Chapter One

Palisades, New York

2023

Afterward, Ruth will say she knew the moment the phone rang, even before she picked it up. She will say there was something calamitous in the sound. No one ever calls the house line anymore.

It is 8:14 P.M. on a Tuesday evening in June and in truth, despite Ruth’s eventual perception to the contrary, she feels no ominous pang when the ringer asserts its shrill voice into the room. What she feels is annoyed that she forgot to unplug the phone before her shoot. She always tries to make these videos in one take, because if she has to scrap the first effort and start again, a rehearsed note sometimes creeps in. Despite having a career that requires her to maintain a constant presence online, Ruth isn’t a person who’s particularly good at pretending. So when the phone rings, the video captures her irritation in the form of a wince before Ruth slips from the stool. She doesn’t stop to hit pause on the camera, so the video captures all of it: Ruth, barefoot in her jeans and linen tunic, padding across the slate floor, retreating into the background of the frame. She answers the phone, which is an antique, wall-mounted contraption with a mother-of-pearl face that Ruth selected mostly for its contribution to the decor, and because her daughter, Daisy, has convinced her that old, impractical things can sometimes be more fun than their convenient modern counterparts. The phone does look beautiful on the wall, but is ill-suited to conducting actual conversations.

From this distance, it’s easier to discern how small Ruth is, how slender her shoulders. She is in profile as she lifts the earpiece, on tiptoe with her neck craned as she speaks into the mounted cone mouthpiece on the front of the phone.

“Hello?”

Just as she loops the cord around her finger there’s a shift in her body. She flings one hand out to steady herself against the counter and submits to an unflattering curl of her posture. The room around her still appears just as she designed it to appear, the first iteration of the aesthetic that accidentally made her famous (or at least fame-ish, as her kids insist): high ceilings, exposed beams, enormous tropical vegetation in earthenware jugs. You can tell just by looking at this room in pictures that it smells like lemon cupcakes and sandalwood, maybe a trace of mint. But within the careful diorama, Ruth is just a small woman in a large room receiving terrible news.

“Wait, oh my God,” she says into the phone, leaning her forehead against the outstretched arm on the counter. “No, no,” she says, but whoever’s on the phone can’t hear because she’s too far away from the ridiculous mouthpiece. “No, I don’t know.” She stands up again and makes an effort to throw her voice toward the phone. “I’m her mother! Yes, of course. What do you mean, her medical history? Oh my God, wait. How…”

Her forehead leaves a dark smear of foundation on the unbleached sleeve of her tunic. She stands up straight and uses the flat of her hand to smack herself over the heart.

“Yes, she has insurance. Of course, yes. The card should be in her wallet. What?”

Ruth curls into an even tighter knot while she clutches the phone.

“I will, yes,” she says. “Of course.”

She makes an effort to uncoil herself, propping a hand on her hip and tipping her head back to gaze through the skylight above. Darkening blue. A rind of moon. She tries to speak again but finds the effort trapped in her throat. She pushes past it.

“I need to take down your number and call you back,” she croaks, opening a nearby drawer.

She fishes out a pen but can’t find paper. She uncaps the pen with her teeth and writes on her hand.

“Okay,” she says. “Yes, okay.”

After she replaces the earpiece into its cradle, Ruth makes a sound that’s foreign to her own ears. It is a mammal sound and it comes from the crypts of her lungs. Then she cries softly in a huddle for a few moments before remembering the camera. The instant of remembering is visible: the alertness drops into the frame and stands her up. Ruth tries to shake clean air into her body, pushes her shoulders away from her sternum, and strides across the room. But some things she cannot hide, and the mascara turns to mud beneath her eyes.

* * *

Outside, there is a tumult in the trees, a wind so sharp it startles a few summer leaves from their too-dry branches. It whips away and south and south, to where her daughter is.

The sweep and tumble of Ruth’s mind goes with it.

Chapter Two

San Juan, Puerto Rico

One hour and forty-three minutes ago

2023

In the lobby of her building, Daisy turned the key in the little metal box with her name on it, Apartment 2B, and retrieved her mail from inside. A book of local coupons on cheap newsprint, the weekly letter from her grandmother, perfumed and handwritten on lavender stationery as if they were conducting a Victorian romance, and—yes!—the envelope she’d been waiting for all week. Daisy bumped the mailbox door closed with her elbow, provoking the satisfying click. Behind her, the main door to the building rattled in its frame, and Mrs. Fernández in 1A opened her apartment door to stick her head out.

