Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

didn’t sleep great,” I added. “It’s making this feel worse than it is.”

“Worse?” said Isa, who’d been listening to our conversation. She clung to the arms of her seat as we hit another wave. “Not possible. This is the worst.”

“It’s okay,” Shiloh assured her. “They wouldn’t take us out if it wasn’t safe.”

“Really? Because if we don’t die first I’m going to hurl, and I’ll probably choke on my vomit and die anyway,” said Isa. “Tell me how that’s safe.”

“Let’s not joke,” I said, glancing at Charlotte, who looked awfully green. “Did you check your blood sugar?” I asked quietly.

“Before we left,” she said, and I was grateful that the edge I’d heard earlier was missing from her voice. “I feel fine, Mom. Just tell me when it’s over.”

“Soon,” I promised. Through the window, frothy waves were cresting nearly as high as the ferry. But if we could all just hang in there a little bit longer, the ocean would calm and Vieques would appear before us like a glittering promised land. And then, finally, things would take a turn for the better.

TWELVE

“This is it?” said Isa, pressing her face to the window as the ferry approached the shore.

Through the glass, the dock was a bit more weathered than I remembered, and the overcast skies were making the marina look especially dingy. Yet the sight of the island’s northern coast filled me with excitement. It was a good feeling, one I hadn’t had since . . . well, roughly a minute before the last time I realized my husband wasn’t going to be making love to me after all.

“Hold tight,” I told Isa. “You’re going to love it.”

But as we shuffled to the back of the boat to collect our luggage, Charlotte whispered, “I thought you said Vieques was magical.”

“Sweetheart, please don’t be so quick to form an opinion based on the first thing you see,” I said, resisting the urge to sigh as I glanced around. Vieques had been one of the last areas to receive aid after Hurricane Maria. Maybe that explained why the garbage cans at the marina were overflowing and the chain-link fence around the waiting area was in desperate need of replacing.

“I hope you’re right, Mom,” said Isa, trailing behind me. “Because this place? It’s kind of a dump.”

If they were trying to bleed my enthusiasm dry via a thousand tiny cuts, they were doing a bang-up job. “Please find something nice to say, and if you can’t, bite your tongue. Look—chickens!” I pointed to the fence, where several hens pecked at the ground as their chicks swarmed behind them.

“You know they’re chock full of salmonella, right?” said Isa.

Charlotte eyed them skeptically. “What about the horses?” she asked, referring to the couple thousand horses that roamed the island.

“We’ll see them soon enough,” said Shiloh, shooting me a look of solidarity. I smiled at him. The kids were just kids; maybe they wouldn’t enjoy themselves, but he and I definitely would. “Happy to be here?” I asked.

He smiled back at me. “You know I am. You?”

“Never happier,” I said, because although that wasn’t technically true, I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was.

After Maria hit, Shiloh and I had read the news reports and watched videos of the destruction in Vieques—hundred-year-old trees that had been completely uprooted, the promenade that had crumbled after being battered by record-breaking waves, entire neighborhoods flooded by water or worse, mud. Over time, those reports and videos—as well as Milagros’ updates—assured us that the island was on the mend. Still, hearing that wasn’t the same as seeing it for ourselves. After we picked up our Jeep from the rental agency and headed out, I nearly wept with relief as the countryside came into view. The rolling hills were lush and green again; the winding roads were paved and clear. The same pastel cinder-block homes dotted the landscape, and in the distance, the Atlantic met the Caribbean, forming a swath of bright blue beauty. It was almost exactly as I’d remembered it.

We’d just passed a schoolyard when Shiloh hit the brakes.

“What is it?” I said, but just then four horses emerged from the field to our left and began ambling across the road. There were two adults and two foals, all brown except for one of the mares, who was cream colored with a dark mark on her nose. The island was teeming with horses—some wild, others fed and groomed by locals who let them roam free. Though we’d seen dozens, if not hundreds, on previous visits, they never ceased to steal my breath.

The girls were quiet, too. I swiveled around, excited to see the wonder on their faces.

But there were no faces to see—just the top of their bent heads as they moved their thumbs with the frenetic energy of a couple of professional gamers (or, you know, twelve-year-olds).

On instinct, I snatched their phones out of their hands.

“Hey!” protested Isa, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That’s my phone!” said Charlotte, glaring at me. “Give it back!”

“Oh, I’m going to give it to you, all right!” I hissed. I don’t know what had come over me; it was like all of the negativity I’d been keeping bottled up was slithering right out of a tiny crack I’d forgotten to seal shut. “And when I’m done, you’re going to be begging to have my phones back, because guess who pays for them? Now look. At. The. Gosh. Darn. Horses.”

I was staring right at them, but I’d forgotten how blinding rage can be; it took a few seconds for my eyes to inform my brain that my daughters were staring back at me like I was the ghost of Joan Crawford, waving a wire hanger at them.

Beside me, Shiloh looked nearly as shocked. And no wonder—one tiny disappointment and I’d instantly morphed into Momzilla. I needed to pull myself together before my daughters started making the kind of memories that they’d later parse with a mental health professional.

“I’m sorry,” I said