After the Hurricane(55)
“Lucky for someone. Lucky for us. You going for long?”
Elena shakes her head, and then looks at Fernando. She has no idea what his plans are, what is even taking him to Aguadilla in the first place. He mentioned something about lunch. He is shaking his head, too.
“See you soon. Nice to meet you, Elena. Enjoy your family,” Mario says, lightly, meaning nothing of it. It’s just the way the phrase is built. But Elena has to keep her head down, focused on her coffee, as she waves her way out, so he cannot see her eyes, how his simple wish for her has hit her in the stomach.
Outside, composed, Elena follows Fernando to the car, watching him down his coffee like water. They climb in and he is energized, driving quickly on the empty streets, and they are soon out of Old San Juan, zipping by the turn that would take them to Condado, to darkened restaurants and empty hotels, passing the Sizzler sign, for the first time in Elena’s life experience on the island unlit, as they hurtle onto the highway, the long route that will take them through Dorado and Manatí and Arecibo, and spit them out on the other side of the island, the western coast. Of course it was damaged by Maria, that makes perfect sense, it’s coastal land. Elena has looked up the route, because this is the kind of person she is, and because she wants to know how long it will take, but still, she turns to Fernando and asks:
“How long do you think it will take?” Fernando nods as though she has asked something very important.
“Usually, maybe an hour and a half, maybe two. But now? I don’t know. San Juan looks good, but in other places they are still clearing trees and electrical poles and, well, whatever else they have to clear. Fewer resources, fewer people, more looting, more violence. It’s been much harder there than here. Some of the roads were wrecked, not just blocked with fallen things, but destroyed. I honestly don’t know how it will be, how long it will take us. We might have to get off the highway, if the road is bad, and drive through some towns, but then those roads might be bad, too. Leaving early was a good idea.”
“It was your idea,” Elena says, amused. Fernando nods.
“Yes. I have good ideas.”
“I bet your students just love you,” Elena says, rolling her eyes. Fernando nods, apparently oblivious to sarcasm.
“So, how has it been for you? Since Maria?” Elena asks, curious. She isn’t sure if there is a better way to put it. How do you ask someone about their reaction to a natural disaster? Fernando looks at her, taking his intent gaze off the road for a split second before looking back out the window.
“It’s been okay. So much came to San Juan, and we had more generators, got power first. The U.S. sent boats with medical supplies, food, it all came to us in San Juan Harbor, but getting it to the rest of the island, well, that’s hard. This is why I go to that coffee shop, I went after the storm to help. I saw on Facebook that Mario was doing these packages. His shop was shut, but he opened it, used his generator, called out on social media and asked friends to come put together packages, then used the trucks he uses to transport coffee from his farm to take them to distribution centers in different parts of the island.”
“That’s amazing,” Elena says, sipping her coffee. She wishes she would have paid double for it.
“This will be a hard year for them. I didn’t know them before but we’ve become friendly. Marissa had quit her job to help Mario with the café.”
“They have their own farm?” Fernando nods.
“People are more and more interested in buying local, you know? Helping the island go back to a more sustainable place, in terms of agriculture. Sugar displaced everything. People are trying to put things back into a better place. Of course, we still grow sugar.”
“That’s good for you,” Elena points out, remembering all the sugar he poured into his coffee. Fernando blinks, and smiles, eyes still on the road.
“I’m an addict,” he says, solemn, and then smiles again. “Oh shit, sorry.” Elena looks at him, his face contrite. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I didn’t think you were really addicted to sugar, Fernando,” Elena says, smiling.
“No, I meant, I shouldn’t have used that language so lightly. Because of your dad, I mean. He . . . he drinks too much, I think. Not that I can judge. But I guess I’m just assuming, from what I’ve seen? I’m sorry. I overstepped.”
Elena’s face grows hot, then cold. She opens her mouth, then closes it. She wants to be offended for her father, for this is what she thinks he would want, that she should defend his honor as he always taught her to do, that she should deny, deny, then attack, punishing Fernando until he must rescind his comment, must apologize, must unthink what he knows to be true.
This man next to her likes her father. He feels strongly toward him, he told her a story of his kindness. He has woken early and is giving her a ride, taking her to find him, a trip that might be painful, or at least irritating, passing through storm-wrecked land. He likes her father, and he sees her father for what he is. He can contain those two things together in his head. Elena does not know if she herself can do that. How can she like her father, how can she love him, when he is a mystery to her? When he is a mess of things, when he is the house he has left behind in San Juan for her to find, a rat’s nest of memories and pieces of the past and accomplishments and shames and damage and being damaged himself?