Tomorrow There Will Be Sun Read online

  At this point, I want a cup of coffee roughly a thousand times more than I want an appropriate greeting from Ivan, but I stand there, waiting. He shoots daggers at me with his eyes. “Good morning,” he says in a tone no different than one might say “Fuck off.”

  “There,” Ingrid says, rubbing his back. “Was that so difficult?” She kisses him on the head and picks up where they left off.

  This is how Ingrid deals with her challenging son—with a bountiful supply of patience. But I also see how she’s constructed an alternate narrative, a version of her family story in which her boy is quirky and maybe a little irascible, but by no means is he on the spectrum. At first I mistook him for spoiled, perhaps ruined, for being his mother’s sole focus and raison d’être, but I’ve seen scores of kids who fit that bill, including my own, who are nowhere near as strange and unappealing as Ivan Solomon. It’s pretty clear to me that there’s something else going on that his mother fails to see and his father, too, but you can hardly blame Solly for misunderstanding his child when to Solly, his children are an afterthought. When I try talking to Peter about Ivan he shuts me down every time because, of course, by virtue of the fact that he carries Solly’s DNA, Ivan is beyond reproach. Sometimes I feel robbed. Deprived of the perverse pleasure that comes from measuring your kid against someone else’s lesser one, and Peter calls me on that, too.

  Our argument typically goes like this:

  “There’s something off about Ivan,” I tell Peter. “Don’t you think?”

  “No. I don’t think.”

  “C’mon . . .”

  “Are you implying that Ivan has a diagnosable social/emotional disorder for which he needs medical attention? Because if that is what you are implying you seem to be inexplicably gleeful while delivering your wholly uninformed diagnosis.”

  “No, I’m just saying Ivan is an odd duck and you know it, but instead we all have to pretend that he breathes in rainbows and sneezes out fairy dust.”

  That’s around when Peter will leave the room or turn up the radio or fix me with a look of such withering disdain that I’ll drop the subject.

  I go into the kitchen where I find Roberto and Luisa sitting together at the table, reading a local newspaper and drinking coffee. They both jump when I enter, scrambling to their feet as if I’ve caught them in flagrante delicto.

  “Sit,” I say. “Relax.”

  “I get for you the coffee.” Roberto makes a move toward the counter.

  “I’m perfectly capable of pouring a cup for myself. Please, go back to the newspaper.”

  “No, it is okay. I get for you. You like cream but you do not like sugar, this is correct?”

  “Yes, Roberto.” I’m touched that he knows how I take my coffee. “Muchas gracias.”

  He fixes my cup and he hands it over. I breathe in the aroma and then take the first exquisite sip.

  A few days after telling Clem about my diagnosis she asked me how many cups of coffee I drink a day. I told her around three or four. She said I should drink at least five. I had no idea why she’d taken such an interest in my coffee consumption until she explained that she’d read an article online about how women who drink five cups of coffee a day reduce their risk of getting breast cancer.

  I didn’t point out that changing my behavior to reduce the risk of getting a disease I already had didn’t make much logical sense, I just put my arms around her and held her for a long time. When Peter and I delivered the news we were careful to explain all the reasons she shouldn’t worry, and yet she’d gone off and Googled breast cancer, probably falling down the same rabbit holes I had. Of course she worried. How could she not? She’s my daughter. And by that I mean she’s my daughter. Despite all our differences and all the ways I believe she is in possession of gifts far greater than mine, we are still very much alike. I held her tighter. She squeezed back. I told her that maybe we didn’t need to always show each other our bravest faces. Okay, Mother, she said.

  “What do you like Luisa to make for you?” Roberto asks. “Huevos rancheros? Chilaquiles? She can make a smoothie with all the fruits?”

  “No breakfast for me. Not yet. A little bit later.”

