Huck had a charter and Mama was due at the health center and I thought, What am I going to do now? Then I realized this was the perfect time to start journaling again. Because if you don’t write down what happens in a day, you forget—and that day becomes a blur and that blur becomes your life.

If I had to describe what has happened in the past six years, what would I say?

I quit my job cocktail waitressing at Caneel and got a job waiting tables at La Tapa, but only four nights a week because of Maia.

I have a best friend named Ayers Wilson, who’s another waitress at La Tapa. She’s like a sister to me and an auntie to Maia. She dates Mick, the manager at the Beach Bar, so we stop by there after our shift and sometimes there are cute guys and a live band and sometimes I dance and a date comes out of it—but there has been no one special because the first thing I say is that I have a daughter but the father isn’t in the picture and the second thing I say is that I was born and raised on the island and will never leave.

This scares everyone away. Everyone.

On the first day of each month, cash arrives in a package and I put it in the bank for Maia. It’s how I can pay for Gifft Hill. I won’t say I’m not grateful, but receiving the packages also fills me with anger, shame…and longing.

Unbelievably, after all this time, I still think about Russ. I wonder how he’s doing. I can only assume he’s still married to Irene, trying in earnest to make the marriage work.

I hope he’s happy—because if he’s not happy, then what’s the point of staying with her?

 

February 9, 2013

Journaling is like exercise; it’s hard to keep it up. You have to make yourself do it, and ultimately, I don’t see the point of Went to work, played Tooth Fairy, went to bed.

Tooth Fairy because Maia lost her first tooth, bottom front left. It popped out when she bit down on a piece of breakfast toast, then it skittered across the floor and Huck found it.

I sometimes wish I had an e-mail or a cell phone number for Russ. I would tell him: Your daughter lost her first tooth. What would he do with that news? I wonder. He has no one to share it with.

 

February 13, 2014

Two things happened today, almost at the same time. One, I was on Salomon Beach, finally reading Eat, Pray, Love, the book that Ayers holds above all others. (She has been to Italy, India, and Bali, so it resonates with her.) Anyway, I was in the midst of the India section when I looked up and saw that yacht, Bluebeard, sailing past Salomon toward Caneel.

No, I thought. But then I remembered that it was this time eight years ago that I met Russ.

I stood up. I was wearing a white bikini, just like I had been when I met Russ at Hansen Bay. I wondered if Russ was on the boat and, if so, whether he could see me. I was tempted to drive to Caneel to check if Bluebeard had anchored out front, but while I was in my car, debating, my phone rang and it was Huck.

It was midafternoon. This was very unusual.

“It’s your mother,” he said. “She’s sick and I’m taking her over to Schneider.”

“What do you mean?” I said. My mother didn’t get sick. My mother was a nurse practitioner who, after years of treating everything from head colds to herpes, had developed a force field around her. Nothing got through.

“She’s being admitted,” he said. “It’s her heart. It’s failing. You and Maia should plan to come over and see her after school lets out. I’ll handle today, get her settled, talk to the doctors, see if it’s better for us to go to Puerto Rico or the States.”

I could have told Huck then and there that Mama would never agree to be treated in the States, but I didn’t want to start a health-care debate.

Her heart failing? It seemed impossible. My mother had the strongest constitution of anyone I knew, and that didn’t even take into account her iron will.

For years I would have said it was impossible for my mother’s heart to fail—because she didn’t have a heart.

 

March 3, 2014

My mother, LeeAnn Small Powers, died at home with Huck and me by her side. We’d let Maia have her first sleepover, an overnight with her little friend Joanie. We explained the situation to Joanie’s parents and they were very kind.

We’ll tell Maia in the morning.

 

March 10, 2014

My mother is dead and, now, buried in the Catholic cemetery. We had a service, led by Father Abrams, my mother’s favorite, followed by an enormous reception on Oppenheimer Beach. The community center was open, everyone brought a dish to share, the men got the grill going, my mother’s friends sang some gospel hymns followed by some Bob Marley. There were children running in and out of the water and down the beach. It was as much a celebration of life as it was a memorial.

When the sun set, the rum came out and a steel band set up, and once I made sure Maia was safe, under the watchful eyes of her aunties, I found Huck and he poured some Flor de Caña and we did a shot together.

“We’re going to make it,” he said.

“Are we?” I said. I knew it was the right time for me to find a home of my own. I had plenty of money in the bank to rent a nice place, maybe even buy, but I knew that if I moved out, my heart would break and so would Huck’s. My mother was gone. We needed to stick together.

I found Ayers and Mick sitting on the beach together and I joined them and Mick’s dog, Gordon. We were such good friends that we didn’t have to speak; we could just be.

Mick whistled, snapping me out of my daydream. “Would you look at that,” he said. “Bluebeard.”

I made a sound, words trying to escape that I caught at the last second. Bluebeard? I stood up and, sure enough, there was the yacht, cruising across the horizon in front of us. Headed away from Tortola, it looked like, and toward…well, toward Caneel. Where else?

I stayed on Oppenheimer until the very end, helping to clean up until every trace of the celebration was swept away. Ayers and Mick offered to take Huck and Maia home. I wanted to stay there and hang out by myself for a while. They hugged me. They said they understood.

They did not understand. Ayers was my confidante but I hadn’t even told her the truth. I feared she would tell Mick, and Mick would tell someone who worked at the Beach Bar, and the next day, the whole island would know. Ayers thought Maia’s father, someone I called the Pirate, had come in on a yacht one weekend and then left, never to return.

Ayers hadn’t given a second thought to a yacht called Bluebeard.

By the time I got to Caneel, it was very late. I still knew people who worked there—Estella, Woodrow, and Chauncey, the night desk manager. I knew that Chauncey had grown complacent at his job. Absolutely nothing happened at Caneel between the hours of midnight and five a.m. Chauncey slept in the back on a cot.

I parked in the lot and sneaked across the property in the shadows, going past the Sugar Mill, the swimming pool, and tennis courts, across the expanse of manicured grass, to a string of palm trees that lined the beach.

Bluebeard was anchored offshore.

Honeymoon 718. I stood in front of the room trying to summon my courage. If I knocked and it wasn’t Russ’s room, whoever was in there might call security—and what would they think, seeing me there? They’d escort me off the property or they’d call the police or…Huck. Maybe someone would know me and realize I’d just lost my mother. They would chalk it up to grief.