‘Not the same’
After Hurricane Maria, Aida stepped into a Puerto Rico that was uninhabitable, where she lived for four months, waiting for a way off the island. She found one in Joel, a childhood friend with an air mattress and room in his Phoenix apartment.
She wanted to believe she was safe, but now another storm was on its way, and Aida Waleska Marquez couldn’t be certain. The pressure in her head and the pain in her back meant the storm was close. She huddled on the couch and watched as sunlight slipped out of the lonely apartment.
Her therapist left specific instructions, so Aida steadied her breathing and narrowed her gaze, locking onto the details of her new life. She saw the games stacked atop her roommate’s PlayStation, the amusement park map taped to the wall and the shiny Phoenix police sticker that hung next to it, all of it meant to remind Aida that she was safe in Arizona — 10 months and 3,000 miles from the hurricane that swallowed everything.
But Aida couldn’t hold on all night. For a moment she felt herself back home in Puerto Rico, hiding in the bathroom as floodwaters rose and furious winds threw a washing machine across the front yard.
Then the storm broke. The pressure in her head deflated. Her roommate left for the night shift, locking the door be-
hind him, and Aida was alone.
They kept the apartment cold and spare. Inside were the fragments of an American life in progress: a sunken couch, a stationary bike nobody used and a set of folding chairs, where Joel Sanchez sat in the Thursday morning darkness, watching hurricane videos he had already seen.
Joel tapped a purple link. Images of destruction flashed on the screen.
He wasn’t there when Hurricane Maria made landfall over Yabucoa, his and Aida’s small town on the coast, but Facebook and YouTube seared the scenes into his memory. Now he watched again, staring at the hospital whose front windows exploded and the baseball stadium, once the pride of the small city, that folded in the winds.
The video was loading as Aida, 41, emerged from the bathroom. Her hair was wet. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. It had been another sleepless night, fueled by fibromyalgia’s chronic pain and a mind that always drifted home, where her 9-year-old son, Lionel, was visiting his grandparents.
“How are you?” Joel asked in Spanish.
“A little pain,” she said, pointing toward her head. She glanced at Joel’s phone, where wind and rain filled the screen. She looked away, then turned into the kitchen for toast and coffee. No video could show her anything new.
She had filmed one herself, fighting to steady her hands as Maria swept over the island. She asked God to make it stop.
Then it did, and Aida stepped into a Puerto Rico that was uninhabitable, where she lived four months without power or federal aid, waiting for a way off the island. She found one in Joel, a childhood friend with an air mattress and room in his Phoenix apartment. So in January, she packed two suitcases and went to rebuild her life on the mainland.
In Arizona, she had citizenship and safety, but little else. The government offered no help. A middle-class life had been reduced to a borrowed bed in a place where she knew only one person and barely spoke the language.
She wasn’t quite a refugee. But she didn’t feel entirely American.
Her son’s tiny black dog, Nube, clawed at the front door as they walked to Joel’s gray Corolla. A Puerto Rican flag adorned the back bumper. Another hung from the rearview mirror, bumping against a rosary.
Aida dropped into the passenger seat. She still wasn’t comfortable driving in Arizona, not at the speed people here seemed to like. Joel drove her most places, taking her to government offices, grocery stores and a community center in Maryvale, which was where he pointed the car now, taking Aida to her weekly therapy session.
Twenty minutes later, Joel parked between a slate-gray building and a small market. He told Aida he’d meet her inside, then went next door to look for plantains from Puerto Rico. They had been eating the Costa Rican kind, but it wasn’t the same. They didn’t taste like home.
Aida checked in . A receptionist told her the session would begin soon.
Back home, she had worked in a place like this. She had a master’s degree in social work and used it well, focusing on childhood trauma. She believed in the power of therapy, in healing processes and helping people talk through their fears. Never had Puerto Rico needed her more than now.
But she was a world away, walking in to cry through her sessions and explain the visions that came at night. In her dreams, she floated over collapsed barrios, blackened beaches and floodwaters that never drained away.
Sometimes she remembered so many bodies that the city built a second morgue.
Her therapist, a young woman with a blond bob, diagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder. She compared Aida to a soldier returning from war.
Now the therapist came out and led Aida to a back office, where they talked about the thunderstorm and the coping techniques that almost worked. An hour later, Aida walked back into the lobby. Black hair clung to her face. Tired eyes glistened.
