Chapter 3 Monique
Arriving in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, alone and at four o’clock in the morning, had to be the most unhinged idea Monique ever had. She wheeled her suitcase down the eerily quiet cobblestone street, stumbling to her hotel in a sort of drunken walk of shame.
Monique was stone sober.
Why did she agree to this again? If only she could blame her poor decision-making on alcohol. Nausea percolated at the base of her throat, acidic and persistent. The hefty dose of Dramamine she had taken mid-flight was mild sauce. Her nervous system hadn’t even clocked it.
Families like hers only got together for weddings and funerals—and even those were rare.
The last time Monique had seen her father’s people was at a funeral almost three years ago, when her diagnosis was brand new and grief had stolen her words.
Back then, she’d been plump and confident, able to mask her mortal fear with all the busyness of wakes and repasses.
If her Aunt Don found out how sick she actually was, the entire family would know within the hour.
Monique Renee Moore had never been weak or pitiable; she wasn’t gonna start now.
She breathed in the tropical air and held it in her lungs, letting the vibrancy invade her capillaries. “I will relax and go with the flow this week,” she chanted quietly to herself as she pushed her way through the hotel doors.
The lobby stopped her mid-step, glowing orange and purple and quiet like a beachfront sunset.
The cobblestone that she had struggled with outside seeped indoors as if the hotel’s walls were built around the fountain and garden that sat in the middle of the lobby.
Her eyes followed the banana palms up, their fronds bending back down to earth when they reached the near-invisible barrier of the atrium.
The tightness in Monique’s chest loosened as she circled the fountain and its botanical guardians once, and then again.
“Good evening,” the clerk said with a smile. “I mean, good morning.” Her smile grew larger.
Monique paused her next lap around the garden and turned around.
“Checking in?”
Monique nodded. “If I could. I’m with the Turner-Lane party.”
The clerk received Monique’s identification and typed some things into the computer. The space between her brows folded in, the crease more prominent with each breath. There was something on the screen that she didn’t like. The clerk trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and held on.
“I know it’s super early, and my room likely isn’t ready,” Monique said with a voice raspier than usual. “If you can point me toward where I can grab a coffee and a snack, I can wait there.”
The clerk’s mouth turned up into a relieved smile. “They’re setting up for morning service, so I’m certain we can get you a café and pastelillitos while you wait.”
“That sounds perfect.”
The clerk slid some paperwork across the azure-tiled countertop. “I’d be happy to store your baggage until your room is ready.”
She must have been standing silent and white-knuckling her suitcase for far too long, because the clerk called her name in a careful tone. “Senora Moore, may I have your bag?”
Monique blinked and swallowed hard. “Nah. I’ll keep it,” she said, and made her way to the café.
The café sat on the other side of the atrium. Monique followed the curved path to a large, dark wooden door made of ornate spindles and peeked inside. A member of the kitchen staff nodded and pulled the door open for her.
A place was already set for her by the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sat and looked up at the inky pre-dawn sky. Even in the heart of the island’s largest city, the stars seemed brighter, magnified.
Monique felt so damn small.
Hotel workers drifted around the space in a silent choreography, setting up for the day. The votive candle on her table danced in the window’s reflection. Everyone around her moved with purpose while she was utterly unmoored.
Articulating her fears would cost her. What, she couldn’t quite put a finger on. But she’d have to pay up sooner or later. God, she hoped a helluva lot later.
Monique gripped the porcelain cup in both hands, not really wanting the hot coffee but her hands needed something to do. Warmth suffused her palms. A nutty chocolate-cinnamon aroma made her eyelids heavy and the corners of her mouth curl up as she tried to disappear into the steam.
Maurice
As a kid, he used to ride the SEPTA right into Philly International just to stare at the departure board, dreaming of being anywhere else.
Finally, he’d caught one of those ever-flickering departure lines and let it carry him above the clouds. How could anyone be so close to touching the stars and not believe someone had placed them there?
Below him, the sky had been an endless expanse of night. The darkness didn’t frighten him. Dark places, he was familiar with. What got him through those literal and figurative dark days was his grasp of the light. The light was the way and the truth.
“God bless,” Maurice said to the taxi driver before stepping onto the curb in front of the hotel.
He stood and watched the taxi’s taillights dissolve into the approaching morning.
San Juan was just waking up. Birds called in the distance and cricket chirps were in stereo.
The sounds were then overtaken by the tinkling rattle of bottles or wind chimes inching up the cobblestone avenue.
The narrow street and colorful buildings reminded him of Philly but brighter, more alive.
The land beneath his feet vibrated, like the earth had leaped up to greet him. He’d never felt anything like this.
Maurice watched the hotel receptionist do a mental 23andMe while checking his ID.
“I think my dad was from a village not too far from here,” he said, answering her silent questions. “But I also heard it’s a common name.”
“New York City has a lot of Martíns,” she said, typing and smiling, adding an accent to his name that had never been there before. “I’ve been a couple of times.”
“New York has a lot of everything,” he said in response, uninterested in pointing out that his license clearly said Newark.
“Here’s your ID back. Unfortunately, your room isn’t quite ready. We weren’t expecting anyone from your party until later this morning, but the cafe just opened. Please make yourself comfortable.” She pointed behind him.
Maurice turned. Café? Where? All he could see were giant leaves.
“Just follow the path around either way. The café is on the other side of the atrium.”
Maurice shouldered his bag and took a step.
His sneakers didn’t make a sound as they carried his two-hundred-pound frame, plus his backpack, over the deep red tiles.
Although the floor beneath Maurice announced its aged stories through the visible fingerprints and ripples of handmade imperfections, he couldn’t say with confidence that his feet touched the red bricks.
The aroma of fresh, rich coffee guided him as much as the pathway.
The café gradually came into view, teasing him through palm fronds.
In front of him, a figure swayed. The movements were unhurried, as if moved by a breeze that he couldn’t feel.
But he could smell it. Sweet nuttiness. Something simple yet decadent. Something warm. It pulled him closer.
He paused at the threshold of the café, the world around him narrowing into a single point of light.
Darkness and silence surrounded him. The only light in the room came from her. Candlelight danced on skin that shimmered like satin. Maurice wondered if it was just as smooth.
He bristled at his thoughts. Thoughts he couldn’t recall ever having before.
She shifted, her gaze drifting from the stars outside the giant windows that seemed to be putting on a show just for her, to the tiny mug in her hands.
He watched as she took a deep inhale and then her lips touched the cup.
She paused, as if she stopped breathing.
Then she let out a long moan of… satisfaction?
Her shoulders fell and her head lolled, revealing the long, slender column of her neck.
She curled in on her mug again and sighed.
There was caution in her small movements.
Like she was trying to be still and careful, as if she would break.
To Maurice, she looked like a dream whose specifics he had misremembered, yet whose shape and feel were etched into his cells.
Maurice didn’t know her name. Didn’t know why she was there.
But the next thing he knew, he was moving toward the woman, who looked like she held the whole world in her coffee cup.