Heavenly Bodies Read online

  “Of course it is. But it’s also about doing whatever it takes to make things work, and right now, we’re going through a rough patch. “

  “She wants to split up?”

  “Neither of us want to split up. Which is why we're taking a break.”

  “But—”

  “I need help, Isla," he says. “Medical help.”

  My stomach ties itself into a knot. His drinking is getting worse, is what he's saying. How can I argue with that? The fight inside leaves me, and I wilt into the blankets. I feel, suddenly, like a stranger in my own family. There are all sorts of things I don’t know. "I...didn’t realize it had gotten that bad.”

  “It comes and goes, but I'm tired of doing it on my own. I’m tired, Isla girl.” His eyes fill, and he looks away. “I just want to be who your mother needs me to be. Who you and Alex need.”

  And that's the crux of it. It's growing up; doing hard things. Mama has to help Grandpa Harry, I need to help her, and Daddy has to stay and work. Get better. The selfish part of me wants to plead with time, begging it to just stop, or rearrange itself, to let me finish out my school year here and go to college. Let things get real after that.

  “I’m here if you want to talk,” Daddy says after a while, standing up.

  “What’s there to talk about?” I scowl. “It’s not like I have any say. My friends get to have senior year without me, and by the time we get to St. Croix, my new school will have already started so I'll be behind.”

  “Actually, no.” He shakes his head. “Your new school starts after Labor Day. You’ll be okay."

  “Thank God for small mercies," I mutter.

  “You might like it,” Daddy says, giving me a small smile.”It’s a great school. Mama loved going there.”

  “Of course she did. It’s the only school she ever went to.”

  “I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

  “Daddy.” I groan. “Don’t make it awkward.”

  “Love you.” He bends, kissing my hair.

  “Love you, too.” I watch him leave, closing the door quietly.

  Resignation creeps in, replacing the sadness I’ve been cocooned in. It’s almost worse. I’ve spent my entire life in this house. I look at my room through fresh eyes, wondering what will come to St. Croix. My clothes, my books, my pictures. My first camera, a classic Minolta gifted to me by Grammie. It was one of many things she passed on to her kids and grandkids, but it kindled in me a love of photography.

  Tucked into the border of my mirror are dozens of pictures. Me, as a toddler in dance class. Sage and me, the first day of freshman year at Grady. Waving sparklers at a sleepover. In a photobooth with my grandmother. Tubing down the Chattahoochee with my parents, right before we found out Mom was pregnant with Alex. He’s four now. Almost five.

  My favorite is the one of my parents, around the time they started dating. They’re at the Varsity on a game day, sharing shakes and being all nauseatingly in love. The way they look at each other in that photo? They still do it today. They almost broke up when I was seven because of my dad’s drinking, and then again at ten, but in the end they stuck it out.

  Because of that look—the way they look at each other. The way they love each other. Mom says he’s the love of her life. He says she’s his reason. So why are we moving?

  I’ve got to call Sage.

  And what will I say to Benny? I can still feel his mouth on mine, still see the look on his face when he asked about homecoming. Are we going to miss each other? Or will it be like we never happened?

  My phone buzzes from my nightstand. I glance at the screen, squinting at the incoming text.

  It’s Sage, of course: back to school shopping. Mall of Georgia?

  Instead of messaging back, I call her. I need to hear her voice when I tell her what's going on, even though I know she's going to be as upset as I am.

  “Mornin’, homeslice,” she drawls, laying that accent on thick as maple syrup.

  “Hey, Sage.”

  “You just wake up? Damn, how late did you and Benny get in?” She snorts. “I must be the only good girl left—you know Morgan’s mama caught her with a guy in her room last night?”

  “What?” I crack a smile, despite. “That girl is crazy.”

  “Grounded til school starts.”

  “That sucks.” I chew anxiously on my thumbnail. “But listen, I have news.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “We’re moving.”

  “No way,” she says. “Like out of town? Are you guys losing the house or something?”

  Anguish washes over me. “No, like out of state. To St. Croix,” I explain, voice thick with tears.

