Days passed in a relaxed and pampered haze.
I’d wake up, take a morning yoga class with my mom or Kendra or someone on the beach, have a super-late brunch at the hotel, then spend the afternoon helping my mom take photos of herself at some destination. One day it was ancient ruins (which was rad until someone almost fell off a ledge taking a selfie); another day it was sailing to an island where we had a picnic spread out for us with, like, antique flatware. Evenings were always spent back at the hotel—dinner, drinks, hot tub. Repeat.
And in all that time, I had sent one text to Hamlet: Thanks for checking in. I’m good. I just need time. Talk soon.
He had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, which in Hamlet-speak was a low-key “F-you.”
I had apologized to Rose but I hadn’t heard back yet. It would have worried me more, except it was easy to bury that stuff deep in the back of my brain, prioritized way below the sand in my bathing-suit bottom or the mosquito bites on my ankles.
But one morning I woke up and just didn’t feel like doing yoga. Instead I wondered what Rose, Hamlet, and my dad were doing. Because my dad was respecting my time with Mãe, I hadn’t really talked to him, either. How was the KoBra doing? Was Rose still working on it? Did Hamlet win his boxing tournament last weekend? Was it still hot in LA? Did Flo miss me?
So I told my mom I was going to take the day for myself. I borrowed her iPad because I had dropped my phone into the ocean yesterday, and it was on the fritz. I slathered on sunscreen even though the day was overcast, packed my backpack with water and the iPad, then hopped on my bike.
Shuttled off from one activity to the next since the day I arrived, I hadn’t had time to explore on my own. I was pretty tired of all the restaurants and businesses on the main drag, so I decided to explore the small side streets today.
The instant I turned left onto the first random street, the vibe completely changed. Everything was slower, quieter. I saw actual children playing in the road. There were homes and businesses, but spread far apart, and the buildings were older, less finished.
Time passed as I rode leisurely around these little roads and soon the sun came out—beating down on my new straw hat. Sweat trickled down my temple, and I pulled over to have some water. As I guzzled out of my bottle, I noticed a small wooden sign with an arrow pointing down a sandy path shaded by overgrown tropical greenery. Vines and ropey limbs tangled up to create a dense corridor.
Well, why not? I walked my bike down the path, swatting at the occasional mosquito. After a few minutes, the plants gave way, and I was standing on a pristine white beach. But in the middle of it was a tiny hut and plastic tables scattered with chairs. Nothing matched, everything looked like it came from someone’s porch.
I loved it.
“Hola,” a woman greeted me warmly as I walked up to the hut. There was a counter, and I could smell food cooking in the back.
I smiled and waved. “Hola.” Then I glanced around to see if there was a menu.
Catching my searching expression, the woman said, “No menu here. We cook what we have!”
Sniffing the air, I was down to eat whatever they were serving. “Okay, sounds good.” She told me to seat myself, and I sat down at the table closest to the ocean. There were some people in the water. It seemed like you could plop down at the beach here and eat or just hang out.
The setting was perfect and quiet and peaceful. And yet … the antsiness I’d woken up to was still there. I pulled my mom’s iPad out of my backpack, slipping it from its designer leather sleeve. I really wanted to see what was going on with the KoBra.
Opening up the browser, I planned on stalking the Twitter account first, but my mom’s e-mail popped up. I was about to close out of it until I noticed a folder labeled CLARA on the sidebar.
Probably all of our e-mail correspondence archived. Oh boy, there would definitely be some hilarious gems in there—like the epic diary entries I’d sent her in middle school when I hated all my friends. I clicked on it, excited to go down memory lane.
But the e-mails weren’t from me. They were from Pai.
What? Were these, like, child-custody-related e-mails? I knew I shouldn’t, but I clicked on the latest one, which was from a few weeks ago.
July 24
To: Juliana Choi
From: Adrian Shin
Jules,
Does Clara know this Tulum trip is for work? She seems to think it’s just a vacation for you two. Mind clearing that up so she’s not so pissed about not being able to go?
-Adrian
I frowned. Okay, clearly my dad was waiting for my mom to tell me. Which she never had. I scrolled down and skimmed the e-mail subjects. My dad had been sending them regularly for years, it seemed. I clicked one from six months ago, in February.
February 10
To: Juliana Choi
From: Adrian Shin
Jules,
Clara’s sad about her breakup with that loser whatshisname. Thought she could use some Mom time when Valentine’s Day comes around. Probably less awkward than me talking to her. Give her a call, okay?
-Adrian
Whatshisname. My dad’s least favorite boyfriend of mine, Leo, he of the no teeth-brushing. He always called my dad “bro.” Although he wasn’t the love of my life, I had been pretty bummed when we broke it off. So it was nice when my mom called. We had Skyped while watching the least romantic movie we could think of on Valentine’s Day. (Blackfish—nothing kills romance like a documentary about animal cruelty!) I had chalked up the timing to Mom instincts.
I went even further back, to two years ago.
September 3
To: Juliana Choi
From: Adrian Shin
Jules,
Hey, I didn’t hear back about whether or not you can make it to Clara’s birthday this year. Here’s the wish list I promised of things she wants. She’s going through a spectacular phase in puberty of hating everything, so this was a serious undertaking.
• The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
• A Venus flytrap
• A neon sign shaped like a cat
• New pair of Vans, high-top black ones
• Colored pencils
• Something called “primer.” I think it’s makeup??
• Pasta maker
True mystery, our daughter.
-Adrian
My breath caught in my throat. I got every single thing on my birthday list that year. From my mom. My dad took me to the beach, and I remember thinking my mom was so much cooler than him. How she was so good at knowing exactly what I liked. He had let her take all the glory for the presents.
Always.
I went as far back as ten years ago in e-mails and found birthday lists then, too. From my dad to my mom, every time. Dozens, hundreds of e-mails. Reminders for my mom about school recitals and upcoming visits. Photos of me on the first day of school in slightly bizarre outfits. Horrible class pictures. Holiday and birthday photos when she couldn’t make it—posing with the gifts she sent. Updates on my health, including medications I was taking when I got sick. Every lost tooth noted. The first day of my period and the sheer panic that came with it. Questions about birth control and makeup and clothes.
This folder was a record of my entire life.
My food arrived: a whole grilled fish with buttery rice, beans, and a fresh salad. I looked up and the same woman from behind the counter looked concerned. “¿Estas bien?” she asked.
I touched my face; it was wet with tears. Good God. Crying in public was my new thing now? “Yes, I’m fine! Just allergies.” She gave my shoulder a little pat, and I stared at the screen for a few seconds before shutting it off.
When I took a bite of the food, I immediately thought of how much Pai would like the seasoning. Sitting there eating fish on a white sand beach with a cool breeze drifting over me, more than ever I wished I were on the KoBra—enclosed in an overheated truck with my dad and my best friend.