We are on a street now that runs parallel to the water; beside us, a promenade. The Malecon. Throngs of people are heading to Mass to celebrate Jesus’s resurrection. Families in fancy clothes. Young friends, arm in arm. Old ladies carrying black umbrellas to shield themselves from the sun. And there are equal numbers of people who have no intention of going to church—barely clad beachgoers with towels around their necks and day drinkers holding neon, frozen cocktails. The week that follows Easter Sunday is an even busier time in Puerto Vallarta than the week that precedes it. At least that’s what Roberto told me.
Rising above the crowd I see the top rungs of a ladder cast in bronze. And two figures, one in front of the other, climbing up toward a windless, cloud-scattered sky. It is the sculpture Maria Josephina told me about.
En Busca de la Razón.
Searching for Reason.
Before I can get a closer look, before I can understand if they are climbing toward or away from something, before I can see what the artist carved into the bronze slabs of their faces, how he captured their expressions, whether they climbed with fear, joy, anticipation, desperation—it is already in our rearview mirror. I turn around in my seat. I look at their backs. They each hold the ladder with only one hand. With the other they grasp at air.
We leave the town and the traffic and drive up the empty road Peter and Solly and I walked home late Wednesday night in a dazed panic, desperate to locate our children, to chase from our imaginations the unthinkable scenarios.
We make the turn onto the patchy paved street that gives way to dirt and then surrenders to jungle. We pull up in front of the entrance to Villa Azul Paraiso with its large wooden doors and park behind a minivan. Our taxi driver keeps the engine running.
I see Roberto. He’s helping unload bags. A few children run in and out of the open doors. Two men take suitcases from Roberto and then wheel them inside as the women confer. Perhaps they’re debating who gets the room with the volcanic tub. Maybe they’ll decide to switch halfway through—that would be the fair thing to do.
Peter steps outside with his suitcase. He shakes hands with Roberto. It takes me a minute to notice the change. He is clean shaven; his vacation beard is gone.
“Daddy!” Clementine calls out the window.
He waves at us shyly. He looks like a stranger to me.
The men who have just arrived step back outside; each puts an arm around one of the women. They look at the exterior of Villa Azul Paraiso, nodding with satisfaction, congratulating themselves on their expert vacation planning.
Peter makes his way toward the taxi. The radio is tuned to a news station. I don’t know what they’re saying, but they sound calm. Gone is the hysteria, the breathlessness.
Enrique steps outside in his white zip-up coat and his slicked-back hair. He holds a tray of margaritas. He offers them to the guests. They each take one and smile.
Everyone looks happy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dana Reinhardt lives in San Francisco with her husband and two teenage daughters. Tomorrow There Will Be Sun is her debut adult novel.
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Tomorrow There Will Be Sun Page 24