  “St. Croix? Your mama’s St. Croix?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. My parents told me last night…they were waiting for me when I got in.”

  “Isla,” she chokes out, and I can just see her face.

  “I’m coming over,” I cry, yanking a dirty pair of jeans from the floor.

  “Okay,” she says, sniffling audibly. “Hurry up!”

  Curled up in Sage’s blankets, a bag of Whoppers between us, we reminisce about the way things have been and how they’re about to change with The Big Move. Talking about it aches, but it makes things better, too, like Sage is sharing the weight of it.

  “I'll write,” I promise.

  "Like with a pen?” Sage scoffs. “Just text me! Or email.”

  “Well, obviously.” I laugh a little, feeling raw around the edges. We’ve cried a lot today. “But I like writing, too, you know. And sending packages. I don’t care if it’s old school.”

  “Packages full of treats I will accept. I’ll even send you some. From home.” She peeks over at me. “You think they have funnel cake down there?"

  “Don’t send me funnel cake.”

  “Now you have to keep me updated on Snapchat,” she says, absently twirling one of my curls. “Do stories and stuff.”

  “Okay.” I scroll through my phone, updating the app so I don’t forget. Sage and Morgan are more into it that I am.

  “What should we do today?” she asks, turning on her side and staring at me. “I mean, it’s different now. Every day counts. We should make a bucket list or something.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, but I don’t know what I want to do. My brain feels like it’s filled with cotton balls.

  “We have one week,” she says, voice wavering. “I can help you pack. Morgan too; her Mom’ll let her out for this.”

  That makes me giggle, but it makes me want to cry again, too.

  My little brother has gone into hyper-speed, thoroughly overstimulated by the early morning hustle and bustle of the airport. Alex was six months old the last time we flew, so all of this is very novel to him.

  Normally I like traveling too, but today is different. I’ve been dreading this trip, and now that it’s here, I’m sort of hovering between disbelief and numbness. Going through the motions. It’s all I can do to help my mother navigate the airport with our oversized luggage and an effervescent four year old. I’m grateful for Alex, though. Focusing on him keeps me from thinking about Sage crying last night, or Daddy crying this morning, or my mother trying not to cry right now.

  The depth of her sadness is the only thing that keeps me from drowning in mine. In some ways it pierces me, like we’re grieving together. But mostly, I just feel betrayed.

  “Come on, Al,” says Mom, tightening her grip on Alex as he strains toward a nearby pretzel stand.

  Standing, I take his hand. “I’ll take him.”

  She nods, smiling gratefully, but I just pull Alex to my side and start walking. He acquiesces, excited to explore.

  We make an adventure of it for awhile, visiting shops and watching planes take off. It’s impossible to shake the detached feeling. It’s as if I’ve already left, like I’m neither here nor there: in between. In one shop, an old fashioned globe beckons from between expensive pens and crystal chess sets. Keeping
one eye on Alex, I wander over to it, searching for North America, Georgia, and then Atlanta. And then I trace my finger south, down to the Caribbean. St. Croix is tiny—a dot. I’ll be living on a dot.

  My last days home were spent judiciously not thinking about my soon-to-be island life, and I did pretty well until late last night when Sage and I gave into temptation and Googled my new school. It looked pretty rustic for a private prep school, a hippie commune of narrow, one story buildings and palm trees. Hence the name: the Palms. I can’t decide if that sounds snooty or just islandy. Maybe a bit of both. I’ve gone to public my whole life, so I can’t say I’m looking forward to spending my senior year with the entitled brats of St. Croix’s privileged.

  The one bright spot in all of this is my cousin Camille. We’re awful at keeping in touch, but when we’re together, we’re thick as thieves. I haven’t seen her since she came up with her parents for Thanksgiving two years back, but we’re both seniors at the Palms now. I fully expect her to keep me from going crazy.

  Mom says Camille’s over the moon we’re coming, that she can’t wait to show me around. At least someone is excited.

  A muffled announcement crackles over the loudspeaker, and I hurry Alex away from the display of Georgia Bulldogs plush toys. Mom is already standing, gathering our bags as she shoulders her phone.

