Page 41 of Exiled
“And the baby?”
“And the baby.”
I can’t help crying again at that.
And again, he kisses me. Kisses the tears away. Wipes them with the broad pad of his thumb. Kisses my lips.
It’s going to be okay.
It is early in the morning, and we are having breakfast. He shoots me a glance, sets the newspaper down. “Babe?”
I lower my mug of tea. “Yes, Logan?”
He snorts. “You gotta loosen up, honey.” He straightens his spine, makes a tight, sour face, raises his voice to a falsetto, andcaptures my inflections precisely. “‘Yes, Logan?’ Like for real, if I say, ‘Hey, babe,’ you should say something simple andnormal, like... ‘What’s up, buttercup?’”
I frown at him. “What does that mean, ‘What’s up, buttercup?’ It strikes me as trite and empty.”
Another laugh. “It is. Which is why it’s funny. Just... try it. So let’s start over.” A pause, and he clears his throat. “Hey, babe?”
I slouch in my chair, make a grumpy face, affect as deep a voice as I can. “Yo dude, what’s up?”
A big broad shout of genuine laughter. “Exactly! I love it!”
I straighten. “Now that we’ve gottenthatout of the way, what is it you wanted to ask me?”
“You ever see the touristy stuff around here? Like, the Statue of Liberty and all that?”
I shrug. “Probably before, but not recently that I am able to recall.”
He slaps the table with his palm. “It’s settled, then. Time for a field trip!”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll take the day off and we’ll just hang out and do the tourist thing. I’ve never really done it myself, for as long as I’ve lived here. You just... take it all for granted, you know?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t, huh? It’s like, you live here, you work here, and the tourist stuff will always be here so there’s no point in going to look at any of it, because youlivehere. So you never end up going to see it.” He pulls out his phone, glances at me. “I’m gonna get us an Uber so I don’t have to worry about driving. You’ll want a sweater or something for when we’re on the ferry.”
“Ferry?”
“Well yeah, how else are we gonna see the statue? It’s way out in the bay, right?” A shooing gesture. “So go get some sturdy walking shoes on and grab a sweatshirt. The Uber will be here any minute.”
I do as instructed, putting on a pair of running shoes and a zip-up hoodie, by which time Logan has locked up Cocoa and is waiting outside by the Uber car, a black Mercedes sedan. He locks the front door, and we’re off.
I’m excited, actually. A day off, out with Logan. Exactly what I need, really, especially since I’ve already dealt with the morning sickness today.
Our first stop is a pier on the Hudson River, where Logan buys us a ticket for the full tour of the island. We find seats on the upper deck, in the open air, and wait for the boat to fill. Within fifteen minutes or so, the ropes are thrown off, a horn sounds, and we back out of the slip, pivot, and trundle out into the river. Another couple of minutes, and then a voice fills the air, coming from a PA system, narrating our journey, describing landmarks of the island on our left telling us which number avenue we’re passing and explaining how the number of the pier corresponds to the street number nearest it. I pay close attention, sitting on the inside of the row, closest to the water, feeling as giddy as a little girl.
Mile by mile, however, a strange sensation grows within me. Familiarity. As if I’ve been here, before. The sun is midway up toward the zenith, beating warm on my face, and the boat is rolling gently, an elderly, stentorian male voice guiding the tour. Behind us, a woman and her two young boys chatter to each other in Spanish:
“Mama, where is the Statue of Liberty? Are we going to see it soon, Mama? Can we go up in it?”
“No, ’Jandro, we are going to go past it, but not on it. I think the man will tell us when we will be able to see it.”
“Can we get some food, Mama? I’m hungry. It’s been hours since breakfast.”
“My God, Manuel, you only think of your stomach. We have to save our money, so we cannot get anything to eat just yet. We will have lunch after the tour.”