Wish You Were Here(18)

“Choose something you won’t get sick of looking at for the next six weeks,” he suggested. “If you want something matchy, go with blue. It’s the same color as your eyes.”

As soon as he said it, he flushed and ducked his head, laser-focused on the last layer of wrap.

Finally, I was able to turn my wrist a little to look at his handiwork. “Not bad for a novice,” I said. “Five stars on Yelp for sure.”

He laughed. “Whew.”

“So,” I said, looking up at him. “That’s it?”

“One more thing,” he said, and he took a black marker from his white coat pocket. “Can I sign your cast?”

I nodded, smiling.

FINN, it read. And a phone number.

“In case there are complications,” he said, meeting my gaze.

“I feel like that’s a HIPAA violation or something,” I said.

“Only if you’re my patient. And lucky for me,” he said, handing me my discharge papers, “you are no longer my patient.”

By the time I walked into the waiting room again, we’d planned to meet for dinner the following night, and I barely noticed the throbbing in my arm. Rodney was lying on his back across four chairs. He took one look at my face, and the signature on my cast. “Girl,” he said.

After reading Finn’s email I decide I’m going to get back to America if I have to swim. I return to the apartment to get my carry-on tote and then double back into Puerto Villamil. There are very few signs of life on Isabela, but I have the best chance of finding an exit to the mainland if I’m in town.

I have to wait only an hour on the pier before a small boat approaches, its engine chugging. There is one person in it, but I can’t see him clearly from this distance. I hurry down the dock, waving, as the man hops out of the boat, turns away from me, and ties it securely on a mooring.

“Hola,” I say tentatively, wondering how I am going to communicate beyond a simple greeting.

When he stands and wipes off his damp hands on his shorts, then turns around, I realize it is the man from the tortoise breeding site who tackled me yesterday. “No es cierto,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a second, as if he could blink me away.

Well. At least I already know he speaks English.

“Hello again,” I say, smiling. “I wonder if I could rent your boat.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s not my boat,” he says, and he shoulders past me, walking away.

“But you were just in—” I run after him, to catch up. “Look. I realize we got off on the wrong foot. But this is an emergency.”

He stops, folding his arms.

“I’ll pay you,” I try again. “I’ll pay as much as you want to get me to Santa Cruz.” I don’t have very much cash left, but there have to be ATMs there, at least.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s in Santa Cruz?”

“The airport,” I say. “I have to get home.”

“Even if you got to Santa Cruz, there are no flights in or out.”

“Please,” I beg.

His face softens, or maybe it’s just an illusion. “I can’t take you there,” he says. “We’re in the middle of a strict quarantine. There are federal officials enforcing it.”

By now, I’m fighting back tears. “I know you think I’m a stupid tourist,” I admit. “I should have left with the last ferry. You’re right. But I can’t stay here for God knows how long while people I love are stuck …” My words evaporate; I swallow hard. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”

He flinches as if I’ve hit him.

“Look, I don’t much care what happens to me,” he says. “But if you’re arrested for traveling to Santa Cruz, that’s not going to get you home, either.” His eyes roam over me, from the crown of my head to my sneakers. “I hope you figure something out,” he adds, and with a brief nod, he leaves me standing alone on the pier.

By the late afternoon, I am not only wondering if I can get off this island, I’m wondering if I’m the only one on it.

Even though I know it can’t be true, it feels like I’m the last person on earth. Since being dismissed by the man from the tortoise breeding center, I have not seen a single soul. There is no movement or light in Abuela’s part of the house; the beach is entirely empty. Even if there are no tourists descending on Isabela Island—even if people are being cautious because of coronavirus—it feels as if I’ve been dropped onto the set of a dystopian movie. A beautiful set, but a very lonely one.

I find myself walking in the same direction I went yesterday, toward the tortoise breeding center, except I get lost and wind up instead on a wooden walkway through a mangrove forest, with long-fingered tree branches bleached and twisted above me, knuckles bent. It is desolate and oddly beautiful; it’s the place in the fairy tale where the witch appears. Except there is only me, and an iguana perched on the handrail of the walkway, its Godzilla hackles rising as I walk past.

When I see the sign for Concha de Perla, my memory is jogged: I had bookmarked this page in the travel guide that is still lost somewhere with my luggage, as a place for Finn and me to visit. It’s known as a snorkeling haunt, arms of lava encircling a small part of the ocean to create a natural lagoon. I do not have a snorkel with me, but I am sweaty and hot, and diving into cool water becomes a mission.