Page 61 of A Perfect Disaster

“I miss you so much, Grandma.”

“And I miss you, my girl. But I’m always there, in that little piece of your heart that you carry with you to every port. And I’m sure you’ll be able to visit me soon.”

I think about the nursing home, the monthly transfers, the calls from every port of call, the messages I send her when I have a good signal or can use the Wi-Fi like today, the guilt I carry because the time I spend with her never seems enough. My grandmother isn’t an obligation. She never has been. She is my home. My deepest roots. The woman who taught me to dance in the kitchen, to respond with grace when the world turned ugly, and not to let anyone mistake my laughter for a lack of character.

“Promise me something,” she says suddenly.

“Whatever you want.”

“Don’t let anyone take away that light you have, my girl. Not Helen, not a promotion, not the mistakes of the past. You shine because you’ve learned to stay afloat in the biggest storms. Don’t let fear drag you down now.”

I wipe away my last tear with the back of my hand and smile.

“Don’t worry, Grandma, I shine brighter than the entire lighting crew.”

My grandmother lets out a little chuckle.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

We chat for a few more minutes about everyday nonsense that gradually brings me back to the reality of dry land, and when we hang up, I hold the phone pressed against my chest for a long while. The ship moves forward while I remain exhausted, but something inside me has stopped trembling. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Helen. I don’t know how you compete for a spot against someone you want to protect even when she hurts you. I don’t know if she’ll be able to accept me without the ghosts of the past constantly haunting us.

But I do know that I’m not going to shut myself off just to make this hurt less.

Tomorrow I may have to face Helen, Julianne, Arturo, the selection process, and everything else. But at least, for tonight, I’ll stay up here shining.

21

Helen

The next day.

After my conversation with Gonzalo, I decide I need to be more human, more open, and more flexible. I want to embody all those things emotionally balanced people seem to do naturally, without needing a meticulously detailed plan, three performance metrics, and an alarm on their phone to remind them to breathe.

And of course, I turn it into a process. At 6:45 in the morning, before the ship completes its docking maneuver in Naples, I sit on the edge of the bed in my cabin with a notebook open on my lap and a pen in my hand. On the first page, in clear, decisive handwriting, I’ve written: “PLAN FOR BEING A FUNCTIONING HUMAN BEING.” And below that, the list I must follow to the letter:

One: say hello without making it seem like a health inspection.

Two: ask how Maika is doing and listen to the full answer, without interrupting her.

Three: don’t make excuses before apologizing.

Four: avoid phrases like “your unexpected events.”

Five: breathe before speaking.

Six: don’t stare at her mouth during work conversations.

I’m crossing out number six. Not because it isn’t important, but because it seems unrealistic to me at this point, to be honest.

“Perfect,” I mutter to myself. “We’re off to a great start today.”

Yes, that’s sarcasm.

I get up and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I practice a friendly expression, though the result is a strange combination of acute abdominal pain and the face I make when I threaten Gonzalo. I try again, but it turns out even worse. On the third try, I look like an officer in the middle of a drill explaining the ship-abandonment procedure. If my best friend wants me to be more human, he could have been nice enough to pass me a manual with illustrations and practical examples.

I step out of the cabin in my impeccable day uniform, my hair pulled back into a tight bun, and an uncomfortable tightness in my chest that has nothing to do solely with the day ahead of us. Naples is already visible, bathed in that early, golden light that makes the gulf shimmer with chaotic beauty. The city seems to be waking up little by little, just like the thousands of passengers who are beginning to crowd the promenade decks.

I, on the other hand, am dragging a sleepless night and an apology that’s stuck in my throat like a poorly coiled rope.