  They’re still standing. Waiting for me to assign them a task. Instead I take a seat at their table. I’d rather be in here with them than out in the dining room with Ingrid and Ivan and that book I remember hating when I used to read it to Clementine. I take a look at their newspaper. It’s in Spanish, obviously. Above the fold, there’s a picture of a large crowd in the streets. A few people are carrying crosses. Everyone is dressed in bright colors.

  “What’s this?” I ask, pointing to the headline.

  Roberto sits back down at the table and gestures to Luisa, who looks around the kitchen, shrugs and joins us, too.

  “It is an article about festivities. In town. For Semana Santa. It is a holy week, but also, it is a week for celebration. People come from everywhere. Not just you from United States, but also the Mexican people. It is a place for everyone. The beaches, they are crowded, and the restaurants and bars in town, and church, too. It is a happy time. Jesus, he is crucified, but then he rises and we celebrate.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We have Easter back at home.” I immediately feel like a total ass for having said this, but rather than try to fix it, I turn the paper over to look at the articles below the fold. There is a picture of a man speaking into a microphone at what is probably some sort of a press conference. “What’s happening here?” I ask him.

  Roberto takes the paper and looks at it more closely. He and Luisa have a back-and-forth in Spanish. Then Roberto says, “He is the governor of Jalisco state. That is the state here, where is Puerto Vallarta. He is speaking to the people to say no worry about violence. We are safe.”

  “Why would he need to say that?”

  “There are gangs, you know, how do you say, against each other? The ones who compete to win the same thing?”

  “Rivals?”

  “Yes, rivals. They fight for control of the drug trade in Jalisco state. One member of one group, he kills a member of other one. It does not happen here in Puerto Vallarta. It happens farther away. And it is only a problem for criminals who are in cartels. We are safe. This is what the governor says.”

  “Well . . . that’s good, I guess?” Warring drug cartels is another item that did not make it onto the list of considerations when we were choosing our vacation spot. I flip the paper back over. I much prefer to look at the costumed revelers walking in the streets.

  There’s an awkward silence. Then Luisa says something to Roberto in Spanish. She is pointing at me. He laughs. Are they making fun of me?

  “Luisa, she wants to make for you the breakfast,” Roberto says. “She says you must eat. She says you no wait for your husband. She says women, they spend too much time waiting for husbands.”

  I smile. “Okay. Tell her to make me whatever she wants.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I HAVE NO IDEA how late Peter will sleep; I have no idea how late it was when he finally came to bed. After dinner Clem and Malcolm went for a night swim. Ingrid went to lie down with Ivan. I tried reading in the living room while Peter and Solly talked, mostly about work, but Solly had put on some jazz that was dissonant and building toward a resolution that never came. It made me anxious and I had trouble following what was happening in my novel, a beach read that hardly requires a great level of concentration, so I retired to our bedroom.

  “I’ll be in soon,” Peter said. “I’ll just wait until Malcolm and Clem get back.”

  An hour or so later I went out to the living room again. I didn’t want to fall asleep without Peter and also, I couldn’t fall asleep knowing Clem was down on the beach with Malcolm. I didn’t love the idea of them swimming in the dark. Aren’t there strong tides at night? What about stingrays? Are jellyfish nocturnal? I didn’t raise
these worries with Peter or Solly because I knew they’d make fun of me—Jenna and her neuroses—but I also didn’t raise my other nagging concern: Malcolm. I know from Maureen that he’d gotten into some trouble back home, but she’d been vague on the details. All she’s shared with me is that he’s finishing out his senior year in some alternative school where there are only three kids in a class (It’s fabulous, she wrote, a much better fit for him). Peter claims not to know what happened either. He says it’s best not to push and to let Solly and Maureen put whatever sort of spin on it they choose. I don’t judge them and I don’t judge Malcolm; I know being a teenager is hard and it’s probably been harder on him than most. I know good kids do stupid things. But still. That’s my one and only kid out there on the beach at night.

  When I reappeared, Solly had on some Nina Simone, perfectly acceptable reading music.

  “Did Clem and Malcolm make it back?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “They weren’t gone long. Clem complained that the water was too cold. She’s such a wuss.”

