Writing has been my escape A way to cope and Leave the pain Behind. Writing has been a gift to myself That I unwrap years later To find time capsules of joy that I created for Me. But when I dared to dream, I envisioned what writing could be. Getting paid to write? Not possible said younger me. And I dreamed different dreams That became reality. But then something happened between Not giving up and aging. I rewrote my dream. First, one story sold And then another. Each check received was proof that my writing could feed Not only my soul But also my family.
“Get down from there this second, you headache of a person!” My stepmom yelled at seven-year- old me the first time I stayed at her house.
“I need my dad!” I yelled back walking up the stairs two at a time. “I have a nose bleed.”
“Don’t go getting blood all over my white walls!He’s napping. Get down here before you wake him up.”
I stared at her from the top of the stairs, holding my nose, feeling the blood running through my fingers. Sheila looked like the evil stepmothers I read about in fairy tales. She dressed in long frumpy dresses, wore a loose bun, a string of pearls she fidgeted with often, and had a mole on her cheek with a single strand of hair sticking out of it.
Okay, so maybe I made up the part about the mole, but everything else is real. And now it was ten years later and my dad and her are getting ready to walk down the aisle and I have a big decision to make. You see, I’ve been holding a secret.
That day I ran upstairs looking for my dad, I walked into a room. After getting tissues for my bloody nose and not finding my dad, I found something else and that something else could possibly stop the wedding right now if I wanted to. There was only one problem: my dad was crazy in love with this awful woman.
I know what you’re wondering. If she’s so awful, and I have a way to end it, why haven’t I?
Fancy egg sandwiches. My dad and I were dirt poor when he met Sheila. He fell ill after my mom died and his disability income didn’t stretch very far. A few weeks after meeting Sheila, we moved in with her, had three warm meals a day including fancy egg sandwiches for breakfast.
I tried to tell dad Sheila’s secret many times throughout the last ten years. but every time I worked up the courage, I also worked up an appetite that Sheila’s money could help alleviate.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” my dad approaches me and interrupts my thoughts with a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for wearing a dress. I know you hate them.”
“Of course, dad, you look dapper yourself,” I smile back. “Are we sure Sheila deserves you?”
“Deserves me?” Dad chuckles. “Sheila saved my life. Our life.”
“Is there anything I could tell you about her that would make you not want to marry her?”
“That she killed someone,” he laughs and slaps his leg as though it’s the wildest shit he’s ever said.
“Dad, please sit down. There’s something I’ve been needing to tell you.”
My mom says that bachata dancing is for barrio bachelors that are looking to grind with ladies without taking them on a date and clearly I don’t wan’t that. Or do I?
“Where are we going?” My best friend, Brenda asks. She plays with the seatbelt in her passenger seat.
The night air smells of fried plantains and ground beef as we pass a vibrant food truck with a line that goes around the block.
I smile at Brenda as I pull into the parking lot of the Bachata Magic night club in downtown Providence.
“Ana!” She says, eyes glued to her window. “I thought your mom told you not to come here. That it’s low class men blah blah blah”
“Isn’t it time for me to finally live my life the way I want to?” I ask putting the car into park and turning it off. “I went to uppity ass Brown to please her. I became a lawyer to please her. I live at home even though I’m almost thirty to please her.”
“Good points! Let’s hop to it!” Brenda opens the car door and skips through the sea of vehicles. Salsa music is blasting from the club, couples are making out on every corner, and rowdy groups of friends laugh and make jokes.
I follow her to the entrance where a tall, buff bouncer with sunglasses checks our IDs before allowing us in.
The club is dark. Small round tables surround the dance floor and are full. Brenda and I make our way to the bar.
“No wonder you’re wearing a tight ass dress,” Brenda says squeezing in between two sets of friends at a bar: group of women taking selfies to our left and a group of men drinking presidente beers to our right.
I squeeze in next to her. It is hard to hear over the music. The smell inside the club is of strong men’s cologne intermingled with sweat.
The song changes to a bachata beat. I feel a strong hand around my waist.
“Will you give me this dance?” The man asks in Spanish. Before I see him, I smell him. Soap and after shave. I feel him. His hand is firm, but respectful placed.
I nod and he leads me to dance floor. I see his tall, muscular frame from behind. His clean fade, nice slacks, and slightly too tight shirt which usually I find cringe, but not on this man. I pray his face isn’t hideous when he turns around. But with the excitement of finally being on the dance floor, maybe I won’t care either way.
He turns to face me, brings me as close as two people can be while clothed, and we start our three-step movements front and back and left and right. His movements are small, but assertive. We don’t sashay across the dance floor like other flaunty couples. He keeps us in the same three-foot square.
“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he leans in and whispers in beautifully broken English. His minty breath caresses my ear. He sounds like a trip back home to the Caribbean and is very easy on the eyes.
I nod not knowing what to say. Do I compliment him back? Nah. Too thirsty. I settle on a simple, classy “Thank you.”
He pulls me closer to him, squeezes me tight. I close my eyes as we dance in unison to the solo guitar portion of the song. I don’t want this moment to end.
Vivian is awaken by the ringing of her cell phone.
“Hello,” she whispers. She keeps her eyes closed hoping this call is part of a dream.
“Viv, where is your man?” Kelly screams.
Vivian holds the cell phone away from her ear and looks at the time. It’s 2:00am. She glances at the empty side of her California King-sized bed. She then peeks at the baby monitor relieved that her best friend hasn’t woken up her six-month old.
“Taking a shit in the downstairs bathroom for all I know.” Vivian rubs her eyes. She hasn’t slept since baby Bianca was born and barely slept before that.