  “Yes. Yes, I know. I love you too. I will.” She hangs up and pockets the phone, glancing at me. “Ready?”

  “Who was that?” I ask, sliding Alex’s little knapsack on to his back.

  “Daddy,” she says.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Frowning, I grab Alex’s hand and follow my mother onto the plane.

  The tears come when we take off. I stare out the window, weathering the small wave of panic that washes over me as the ground disappears. This is it. We’re really leaving. Alex sits between my mother and me, quiet for the moment as he leans over my lap to look at the sky.

  “I want to,” he murmurs after a while, eyes glazed at the beauty of the great blue beyond. “I wanna sit here, Isla, I want to.”

  “You should’ve said so before takeoff,” I chide, rolling my eyes. He always does this. “I told you you could…”

  “No Isla,” he whines.

  “Shush.”

  “Mama,” he cries, scowling.

  My mother quiets him with a pretzel she bought him in the airport. “Quiet down, buddy. Isla tried to give you that seat but you didn't want it, remember? I’m sure you can take turns.” Alex fusses a little more before absorbing himself into a coloring book, gashing his new crayons across the pages with glee.

  Turning my attention back to the window, I retrieve my phone from my bag and take a couple of sky shots. This, at least, never gets old. And then, because I like to torture myself, I open the photo gallery on my phone and reminisce.

  My ears struggle to pressurize as we descend. Alex gives me a teary frown and starts fumbling with his seatbelt.

  “What're you doing, buddy?” I move his hands away but he insists, shaking his head.

  “I want Mama.”

  Glancing around to make sure there are no flight attendants lurking nearby, we switch spots. I reclaim the coveted window seat, while Mom pops a gummy bear in Alex's mouth and urges him to chew.

  “It’ll make your ears feel better, Al.”

  Chewing on a gummy bear of my own, I look out the window as the glittering, sapphire blue water is interrupted by a jagged coastline. A long pier snakes out into the water and several boats float nearby. Houses of every hue dot the lush, verdant countryside.

  St. Croix, largest of the U.S. Virgin Islands, is an American territory. Residents speak English and use American dollars, and, contrary to what some might think, don’t need passports to travel to the States because they’re American citizens. That’s where any semblance of familiarity ends. I’ve been here a couple times, and it’s nothing like home. The food, the architecture, the local dialect…it’s hard to believe my mother was born and raised here—and that I could have been had she not left for college.

  Anxiety clutches my heart like a fist. I can’t believe I’m here. What if I hate the people at my new school? What if they hate me?

  We land with a series of bumps, jolting me out of my impending hysteria.

  “Welcome to St. Croix. The temperature is a warm eighty seven, and the local time is five eleven. We’d like to thank you for flying Delta…”

  People shoot from their seats the second the seatbelt sign blinks off, as if they’ll get a prize for being first. I’m eager to get out of this aluminum can with wings, though, too. I’m hungry and tired, and I miss my dad. I pull my backpack onto my lap, making sure it’s zipped.

  Mom reaches across Alex, squeezing my knee. “You okay?”

  Not really, but I just force a smile and nod. “Yup.”

  Alex bounces up and down in his seat, overjoyed at the prospect of New Things. I keep waiting for him to realize Daddy’s back home, and that we’re not going to be seeing him for awhile, but maybe he’s too little to get it. Maybe it's better that way for now.

  The line lurches forward, and we grab our bags from the overhead compartments, filing dutifully out of the plane. While the late afternoon sun and breeze are welcome after hours of recycled air, the intense humidity falls over me like a wet blanket. And I thought Georgia summers were bad!

  Ugh. This I could do without.

  Aunt Greta, Mom’s older sister and Camille’s mother, is waiting for us by baggage claim, which is a total zoo. She grins, hurrying to meet us, and my mother bursts into tears, dropping her purse as they embrace. Overwhelmed, I lag behind, trying awkwardly to hold on to Alex as the crowd jostles by. This, I remember—the tiny, mostly open-air airport.

