I started this, so I might as well finish it.
“Before it all happened, you were upstairs in the bathroom, crying really hard. I found you there. I tried to help, but—”
“You all must hate me,” she whispers. “How can you have seen me like that and not hate me?”
I don’t hate her. I know that now. But I hate what I hear in her voice—shame and regret.
“Hey.” I nudge her shoulder. “You got drunk and did stupid shit. We see it all the time. It’s no big deal, Viv.”
She looks at the place I touched her and then back out to the ocean.
“It is to me.” She sighs.
I do see the antics all the time, it’s true. But there was something different about her—about that night. And now her lower lip’s quivering and she looks like she’s about to cry again.
“I get it now,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Why you hated me from the start.”
“Oh shit,” I say. “Oh Jesus. I know I’ve been an asshole. I didn’t know you. I mean, I thought you were somebody else. I mean, God, I mean—now that I know you, I mean, that wasn’t even you.”
Jesus Christ, I am all over the place. What am I trying to say?
“It was me,” she whispers. “I promise.”
“But you’re not that girl—you’re not like that.”
“Like what?” she asks, looking right at me. Her eyes are shining and hard.
“You know,” I say. “You get what I’m trying to say.”
“Here’s what I know.” She’s looking toward the orange horizon. “You and your family witnessed part of the worst twenty-four hours of my life. And the part you saw? I don’t even remember it. All I know is that I woke up the next morning in a clean shirt from your restaurant and beer-stained jeans. My face was a wreck and I had no idea where my clothes or shoes had gone.”
“My great-aunt washed them. We kept them at the restaurant for, like, months—in case you ever came back looking for them.”
“Oh no.” She groans again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sabrina tried to make those guys wait for her to get them, but they took off.”
She shakes her head. “No surprise there.”
“Those guys were assholes,” I say. They were. Both of them.
“Yeah.”
“Are those people your friends?”
“Luke and David?” Her voice goes high. “God, no. I haven’t laid eyes on them since that night.” She bites hard on her lip and closes her eyes. “But the girl, Gillian, she’s my roommate—or she was.”
I remember how weak and vulnerable Vivi looked, stumbling out of that room, holding on to the blonde in the short dress—Gillian, I guess. The asshole frat boys were watching them like vultures about to swoop in.
I shouldn’t have let her leave with them.
I need to know. I need to ask her. “Did they hurt you? Is that why you were crying? Did they—”
She turns her head fast. “You mean hurt me? No. It wasn’t like that. They were obnoxious, and they got me wasted and told the whole world about the stupid things I did.” She studies her bare feet, dug halfway into the sand. “But they didn’t, like, assault me or anything.”
I feel this incredible relief swelling in my chest. I guess I hadn’t realized how much I’d worried about that, about whether something terrible was happening, something I should have stopped.
“My dad was really sick,” she whispers. “That’s why I was crying—I guess.” Then she looks up at me, so I look at her. “I came home for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t know. They didn’t tell me—I mean, I knew he was sick, but they didn’t tell me how bad it was.”
She leans back on her elbows and looks up to the sky.
“After three days of being suffocated by positive thinking, I had to get the hell out of that house. I mean, it smelled like death, but still, we couldn’t talk about even the possibility. God, I couldn’t breathe.”
“And when you got the hell out of there, you came to our restaurant?”
She shakes her head. “First I let Luke and David feed me a six-pack of beer and a half bottle of tequila, then I stumbled into your restaurant. All I remember is singing ‘Low Rider’ with Gillian and some bikers from Connecticut. And then, conveniently, I blacked out.”
“Yeah.” I smile, wanting so much to make her smile too. “We get a lot of those wannabe bikers. Were they, like, stock brokers or something?”
“Investment bankers.” She grins, and I feel my lungs fill with air.
The sun emerges on the horizon. It’s bright white, sending off yellow streaks across the orange sky. It’s the kind of sunrise that you know you should look away from so that it won’t burn your eyes, but you can’t.
“Wow,” she says. “It happens so fast.”
I think she’s referring to the sun, which is moving quickly away from the horizon, but I can’t be sure.
We sit in silence, watching my cousins and Doug stand still in the surf, watching the sky fill with light.
“So you and your cousins don’t ever drink?” she asks, sitting up taller.
“Nah,” I say.
“Drugs?”
“Nope. Never.”
“Any vices at all?”
I’m pondering how to give an honest answer to that one when I feel something shifting in my back pocket. It’s my phone, set to vibrate. I pull it out.
It’s 7:03 A.M. The hospital.
“I have the day off!” I bark at my phone. “Why are they calling me?”
Vivi leans over to look at my screen. “You should get that,” she says. “Maybe there’s an emergency or something.”
Yeah, I guess I should.
Reluctantly, I hit the green button and pick up. “This is TJ.”
“Waaaaaasssss uuuup, my vato?” I’m holding the phone away from my ear, because Ángel is screaming into it. “Where are you, dude? It’s after seven and some old lady just came in to change my sheets and started singing songs about Jesus to me.”
Is that Ángel? Vivi mouths, pointing at the very loud voice coming from my phone.
