Float Plan(38)

“I’m afraid not.” A nurse in pink scrubs calls my name. “Mom, I have to go, but I’ll call you back after they fix my shoulder, okay? I love you.”

The nurse checks my vitals and unwraps the bandage to have a look at the damage. Pain shoots through me as she helps me remove my T-shirt, raising the hair at the back of my neck and bringing me to tears. My shoulder is twice its normal size and the skin is every shade of a bruise-colored rainbow.

“How long has it gone untreated?” I am relieved she speaks English, because my high school Spanish is so rusty that I could do little more than ask her permission to use the bathroom.

“About three days.” I explain how I fell overboard. “We were afraid to set it ourselves.”

“I will try to get the doctor in to see you as soon as possible.”

I shut my eyes as the examination room door closes behind her, and don’t open them again until I hear a man with a Puerto Rican accent greet me. There is a trail of dried drool on my cheek, and the clock above the door indicates I was asleep for about thirty minutes.

The doctor’s accent is thick as he examines my cheek, asking about the pain and the accident. While I recount what happened, he slides on a pair of latex gloves and swabs a bit of alcohol on my upper arm. My shoulder hurts so much that I barely notice the pinch of the needle as he injects a localized painkiller. After the medicine takes hold, the nurse moves over to one side of the exam table and gently restrains me while the doctor takes my arm and pivots outward. I cry out as the muscles in my shoulder twist, but I feel the ball drop back into the socket and the pain lessens, immediately and dramatically.

“You will continue to experience some pain until the swelling goes down, but probably not as severe,” he says, scribbling on a prescription pad. The nurse cradles my arm in a proper sling. “I recommend X-rays and a program of physical therapy, but at the very least do not overwork your shoulder. Let it rest for as long as possible.”

The doctor hands me a prescription for Vicodin and sends me on my way. As a taxi shuttles me back to the marina, I’m relieved my mother’s health insurance will cover most of the expenses, relieved to be mostly back to normal.

Keane is asleep in the V-berth, stripped down to shorts and a T-shirt, his prosthesis removed and Queenie’s chin on his foot. I climb into bed and he lifts his arm for me to spoon up in front of him. We’ve never slept together like this, but it feels good to have his warm chest pressed against my back.

“You smell terrible, Anna.” His words come out in the middle of a yawn. “Truly awful.”

“So do you.”

Keane laughs and wraps his arm tighter around me. “We’re a big stinky mess,” he says. “All three of us.”

“When we wake up, we can all have baths, but for now I just need to sleep for about six days.”

“Yeah,” he says, yawning again. “Me too.”





all I have is now (19)





After the sleeping, the showering, the laundry, the grocery shopping, and the clearing away of the detritus from four days at sea, we celebrate our arrival in San Juan with cold beer and a bowl of homemade guacamole. We have Bob Marley singing about three little birds. Queenie’s lifeline netting is installed so she can roam the deck at will. And my shoulder feels a million times better.

Keane and I sit across from each other in the cockpit, his feet propped beside me and mine beside him. Queenie sits next to him, pinning him with a stare meant to intimidate him into giving her a tortilla chip. He strokes her freshly washed head but ignores her relentless gaze.

“What made you decide to stay?” he says.

“I don’t know.” I scoop a huge portion of guacamole onto a chip. “I guess I figured if I made it this far, there’s no sense in turning back.”

“The hardest part is behind you.”

He means the sailing, but the same could be applied to Ben. I’ve lived so many hard days since his suicide. Waking up to emptiness. Holding on to pain. Having a future without him still feels scary—and a little unfair to his memory—but it’s time to move forward. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“Well, about that…” Keane scratches the back of his head. “When I told you I had to get to Puerto Rico, it was … not entirely true.”

“Not entirely?”

“It’s a convenient enough place to land,” he says. “But there’s no real reason I need to be here.”

“No guy who knows a guy?”

Keane shakes his head.

“So you helped me just … because?”

“You were a mess, Anna.”

I laugh. “Well, I’m still a mess, so maybe you should stay.”

Keane’s eyes meet mine. “Only if you’re asking.”

I could laugh it off as a joke and release him from his service, but these past weeks have knocked the rust off my life. Keane has helped me become a sailor. He’s also pulled me out of the emotional black hole I’ve been living in since Ben died. If I ask Keane to stay now, it’s not because I need him. “I’m asking.”

The corner of his mouth tilts up and he nods. “Then I’m staying.”

“What do people do for fun around here?”

“We could walk around Old San Juan and look at the Christmas lights, if you’re up for it,” he suggests. “Maybe get some dinner. I’ve only been here once, briefly, on a delivery job.”