ISLA | Chapter Twelve

Normal

Welcome to Tiny Worlds!

We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.

For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.

Lost? Visit the Chapter Guide
⬅️Read Previous Chapter
Read Next Chapter ➡️

Without a word, the sun dropped below the horizon–a civil exit.

The few tourists here, appetites now awake after the heat of the day, had emerged along the paseo, their steps leisurely and slow. Fronds on the sickly beach palms signaled the few boats at water back to shore with a gentle semaphore, beckoning the gulls as they swooped, screeching over dinner.

Kathryn tips her beer, draining the last of it. "To vacation," she says aloud to no one, setting the bottle on the table. Inside, the bubbles fall, catching her eye as they slowly ease to the bottom. She feels dull—a kitchen knife left too long between sharpenings, tossed in the dishwasher, forgotten. 

She rolls her shoulders. Stretches her neck. The loosening is welcome, but strange—disorienting, even. A beat later, she recalls this morning’s coffee: she’d meant to pour sugar, had reached for salt. George hadn’t noticed, but still.

That wasn’t always the case, was it? Even past the early wrinkles, she’d still catch an image of herself as a girl in the mirror. She used to bounce with the moment, quick and responsive. Sharp. What the hell happened?

Life. Responsibility. Motherhood. Yeah. It accumulates—one heavy thing on top of the next, stacking on one side of the scale. That weight doubles, maybe triples, when there’s only one set of shoulders to carry it. She feels the droop. Imagined and real, pulling her down like an old coat. As she fights the impulse to sink into the chair, she wonders: is there more gravity closer to the equator, or less?

A moment passes before she returns to where she is—a café. In Mexico. Her feet, still in clunky winter boots, float above a wooden deck. Nearby, water rolls up and down the sand, meditative. She listens to the sound of life unwinding, a twist of braided rope being let loose, given slack. She imagines her toes digging into the warm sand.

It’s not far from the afternoon she remembers. There, too, had been an idle breeze, late day sun. Sand at her collar and bellies full of beer and oysters—an indulgent meal for meager salaries. Was it Inverness or Stinson? It had to have been Inverness, recalling the scent of the farms that led to the roadside parking, the grassy trail opening to the beach. All day they'd spent out, top down, the Triumph drowning out conversation. Her lips had to purse, weld together, waiting for the right moment, wishing he could divine her thoughts—that the words would carry weight—they'd left that morning only two but would return as three.

Her memory of a towel, once damp beneath them, now warmed by the sun as they lay, feet digging into the sand. They were talkative, excited as they crossed the bridge toward home, making those early plans.

She’d begin preparing, if only in her mind, for the coming changes she could only barely understand—for the baby they’d eventually name George. And he’d retreat, for a while, to let the world sink in, settling into his chair with a book he'd tell her about later, a record playing late into the night.

“I found one!” he announces, his voice carrying a blend of excitement and breathlessness. George emerges into view, his youthful energy a stark contrast to the tension at the airport. Kathryn's mind flashes back to Chicago, to the moment desperation had overtaken him, his pleading eyes searching hers for action, for a solution. For anything but silence. Yes, she used to be sharper.

"Down the street," George pants, excitedly threading his words, “…they make tortillas. They've got a room."

"We’re sleeping at a tortilla factory?"

"No," he gasps, catching his breath, "above it. Up the hill. The owner says it’s a palace!"

Kathryn stands at the top step, the evening’s hike up the hill from the waterfront a subtle reminder how the flatland walking in Chicago was a treat by comparison. George’s infectious enthusiasm momentarily sways her until the reality of their surroundings pull her back to see the place as what it is: a grimy rooftop. Surveying the scene she mutters, bewildered, “This is not the palace I was promised.”

The intricately-carved sign at the bottom of the stairs grandly proclaimed "Palacio de Garrobo." But now it seems to mock. Kathryn wonders if "garrobo" might be a posh way of saying "derelict" much in the same way "suite" in a hotel denotes nothing more than a room with a sofa?

"Isn't this great!?" George says, his voice is missing any skepticism.

In the middle of the space, surrounded by modest knee-high walls, stands a canopy constructed from rough-hewn timber. Above, a palm-thatched roof reaches upward, forming a pyramid-like apex against the darkening sky. Beneath it lies a wooden platform, merely inches above the concrete, its simplicity stark.

Kathryn, curiosity piqued, runs her hand along the platform's surface, her fingers tracing the contours of the low-grade lumber. Pressing down, she feels the plywood yield slightly. "Isn't there a Holiday Inn nearby?" she inquires, half-joking.

"Mrs. Mireya!" George's surprise is evident as they turn to see a woman in her mid-fifties, burdened with blankets and pillows. The woman offers Kathryn a knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of their last-minute, budget accommodations.

George hurries to assist, soon disappearing beneath a mountain of bedding. "Mrs. Mireya, this is my mom—my Madre." Kathryn and Mrs. Mireya exchange a glance, watching as George navigates his way to the palapa, bedding in tow. For a moment, Kathryn feels like a bystander in her own story—like the script’s been handed to someone else. Who arranged the room? Who greeted the hostess? Not the mother. The boy.

And not just this room—this whole detour. When had he become the one with a plan? Kathryn knew, somewhere along the way she’d given up being the parent.

Surveying the space, Kathryn ticks off the essentials: 

Bed? Check. 
Plentiful storage for their absent luggage? Check. 
Bathroom?

