Heavenly Bodies Page 17

  From the depths of my beach bag, my phone emits a muffled beep. After a fair amount of searching, I find it, warmed to see a text from Daddy. We try to talk every couple of days.

  Isla girl. What should I bring Mama when I come down for Turkey Day?

  Happiness pulses through me. Wiping my hands on my towel, I reply.

  Cookie butter! Lots!

  perfect.

  can’t wait to see you!

  me neither! gotta go back to work. love you.

  love you, too.

  Beaming, I tuck my phone back into my bag and poke Camille. “My daddy’s bringing cookie butter when he comes for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, good.” She grins, adjusting her bikini top. “I can finally taste it.”

  If my father was here, I think I’d be okay with staying. Like, one hundred percent on-board. Talking with Sage and Morgan always brings measures of wistfulness and nostalgia, but as the months go by, I find myself pining over their social media accounts less and less. It’s hard to feel lonely when I’m never really alone...and anyway, I like it here. At first this made me feel slightly guilty, like I was cheating on Atlanta. But as the days go by and I settle deeper into island life, the thought of leaving makes me sad. Life here is unexpectedly full, not the hollow, pre-college placeholder I’d feared it would be.

  The whine of jet-skis grows louder before cutting off abruptly. Propping myself up on my elbows, I watch Rigel wade out of the water, dragging his jet ski to the sand. He makes a beeline for our blanket, wiping the water from his face.

  “It’s now or never, Isla,” he announces, panting slightly from his shenanigans on the water. “Manny wants to start bringing these in, so...”

  Battling uncertainty, I get to my feet. Hurtling across the bay at sixty miles per hour is definitely daunting, but it can’t be that deadly if Camille and Jasmine are already at the water’s edge, vying for turns. “I’ll go if you take it easy on me.”

  “Promise.” Dimples flashing, his grin turns devilish. Oh, Lord. “Come on.”

  “Okay, okay.” The jet-skis bob expectantly in the warm, shallow water. Uncle Manny tosses us an extra vest that Rigel helps me fasten, and then we clamor aboard.

  “Ready?” Rigel squeezes the throttle and we start to move, rumbling slowly toward the horizon. Nando passes us, flying so fast over the surface he barely touches it, Camille hanging on behind him. I’m pretty sure the shrieking we hear is hers.

  “You better not do that to me,” I warn playfully, tightening my grip.

  He guns it for just a second, making the jet-ski jerk ahead. “Like that?” he shouts, barely audible over the overzealous squeal of the engine.

  Loosening my grip long enough to find his thigh, I give him a vicious pinch. Laughing, he heads for Nando, who’s slowed enough for us to catch up. Camille wipes her face of saltwater, her gleeful grin speaking volumes. “Let’s race!” she shouts, bouncing in her seat.

  One of Nando’s cousins races by with Jasmine on the back, creating enough wake to rock both our jet-skis. Nando responds reflexively, not even waiting for us to answer. He catches up quickly, and they speed toward the beach’s natural curve, where the land juts far out into the water.

  “Which way do you want to go?” Rigel asks.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I reach back, tightening my ponytail. “This thing has enough gas, right? We’re not gonna break down out there?”

  Leaning to the side so I can see, he taps the gas gauge and then glances back at me, probably wondering why I’m such a worrywart.

  Yeah, I’m being a killjoy. Grandpa Harry probably has more guts than I do. I point to the tiny silhouette of a far-off sailboat. “Go that way.”

  He starts slowly, gradually picking up speed, and when I don’t protest, goes a little faster still.

  “Okay, okay—just go for it,” I yell. It’s all the permission he needs. No sooner do the words leave my mouth we bolt ahead, gunning over the water so rapidly all I can do is hold on. I’m laughing and screaming, arms and legs clamped around Rigel like my life depends on it—because it does—and it’s glorious, way more fun than I thought it would be. We ride out far, leaving the calm of the beach for the choppier waves further out.

  Rigel releases the throttle, allowing us to drift with the current. The water is clear but indeterminately deep, shadows of coral and rock barely visible on the ocean floor. I’ve never been this far out, and I’m both fascinated and intimidated by the hugeness of the open sea.

