I was out there. It was so much fun.”
“Do it!” Her eyes ignite with excitement.
“Maybe. I just need to see what’s going to happen with my job first.”
“And then what?” she snaps, surprising me. “When do you get to take a day off? Or a proper vacation? There was that photography workshop in Mexico you used to talk about.”
A laugh escapes me, the idea is so preposterous. “That was a long time ago. Although we really should go on vacation. The three of us,” I add, trying to keep things light. “Whenever I’m done paying for the windows.”
“The windows ?”
“Why are you yelling?”
“Because you’re always moving the goal post. It’s always, ‘I’ll move into my own place when the roof is done, I’ll take a class after Mom’s knee surgery, I’ll take a vacation when the windows are paid for,’” she rattles off. “When are you going to do what you want?”
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m frustrated,” she clarifies, gathering steam. “I don’t think you even see the goal anymore. Not one of your own.”
“I just said, I want a vacation.”
She gives me a look. “And what about René? Have you talked to him?”
“Since he admitted to writing an insulting song about me? No.”
“Why not?” She’s cooled off a bit.
Yesterday I told Meri about my talk with René, and she went on and on about how she was sure he had feelings for me. She said she knew it from the day he spoke to her at the bar and that the song actually proves it. “You need to talk to him.”
“Meri, he’s a grown man. If there was something he wanted to say to me, he would.”
“Not if you’re icing him out.”
“I’m not icing him out.” I shift uncomfortably. My back is starting to hurt from sitting on a stack of beach chairs. “We still have to work together, you know. I’m just trying to keep things civil.” I fight back a groan.
“You’re not avoiding him?”
“I’m not avoiding him,” I confirm, just as the need to adjust myself or stand reaches a peak.
“Where are you?” she asks, her curiosity piqued. “Is that toilet paper behind you?”
“No, I don’t—” I look behind me.
“Are you… hiding in a closet?”
“What? No this is, like, a little office I’ve been using.”
Meri shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”
So what if I’m in the storage closet? René and Santiago are busy working on a song they started yesterday. A party track with clever lyrics about a girl he’s trying to forget. It’s sexy and reminiscent of The Weeknd with a reggaeton twist.
It’s just been easier to stay out of his way. I’m about to explain myself to Meri when my video monitor comes to life signaling that James has started to record again.
“I should get going,” I say, watching the monitor. “I need to…” The camera zooms in for a close-up of René’s face and I forget what I was about to say. The sight of his dark brown eyes and full lips in high definition on my lap creates a stir in my stomach.
“Wait,” Meri says. “I need to tell you something.”
She looks away, her eyebrows knitted tightly and my mind starts racing. Has she gone back to her cheating ex? Is Mom sick? “What’s wrong?”
She’s gone silent. Whatever it is, she’s afraid to say it.
“What’s happened? Did you dent my car?” I joke, hoping to make her smile and push my mind away from negative thoughts.
“I quit. Yesterday.”
“Quit? Quit what?”
“Nursing school. I’m not applying anymore. I canceled the tutor.”
I sit up quickly and the beach chairs wobble below me. “Really?”
She nods, her face pained. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, D.” She’s so upset, tears have started to flow. “I’ll pay you back for the loans, and for the tutoring and everything. Someday.” She’s talking so fast, I can’t get a word in. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’m going to focus on the makeup work while I figure something out.”
“You don’t have to have a plan, Meri.” Her eyes get bigger, anxious to hear what I’m going to say. “This is good.”
Meri drops her mouth open. This is clearly not the reaction she was expecting. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“I thought you wanted me to be a nurse.”
“Meri, you’ve been miserable for so long, why would I want that for you?”
A wave of relief smooths out her face. Of course, I’m a little concerned about what she’ll do now. But she’s been so hard on herself, forcing a test she found so painfully difficult over and over. Of course she’s done the right thing. She should be in an environment she can shine and feel confident in.
“I just want you to be happy.”
She smiles feebly. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you happy?” Meri sniffles.
“Well, now’s not the best time to ask me that.” On my monitor, René and Santiago are on the couch. I have the volume all the way down, so I have no idea what they’re talking about.
“I know you need to go.” She wipes at her tears.
“No, it’s all right.”
“Really. We can talk later.”
“Okay.”
As soon as she’s gone, I’m flooded with a sense of relief. I can’t imagine how free she must be feeling. There’s a dopey smile on my face. Finally, something’s gone right.
Someone knocks on the closet door and I lean too far back, causing the beach chairs to slip out from under me. It’s a harsh, metal clanging spectacle and I end up spread out like a starfish over them.