I nod.
“How did he get your number?”
I shrug, because it’s a long story, which starts with me feeling incredibly sorry for the poor kid after he got that visit from the immigration officer.
“TJ? Are you there?”
“I’m here, Ángel. It’s a holiday. It’s my day off,” I say, my face still a foot away from the phone.
“It’s his birthday!” Vivi calls out. “Wish him a feliz cumpleaños, Ángel!”
“Oh, hold up!” Ángel says. “Is that you, Vivi! Are you with TJ?”
“Yeah!” she calls out.
I am never, ever going to hear the end of this.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“At the beach!” she calls out. “We’re watching the sunrise.”
At this point, I just give up and pass Vivi the phone. She starts talking to Ángel in rapid-fire Spanish, and I start trying not to freak out about all the shit Ángel is going to give me for being with Vivi at the beach at seven A.M—watching the freaking sunrise. He’s gonna have a field day with this one.
After more animated conversation, she waves me toward the ocean and starts walking.
“He wants to hear the waves,” she says. “He misses the ocean.”
We walk down to the edge of the surf and stand there. She holds the phone out and we silently listen to the waves come and go.
“I wish you could see this sunrise,” she says to him. “The sky is a hundred shades of yellow and orange. It’s like fire, Ángel. You wouldn’t believe it.”
They talk for a little longer, and then she passes the phone back to me. He tells me he’s bored, and why do I have to take the day off? I tell him to shut up and turn on the TV or something. Then he reminds me about the promise I made him—to bring reggaeton. I tell him I’ll work on it.
When I hang up, we’re still standing a
t the edge of the water.
“That was nice,” she says. “I mean, for you to give him your number.”
“Poor kid’s bored out of his mind,” I tell her. “He just needs someone to talk to sometimes, you know? No big deal.”
“I bet it’s a big deal to him,” she says.
I shrug and watch the waves.
“He’s going to die, isn’t he?” she asks. “He’s not going to get a heart, and he’s going to die.”
I can’t look at her, but I know what I have to say.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m pretty sure he won’t get the heart.”
“And he’ll die?”
“Yes, he’ll die.”
“Soon?”
“Probably.”
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Me too,” she replies softly.
I know there’s more I should tell her, but for now, this is enough.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
VIVI
BIRD JOURNAL
July 5, 12:23 A.M.
Wilson’s plover (Charadrius wilsonia)
Physical Description: medium-sized shorebird with brown back and white underbelly, pinkish-gray legs.
Habitat: ocean beaches. Lives year-round along much of Florida’s coastline.
Diet: wanders the shore for fiddler crabs, worms, insects. It is a probing bird.
Call: a sharp whistled weep, weep!
The Wilson’s plover, a rare species, was named for the early ornithologist Alexander Wilson, who first observed this bird in a rare sighting in Cape May, New Jersey. It probes beaches, patiently searching for insects and crustaceans. This bird is very rarely seen, and it is at risk of becoming endangered.
“AND SO, THE THREE CHILDREN plunged to a watery death!”
I look out across the lawn, where the members of my tour group have slowly dispersed.
“Awesome!” a teenage boy calls out.
Encouraged by his reaction, I decide to engage him in one of the follow-up questions I’ve prepared, about the elaborate pulley system the children were playing on when they met their untimely demise. But then I realize he is looking right past me.
I turn to follow his gaze, and I see that a younger boy has managed to bite the end off of his glow stick, sending iridescent green goo across his arm and chest.
The boy’s mother lets out a yelp, and then she scoops him up and runs toward the bathroom.
Smart woman. That stuff is incredibly toxic.
“How’d it go?” Darren asks, coming to stand beside me.
He’s trying to be nice, because it’s clear, by the bored faces on my already dispersed group, that I bombed another ghost tour.
“I even went with kids this time,” I say. “Innocent kids playing on construction equipment.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve gotta make them feel it, Vivi,” he says. “Give them something to connect with—tell them about the waterlogged footprints that you found in the keeper’s house, that match the prints of the kids.”
I look at him, puzzled. “What footprints?”
“Doesn’t matter, Vivi.” He’s still shaking his head, and his voice has gone all soft. “You just gotta make stuff up sometimes. Give ’em what they want.” It’s like he’s coaxing a child to try her spinach. “That’s a great story you dug up, but you gotta find a way for these folks to feel the presence of those poor drowned kids.”
At least he appreciates my archival research.
It’s been a wild night on the ghost tour—something about national holidays makes people jumpy, I guess. First, a teenage girl came streaking out of the bathroom in the keeper’s house, her cutoffs still unbuttoned. She insisted that rolls of toilet paper were being launched at her, even though no one else was in the room. Then an incredibly anxious mother scooped up her toddler and ran stumbling out of the basement when the guy next to her leaned against the wall with a water bottle in his back pocket, making a rather loud crunching sound. One of the little girls on the tour started to giggle. Before I could stop it, the entire group had joined in.
And now the exploding glow stick.
“Why don’t you take a turn at the snack bar?” Darren says, his voice consoling.
