She learned Imogen’s looping signature from the passport and the inside flaps of Immie’s books. She copied other handwriting from a notepad Immie had, which was covered with doodles and shopping lists. After creating an electronic signature, she found the name of Immie’s family lawyer. She told him she (Immie) would be traveling a lot in the next year, going around the world. She wanted to make a will. The money would be left to a friend who didn’t have much, a friend who was an orphan and had lost her college scholarship: Julietta West Williams. She also left money to the North Shore Animal League and to the National Kidney Foundation.
It took a few days for the lawyer to take action, but he promised to arrange everything. No problem. Imogen Sokoloff was a legal adult.
She looked over Immie’s writing style in emails and on Instagram: the way she signed off, the way she wrote paragraphs, the expressions she used. She closed all Immie’s social media accounts. They were dormant anyhow. She untagged Immie from as many photographs as possible. She made sure all of Immie’s credit cards auto-paid from Immie’s bank accounts. She reset passwords using Immie’s email.
She read the local Culebra paper for news, but there was nothing.
Jule bought hair color in a grocery store and streaked it on carefully with a toothbrush. She practiced smiling without showing her teeth. She had a bitter pain up one side of her neck that wouldn’t leave.
Finally, the lawyer emailed a template will. Jule printed it out at the business office of the hotel. She put the papers in her suitcase and decided she’d waited long enough. She bought a ticket to San Francisco under Imogen’s name. She checked out of the hotel for the two of them.
SECOND WEEK OF SEPTEMBER, 2016
CULEBRA, PUERTO RICO
Two and a half weeks before she left for San Francisco, Jule sat next to Imogen in the back of a jeep taxi, bumping over the road from the Culebra airport. Immie had booked the resort.
“I came here with my friend Bitsy Cohan’s family when we were twelve,” Immie said, gesturing at the island around them. “Bitsy had her jaw wired shut after a bike accident. I remember she just drank virgin daiquiris all day. No food. One morning we got a boat over to this tiny island called Culebrita. It had black volcanic rock like nothing I ever saw before. And we snorkeled, but Bitsy’s jaw caused snorkel problems, so she was very cranky.”
“I had my jaw wired shut once,” said Jule. It was true, but as soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t a funny story.
“What happened? Did you fall off a motorbike belonging to one of your Stanford boyfriends? Or did the evil coach of your track team put a hit out on you?”
“It was a locker room fight,” Jule lied.
“Another one?” Immie looked ever so slightly disappointed.
“Well, we were naked,” Jule said, to amuse her.
“Get out.”
“After track practice, senior year of high school. Full-on naked battle, in the showers, three against one.”
“Like a prison porno movie.”
“Not as sexy. They broke my bloody jaw.”
“Horses,” said the driver, pointing, and sure enough there were. A group of three wild horses with sweetly shaggy coats stood in the middle of the road. The driver honked.
“Don’t honk at them!” said Imogen.
“They’re not scared,” said the driver. “Look.” He honked again and the horses moved slowly out of the way, only mildly annoyed.
“You like animals better than people,” said Jule.
“People are assholes, as the story you just told completely proves.” Imogen took a packet of tissues from her bag and used one to wipe her forehead. “When have you ever seen a horse be an asshole? Or a cow? They never are.”
The driver spoke from the front of the car. “Snakes are assholes.”
“They’re not,” said Immie. “Snakes are trying to get by, like everyone else.”
“Not the biting ones,” he said. “They’re vicious.”
“Snakes bite when they’re scared,” said Immie, leaning forward in the backseat. “They bite if they need to protect themselves.”
“Or if they need to eat,” said the driver. “They probably bite something once a day. I hate snakes.”
“It’s a lot nicer for a mouse to die from a rattlesnake bite than, say, to be caught by a cat. Cats play with their prey,” said Immie. “They bat it around, let it escape, and then catch it again.”
“Cats are assholes, then,” the driver said.
Jule laughed.
They stopped in front of the hotel. Immie paid the driver in American dollars. “I stand by the snakes,” said Imogen. “I like them. Thanks for the ride.”
The driver pulled their suitcases out of the trunk and drove away.
“You wouldn’t like a snake if you met one,” said Jule.
“Yes, I would. I would love the snake and make a pet of it. I would twine it around my neck like jewelry.”
“A venomous snake?”
“Sure. I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Imogen slung her arm around Jule. “I’ll feed you delicious mice and other kinds of snake snacks, and I’ll let you rest on my shoulders. Every once in a while, when it’s absolutely necessary, you can squeeze my enemies to death while naked. ’Kay?”
“Snakes are always naked,” said Jule.
“You’re a special snake. Most of the time you’ll wear clothes.”
Immie walked ahead into the hotel lobby, pulling both her suitcases behind her.
The hotel was glamorous in a touristy way, very turquoise. It had greenery and bright flowers everywhere. Jule and Imogen had rooms next to each other. There were two different pools and a beach that spread out in a long white arch with a dock at the far end. The menu was all fish and tropical fruits.
After unpacking, they met for dinner. Immie looked fresh and grateful to be eating such a gorgeous meal. She showed no trace of grief or guilt. Just existing.
Later they walked down the road to a place the Internet described as an expat bar. The counter was a wraparound, with the bartender in the center. They sat on wicker stools. Immie ordered Kahlúa and cream, while Jule got a Diet Coke with vanilla syrup. The people were talkative. Imogen took up with an old white guy in a Hawaiian shirt. He told them he’d lived on Culebra for twenty-two years.
“I had a little marijuana business,” the guy said. “I used to grow it in my walk-in closet with lights and then sell it. It was Portland. You wouldn’t think anyone there would care. But the cops busted me, and when I was out on bail I took a flight to Miami. From there I got a boat over to PR, then from there took the ferry here.” He gestured to the bartender for another beer.
“You’re on the lam?” asked Immie.
He snorted. “Think of it this way: I didn’t believe that what I did should have been a criminal offense and so I didn’t deserve the consequences that were coming my way. I relocated. I’m not running. Everyone here knows me. They don’t know the name on my passport, is all.”
“And what is that name?” asked Jule.
“I’m not telling you.” He laughed. “Just like I don’t tell them. Nobody bothers about stuff like that here.”
“What do you do for a living?” Jule asked.
“There’s a lot of Americans and rich Puerto Ricans who own vacation homes here. I take care of their houses for them. They pay in cash. Security, arranging for repairs, that kinda thing.”
“What about your family?” Immie asked.
“Don’t have much. I got a lady friend here. My brother knows where I am. He’s come to visit me once or twice.”
Imogen wrinkled her forehead. “Do you ever want to go back?”
The man shook his head. “I never think about it. You stay away long enough, there doesn’t seem like much to go back for.”
They spent the next three days sitting by the enormous curving pool, surrounded by umbrellas and turquoise lounge chairs. Jule was twined around Imogen’s neck. They read. Imogen watched YouTube videos on cooking techniques. Jule worked out in the gym. Imogen got spa treatments. They swam and walked on the beach.