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

could barely make out Milagros’ outline in the darkness. “Don’t worry, mija,” she said. “The fridge will stay cold for at least a day if we don’t open it. And the storm won’t last more than a day or two.”

That had been true of Maria, too, but the electricity had been out for months afterward, and access to the island had been blocked for weeks. Who was to say that this wouldn’t be the same?

“Here we are,” replied Hector, who’d reappeared. He handed me two lit-up flashlights.

“Thank you so much,” I said to him.

“De nada. I’m sorry the storm picked this week to arrive.”

“Bad timing on our part.” The worst, in fact—but now wasn’t the time to split hairs. “I’m going to go check on Shiloh and the girls. We’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Be careful,” said Milagros. “Mother Nature isn’t messing around today.”

As if to reiterate her point, a large piece of plastic flew past my face as I opened the back door. I tucked my chin to my chest, covered my head, and ran for the guesthouse.

Shiloh had just woken the girls up when I let myself inside.

“Didn’t I say we were doomed?” said Isa. When I shone the flashlight on her, she was looking at me like I’d conjured the storm just for her benefit. “Didn’t I say that jellyfish was a sign?”

“Knock it off. You sound like Uncle Paul,” I told her, even as my pulse whooshed in my ears. I handed one of the flashlights to Shiloh, already running through a mental inventory of what we needed. “Help the girls get ready while I get the snacks and Charlotte’s insulin and kit,” I told him. She would need both in a few short hours, and I didn’t want to have to run back to the guesthouse again—though with the way the wind was wailing, I wasn’t sure that would even be an option at that point.

“This sucks,” muttered Charlotte, pulling on a pair of shorts. “I want to go back to sleep.”

“Me, too. I was having the best dream,” said Isa, who’d fallen back on the sofa and draped her arm over her eyes.

“Were you dreaming that you were home?” said Charlotte.

“How did you know?”

“Because I happen to be with you on the . . .” Charlotte started doing jazz hands.

“Worst vacation . . . ,” said Isa in a show-tunes voice.

“Ever!” said Charlotte.

“Not funny,” I said firmly. “Not funny at all.”

“We’re totally doomed, aren’t we?” said Charlotte.

I shone the flashlight in their direction so that they couldn’t see my expression. “No,” I said firmly. “We’re going to be fine.”

But for all I knew, this would not only be the worst vacation ever, but also our last—all because I’d insisted on trying to re-create an experience that was impossible to replicate.

What had I done?

NINETEEN

Outside, the wind continued to howl and rattle Milagros’ metal-slatted shutters, while rain pummeled the roof. The weather was just the start of my worries. Charlotte’s insulin and test strips would stop working if they sat in the heat for too long. With the fans off and the windows closed, the house was already sweltering; it was only a matter of time before the fridge would be, too. We’d need to find either a health clinic or a place with a generator and a refrigerator as soon as we could leave the house.

And I had no idea when that might be.

In spite of the racket, Milagros and Hector went back to bed; she was concerned about being able to see with only a flashlight to light her way. Likewise, Shiloh was drifting in and out of sleep on one of the sofas, while the girls were dozing beside me on the other. I was glad someone was able to rest, because I sure wasn’t. I knew I’d need my energy soon, but I was so wired that every time I closed my eyes I kept imagining the roof flying off, trees hitting the house, water rushing at us.

And Charlotte, shaking, sweating, unable to get her blood sugar under control, as the rest of us looked on, helpless.

“Mommy?” she said. She’d been asleep, too, but her whole body had just jerked suddenly, like she was dreaming about falling, and now she was awake.

“What is it, love? Are you feeling okay?” I asked, trying to keep the concern out of my voice. She hadn’t called me Mommy in ages.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled. “But it’s hard to sleep—it’s so hot in here. Can you tell us a childhood story?”

“Of course,” I said, already racking my brain. The girls loved to hear about my childhood, or at least the version of it that I shared—they didn’t need to find out how, say, I slept in the same bed with Paul for years longer than it was socially acceptable because I was afraid he might up and die on me, just like our mother had.

“Not the one about Uncle Paul stealing your candy,” said Isa, who Charlotte must have woken. She was referring to the time he’d pilfered every remaining piece of candy from my plastic Halloween pumpkin, scarfed it all down, then promptly Pollocked our living room walls with regurgitated chocolate. We were five then, so I barely remembered the actual event; it was really my mother’s belly-laughing recollection of it a few years later that I’d recounted to the girls.

“Or the one about the time Grandpa made you and Uncle Paul wear the same shirt,” said Charlotte.

“You’re lucky I haven’t used that one on you two yet.” I smiled to myself, thinking of how my father had made Paul and me squeeze side by side into an oversized T-shirt—albeit for all of three minutes—as punishment for slapping each other during a particularly heated argument. Paul and I rarely fought, but when we did, it had been epic. “Your grandfather is something else,” I said. “Was,” I quickly corrected myself.

A sob was bubbling up from deep within, and I did my best to swallow it. It