Story Excerpt

Two-Hour Vacation
by Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier

Enjoy your vacation,” my mother-in-law calls after me as I step through the front door.

I’ve had many reasons to question Priscilla’s sanity over the years, but since she’ll be the sole caretaker of two toddlers and an infant for the next couple of hours, I figure I need to at least follow up with this one. “Sorry? I’m not sure I heard—”

“Your vacation,” she chuckles as she rearranges my couch pillows. “That’s what all deh magazines and talk shows say, right? When you’re a mother of little ones, any alone time is a vacation.”

“I’m just going grocery shopping,” I remind her, and that pious grin of hers grows wider.

“Without the babies, Juliette. I know how distracting they mus’ be. This way, you’ll be able to focus on picking out some more healthful choices for their snacks. I know Grocery Garden had a sale on carrot sticks the other day.” She makes a motion with her hand like she’s shooing a fly. “Go on, dahlin’, I’ve got this. You go shop. I’ll take care of this mess in the sink while they’re still napping.” She turns around to head into my pristine kitchen, and I turn around to head the hell out of my house before the words I’m keeping trapped in my mouth break free. A vacation. Please.

I note the irony of that statement as I drive along St. Peter Mountain Road on my way to the grocery stores in downtown Charlotte Amalie. The view in my windshield looks like a shot I’d take for the front of a postcard—the white sands of Magens Bay out in the distance, the aquamarine water and lush coconut treeline; the sun and clouds and cays that frame the periphery. It sure looks like a vacation, but I actually live here . . . and I can’t remember the last time I went to any beach on St. Thomas without lugging along three baby bags, a gallon of SPF 70 sunscreen, ten billion sand toys, and a damn pack-and-play. I let out a slow, long breath and try to focus on the hum of my engine and the sunlight playing across the deep brown of my arms. Maybe Priscilla wasn’t entirely wrong? The minivan’s its usual mess of toys and sand and Cheerio halves, but it’s quiet too, peaceful in a way it never is even when all three of them are napping. Maybe this is, in its own way, a two hour mini-vacation . . .

. . . and then I remember the reason Priscilla’s watching the kids on a Saturday afternoon in the first place—because her son’s taking a weekend to decompress from “the stress of his medical practice and new fatherhood,” playing golf with his brothers over on St. Croix. There’s no one in the car to hear the things I say, but I feel so much better after I say them.

I’m still stewing when I pull into the parking lot of Island Gourmand, a tiny upscale grocery store tucked into a neat little dockside storefront between a swimwear boutique and a fancy gaming parlor. Sure, I don’t have the kids with me, but I don’t have it in me to face the lines and crowds at Cost-U-Less or Plaza Extra just yet, either. Besides, Island Gourmand is a little treat I allow myself every other week—organic lavender tea, jam shipped from somewhere in central California, a pound of freshly sliced soft cheese, some ridiculously overpriced chocolate-milk mix the twins love, and the coffee pods I haven’t been able to quit in the two years since I left the magazine. I weave through crowds of cruise-ship tourists meandering around the port and slip into the air-conditioned comfort of the store.

My annoyance over Omari’s golf weekend and Priscilla’s general existence fades into the background the moment I enter. A couple of boxes of tea, a jar of apricot ginger preserves, the chocolate mix and the coffee pods in my cart, and maybe I can forget that the twins ate an entire box of prunes right before their nap, too. It’s not until I’m talking with Zaria Haynes, who’s behind the deli counter today slicing my Gouda, that everything comes crashing down.

“So they have you behind the deli counter now, Z?” I ask. Zaria’s an aspiring model—sure, she manages the register, helps with the books, and apparently slices sandwich fodder here at Island Gourmand, but she’s also got a thick portfolio and a smile that looks like sunlight on the ocean. I’d photographed her tons of times for the glossy Your St. Thomas Getaway! magazine that greeted every tourist as they landed.

Zaria flashes a smile the tenth of her usual wattage. “Gyul, you know how it is. Jus’ until Vogue or Versace figures out I’m what they been waiting for all this time.” The laugh behind her words sounds forced as she reaches one manicured hand into the display and pulls out the Gouda I like.

“That day might come sooner than you think, nuh. I’ve got the shots to prove it.”

“Can’t happen soon enough.” She turns away toward the slicing machine, but I can still hear the long breath she lets out when she does.

I’ve known Zaria for years, watched her through my lens more times than I can count, and this cloudy version of her is one I’ve never seen. I take a step closer to the counter, ready to drop the joviality and ask quietly if she’s okay, but she answers the question before I even ask. “Mrs. Chesterfield is—lately she’s been something, you know? Terrible mood when she’s actually here instead of over by deh gaming parlor on the slot machines or balancing the books in the back room. Tell you deh truth, Juju, I think she’s balancing something else, if you know what I’m saying,” she whispers, making a motion with her hand like she’s tossing back a shot of Cruzan. “I’m back here because she’s decided she wants to be the only face on the register these days. She’s been making me work twelve-hour shifts the past ten days.”

I mutter my sympathy. Wisteria Chesterfield, Island Gourmand’s owner, always seems to be in an awful mood—so if Zaria’s saying it’s worse than usual, working conditions must be damn near unbearable. And she’s not even finished.

“We need someone new,” she continues. “To fill Mr. Richardson’s role, now that we don’t have him anymore. But the way she’s always goin’ on about how she has no money, how the store’s in the red all deh time, I’ve been scared to even bring it—”

“He’s just out for a week or so though, right?” I ask. “I know he wanted to use some of his scratch ticket money for that trip to the Bahamas he’s always talking about, but he also said something about looking at a new car. So he’s gone jus’ temporarily, not—”

This time, it’s Zaria’s turn to interrupt, although the stricken look on her face would’ve stopped my words even if she hadn’t. “Juliette—you didn’t hear about Mr. Richardson? He . . . died,” she says.