The next morning, I open the sliding glass door for my morning run down the beach and nearly collide with Gabriel. He is carrying a big cardboard box that is overflowing with vegetables and fruits, some of which I don’t even recognize. I am certain I am dreaming this, until he reaches out one hand, steadying me so we do not crash. “These are for you,” he says.
I’m not sure what to say, but I take the box from him.
He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “I am trying to say I’m sorry.”
“How’s it going for you so far?”
Two bright burns of color stain his cheeks. “I should not have … ?treated you as I did yesterday.”
“I only wanted to help Beatriz,” I say.
“I don’t know what to do for her,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know she was hurting herself … ?until you said so. I don’t know what’s worse—that she’s doing it, or that I didn’t even notice.”
“She hides it,” I tell him. “She doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“But … ?you do.”
“I’m not a psychologist,” I say. “Is there someone here she could talk to?”
He shakes his head. “On the mainland, maybe. We don’t even have a hospital on island.”
“Then you could talk to her.”
He swallows, turning away. “What if talking about it makes her do more than just … ?cut?”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” I say slowly. “I knew a girl who did this, back when I was younger. I wanted to help. A school counselor told me that if I reached out to her, it wouldn’t make her do it more, or do something more … ?permanent … ?but it might make her take steps to stop.”
“Beatriz won’t talk to me,” Gabriel says. “Everything I say makes her angry.”
“I don’t think she’s angry at you. I think she’s angry at …” I wave my hand. “This. Circumstances.”
He tilts his head. “She told me about the sandcastle. About people who make art … ?out of garbage.” Gabriel clears his throat. “She hasn’t given me more than two or three words at a time since she got back to the island a week ago, but last night, she wouldn’t stop defending you.” He catches my gaze. “I’ve missed hearing my daughter’s voice.”
As an apology goes, that one hits the target. He is staring at me fiercely, as if there is more to say, but he does not know how. I break away, glancing down at the box in my arms. “This is too much,” I tell him.
“They’re from my farm,” he says, and then adds, with a hint of a grin, “since I couldn’t get you an ATM.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “Does everyone know everyone’s business here?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugs. “You won’t want to leave those in the heat,” he says, then reaches behind me and pulls open the slider, so I can carry the box inside. I set it on the kitchen table gingerly, wondering if I should broach the topic of Beatriz again. Last night, I had thought maybe the girl was running away from her overbearing father; now I am not so sure. Either Gabriel is the world’s greatest actor, or he is just as lost as his daughter is.
He looks at the box of blank postcards on the kitchen table. “What are you doing with those?”
“Basically, they’re my paper supply. I’ve been writing to my boyfriend.”
Gabriel nods. “Well. At least they’re still good for something.”
“Oh!” I say. “Wait.” I whirl around, dart into the bedroom, and return with the neatly folded pile of very soft Tshirts I’d co-opted. “I wouldn’t have borrowed them if I knew they were yours.”
“They’re not.” He makes no move to take them from me. “Burn them, if you want.” He looks at my face, then sighs. “My wife used to sleep in them. I wasn’t upset because you borrowed them. It just … ?was like having a ghost walk over your grave.”
He says the word wife like it is a blade.
Suddenly he bends down, manipulating the wobbly leg of the table. “I should have fixed this before you moved in.”
“You didn’t know I was moving in,” I reply. “And you weren’t particularly thrilled by the idea, as I recall.”
“It is possible I judged—how do you say it?—the book by its jacket.”
I smile faintly. “By its cover.” I think about him sneering at me for being a tourist, for being an American. I start to feel indignation percolating inside me, but then I remember that every time our paths have crossed, I’ve made poor assumptions about him, too.
He rips off a piece of the cardboard box, folds it, and uses it to balance the table. “I’ll come back this afternoon and fix it properly,” he says.
“Maybe Beatriz could join you,” I offer. “I mean, if she wants to.”
He nods. “I will ask.”
Something blossoms between us, delicate and discomfiting—a silent second start, a willingness to give the benefit of the doubt, instead of expecting the worst.
Gabriel inclines his head. “I leave you to your morning, then,” he says, and he turns.
“Wait,” I call out, as his hand grasps the sliding door. “If you’re a tour guide, why do you hate tourists so much?”