“Not unless that bathroom is at a salsa club downtown.” Kelly could barely get the words out. This was the angriest Vivian had heard her since that time her husband gave her an air fryer for Valentine’s Day.
“Girl, what are you talking about?”
“My sister is at Tropical Mambo right now and saw him. She said he is wearing dark sunglasses as if that is some clever disguise. She thinks he might have seen her, so he’s probably working on some lame ass excuse.”
“Let me call him. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Please leave him. You deserve better. I wish you could see that.”
“Like I said, let me call him.”
Before Vivian can dial a single digit, her phone lights up with a FaceTime call. She answers but turns her video off.
“Baby, I came to Mambo’s to pick up Robert. He had too many drinks and needed a ride home. I didn’t want to wake you or Bianca so I slipped out real quick. I saw Kelly’s man-hating sister, Camilla. But anyways it’s hard to hear with this loud music, but I’m just waiting on him and will be home soon. Love you.”
Click.
Phone rings again. This time it’s Camilla and Kelly on a 3-way call.
“So he saw her, Viv, and went straight to her looking guilty as hell. You tell the story, sis.”
“This mofo tells me ‘I’m not doing anything wrong. Just standing here. I’m not dancing.” Camilla chimes in. “He’s there with like five guys. They’re all standing there. Of course he saw me and is going to play it safe. And he’s wearing sunglasses.”
“I heard—“ Vivian stifles a yawn.
“Sunglasses! Like dude you have so many degrees and you may be book smart, but you are lacking common sense. Sunglasses make you stand out more, you dumb jerk.” Camilla says.
“I know this is devastating, girl,” Kelly interrupts. “What are you going to do? Do you need a place to stay?”
Vivian thought about her options. Sure, she was very upset that her husband was out in these city streets making her look bad, but what was the alternative? Leave a house that she paid half for and figure out being a single mom all on zero sleep? Or buy herself some time to figure her shit out?
“I know you think he’s the best you can do. He looks good on paper: great career, fancy degrees, lovely family. But that paper is a napkin, girl and it’s crumbling.”
Kelly wasn’t wrong. Vivian was smart enough to know her marriage was on borrowed time.
“I appreciate the concern. I really do love you both. But Bianca is sleeping through the night for the first time ever. I’m going back to bed.”
Vivian ended the call and cried herself to sleep.
The night air in the Chilean Atacama desert is surprisingly cold. Walking out of the copper-colored adobe house I can see my breath as white clouds escaping my lips begging for peace in the black night. The stars are abundant, but are not as bright as I’m used to for a desert town.
“Isn’t it too late for a young woman to be walking alone? There aren’t any street lights,” the new hostel guest whose name I can’t remember chimes in. She’s from Switzerland or Sweden. Or was it Canada?
“You wanna come with me?” I ask. Her pink-sandaled feet seem glued to the front door. “The town square is only a fifteen-minute walk.”
“What about all of the stray dogs that roam at night?”
I shrug. My stomach growls answering for me.
“Um, I’m too tired from today’s dune hike, but take this.” She gives me a small pink flashlight that she takes out of her powder pink jumpsuit.
“Thanks,” I say and continue my walk toward the town.
The flashlight is small, but mighty. With it, I see a stream lined with hundreds of bright purple wildflowers at the water’s edge.
I hear the water flowing, the sound of my own footsteps and then—a scream.
“What the—“
My heart is races. Maybe I should have listened to pink back at the hostel. I look around and am relieved not to see anyone. Do I walk back to the hostel and die of hunger or do I keep walking to the town and die of dying?
Decisions, decisions.
And then another scream. This time followed by growling. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Heck, even my carefully laid out baby hairs are standing on edge by now.
I wave my flashlight all around. And then I see him.
My coffee beans were harvested in Caribbean coastal towns where summer sea breezes caress them as they grow.
My coffee beans glow in the warm winter sun waiting for their moment of March magic. The moment where they are selected to sail away to their new home.
My coffee beans, now ground, glisten eagerly on my countertop waiting for their stovetop jacuzzi and their morning massage of silky nut-milk caramel creamer.
My house has wall-to-wall windows. Makes it easier to enjoy the turquoise ocean view without ever having to set foot outside. From my room, I see passing boats and spend my time staring at the pretty multi colored fish and green sea turtles. The city of Maji is built entirely on water and my dad made sure I had a front row seat to its beauty.
“Just learn to swim,” my brother, Leo says. “The purple fairy basslets are spectacular up close.”
“I’m sure the sharks are too,” I shoot back.
“There hasn’t been a shark in Maji for over fifty years, Madeline. Why can’t you just get over it?” He slides his ankle rubber boots on.
“That’s not how fears work,” I say not moving from my spot by the window.
“I wouldn’t know about that I guess,” he says gathering his things.
“Really? Cause you’ve dated every age appropriate single lady in Maji, but keep running back to mom. You’re thirty and it’s not a good look.” I turn over to see him. “I’ll get over my fear of water, when you get over your fear of commitment.”
“You are so defensive, Maddie. I’m just looking out for you. A seventeen-year old shouldn’t be stuck at home when there’s a whole world out there.” He grabs his fishing gear and leaves the house.
From my window, I smell the sea salted breeze that enters the house when he opens the door. I hear the dolphins daily wake up whistle. Once he’s gone, I grab my books, pad of paper and pencils. Petra, my tutor, should be arriving any minute.
My thoughts are interrupted by screaming. First it’s faint, but quickly it becomes louder. I run to my window, but can’t see anything.
“Help!” The voice is coming from an area outside my house not visible through the windows. My heart starts pounding. No one is home at this time. I don’t recognize the voice and am unsure what to do.
“Help! I’m pregnant. Please somebody help me!”
I take a deep breath and open the front door. For the first time in my life, I step outside.