  “Isla!” Aunt Greta reaches for me, smiling fondly as she pulls me in for a bear hug. “And Alexander. Oh my goodness. You all have grown so big.”

  The gentle lilt of her Crucian accent dissolves something in me, and I sag against her. “Hi, Aunt Greta,” I whisper. She seems to sense my neediness, holding on tight until I withdraw.

  “I know, baby,” she says, holding my arms. “We’ll figure this out. Okay? Let’s get out of here.”

  They drive on the left here.

  That’s definitely going to take some getting used to, especially since Mom expects me to drive to school. I almost have a heart attack when Aunt Greta turns at the first intersection. Maybe there’s a school bus I can ride.

  “Camille wanted to come,” Aunt Greta says, eyes meeting mine in the rear view mirror. “But she doesn’t get off work for another half hour.”

  “Where does she work?” I ask.

  “A deli in Christiansted. Just for the summer.”

  Meanwhile, Mom’s pointing out every little thing she remembers. Apparently a lot has changed, something she comments on repeatedly as she and Greta catch up.

  “…and that woman that used to sell mangoes by La Reine sells them in Whim now…it’s the end of mango season, but, she still has some nice ones…oh, you should see the rainforest at its peak, Isla!” Greta cries. “There are mangos everywhere.”

  I love mangoes. “There’s a rainforest?”

  “Yes…all the way west,” Mom says. “Not too far from Grandpa Harry’s. We can take a drive sometime soon.”

  We turn off the main highway and onto a smaller, two lane road. Every so often we pass another fruit stand, replete with hand painted signs and rickety tables (and probably mangoes), but there are also supermarkets and convenience stores. An abundance of gas stations and churches. A public bus zooms by, going the opposite direction. Aunt Greta makes another turn and we rattle down a pothole riddled road, winding deeper and deeper into a woodsy, sparsely populated neighborhood.

  “Forgot Grandpa Harry lived in the country.” I sigh, pushing my increasingly frizzy hair back from my face.

  “Well, not really.” Greta chuckles. “But I know it’s not what you’re used to.”

  Tha
t much is obvious. Tall, mature trees line the sides of the road, their lush foliage forming a canopy over top. The last bits of day glimmer through the leaves, dappling the ground with shadows and sunlight.

  “Do you remember anything about St. Croix?” she asks, slowing for a speed bump.

  “Not much,” I admit.

  Alex squirms beside me, cramming a handful of peanut butter crackers into his mouth. I give him his water bottle before he asks and open my own, taking a long sip.

  “Not even Grandpa Harry’s house?” Mom asks, twisting around in her seat.

  “A few things,” I say, nodding. “Grammie in the kitchen. Shelling pigeon peas and peeling potatoes…”

  “And carrots,” Mom says, her eyes far away. She’s already back at that house: her past, and now, her future.

  “Estate Whim,” Greta says, pointing out the window. “All of the neighborhoods here are called estates, because a long, long time ago they were plantations. The island is still divided that way.”

  Fascinating, but slightly disturbing, too. I nod, taking in the wide, rectangular houses—mostly concrete, no two the same color. Lots of windows. They’re all one level and have generous yards. Trees everywhere. That, at least, reminds me of home.

  Aunt Greta slows to a near stop and maneuvers carefully onto a gravelly driveway. “We’ve been thinking of getting an automatic gate,” she says.

  “Why?” I look back at the street. “Isn’t it safe here?”

  “It’s perfectly safe,” Mom says. “It’s just more private.”

  The driveway curves, revealing a house I do remember. Made of immense white stones and heavy wood trim, the house where my mother grew up has been in her family for generations. Gleaming mahogany shutters embellish oversized windows, and a flaming red flamboyant tree stretches over part of the rust colored roof. A large porch wraps around, complete with wicker chairs and an ancient Golden Retriever, who ambles down to see us the moment Greta’s car stops.

  I stall a little, fumbling with Alex’s seatbelt before getting out. Even now the heat is nearly unbearable, thick and close. I hope to God there’s air conditioning inside.