One down. She looked at the shaky scrawl on the first page, then held it to her chest in a hug. She could get used to this.
She’d been coming to this town and staying during the week since school let out for the summer, and she was getting to know the locals and the other volunteers from the island and beyond. She was usually more of a loner, an introvert who preferred a good book to human interaction, but there was something about being here for a shared purpose. And having to talk to hundreds of strangers for the petition was a perfect demonstration that she was not the same person she’d been a year ago.
But who was?
There was a nice breeze on the east coast, and she loved how she would occasionally catch the scent of flor de maga blooms riding on the air. Then it would disappear so quickly she would wonder if she’d imagined it, if it was a ghost scent of a bush destroyed by the storm. But then she would see a splash of bright red peeking out from among the damaged foliage like hope. As usual, she planned to stop at the church’s senior center before heading to the worksite to check in. She stepped into the dark, cool building, with no lights on to save generator fuel and stave off the morning heat. The smell was so familiar—antiseptic, medicinal, with an undertone of urine and talcum powder. Okay, it wasn’t flor de maga, but it still comforted her. For most of her childhood her great grandmother Giga was stationed in a back room of their house, occasionally yelling out to the Virgin or her long dead husband, and Marisol would spend hours playing dolls on the old woman’s chenille bedspread or applying blush and lipstick on her wrinkled, thin lips. On the island old age wasn’t something you hid in a nursing home; it was right there in the next room.
“Mari!”
As her eyes adjusted to the dark interior, Marisol saw Camille, the stylish Haitian nurse who helped out with the elderly patients, walking toward her. Camille was a pro, had volunteered as a nurse in war-torn countries all over the globe, and it had taken Marisol awhile to earn the woman’s trust. But sometime over the last few weeks, she’d broken through. A smile here, a hand pat there. Now, Camille pulled her in tight for a hug, the Magi’s-gifts smell of her naturopath oils bringing a smile to Marisol’s face. Her graying hair was cut stylish and short, and her clothes were crisp linen, practical but elegant, the mango color of the shirt a warm companion to her dark brown skin. In other words, she was a total badass.
The nurse pulled her out of the hug and held her at arm’s length and then did her “staring into her soul” type thing. Did all nurses have that skill?
“Are you sleeping, Mari?”
And she was a mind reader, too. She laughed it off. “Too much to do to sleep!” Camille had no idea. Since the nightmares of the previous year had faded, she slept so much better. Just probably not long enough.
Camille did that cheek-pinching thing older women tended to do with teenagers. The woman’s skinny strong fingers had a pincer-type feel. But it also felt like family.
“You have to take better care of yourself, niña! Don’t make me drive out to Isla Verde and force chamomile tea on you!”
Family always includes just a dash of guilt and reprimand.
“I’m fine, Camille! Worry about your patients, not me.”
Her lips pulled into a reluctant smile. “Someone has to take care of you. You’re too busy taking care of everyone else!”
“Look who’s talking.”
Camille did that dismissive wave thing again.
“How’s Abuelita today?”
Camille turned to look at the tiny old lady in the wheelchair nodding off in the corner, her frail body wrapped in a thick cotton blanket despite the heat. Her real name was Ofelia Gutiérrez, but everyone just called her “Abuelita” because she was like everyone’s grandmother.
“Ay bendito, bless her, she’s doing well today, gracias a Dios. I think she’ll enjoy a visit from you.” Camille glided off to reprimand one of her charges for shuffling toward the exit in his old man slippers. Every hour or so he would insist he was going to walk back to Rincón, the town on the far west coast of the island he came from, and she would convince him to wait until after lunch, or a nap, or dinner.
Marisol pulled a folding chair next to Abuelita and took her cool, dry hand with its papery skin into hers. The woman didn’t move, her chin on her chest, rising slightly with every breath. Mari’s phone dinged with a text. She pulled it out with her free hand.
Hey! I’m here! Heading 2 Vieques w/ Tio. When can I c u?
“Vieques?” Marisol said out loud, smiling at the message from Lupe. She was so glad her friend was there for the summer, but why was she going straight to Vieques? At least it wasn’t far from Yabucoa.
“Vieques?” Abuelita echoed. She tended to repeat pieces of conversation that happened around her like a gray-haired parrot.
“Hola, Abuelita! Es Marisol. ¿Como se encuentra?”
“My grandmother is in Vieques. She’s . . .” She appeared to lose her train of thought. Another frequent occurrence.
Marisol smiled. Abuelita was eighty-eight. She doubted her grandmother was in Vieques or anywhere at this point. Besides, Abuelita was from St. Croix, not Vieques. But Marisol hated how most people talked to the elderly as if they were children, so she always responded to their questions and comments, no patting of hand and patronizing, Sure, honey, whatever you say.
“Why would your abuela be in Vieques?”
Abuelita didn’t seem to hear, she was nodding her head up and down in that way she did when she was lost in her own thoughts. Marisol decided she would sit with her for a few more minutes, then head over to the worksite. She was already focusing on what lay ahead on the repairs to the Vazquez’s house when Abuelita spoke again.
“She’s angry.”
“Who? Your abuela?”
“Yes. She’s so angry. . . .”
“At you? No, Abuelita, who could be angry at you?” She stroked the woman’s thinning hair, trying to comfort her. Mari often wondered where the woman’s thoughts went, or when. She would have to do some research into cognitive functions of the elderly.
“Not at me, at them. They made us leave . . . left her there alone,” Abuelita said again, then looked up at Marisol and with tears welling in her cloudy eyes.
“Oh no! Don’t cry! It’s okay!” Marisol’s throat tightened and she thought she would cry too. How had she upset the woman?
And then Camille was there, all comforting hushes, and lifted Abuelita to her feet gently, as if she were a bird, and walked her over to her room. Abuelita was snoring before the nurse had finished tucking in the white blankets.
Then Camille came back and looked over at Marisol and noticed the tears in her eyes. “Oh no, sweetheart, it’s nothing you said! The old ones, they get sad sometimes. So much loss . . .”
“She was talking about her grandmother being angry. And on Vieques. Isn’t she from St. Croix?” Camille handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.
“She is, but maybe she had family from there. Don’t worry, amor, she’s just confused.”
Marisol shivered, though the room was quite warm. No wonder the poor old woman was anxious. She’d lost her home to a hurricane. Marisol swallowed so she wouldn’t start crying again. She hugged Camille and left quickly, anxious to get to work.
The last ten months had been like something from a postapocalyptic nightmare. Volunteering was something, but Marisol had to do more. She looked at the clipboard in her hand and considered tossing it in the car but decided she would bring it to the worksite and gather some more names. But what good was the petition if she couldn’t get it to the right people? The people in power.
Marisol vowed right then that she would do whatever it took to help get the island past this, whatever she could do to help people like abuelita recover from Maria.
She just didn’t know how yet.
Used with permission from Tor Teen, an imprint of Tom Doherty Associates; a trade division of Macmillan Publishers. Copyright (c) Ann Dávila Cardinal 2020.
