This Side of Sunny

Chapter 3: Accommodations

Mela was about to shoot her video message for Sean, but she couldn't find a photogenic spot in her room.

The walls were cream—or were once cream, she supposed; now, it was grimy in patches and streaks, as if someone had once attempted to wipe the dusty walls clean with a wet rag, leaving behind dirty trails.

Well, she supposed the amateurish painting on the wall would do. It took up a third of the wall's length, and showed the beach sheathed in sunset glow. Anchored to the lower right corner of the water-colored water was a boat partially hidden in shadow, its outriggers splayed out like a spider's legs.

Right now, she was too exhausted to go out to the beach and see the real thing. So yes, for now, this painting would have to do. For all she knew, Sean was sick with worry, wondering if she got here okay.

She brought out her phone and put it on video mode. God, she looked awful. Like she'd gotten up really early for Black Friday and had spent an entire day jostling elbows with the discount-obsessed mob. She undid her ponytail, shook out her hair and frowned at the video. Maybe this was why the condom-carrying guy who helped her earlier was staring at her. She was probably the most unattractive creature he had run into on the island. Everyone here looked sun-kissed and positively glowing in colorful beachwear.

She tried on a smile, which was barely an improvement. Giving up, she pressed record.

"So. . . here I am! I practically died during the boat ride because the waves were so huge and we couldn't go very fast. Like riding a really scary rollercoaster. I hung on tight to my life vest the whole time. So when I spotted the island? I had to keep myself from going down on my knees and raising my hands to the sky. After that, I rode this thing called a tricycle--basically, a motorbike attached to a small passenger cart. It was very bumpy and I hit my head on the roof a couple of times."

Mela paused, suddenly aware that all she had said so far were complaints. Sean often teased her about being a wet blanket. She dug deep inside for any reserves of perkiness, cleared her throat, and refreshed her smile.

"But I made it! Wish me luck and lots of love. Hope you're having fun on the other side. You deserve it after getting that full scholarship. Love you!"

After sending the message, she crumpled in a heap on the bed, giving in to the urge of a cry fest. Never in her life had she felt more alone and lost. Oh, yes. She was definitely crazy. No sane person would lie to her guardian, use part of her college fund to book a plane ticket to another country, and look for the mother she'd never met.

Sean was against it, but Mela could not be shaken. She couldn't resist taking the plunge; all the right things had come into play—the money, the opportunity. Of course when Aunt Jane handed the money over to her, it was understood that it would be used to pay for whatever her partial college scholarship didn't cover. And spring break was the perfect cover for this soul-searching trip, which Aunt Jane had told Mela countless times that she would have time (and money) for once she got a job after graduating from the university.

But Mela couldn't wait. She had been aching to do this for so long. Never mind the consequences; she'd find a way to recover the money. She'd find a way to explain all this to Aunt Jane when she got back. Maybe her mother would even return to the States with her to back her up.

Mela wiped her eyes dry. Now was not the time for a meltdown. She needed every ounce of her wits to succeed in her mission. 

Letting out a yawn that almost ripped her mouth at the seams, she plumped up her pillows, grateful that she had chosen an air-conditioned room when she booked online. The fan room was several dollars cheaper, but she doubted that a measly electric fan could stave off the sweltering heat, which immediately hit her full force when she stepped foot on the island.

Finally, she let herself fall back into bed, which wasn't a good idea, since the thin mattress was almost as hard as the bed frame itself. She turned to her side, wincing and rubbing her back. Just then, her gaze fell on the bedside table, where a vase held a bright yellow trumpet-like flower, its five smooth petals curving outward, the pistil shooting out from its center like a fairy's wand. Mela reached out  and fished out the hand-written card under the vase.

Thank you for choosing Big Tony's. Allow us to present you with a lovely hibiscus, locally called gumamela, which grows abundantly on our island. If you have any concerns or needs, feel free to call our staff. Welcome to Gumamela Island!

Reading those words were her final memory before succumbing to  delicious, heavy sleep.

* * *

When Mela came to, it felt like she had only closed her eyes for a few minutes. She dragged her leaden legs to the window, pulled up the blinds and gaped at the darkness outside. A quick time check revealed she had slept for over six hours.

So much for adjusting to local time, she grimaced. Now, she would be awake all night long.

She showered, changed and headed to the dining area. It was deserted with the lights turned off, and chairs neatly tucked into the tables, clearly done for the day. So this was what those reviews over at tripadvisor.com warned her about. Fat Tony's may be affordable, but their customer service left much to be desired.

Sighing, she followed the cobblestones that led out the gate. Beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, she wove through the alleyways, twice smacking into a dead end. She clicked her tongue in frustration, hoping she paid more attention when the condom-carrying guy showed her the way earlier.

The faint thump-thumping bass of music reached her ears. She pursued the sound, the beats increasing in volume as she finally stumbled onto the market, the faint smell of fish still clinging resolutely to the air.

She came out into the street, found the narrow walkway, and came out on the other side, her sandals immediately sinking into the sand. Flashing lights of all colors greeted her, pulsating in time to the full-blast music. But what she mistook as only one piece of music was actually a cacophony of tunes from all genres blaring from the shoulder-to-shoulder cafes, bars, restaurants and shops.

Overwhelmed, Mela stood stock-still for a moment, soaking it all in. While the rest of the island slept, this stretch of beach raged and throbbed with life. And the people, oh, the people—throngs of them flavoring the atmosphere with their island clothes and conversations conducted in different accents, different languages. Strolling among them, Mela could hear snatches of what sounded like Japanese, Spanish, German, Chinese. It was as if the rest of the world was on spring break and this was their universal version of Florida.

When she got past the initial shock, the wonderment gave in to dismay. The area was bigger than she expected, the establishments more than what she was prepared for. Would she have time to comb through all of them? She stood off to one side, allowing the crowd to pass her by as she stared at her feet. A few heartbeats passed and she took a deep breath. The air was tangy, salt-ridden. She turned her head to the sea, but she couldn't make it out in the dark. But it was there somewhere; she knew it.

 Like her mother.

From her bag, she pulled out a notebook, and from its pages extracted a photograph with worn edges. She smoothed it out before silently counting to ten. The she retraced her steps, all the way to the reggae-themed bar that heralded the strip of establishments.

While Bob Marley crooned about standing up for your rights, Mela sauntered to the counter, her smile, easy and, she hoped, charming. The man behind the counter looked at her with a questioning grin. She cleared her throat and held up the photograph.

"Hello. Would you happen to know this woman? Her name is Rosita Santiago."

She asked this question—just the first of the many times that night. Over and over she would ask it, even after her mouth had grown tired of forming the words, her skin tingling with desperation, with defeat, with hope; she would ask and ask until her six days on the island were over.