Ever since she could remember, Cadie had known of Embrujada.
When her mother had still been alive, Embrujada had just been a myth, a fantasy island she only heard about right before bed, a land where people danced under the hot suns of endless summers in shallow waters as blue as her father’s eyes. It was only at her mother’s funeral that she realized the island was real, as relatives she’d never heard of poured in from around the world, full of stories of the small dresses and big houses and worlds of laughter that had been her mother’s life before “the hurricane” had wiped the sun away. There were pictures, too: pictures of her mother as a baby, small and dark against gleaming white sand; pictures of her mother and her mother’s mother and a dozen sisters and cousins and brothers in front of a grand golden house; then, from around the world, of her mother and her mother’s mother, and then eventually just her mother; of New York and New Orleans and Madrid and of Venice and eventually, just Dublin.
After the funeral, Collette told her that when her mother had been a little girl, she’d lived with all her family in the Caribbean, until one day there was a hurricane and they all moved to different parts of the world. Cadie couldn’t understand why these people had no stories of her mother after she was seven, or why they hadn’t come to her mother’s wedding or to meet her mother’s daughters but now that her mother was dead she was their dearest sister or cousin or niece whom they would love forever and ever amen.
Cadie had been ten years old.
Seven years later, she leaned against the cool metal bar of the boat, tipping her head forward so she could almost taste the water below her, the salty breeze caressing her cheeks like a lover’s touch. She kept her eyes closed, holding her childhood image of Embrujada before them, memorizing every last imagined mountain and castle, until her sister poked her in the back of the neck, and Cadie looked.