“Ay, Daisy, you’re not going out in that weather, are you?”

Daisy turned. “No, Mrs. Fern, don’t worry!” she said. “I’m in for the duration. Just grabbing my mail.” She waved it between them like evidence.

“Good, good,” Mrs. Fernández said. “You be safe!” And she closed the door.

If there was one thing Daisy appreciated about Mrs. Fernández, it was her friendly brevity. Daisy took the stairs to her apartment two at a time. She’d left the door open. Not just unlocked, but standing open, because she knew all seven of her neighbors, none of whom were thieves or delinquents. Daisy could smell something delicious coming from upstairs, probably Mr. Kurtzweiler’s place. Maybe he was trying to cook up everything he had in the fridge and freezer before the power went out and it all spoiled. Hopefully he’d bring her a small tower of Tupperware later, or at least a plate covered in Saran Wrap. She closed her door, kicked her flip-flops under the coffee table, and folded her legs beneath her on the couch. Her little backpack yawned open beside her, spilling out the contents of her life: wallet, ChapStick, extra hair ties. She threw her keys on top and settled herself on the cushions. She stared at the envelope and paused long enough to check the time. If she waited for Carlos, she knew he’d find some way to turn this moment into a ceremony. But he wouldn’t be out of rehearsal for another hour at least, and honestly, Daisy didn’t have that kind of patience. She slid her finger beneath the top flap and tore in.

The two DNA reports inside were several pages thick, folded in thirds. She took a deep breath, allowing her curiosity to swell for a moment while she unfolded the pages across her bare knees. The mantel clock ticked loudly in the quiet room, and Daisy felt the rhythm of her heart attempting to steady itself into that cadence. Instead, as confusion descended, Daisy’s pulse went in the other direction. She turned the pages over, as if she’d find a different explanation, one that made more sense. The back of the packet was blank. She flipped to the front again, and then to the second page, third, and fourth. Each was filled with pie charts, graphs, and colorful maps, easy to read. And yet Daisy was confounded by the data.

“What the heck?” she said out loud. Daisy unfolded her legs, sat forward on the couch. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

She groped for her phone, still studying the pages in her hand. She glanced at the time again and knew Carlos was still in rehearsal, his phone on silent, but she called anyway. It went to voicemail and she blurted her message after the beep.

Carlos, this is the weirdest thing, you’re not going to believe it. Obviously I couldn’t wait for you and I opened the DNA results and HOLY SHIT, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Call me the moment you get this! Call me, call me, call me!

As soon as she hung up, she dialed his phone again and said, Don’t worry, we’re still related! and hung up. Her eyes were fixed on the pages in front of her, and she started to read them again, more carefully this time. The phone in her hand began to ring, and Daisy answered it without looking.

“Carlos!” she said. “You won’t believe this, it’s so crazy.”

“Who’s Carlos? Is that, like, your boyfriend?”

Daisy pulled the phone away from her ear. Ugh.

“Hi, Brandon,” she said, her voice dropping. “What can I do for you?”

Daisy’s Tío Benny had about a dozen rental properties in San Juan, and even though Daisy’s own business had been thriving for over a year now, she still managed a couple of the properties in Condado for her uncle. The apartments weren’t far from where she lived in Miramar, and besides, every successful entrepreneur Daisy knew in San Juan had at least one side hustle, and this was hers. Daisy liked sharing insider knowledge about which cafés had the best lunch specials, which beaches were quietest on weekends, and which galleries featured the hottest local artists. Before Brandon and his pals arrived, Daisy had purchased a pretty box of alfajores from Paulina’s bakery and arranged it on the kitchen counter alongside a bag of freshly ground Yaucono coffee. With the exception of the occasional nightmare guest, she really enjoyed this second job.

Brandon had showed up almost a week ago with four of his fraternity brothers and a half-empty bottle of tequila. They traveled with their own shot glasses, whether from home or the airport, Daisy couldn’t say. They suggested she take a shot, poured her one anyway after she declined three times, and then began making not-quite-out-of-earshot comments about her body as she tried to show Brandon how to work the electronic locks and alarm system. She’d never been so happy to finish a check-in.