“I got the mix for dinner,” Joel said, standing to leave. A bag of Costa Rican plantains waited in the Corolla.
They walked out, headed to the next futile appointment. Joel steered east and pulled into the parking lot of a Department of Economic Security building, a government office where Aida had already been turned away, denied the extra few dollars that could get her through each month.
The car doors slammed shut. Joel marched toward the front door. Aida lagged behind.
She tried to look inside, to get a glimpse of what she was walking into, but all she could see was her own reflection, and Joel’s next to her.
They had known each other since they were kids in Yabucoa, a small beach city of sugar plantations and fishing boats. She grew up in the mountains, a perfect student and the 1994 queen of her school. He was a lounger in the valley. Somehow they became friends anyway, close enough to stay in touch when Joel chased jobs off the island.
First, he tried Cleveland, but Ohio winters forced him back home. He left again in 2013, settling in Phoenix, sending spare money back to a family that refused to leave Puerto Rico.
He sent an extra few dollars last September, as he tracked a storm swirling across the Atlantic. Hurricane Maria hit just as he checked in for another night shift at a medical-device factory. Aida called a few minutes later. He heard a barrage of wind, and then her shaking voice.
She was stuck in Yabucoa, standing outside her brother’s house because she didn’t trust it to withstand the wind. Already the concrete walls were rumbling.
“Stay calm,” Joel told her. “Stay there.”
Then the line went dead.
For days afterward, Joel’s calls wouldn’t go through, and he couldn’t think about anything else. His island had crumbled and almost everything he knew was trapped inside.
“Get me out of here,” Aida cried when they finally spoke again.
She had already decided to leave, but she couldn’t afford it. Joel was her only way out. He picked up extra shifts at the factory and drove for Uber and Lyft, setting the money aside as flight prices spiked.
When that still wasn’t enough, he used his retirement savings to buy two tickets across the country, San Juan to Charlotte, North Carolina, to Phoenix. One for Aida, one for her son.
At the next stop, the door was locked. Of course it was. Aida threw up her hands and walked around the building.
It felt like nobody wanted to help. She was stuck in a place she didn’t understand, jamming together pieces of a life that didn’t fit.
She considered herself a refugee, but the federal government didn’t.
As if her American citizenship had ever helped. There was federal aid for Maria survivors, but none of it applied to her, because she didn’t need a hotel room in Florida or a loan to rebuild her house. Her application for disaster relief was rejected anyway. She still had the letter.
All she had to start over was $277 a month in food stamps and a $400 childsupport check that sometimes didn’t come.
Around the building, Joel held open another heavy door. Aida walked to the front desk, where a receptionist clicked at a computer.
The woman smiled.
Aida started to tell her story once more. She left with another phone number to call.
At the next office, they waited half an hour before somebody told them it was the wrong building. So they tried a third. That receptionist pointed Aida to a side window, where a caseworker handed her a thick application packet. She flipped through 24 pages, filling in the details of her new life. The caseworker said she would be in touch, but the process might take a couple of months. What if she could never go home? Aida gave up on sleep just after a Monday sunrise. She shuffled into the empty living room and collapsed onto the couch. Nube jumped in her lap, and Aida kissed his stringy head.
Lionel would be home in August, but that left just a few days until he started at a new school, trading a school of friends for one where he knew nobody at all. “Don’t make me go,” he begged his mother, but she had no choice.
The door cracked open. Joel walked in, peeling off a camouflage Red Sox cap and dropping his keys inside. He flopped onto a footstool and closed his eyes.
A few early-morning Uber pickups earned him an extra $100.
“Joel, do you want coffee?” Aida asked, standing to walk to the kitchen. In the pantry, she found a glass tray of brown sugar and a can of decaf. “Not today,” he said.
Aida opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of pastries.
Cream cheese and cold fruit spilled out of the sides. She dropped them onto the kitchen table and reached back in, pulling out a stout brown bottle of Maltex, a Danish soda that tasted like molasses.
It was the closest they could find to home.
In Puerto Rico, they drank Malta, a syrupy, sugary drink that seemed to live in every kitchen. But that was before everything fell apart. Before the island Aida never wanted to leave changed forever and stranded her here, in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, holding a bottle that would never be what she wanted.
She sighed. The bottle went onto the cold kitchen table.
“That’s like what we have back home, right?” Joel said, looking up from another video. He eyed the bottle from across the apartment.
“No,” Aida said. She sat at the table, surrounded by empty chairs. “It’s not the same.”