“Residents of southern areas of Puerto Rico are advised to evacuate immediately. Hurricane Bimini is expected to make landfall in Ponce by 8 p.m. this evening. Once again residents are advised to evacuate imm—”
I had to turn it off. Every time, they warn island Puerto Ricans to leave their homes, leave their lives behind. Leaving is a luxury many of them don’t have. It’s also one they don’t want. After years of lying down in a $2,200 rent, 1,000 square foot apartment in Brooklyn, I wasn’t too keen on leaving either. If the real Boricuas could make it, then I’d find a way. Huracán be damned.
I was staying in my Abuelos’ house following the viejito’s funeral. Everyone else, my mother, my grandmother, my tios and tias, they all left. There were cousins I hadn’t seen since we snuck succulent quenepas and steaming spoonfuls of arroz con gandules from Abuelita, but they too, were gone. Almost everyone offered to take me with them, assuming I didn’t have the money to pay for a plane ticket back to New York. Or, maybe they were just worried about me being alone. They must’ve forgotten how I used to disappear for hours in the fincas or in the pueblo, desperate for a little solitude in my angst-ridden teen years.
So being alone wasn’t just fine with me, it was nice. It gave me time to explore the house without having to dodge conversations and feet. I could take the plastic off the couches and no one could tell me a thing. I could rummage through the scrapbooks, stunned by just how well such old cameras captured my Abuelita’s poise or my Abuelo’s sarcastic grin. I could imagine how their skin developed wrinkles and liver spots through years of laughter, fights, and dreaming. Imagination was all I had now. They were gone.
***
The crash of thunder woke me up. I’m a world-renowned heavy sleeper, so God’s showoffiness was both an annoyance, and a reminder that every supposed guarantee, including another hour or two of sleep, is just a hope quickly washed away.
“¡Mierda!” In rolling off it, I’d forgotten how low the sofa was, not to mention the nearness of the hardwood table, crashing my body into both. I knew she was dead, had been dead for years, but when I got up and found Abuela’s portrait waiting for my acknowledgement, I felt her disapproval for my curse.
The hurricane had set in. I could hear the neighbors’ garbage bins rolling around their fronts, the tapas flying right off and into the streets. Gringitos in the U.S. get scared of this shit, worried that a tree will fall, or worse, the power will go out. Puerto Ricans? The real island ones who take their machetes and slice through coconuts like they were playing real life Fruit Ninja? They ain’t scared of nothing. Me, though? I’m a Nuyorican. The ones with the Big Pun and Mrs. Galland Spanish. The kind that sounds like I’m always a syllable behind. So when I went to take a leak and found the light switch was about as useful as Algárin’s bicho mongo, I was pissed.
“Damn, LUMA.” Once I finished my business, I walked out of the bathroom hopeful my aim was intact despite my sleepiness. Puerto Rico has blackouts like these constantly, but it's only gotten worse since the U.S. gave away the contract for the electric grid like excess chuleta for the street perritos. I knew there was no way any of my neighbors or I had power. So how the hell was the light in the kitchen flickering?
***
I remember Abuelita like she lived in that kitchen. Americans might say that’s misogynistic but unlike the docile housewives they imagine, Abuela was a commander in that kitchen. If you walked in while she was cooking, you knew you’d be chopping onions, pouring water, or mashing platanos any minute. And God help you if the tostones came out too thick. But when you were doing well, the adoration in her eyes was pollo guisao for the soul. And, of course, if you were her helper you got to taste every dish along the way. The kitchen was where she thrived. For her, I think cooking was a little rebellion against the loneliness of Abuelito's disappearing act, especially when she’d drag one of us in as recruits. He’d leave for hours, never telling her where he was going or how soon he’d be back. He did always come back though.
The flickering slowed the closer I drew. But when I put my hands on the counter, the light stayed solid. On that counter was Abuelita’s rice pot, coated in years’ worth of burnt olive oil. I could’ve sworn the kitchen was clear before I went to sleep.
The light went out. I yelped, thankful that unlike in my Brooklyn apartment, the folks next door couldn’t hear. But now, I heard a rumbling chant emanating from the living room.
“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios…”
They’d chanted the prayer repeatedly at Abuelita’s wake. She claimed Catholicism up until her death, but went from church to church across denominations. Abuelo was never a churchgoer, but whenever we asked for a “bendicion,” he almost always gave the obligatory “Dios te bendiga.” Knowing that I was by myself in the house but hearing the chants intensifying, I didn’t feel too blessed. I felt alone.
When I walked back to the living room, it was empty. There were wisps of white smoke. They smelled of empanadillas, New York City slices, and Florida dew. How such a little room in such a little house could hold all of that, I had no idea. The scents had a heaviness to them, like they were AXE cologne some high school boy doused himself in. Or like a loved one who has something to say but isn’t ready to get the words out. Like an island, full of people fighting to be heard, but reminded constantly that their voices aren’t worth as much as the schools and projects they occupy, soon to be transformed into luxury apartments and resorts.
When the smoke cleared, I couldn’t contain it, I started crying. Bawling, more like. The emptiness of the house intermingled with mine in a grotesque affair defined by distance. I’d promised my mother I’d be fine on my own, but now, being alone, surrounded by prom, graduation, and wedding photos, was the last thing I wanted. I’d give anything to talk to any of them. I’d give anything to talk to Abuelita.
The phone rang. It shouldn’t have been able to do that. It was a cordless one. It needed electricity. But it rang and rang and rang. I didn’t want to pick it up. Every hair on my body wanted to run away, right into the storm if I had to. But I needed to, and I knew who’d be listening.
“Bendición, Abuelita,” I paused. No response. “Abuelita, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you when you’d call Grandma Terry. I’m sorry I was ashamed. I’m sorry I didn’t learn Spanish before you died. I’m sorry that when I said goodbye, it was ‘thank you for everything’ and not ‘gracias por todo.’ I’m sorry that I wanted Wendy’s instead of bacalaitos when I was a kid and we’d come to visit. I’m sorry I called the police on you for not giving me ice cream before dinner. I’m sorry that I’m talking to your ghost instead of talking to you. A million times over, I am so sorry.”
Silence. I’d gone insane. I really thought I was talking to my great-grandmother’s ghost through a telephone receiver. I needed to go back to sleep.
I hung up the phone, walked back to the sofa, and sat, giving myself a second. When I laid back down, just before closing my eyes, the light in the living room flickered three times, and then went out.
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