She hadn’t spoken to them again until she called two days ago to alert them that the storm warnings had turned serious, that tourists were evacuating the island ahead of the weather, and that if they wanted to get on a flight, they needed to act now. Brandon swore they were prepared.

“We’re from the Gulf Coast, sweetie. We’re not afraid of a little weather.”

A little weather. She closed her eyes briefly to see if she could submerge the little bubble of rage that was rising in her, aerated by his moronic hubris.

“You know the power will definitely go out,” she said. “There will be no air-conditioning.”

“You think we have AC on the bayou?” He laughed. “As long as we have beer and Doritos, we’re all set!”

For days, the island meteorologists had employed their most climactic turns of phrase, and the people had listened to those reporters on the television, but also to their neighbors, to the rising and flattening birdsong, to the aching joints that were reliable messengers in times like these. They gathered sensory information from all these sources and more, and then, having acquainted themselves with the particulars, they set about making preparations. They purchased batteries and bottled water, collected cash from ATM machines, packed their picnic coolers full of ice, and charged their cell phones. At this late hour, all across the Puerto Rican archipelago, all that was left was to close the hurricane shutters if you were lucky enough to have them, to hunker down against the growing breeze and greening sky. With a great suction of wind, the storm was coming.

But here was Brandon on the phone again, too late to be having second thoughts. Daisy felt her previous excitement and confusion receding to make room for whatever nonsense Brandon was about to unleash. It wasn’t her fault he’d failed to heed her warnings, that he hadn’t prepared for the storm. She pushed the stack of paperwork off her lap and onto the open backpack beside her as she stood to stretch her legs. She peered out the window at the green-gray sky, the color of raw clay.

“Listen, turns out we’re gonna make a run for it,” Brandon said.

Daisy flinched. “Wait, what do you mean?” She was almost giddy with disbelief. “Have you looked out your window? It’s too late to leave now.”

“Yeah, we don’t wanna take any chances, we’re getting out.”

“You mean your mom doesn’t wanna take any chances,” Daisy heard one of the douchebag friends say, and then they all laughed like they’d heard something witty.

“Listen, being from the Gulf Coast,” Brandon said, “we got mad respect for the weather. We know a storm when we see one, and this bitch is comin’ in hot.”

Daisy placed her palm on the warm pane of glass in front of her and looked at its shape outlined by the alarming color of the sky.

“Is the airport even open?” she said.

Soon she would roll down her own hurricane shutters and pray the AC would stay on for as long as possible. It gets hot fast in a sealed concrete box.

“Yeah, I think we got the last Miami-bound flight,” Brandon said. “But we have to make two stopovers. Can you believe that shit?”

One of his friends belched loudly, and then Daisy heard a woman’s voice.

“Sir, I need you to hang up the phone now, please.”

“Wait, you’re on the plane now?” Daisy heard the alarm in her own voice.

“Yeah. I gotta run,” he said, “this lady is freaking out cuz I’m on my phone.”

“Wait!” Daisy said. “Did you bring everything in from the balcony like I asked? Did you close the hurricane shutters?”

There was a full suite of patio furniture out there. An empty beach cooler, an umbrella, four folding chairs. A gas grill with an extra propane tank. There was a small hibiscus tree in a heavy pot, a perfect airborne projectile. If any one of those items took flight from the fourteenth-floor penthouse, it could kill someone.

Brandon put a hand over the phone, but she could hear him asking his friends if anyone had done these simple things. There was laughter.

“I remembered to bring the rum!” one of the friends said.

“Sir, you need to put your phone in airplane mode,” the flight attendant said. “Now.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Brandon said to Daisy.

“Sir!” The flight attendant.

“I gotta run.”

Then it was just the click.

And Daisy’s worry, her insistent worry, like a buzz in her brain, crowding away everything else.

“Shit,” she said, stepping through her sliding door and out onto the balcony to assess the sky, which was low and changing, a color between pink and green now, the color of a healing bruise. She knew she had no choice. She had to go.