  “Lean that way,” Rigel says, pointing. I do, and he stands, turning and sitting so that we’re facing one another. “So what do you think?”

  “I love it.”

  “I knew you would.” He rests his hands on my thighs. I’m almost as brown as he is now. “You worry too much.”

  “I know.” It’s beautiful and wild here, the restless water a hundred different shades of blue. “It’s not as scary as I thought it would be.”

  Nando and Camille ride by, waving. “Heading back in,” Nando shouts.

  Rigel nods, motioning for them to go on ahead. “We’ll follow.”

  They leave, and he brings his attention back to me. “My sister’s birthday is tomorrow.”

  “Little sister? The one who likes horses?”

  “Only sister. She’s turning seven.”

  “I remember being seven. I was into unicorns.”

  “That’s funny; she likes unicorns, too,” Rigel says.“And pegasus. Pegasuses. Pegasi?”

  I laugh, because who knows? “So, anything even vaguely horsey.”

  “Pretty much.” He plucks a piece of seaweed from the water, only to toss it again. “She likes gardening, too. Dad gave her a couple of rows to herself and they planted a bunch of stuff. She’s always in the garden with my parents.”

  “I think that’s a really cool thing to share with your mom and dad.”

  He nods. “We have an acre. The backyard stretches all the way back to the tree line and most of it’s a garden...my dad grows everything. My mother doesn’t buy produce.”

  “Because y’all have it already,” I say, impressed. “My grandfather’s got a garden in the back, too, fruit trees mainly.” I pause, staring at our entwined fingers. “Someone else takes care of it now, though. He’s not as active as he used to be.”

  “He had a stroke, right?”

  I look up. “How’d you know?”

  “My dad knows him, remember? Your grandfather used to bring his truck by to get serviced.”

  I smile a little. “I forget everyone knows each other here.”

  Rigel shrugs. “Well, yeah. We’re practically neighbors. I think…” He bites his lip.

  “What?” I ask, sitting up.

  “He and my grandmother had a thing. Back in the day.”

  “What?” I gasp. “For real?”

  “For real.” He chuckles. “They went to school together.”

  I blink at the news, trying to imagine Grandpa Harry with anyone other than Grammie. “That’s so weird.”

  A series of shrill blasts—an air horn, probably—sounds from the beach. Several people, including what looks like Uncle Manny, are waving us down.

  “Shit. They’re ready to go. Come on.” Rigel flips back around so he’s facing front and pats my leg. “Hold on, okay?”

  We’re back to the beach in seconds, scenery whipping by in a salt-sprayed blur. Manny helps haul us to shore, and then I climb clumsily off, legs wobbly from holding on. Camille and Jasmine are back at the blanket, shaking out our towels and packing up. I give my life jacket to Rigel and ease back into the warm water, wanting one last dip before we go.

  A minute later he joins me, pulling on my legs and wrapping them around his body. “So, do you want to come?” he asks, squeezing my thighs underwater. “Tomorrow?”

  “To your sister’s birthday party?” I ask, resting my hands on his shoulders. My heart beats a little faster. Something—warmth, anticipation—bubbles through me.

  “Yeah.”

>   I wince, easing into Camille’s car. “My legs feel like jelly.”

  Jasmine pats my shoulder from the backseat. “A good ride’ll do that to ya.” Her tone, as usual, oozes with innuendo. I’ve never met someone with so much sex on the brain.

  Groaning, I yank the door shut. “I can’t tell if you need to get some, or you get entirely too much.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Her eyes meet mine in the rear-view, and she purses her lips into a kiss.

  Camille slides into the driver’s seat. “She needs some.” She turns the air conditioning to high, which, in her car, is feeble at best. “Jas had a stellar run when we were juniors, but Orion’s ruined it for her.”

  “Orion?” I turn around, eyes bugging out. “Orion Thomas?!”

  She shrugs, but there’s a smug smile on her face. I don’t even know what to think of that. Between sly comments regarding Orion’s sexual prowess and rumors he’s got a foot in the drug game, he’s practically legendary. I can’t take any of that as word until I hear it from Rigel, though.

  The drug dealer gossip, that is. His sexcapades are probably real.