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

  Peter gestured to his glass. “Solly peer-pressured me into having another tequila.”

  “It’s excellent tequila.” Solly held up the bottle, but didn’t offer to pour me any.

  I felt foolish standing there in my nightgown. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you soon, then?”

  “See you soon, honey.”

  The next thing I knew, it was morning.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN EVERYONE IS FINALLY UP and fed and gathered in the dining room, Solly announces that he’s booked us a snorkeling trip to Los Arcos.

  “I found the brochure in that binder with all the house information. Fun fact: did you know that Richard Nixon slept here?”

  “Yes, Solly,” I say. “It’s all over the marketing materials. Which I sent you. Months ago.”

  “Tricky Dick wandered these hallways. Maybe even in his tighty-whiteys. Let’s all take a moment to imagine that, shall we?”

  “That’s going to be a no for me,” Malcolm says.

  “Ditto,” Clem says. “And ew.”

  “Anyhoo,” Solly says. “Back to snorkeling. We’ll be on our own private boat. It comes equipped with all the gear. And that boat will come pick us up at our own private beach. How’s that for service?”

  “What’s snorkeling?” Ivan asks.

  “It’s when you swim around with a mask and a rubber thing that helps you breathe so you can spy on all the fish.”

  “Is there wi-fi on the boat?” Clem asks.

  “Jesus, Clem.” Peter gives her a playful shove. I don’t know if she’s being serious or if she’s just so used to playing the part of technology-obsessed teen that she can’t break character.

  “What?” she says. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.”

  “What about Jenna?” Peter asks Solly. I get seasick. Solly knows I get seasick. He knows this because we’ve been friends for twenty years and these are the sorts of things you know about old friends. At the very least he should remember the time he booked a sunset cruise out of Marina del Rey to celebrate Maureen’s birthday. While everyone drank champagne and ate oysters standing on the bow of the boat, I was bent over the back railing, leaving a trail of vomit that zigzagged from Marina del Rey to Manhattan Beach to Redondo Beach and back again.

  “I got you covered,” Solly says. “I talked to the tour company and they have these foolproof seasickness bracelets. At no extra charge! And on top of it, look”—he gestures to our view of the bay—“it’s hardly A Perfect Storm situation out there.” It’s another day of clear skies and calm waters. I checked the weather-tracking site this morning. The storm is farther from us today than it was yesterday.

  I sigh.

  “Jenna.” Solly puts an arm around me. “Los Arcos is the best snorkeling spot in all of Puerto Vallarta. And it isn’t a very long trip when you’re on a private boat.”

  Peter gives me a pleading look. Does he want me to go because he wants to be with me, or is it just that he doesn’t want me to be a killjoy?

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Solly claps his hands. “Great. All right, folks. We set sail at noon. The company provides all the equipment, towels, lunch, and beer for those who are old enough to consume it.” He raises an eyebrow at Malcolm.

  “The drinking age here is eighteen, Dad.”

  “Last time I checked you were seventeen.”

  “Yeah, but nobody even cares.”

  “I stand by my statement. Beer for those old enough to consume it.”

  As everyone disperses, Ingrid lingers. “You know,” she says to me in a quiet tone, “you don’t have to go just because Solly is pressuring you. He can be sort of overbearing.”

  “Really? Solly? Overbearing?”

  She laughs. “Right. Of course. Sometimes I forget how long you’ve known him.” Ivan tugs at her sleeve but she ignores him. “So listen, I don’t know if you checked your email or not today.” I give her a totally neutral look. I don’t let on that I have, I don’t deny that I did. “But I sent you my manuscript. Don’t feel pressured to read it. I don’t want to be a Solly about it. I sent it to you because I was up late obsessing over it, and worrying about getting it just right, then realizing I probably never would get it just right, and it was better to let it go. So I hit SEND. And now I feel guilty.”

