She swam like a lifeguard, one-armed, pulling two of us toward shore. The rain poured down in sheets, the air crackling with electricity. My feet touched the silt-covered bottom as my mother pulled me along, hurrying us under the tree. Bea tried to wrap me in a towel, but I yanked away, went straight to my backpack, and tore into a pack of cigarettes.

I paced back and forth under the banana tree, fighting tears, puffing furiously. I had too many feelings to process. What did they want from me? How was I supposed to act after all these years? Was I supposed to be grateful now? Every angry moment I’d ever felt in my life combined could not compare to how I felt at that moment. I sure as hell wasn’t about to give my mother a medal for heroism. For doing what mothers are supposed to do.

While I literally fumed, Bea cooed over Merilee and Mirabelle sat cross-legged on her towel eating an orange and arranging the peels in patterns on the ground. She kept looking over at me, but I pretended not to notice. By the time I’d smoked three cigarettes, the sun was back out and without anyone needing a signal, we all packed up and trudged home.

By morning, the storm system had moved in, blanketing the island. Merilee had planned to take me to “Bali Hai,” but the weather kept us housebound. Mirabelle stayed busy, making art projects out of seashells, glue, and glitter or running around the condo in her hula skirt and my Doc Martens, which were allowed inside “for costume purposes only.” My sister invented what seemed like a hundred “rainy day games,” all of which required my participation. I did my best to go along, frequently pleading for a break to read a magazine or listen to my Walkman.

I wrote postcards to Nicole, venting my tsunami of anger and all the shitty thoughts I kept inside. I reassured myself only three more days left, just three more! I’d probably beat the mail.

With all pretenses gone, Bea and my mother snuggled together in front of the television and bickered over who’d used up the hot water in the shower. As Bea lovingly baked a batch of pot brownies, they fussed over each other in tones normally reserved for pets. The living room was tidier with Bea’s clothes back in the bedroom, and Bea herself seemed relaxed and happy to be back in the king-size bed with Merilee. Not to say there wasn’t still tension, only that what tension remained was all mine.