Chapter 18
Later that afternoon, I’m ready and changed for some poolside time in the sun. Before I head out to meet Camila, though, my laptop beckons me. I haven’t looked up Reid yet during my time here, but the memories sparked by today’s church service have me twitching with curiosity.
I snap open the computer on top of my tiny desk, next to our narrow bunk. I open the Web browser, rapidly typing in Facebook. The familiar blue-and-white screen glows.
That search bar.
Please, give me something!
Reid Layne
Nope. Nothing. Where the heck are you, boy?
As I lament, my eyes snag on a red notification. I have a new friend request. Not only that—but a message. Both from:
Sierra Snow
No way.
I click.
Yes, way.
Hungry with curiosity, I click on the picture, needing it bigger—and there she is. I’m staring into her face again. Still looking much more college student than PTA president, but full Sierra nevertheless. Bone skinny, swimmy eyes, slinky silver dress. Her personal details are spare:
USC Alumna
Los Angeles, California
I click on the message.
Hi, Sutton . . . Newport :) I don’t know if you remember me, from Alpha Gamma and USC.
I know this is random, but you said some things to me at Red Vine one night a few years ago.
Wild night for me, but . . . I remember what you said, which is probably hard to believe, and I guess I’ve been finding myself in need of a friend.
Gosh, does that make me sound six years old?
It looks like you’re out of the country right now, but if you’re ever back in LA, maybe we catch up? Cupcakes? :) Hope you’re well.
Love, Sierra
I savor every syllable of the message from my Sweet Sierra, unbelieving that it found its way to me.
From that blurry night at the pulsing club, into Sierra’s subconsciousness, dawning again in daylight—here to me, now, down in Latin America.
My pulse quickens excitedly, cursor flashing in the reply box.
Knock, knock.
I jump and smack the screen shut.
“Yeah?”
“You coming?” asks Camila. “I’m ready for you!”
“One second!” I promise, turning my head.
She doesn’t move. “Come now! I made us something.”
“Again?” I smile. “Can’t wait.”
With a sigh, I grab my towel and try to stop thinking of what I’ll say back to Sierra.
I follow Camila to my favorite spot in this world: the hammock. On the table next to it shine two bright tropical drinks. My mouth waters. I’ve grown too accustomed, too quickly, to Camila as my poolside server of local beverage concoctions. This may not be a resort, but it might be even better.
“Mangonada,” she says, grabbing them both, holding them up in a cheers. “Mango and orange slush, chamoy sauce, limes, and Tajín on the rim.”
“Friend!” I cry, reaching for the drink. “Thank you. These look amazing. Did I mention I love it here?”
“Did I mention I love you here?”
We clink cups, both in sporty black bikini tops and sarongs we bought from a woman on the way home from the school this past week, Camila’s blue, mine pink.
They’re adorable, with tiny pom-poms swinging and fabric tied elegantly at the waist. It’s another dichotomy to wrestle with here—the street-side stands and barefoot vendors; their gorgeous pieces that could sell in any fancy boutique.
“What did you think of Mateo’s message today?” asks Camila. “He’s great, huh?”
“I loved it,” I say, swallowing a sip of the drink. It’s delicious. “Really—and thank you for translating.”
She waves a hand. “You seemed . . . affected by it. What did it make you think of? When he asked about moments of unconditional love?”
I bite my straw, considering the absurdity that I can’t tell her it made me think of my husband’s love—because she doesn’t know my husband, because my husband doesn’t love me here, because he doesn’t know I exist.
Is that a brain freeze or another time-travel headache?
I shrug. “God’s love, I guess. The enormity of it.”
She nods, leaning back into the net with me. “It’s easier for me to feel it down here. I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.”
I smile.
You will.
But then I sober.
Maybe you shouldn’t.
I don’t know then if it’s the sun dappling her lean legs, or the pure and endearing ecstasy she is having with her mango smoothie, or her gratitude for the divine, or the fact that I’ve felt so much love this week.
But I close my eyes . . . and decide I’m willing to risk it.
“Camila?” I ask.
“Mmmm.” She smacks her lips. “Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something. And I need you to not freak out. And I need you to do what I say.”
She frowns, spins to face me. I’m already crisscross applesauce in the hammock. She mirrors my posture. “What is it?”
I grab her free hand, let her keep sipping her drink from the other.
Her gaze shifts side to side under her sunglasses. “You’re freaking me out,” she says.
“Just . . . remember what I tell you. Okay?”
She nods with hesitation.
“I have this . . . really weird sense that something crazy is going to happen to you right before the year 2020 strikes,” I announce in one breath.
She starts to clap like this is exciting but stops immediately. “Like Y2K? Oh my gosh, remember how anticlimactic that was?”
I laugh a little, recalling our family’s stash of canned goods and the exact sum of zero things crashing or happening anywhere in the world.
“I do,” I say. 2020 will be more climactic, I don’t say. “But . . . my point involves you, specifically.” I pause. “On New Year’s Eve. December thirty-first, 2019.”
“Okaaay . . .” She seems to taste the word, her mangonada frozen in air. Her face scrunches.
Drunk driver . . . Car flips . . . Shooting flames . . .
“Don’t get into a car that night,” I blurt, my eyes pleading.
Kills mother of two . . . thirty-five years old . . . Beloved member of our community . . .
“What are you—”
She loved USC . . . and playing soccer . . . and leading her daughter’s Girl Scout troop . . .
“I can’t tell you anything else.” Under my sunglasses, I look away. “It’s just this feeling I have.”
The Girl Scouts in a row, all in uniform, at her funeral . . .
“Hey, hey,” she says. “Are you crying?”
No.
I wipe at my eyes.
She is not allowed to comfort me right now.
Somewhere over the rainbow . . .
“When that day comes”—I straighten, delivering the words with conviction—“you’ll remember what I’m saying, because everyone will be talking about 2020. The year of vision. This big shift. And all I need you to do is stay home. Do nothing. Stay home.”
She nods.
“Promise me? Promise me.”
“Okay, okay!” She cups my shoulder. “I promise.”
I lean over to hug her and hate that I’m shaking.
But she just pats my back like the friend she is, soothing me now while she can.
That night, after my shower, before dinner with the gang, I dab my face in the mirror.
I did it; I did the hard thing.
Does it matter in this life, or that one?
Does all the love I’ve ever felt still exist?
If not, where did it go?
My torso feels hollow.
Who knows?
My head is spinning like the serve I used to slam on the pickleball court.
I inspect myself in the mirror. Sun-dewy, loved, twenty-five. Something has shifted inside of me here. I look alive. I look strong.
Even stronger than the chick who kicked that creep where it counts.
Maybe with each new year explored, I’ll grow stronger—even if there’s new pain to face.
With one more inhale, exhale, I know what I need to do.
Camila knows enough. Charlie’s almost okay.
Ester felt the tenderness of a mom. I’ve given to all of them, from my soul.
Felt the universal presence of God, the peace in serving, the humanity in impossible contradictions.
And now I know my time in Nicaragua is up.
Still, I’ll move on with a silent ache for this place and its people.
The needs I’ve witnessed have left their mark, illuminating my privilege.
Catapulting my gratitude. There’s so much hard work here unfinished—and I mourn that I won’t be here for it.
But these days in Nicaragua have softened and stretched me.
I’ll never forget what they taught me, even though I was the teacher.
The lessons propel me forward.
I press the pickleball into my palms.
One, two, three . . .
Goodbye, Camila. Charlie. Ester.
. . . eighteen, nineteen, and twenty!