  I squeeze her arm. “I’m glad you did. And I’ll read it soon. I promise. I have a few things to finish first. I’m in the final stretch of my latest book and it’s absorbing most of my time and energy, but I swear, I’ll read it. Don’t feel guilty about sending it. It’ll be a treat.”

  “Thanks, Jenna.” She takes Ivan by the hand and they trail off in the direction of their bedrooms to get ready.

  I try to picture her up late at night working on her manuscript. Was she typing on her laptop in the master bed while Solly and Ivan slept? Did she leave Solly and Ivan tangled together and sneak out to the living room? Then my curiosity shifts gears: With Ivan glued to her side, with Ivan sharing their bed, how do they find time for intimacy? Do they still have sex? Have they had sex on this vacation?

  Not that it’s a competition: a race to the sheets. But there’s something comforting in imagining that Peter and I are not the only ones who haven’t used our high-value minutes; that we aren’t getting left in their sexual dust.

  “Hey, babe,” Peter calls from upstairs. “Have you seen my navy swim trunks?”

  I go up to show him where, after drying them out in the sun, I folded them neatly and put them away.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE BRACELET WORKS. I’m not saying my stomach is 100 percent, but I don’t feel like crawling in a hole and dying either, so it’s a vast improvement on every other time I’ve set foot on a boat.

  From our vantage point in the water, we watch as everything gets smaller: our villa and the ones nearby; and to the north, the crowded beaches with tightly packed striped umbrellas, big blocky salmon-colored hotels, jet skiers and their circular wakes, and parasailers with their multihued billowing chutes.

  Solly was right. The trip to Los Arcos doesn’t take very long. Our captain steers us to the far side of the rocks, where fewer boats have dropped their anchors and fewer snorkelers float around on the surface of the water.

  There’s no shade on the boat to speak of. I pestered Clem to wear the swim shirt I packed for her since she refused to pack it herself.

  “Ha,” she said. “You’re funny, Mother. I am not going to wear that because I am not a nun.”

  “We’re all going to wear swim shirts, because that’s how we take care of ourselves.”

  “Have fun with that,” she said and pulled her tank top over her bikini.

  As it turns out, Ivan and I are the
only ones in swim shirts. Solly and Peter wear regular T-shirts with trunks and Malcolm is shirtless. Ingrid wears a man’s-style white linen button-down that could be Solly’s except that it fits her flawlessly.

  Our captain, “Captain Dan”—so identified by the stitching on his royal blue polo shirt—asks if we want to eat or snorkel first. He’s a big, ruddy, white-haired guy with a gap between his two front teeth who came to Puerto Vallarta on vacation from Boston ten years ago and never went back.

  There’s also a Mexican boy on board who looks like he’s younger than Clementine and whose name I don’t know because he doesn’t have his name stitched onto a blue polo shirt; he wears only a pair of ratty black shorts.

  We decide to eat first, so Captain Dan says something to the boy in Spanish, who then opens up a small cooler of sad-looking sandwiches and a much larger cooler filled with beer. He tosses around a few bags of chips.

  Solly opens a beer for himself and then he pops another one and hands it to Malcolm.

  Malcolm grins. “Thanks, Dad.” They clink bottles.

  “What about me?” Clem asks. “Don’t I get one?”

  “Here. You can share mine.” Peter hands her his beer and she takes a long, expert pull of it. He avoids making eye contact with me. He knows I won’t approve. Even if we’re aware that Clem drinks sometimes, we don’t condone it, and we certainly don’t enable it. But Peter wanted to look like the cool dad in front of Solly. And part of cultivating that coolness means not only giving his sixteen-year-old daughter beer but doing so without asking her mother for permission first.

  “I want to spy on the fish,” Ivan says.

  “Soon,” Ingrid tells him. “We’re just finishing up our lunch.”

  “I want to spy on the fish,” he says again.

  I’m not eating because I can’t eat on boats, and I’m certainly not drinking, so I offer to take him.

  He eyes me suspiciously.

  “Come on,” I say, standing up and reaching out my hand. “Maybe we’ll find Nemo.”