And so I am consigned to the snack bar, once again.
Oh well, at least I can check my texts here.
TJ’s been texting me all night, which is a bit disconcerting.
I head behind the snack bar and connect my phone to the speaker. That’s another good thing about working the snack bar: we get to pick the music here.
I scroll back to the last text from TJ.
Okay. What about “El Taxi”?
Give me a sec.
It’s TJ’s birthday and his first night off in who knows how long, but I guess he’s at home making that reggaeton mix for Ángel. He spent all day texting me and asking me to listen to songs to see if they have dirty words. He’s convinced Prashanti would recognize vulgar words in any language. He’s probably right—she’s got that sixth sense. And neither one of us wants to risk getting in trouble with Prashanti. We’re trying with all our might to make a “clean” reggaeton playlist for Ángel.
This is not an easy task.
So now I’m hanging out at the base of the lighthouse for the Fourth of July ghost tour, selling beer and candy bars, and listening to “El Taxi.” Needless to say, I’m getting some strange looks from the patrons.
The song ends.
It’s okay. Not too bad. Mostly suggestive, not explicit.
As soon as I send the text, I feel my cheeks turn pink. I still can’t believe TJ and I are texting about anything besides what time I’m picking him up for work. It’s like maybe we’re friends or something. And here I am, texting him about explicit songs.
Done. What about “Toma”?
Pitbull too?
Lil Jon.
Okay-gonna listen now.
I find the song and press play, just as a little girl with blond pigtails steps up to the counter.
“Do you have apple juice?” she asks.
I reach into the cooler for a juice box. I’m standing there, handing this cherub-faced girl a juice box, and suddenly I’m hearing …
“Let me see you get freaky, baby—” In English.
The little girl’s mom pulls her away and shoots me a dirty glance.
“Si tu quieres que—”
Oh holy crap. Is he actually saying that? My face turns bright red and I jump to grab my phone and hit the pause button, all the while praying that this little girl and her mom don’t speak Spanish.
I furiously text TJ.
Are you deaf???
Huh?
Jesus, TJ, I’m listening to this stuff with KIDS around.
Oh, sorry. “Toma” is a no?
NO!!!! And I’m gonna lose my job if you make me listen to another one like that.
K.
Darren calls out from a bench by the lighthouse. “Time to shut it down, Vivi.”
“Got it!” I reply, turning the sign that hangs in front of the snack bar from OPEN to CLOSED.
“I’m heading up,” he says.
Darren sets off for the top of the lighthouse to do the nightly sweep. The green glow sticks around the tourists’ necks all begin floating toward the entrance, and I’m left alone in the snack bar—finally.
“La Vuelta al Mundo.” Calle 13.
Okay. I’ll listen.
I search for the song and press play.
An airy mournful sound comes through the speaker, played on a single flute. A simple guitar riff repeats behind it. I stop wiping the counter and sit down on my stool. A man’s voice joins the flute and guitar, deep and longing.
The words wash over me, and I sit perfectly still, pulling my legs to my chest and hugging myself tight.
When it ends, I listen again and again.
Are you still there?
TJ’s text breaks in.
It’s poetry.
It’s beautiful.
Ángel told me you’d like it.
He was right.
What’s the best line?
And just like that, my heart is racing, because this all seems so intimate suddenly. Or maybe because I’ve been listening to a man telling a woman to give him her hand so that they can go around the world together. And I’ve been imagining TJ, and recalling how it felt to wake up in the back of that car this morning, pressed against his chest. I have no idea how to respond to him.
Too many to choose from.
Pick one.
…
Are you there?
Thinking.
…
Still thinking?
He’s not going to let it go.
Yo confio en el destino
Y en la marejada
Yo no creo en la iglesia
Pero creo en tu mirada
Tú eres el sol de me cara
Cuando me levanta
Yo soy la vida que ya tengo
Tú eres la vida que me falta
Uh, translation please.
I stare at his text, knowing I can’t do it. I can’t write those words to him—not in a way that he’ll understand. Because they express so perfectly my own emptiness and longing—a longing I didn’t even know I had, really, until now. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere far away—somewhere I don’t even know yet. And I think maybe I want to go there with him.
So I lie.
G2G. Boss just showed.
After I shut down the snack bar and clean up the spilled juice and beer, rearrange the candy and clean out the nacho cheese warmer, I clock out and change from my costume.
I’m standing in the parking lot, but I can’t seem to get into my car. Those words in the chorus revolve around me, again and again.
DAME LA MANO
Y VAMOS A DARLE LA VUELTA AL MUNDO
DARLE LA VUELTA AL MUNDO
DARLE LA VUELTA AL MUNDO
I walk to the edge of one of the docks and look out over Salt Run. I stand perfectly still, watching the lights reflect on the water, when a small shorebird lands on the piling beside me.
It’s a tough one to identify—a plover, I’m pretty sure.
Plovers are probing birds. They patiently pace through marshes, across beaches and dunes, seeking any little morsel they can find. They’re amazing, and rarely spotted by humans, but it’s hard to distinguish among the different plovers.
Flight Season Page 15