  I think back to the Baobab Club when Jasmine had joked that he’d be good in bed. “Unbelievable,” I say, laughing.

  “What?” She grins, sitting closer.

  “You’re good. I never would’ve guessed you two were hooking up.”

  Camille pulls out of the parking lot. Rigel’s truck follows behind us for a moment before passing on a double yellow line and speeding off. “Jasmine doesn’t kiss and tell.”

  “I don’t need to, obviously, not with you around,” Jasmine says, giving her hair a playful yank. “Talking my business like that…”

  “Ow!” Camille snaps, slapping her away. “It’s just Isla.”

  They start bickering, which is my cue to pop a scratched, old CD into the equally decrepit sound system and settle into the long ride back west. When we’re close to home, the munchies kick in, so Camille pulls into Armstrong Ice Cream. It’s been around for generations, a consummate favorite of both Grandpa Harry and my mother.

  I’m texting her, asking if she wants me to bring any home, when Camille sidles on over to me. “I have an idea.”

  I glance up at her. “What?”

  “We should get Black Stallions and have a sleepover. At your house.”

  I peek up at the menu to see what she’s talking about: a boozy milkshake, of course. “Let’s get Grandpa Harry one, too.”

  She flips her hair over her shoulders. “You think I’m joking.”

  “You want to, Jasmine?” I ask, poking Jasmine. “Sleep over?”

  “Sure, just have to let my mother know.”

  I send Mom a text, asking if it’s okay for Cam and Jasmine to sleep over.

  That’s fine. Bring home a pint of banana while you’re there. Use your debit card.

  Grandpa Harry’s on the porch when we pull up. He fusses at the kisses and hugs, but he can’t hide the pleasure in his smile. “I have to put up with this noise all night?”

  I squeeze his shoulder. Tonight he smells like lemongrass and Vapo-rub. “We’ll try to keep it down, Grandpa.”

  “You forget, I raised girls,” he reminds me, tapping my hand so I’ll help him up. He’s been more honest with his needs lately, and while I like that he trusts me with these vulnerabilities, it makes me sad, too. I wonder sometimes if he’s living on borrowed time, if last year’s stroke was just the beginning.

  Mama says he’s doing as well as can be expected. She’s used to this sort of thing, having decades in the medical field, but I’m not. I try to spend time with Grandpa Harry when I can, but between school and friends, it’s not enough. Not really. I hold his arm as we walk inside, fondly sniffing his familiar scent.

  “You want to watch TV?” I ask as we enter the living room, grabbing the remote.

  “Not now, dear,” he says, waving me off. “I’m going to lie down awhile.”

  I find Mama in the kitchen, getting dinner ready as she listens to Camille and Jasmine prattle on. Accompanied by her favorite Charlie Parker album and an ice cold Heineken, she looks like she’s in the zone. I hang back for a second, watching her. She’s always liked to cook, but back home work took precedence. Down here, though, she’s home so she’s usually in the kitchen. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t know just how good of a cook, especially of West Indian food, she was until we moved.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask, tucking myself into her side. “Smells really good in here.”

  “Stewed chicken,” she replies, twisting to give me a quick kiss. “Rice and beans and fried plantains. Why, you want to help?”

  Camille backs out of the freezer, where she’s probably just stowed our Black Stallions. “No one makes tostones like me, Auntie Charlene!” she says. Uncle Isaac is Puerto Rican, so Cam grew up with a slew of aunts and cousins teaching her how to cook Spanish food. She loves bragging about it.

  Mama chuckles, nodding. “Okay, okay. Get washed up and then feel free.”

  I throw a salad together and then sit with Jasmine, who’s helping Alex build his latest Lego set. He’s pleased with the attention, but bossy, overseeing construction with an entertaining degree of acumen.

  “Isla, please get Grandpa,” Mama says after a spell, interrupting the assembly of a drawbridge. “It’s time to eat. Alex, go wash your hands, honey.”

  “Mommy,” he murmurs distractedly, frowning at Jasmine’s attempts to connect two pieces. “No. It goes here.” He points to a block.

  “No, man, it goes here,” she argues, holding up the instructions.

  “Alex.” Mama sighs, gently pulling him off his chair. “We need to set the table. And you need to wash your hands.”

