After the Hurricane(11)
“My father, in Puerto Rico, he needs my help. With the hurricane, his house and all, it’s been a mess, and he could really use some help,” she said, surprising herself with this odd little lie, but it was the truth in a way, wasn’t it? He was missing. He needed help, generally, weren’t those some of the last words she had said to him, that he needed help? She wondered if her boss would throw her out of his office, but instead, his eyes brightened. It was like she had said magic words.
“Puerto Rico,” he repeated. He understood, completely, everyone would, of course, absolutely, hadn’t they read all about it, didn’t they think it was a terrible tragedy, and of course he of all people understood about the house her father must live in, all that property damage. They had all been in New York for Sandy, hadn’t they? Elena nodded, she had been there, not working for the company then, but still. She had been in graduate school in her second year of the program, and had been stranded in Brooklyn for four days, living on microwave popcorn and boxed wine.
“Take all the time you need,” he said, firmly. “We completely understand what a hurricane can do to a building. What a nightmare.” Elena nodded again, wondering if there was something wrong with her boss, with her, that they thought of the buildings first, before anything else. Surely a better person would think more about people than buildings? And yet it is this instinct that makes her good at the job she thought would be a temporary measure, the job she has been at for over five years.
Elena is so certain they will be cancelling the flight that she stands, ready to leave the airport, when she is called to board the plane. The women to her left scramble to contain all that they have unleashed from their bags, while the couple to her right are, with New Yorker efficiency and disdain for others, already walking toward the gate, somehow managing to convey their irritation with their very strides. Other travelers fall in line, some of them, like Elena, looking hesitant, disbelieving. Can it be real, that they are leaving purgatory, that they will reach their destination? They look eager, excited, and Elena is jealous.
When she was young going to Puerto Rico was like going to paradise. She could never sleep on the nights before flights to the island, too joyous, too full of anticipation to let her brain stop thinking. She hasn’t been to the island in almost a decade, and now, after Maria, all she feels is fear, fear that while the hurricane has come and gone, ahead of her lies more and more destruction. Afraid that her father is gone, afraid that he is waiting for her. Afraid that his home is hers now, afraid that it is not, that he has reneged on this, his promise, his duty, as he has on all other duties, all other promises.
She would turn back, but she is a coward, she cannot turn around when the line has formed behind her, when the press of people are already waiting, when everyone would see her, when this is her task, like it or not. When it is time to move forward, she moves, not because she is brave about her future, but because she is too ashamed to turn away, too frozen, she lets the crowd carry her forward like the tide, onto the plane, off to the island, into whatever will come next.
When Elena arrives in San Juan, the humidity embraces her sweetly, and leaves her gasping for breath. As she walks off the plane, her hair immediately begins to rise out of its controlled ponytail unbidden, forming a fuzzy halo of curled frizz as the air-conditioning inside the terminal freezes the sweat on her back. Her bag takes forever to make its way to the baggage belt, and the late takeoff of the flight means that she has arrived just before sunset. She wishes she had booked a stay at a hotel, what if her father’s home does not have power? She arranged all this so quickly, arriving in Puerto Rico a little less than a week after her mother’s phone call, and she is suddenly overwhelmed by everything she did not consider. Does the house have potable water, should she have brought a generator, more to eat, more to donate? But it is too late now, and many of the hotels are closed, anyway, recovering from Maria themselves. All she can do is grab her bag and walk on.
Although it has been a decade, the cab stand outside the airport has barely changed at all. They have added a ribboned lane, like airport baggage lines, curving around to contain a queue of waiting taxi passengers, but it is almost empty now, and Elena is already at the front of it, behind the couple she had sat next to in the airport. The Puerto Rican women, along with many of the other passengers, do not look twice at the taxi lane, instead making their ways determinedly to the car-pickup area. Elena smiles, thinking, Real Puerto Ricans don’t take taxis, they have large families to give them rides two hours after their plane has already arrived; they stuff themselves and their luggage into clown cars of distant relatives.
She has a clear and vivid memory of a childhood trip, an hour spent waiting for her grandfather at the car-pickup area, her mother’s red face, swollen with heat and anger. Elena read and reread the same book while her face stared into space, whistling, driving her mother insane. Elena remembers her abuelo finally arriving, his car maroon and battered and without working seat belts, and how he ran the air-conditioning while keeping the windows open for the first ten minutes of the journey, to let the hot air out, he said, chuckling. In the back seat, her mother sat, waiting for her father to say something, to complain, while in the front seat Elena’s father said nothing, just laughed nervously at every insult tumbling out of Abuelo’s mouth.
The tourists in front of Elena are escorted into their cab, and it is her turn. The only vehicle ready is a large van, but this is also the same as she remembers, there are more large vehicles than regular-size ones. She signals to her bag and murmurs, “Una maleta,” watching as the wiry driver hoists her luggage into the trunk, and rushes to open the sliding door for her. She climbs up into the van, now at least two feet off the ground, all alone in a vehicle made for at least eight people, and straps herself into the seat.