Catching Kathryn's inquisitive look, Mrs. Mireya gestures towards a corner with a tilt of her shoulder, murmuring, "Ahí hay una llave de agua," before departing without another word. Kathryn's look follows to a water spigot protruding from the wall, its perpetual, sluggish drip leaving a rust-stained ring on the floor, a punctuation mark at the end of a trail of water meandering toward an open drain. "Perfect. Here's to hoping Montezuma's revenge is delayed a few days."

Indeed, Kathryn has endured her share of similar, but not equally challenging, accommodations. Each was memorable, or perhaps more aptly, forgettable in its own unique way. She bites her lip, hands planted firmly on her hips in a gesture inherited from her mother—a look of stoic patience, a silent "what the fu–" that seems hardwired into her very being. It's a familial trait, she realizes, one that's passed down through generations and manifests distinctly in each. Would George inherit this look, or would he always mirror his father's unbridled optimism?

She watches George pull at the edges of the blankets, making sure to cover every inch of the plinth. He unfurls and stacks them as high as possible, pushing on each successive layer with his full weight to check the padding. He’s nesting, she thinks. Kathryn wonders from how far up the lineage it goes, great-greats? She recognizes this trait, it’s one that skipped over her, a stone bouncing across the top of the pond.

She remembers George's crib, a last minute dime store find, the honey color of peeling shellac. But it was sturdy and fit in the cramped walkway of the apartment. George, little George then, slept in the hallway for his first year before they could afford a bigger apartment. The placement was absurd, of course, but they got so used to twisting and bending like contortionists that it was second nature to pass through the area without bumping the crib on your way to the bathroom late at night. His father had called it the crossroads of the world from where George could see everyone who visited.

And now, some years later, here, not little George anymore, but a gangly boy on the cusp of manhood. Head in his hands looking out over the water across the beach, face lit by flickering street lights below. She could almost see the dark hair beginning to grow on his upper lip. Kathryn wondered how far this adventure would go. After all, it was an adventure—one of George’s making—but one on a dwindling budget.

It wasn’t hers. Not by any stretch. But she still missed the rhythm of a life she controlled—even if that life meant starting over, again and again. Straighter lines. Edges that hadn’t gone soft. Knots that stayed tied.

She decided not to consider it any more for today. Worry would still be there tomorrow. She laid down on the pallet of blankets, pulling the ones George had set for her and looked through the palm fronds to the stars she could see between the missing pieces of roof. The palm leaves crackled and moved in the light breeze, their small undulations almost unnatural as they shifted ever-so-quietly.

George watched the ocean swish, little flicks of light on the water rolling onto the beach, while the dark outlines of palm trees dotting the edge of the road below swayed sullenly.

“There were patterns here, too,” George thought as he watched the waves moving in and out, trees moving side to side. Both were in concert with each other, both unsteady and far from manmade.

George pulled on his headphones. Without looking, he pushed Fast Forward, Play, then Fast Forward again until he heard it: a rhythmic tone that would sound tribal if it weren’t so perfect. When the piano came in the perfection crumbled into bends and a scream from somewhere far away, out to sea—

It’s nice here with a view of the trees
Eating with a spoon
They don’t give you knives
Expect you to watch those trees blowing in the breeze
We want to see you lead a normal life

George stared out at the black, at the undulating shapes on the water, his head full of the last twenty-four hours. This was the first quiet moment he had had to himself, the first he hadn’t experienced without his face feeling red, his heart in his throat. The breeze coming off the ocean felt good. He imagined it washing away the facade of the act he’d had to put on to keep things hidden, the ship moving in some unknown direction.

And with that quiet, the sound of the piano fading, he rewound the tape.

We want to see you lead a normal life.

What is that supposed to mean, anyway?

He had walked up and down the paseo under the guise of finding them a hotel for the night. A minor lie, he reasoned, since they needed a place to stay—but his eyes never strayed far from the shoreline.

Even here, high above, everything out there was the black of the ocean, the salt specks of stars flecking the waves. Just castaway light looking for a place to land.

Like him and Kathryn. Searching for something—he wasn’t sure what. Maybe that.

He pulled down his headphones. The metal band snapped the speakers around his neck.

 What could be less normal now than chasing an idea that felt, at once close but also like an apparition beyond reach?

The waning moon, nearly full, broke the surface of the water. So low on the horizon, he watched its light echo in a long stretch, disappearing and reappearing on the water. Even with the searchlight of the moon, the stars somehow felt brighter than they had a few minutes ago as a streetlight below winked out.

In silence, George stood watching the moon slide along the horizon. Mesmerized. It felt like he was the only one seeing it—no voices, no movement from the beach or the darkened buildings below.

If he looked closely, he could almost see the craters, the pock-marked face of a celestial teenager. Then he noticed it—where the stars stopped. Their light didn’t reach the horizon. Something blocked it.

A shape.

The more he focused, the darker it became, as if trying to hide. It was out there, far enough he couldn’t see it from the beach. But up here, he could just make out an outline—low and flat, with a mountain rising at the far southern end.

A flush of heat rose in his cheeks.

Beyond the waves, he heard it: a howl, long and low, distant. The island was calling.

George shivered, but not from the cold. Despite the chill chasing down his spine, something in him answered.

No, he did not want a normal life.

⬅️Read Previous Chapter
Read Next Chapter ➡️
Lost? Visit the Chapter Guide
Read the Chapter Notes

If you like what you’ve read, please share it.

Have something to say? Just drop a comment below. I’m happy to answer questions

---

Music

• Lead A Normal Life – Peter Gabriel

---