  He huffs, stomping off toward the bathroom in a display I know would’ve gotten me a swat on the butt as a kid. Jasmine sweeps the rest of the unfinished set back into its box as I leave to find Grandpa Harry.

  He’s in his room, napping in the flickering glow of the silent TV. I softly shake him, not wanting to upset him; he startles easily these days, a result of his hearing decline. “Grandpa,” I whisper.

  Opening his eyes, he stares blearily up at me. “I’m okay, Charlene.”

  “It’s me, Grandpa Harry.” I pull back, still holding his hand.

  “Isla,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, I’m not losing it yet.”

  “I know,” I assure him, rubbing his hand.

  He nods briskly, pulling away. “Tell your mother I’ll stay in here. I don’t feel like getting up again.”

  “Shouldn’t you eat?”

  “I’m tired, dahlin.”

  Determined, I straighten up. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

  “Fine.”

  Back in the kitchen, I grab a plate from the cupboard. “Mama, I’m just going to bring Grandpa dinner in bed. He’s tired tonight.”

  She nods, setting napkins around the table. “He spent a lot of time outside today, in the garden.”

  The vague anxiety lingering in my gut dissolves. Glad to hear there’s a tangible reason for Grandpa Harry’s lethargy, I plate his food, adding extra tostones. And when Mama’s not looking, I stealthily grab the extra Black Stallion milkshake from the freezer, as well. Back in the bedroom, I prop a few extra pillows behind Grandpa Harry and set his food down on a bed tray. Placing the milkshake in his hands, I give him a saucy wink. “Got you some dessert from Armstrong’s earlier, too.”

  “Hmm?” He eyes it, and me, slyly. You don’t live on St. Croix for seventy plus years and not recognize these particular styrofoam cups from Armstrong’s.

  “Taste it.” I tuck an extra napkin beneath his plate, watching him.

  He does, and his face smooths into the best smile. “Ah. That’s good. Real good, girl.”

  Kissing his cheek, I leave him to enjoy his meal in peace.

  Jasmine’s in the shower and Camille’s chortling over Youtube videos when I slip away to find my mother. She’s in her room, typing fu
riously away on her laptop, but she looks up when I pause in the doorway.

  “I can come back,” I say, giving her a small smile.

  “No, it’s fine.” She closes the laptop with a quiet click and pats the bed. “What’s up? You have fun today?”

  We regaled her and Alex with stories of barbecues and jet-skis over dinner, but I wanted to chat with her one on one. “I got a text from Daddy. I told him to bring a ton of cookie butter.”

  “Yeah?” She presses her lips together in an attempt to appear neutral, but she’s so obvious that it’s funny.

  “You’re excited,” I accuse playfully, bumping her shoulder with mine. “You miss him.”

  “Of course I do.” She nods, bumping me back. “He’s my man.”

  Gathering my hair to the side, I stare at my lap. Despite their rocky road, my parents have always loved each other. Leaving Atlanta—leaving my father—seemed so fundamentally wrong, and even though I understood the reasons on a logical level, I could never fully accept them. It still feels wrong. So though I’ve come to love St. Croix, I find myself feeling ambivalent toward my mother at times like this. If she and Daddy speak every day, why can’t they just be together? So we can be together?

  “Hey.” Mama grabs my hand, squeezing it. “I still love your daddy. I always will.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, squeezing back.

  “It was never permanent, this separation,” she continues. “Never. It was…just, necessary. Sometimes we have to take things apart so we can put them back together better.”

  I nod. We’ve had this discussion a dozen times in a dozen different ways over the past months. She squeezes my hand again. Damn. This isn’t why I came in here tonight. I didn’t want to dredge up the bad feelings I’ve only recently been able to let go of. Exhaling heavily, I force myself to look at her, alarmed at the tears in her eyes.

  “Mama, it’s okay. I’m...okay.”

  “You don’t hate me anymore?” she whispers, smiling thinly.

  “I never hated you,” I say, regretting the days I froze her out. She didn’t just lose the daily companionship of her best friend, my father, she kind of lost me for awhile, too. “I was just...mad. Scared I’d hate this place, and that it would hate me.”