The rain hadn’t started yet, but Daisy could feel it heavy in the atmosphere, the wind kicking visibly through the emptying streets. A bad time to venture out on her scooter, an idiotic time, truly. There was a heavy sort of crackle in the air, and an earthy, metallic scent. On the balcony, the weather raked through Daisy’s hair and pulled a tendril loose from her ponytail. No lightning yet, but it was coming. She could be out and back in half an hour. If things got really bad in the meantime, she could just crash at the other apartment. She could be there in ten minutes. Eight, maybe, if she was really fast. Back inside, she rolled down and latched the hurricane shutter, closed the sliding door, grabbed her backpack, and stuffed her things inside. She double-checked that her keys were there, and double-knotted her sneakers on her way out the door.

Outside, the wind was strong enough now that the traffic lights were dancing lightly on their wires. Strong enough that the public-use scooters had all been rounded up and tucked into their warehouses or wherever it was they went when they weren’t littering the streets.

Daisy went to unlock her own scooter from the shed in the gathering darkness. It beeped its electronic response when she stepped aboard. The headlight flickered once and then shone onto the hot asphalt in front of her. She snapped the chin strap under her helmet, and fixed her mini backpack onto both shoulders, checking that the reflective tape was still clean and visible on the back. She pulled the accelerator and eased into the bike lane, expertly swerving around the three potholes on her block as she gathered speed. Behind her, a passenger van rattled and bounced as it hit a pothole she’d avoided, and she smiled at the acknowledgment that, over the course of her time in San Juan, she had become someone different. She’d become someone who rode scooters in the wind, in the almost dark, someone with a small catalog of potholes in San Juan. Did that make her Puerto Rican now, had she finally achieved it? What an embarrassing thing to wonder. No matter how comfortable Daisy became with her life in this city, no matter how at home she was here, she could never quite evict from her brain the unhelpful questions her mother had instilled there. She remembered the DNA results she’d just received, and there was a quizzical, unfamiliar feeling as her brain tried to reconcile the new information with all the ways she’d attempted to define herself throughout her twenty-two years on Earth. It felt like fizz in her veins. Overhead, light ripped through the darkening sky in flashes, and the boom that followed was almost immediate. Daisy crouched on her scooter, pulled harder on the accelerator.

When she arrived here two years ago, Daisy had been terrified of the scooters. She watched them zip and weave through traffic, their riders invariably helmetless, often wearing flip-flops, a beach bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, sunglasses deflecting the bugs. The riders never seemed to signal, rarely stopped at red lights. Daisy remembered one woman in a red evening gown and glittering high heels gliding down avenida Ashford behind her date, who was wearing a tux. The woman’s black hair was pulled into a sleek side-part pony, and the gauzy trail of her gown fanned out behind her scooter like a crimson wing. Daisy caught herself staring, her mouth literally hanging open, her hand fluttering toward her neck. She was consumed by a fear, a certainty, that the dress would catch in the wheel, the scooter would crash, and the glamorous woman would be flung to her bloody death beneath the wheels of a passing truck.

But the scooters were so ubiquitous here that Daisy soon found it difficult to maintain her apprehension about them. As with most unfamiliar things, Daisy eventually got used to them. And then came the day when, after fortification in the form of a coffee and quesito, Daisy downloaded the app, reserved a scooter, and double-knotted her sneakers before gingerly stepping aboard. Within the first half mile, she was in love.

She loved balancing on the scooter with both accelerator and brake in the grip of her hand. She began to crave the rough stickiness of the board beneath the soles of her shoes, the warm wind whipping her T-shirt against her body, drying the sweat from her neck even while the sun shone on her outstretched arms. She enjoyed the reasonable speed, the ease of the velocity, how quickly the city blocks went by beneath her wheels. She appreciated the way it still felt like walking, almost, but without exertion. She listened to flashes of laughter and the boom bass of reggaeton while she flew modestly through the streets. The guy who worked at the smoothie stand began calling out to her, a greeting every time she zoomed past. ¡Buenas, linda! And sometimes she would answer him.

Daisy rode the public scooters for several weeks before she decided to buy her own so she could make sure the battery was always charged, the brakes dependable. She also purchased a helmet, and in all the time she’d been riding since, she hadn’t seen a single other rider wearing any kind of safety gear at all. She thought they were all nuts.

Copyright © 2025 by Jeanine Cummins