Excerpt – At the Island’s Edge by C.I. Jerez
Synopsis
An Iraq War veteran returns to Puerto Rico to reconnect with—and confront—the past in a heart-wrenching novel about duty, motherhood, and the healing power of home.
As a combat medic, Lina LaSalle went to Iraq to save the lives of fellow soldiers. But when her convoy is attacked, she must set aside her identity as a healer and take a life herself.
Although she is honored as a hero when she returns to the US, Lina cannot find her footing. She is stricken with PTSD and unsure of how to support her young son, Teó, a little boy with Tourette’s. As her attempts to self-medicate become harder to hide, Lina realizes she must do the toughest thing ask for help.
She retreats to her parents’ house in Puerto Rico, where Teó thrives under her family’s care. Lina finds kinship, too—with a cousin whose dreams were also shattered by the war and with a handsome and caring veteran who sought refuge on the island and runs a neighborhood bar.
But amid the magic of the island are secrets and years of misunderstandings that could erode the very stability she’s fighting for. Hope lies on the horizon, but can she keep her gaze steady?
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Praise
“C.I. Jerez’s enchanting novel, AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE is a captivating and poignant debut about a young mother’s struggle to heal from the scars of war following her deployment to Iraq as a U.S. Army medic. Jerez’s deeply moving prose dives into the realities of war for women in combat, the complexities of serving while balancing motherhood, and the sacrifices made. This heartwarming novel captures the beauty of Puerto Rico’s culture and leaves us wanting more!” – Robert Dugoni, author of Suspense Magazine’s 2018 Book of the Year, The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell
“C.I. Jerez’s AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE is an astonishing debut; an eloquent, moving, and heartfelt story about a young mother’s efforts to claw herself back from the precipice for the sake of her young son, even as she is convinced that she is beyond redemption. Jerez’s compelling prose and deep insights into Puerto Rican culture elevate this thoughtful and thought-provoking novel. I loved this book!” – Karen Dionne, author of the #1 internationally bestseller The Marsh King’s Daughter and The Wicked Sister
“Rich with culture, vivid characters, and elegant prose, AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE is a knockout debut by an author who is sure to leave a bright literary mark on this world. I was swept away.” – Boo Walker, bestselling author of An Echo in Time
Excerpt
Tropical flowers, dry cooking wine, and Fabuloso from freshly mopped floors receive us with a warm greeting. The familiarity is similar to the sun-kissed, leathered skin of Mami’s bony arms when she wrapped them around me in the yard earlier. I know this life, but I don’t trust it. I’m not a part of it any longer. Any of it.
My maternal grandfather sits on an old leather La-Z-Boy watching a baseball game on the television with the volume turned all the way down. He doesn’t look at me, seemingly unaware of my arrival. Mami had forewarned me that his mental state had declined to the point he was unaware of most things except baseball. While rocking lightly back and forth, Abuelo’s eyes light up as one of the players in a Puerto Rican jersey comes to bat.
Clanging pots chime in the kitchen when my grandmother peers out.
“Bendición, Abuela,” I greet her while she wipes her hands on her apron. Her outstretched arms reach toward me, and she carries the slight hunchback of aging and a degenerated spine. My arms reciprocate to receive her. I bend down to allow for a kiss on my cheek. For the first time since I arrived on the island, I feel like I’m back in my own body.
When we embrace, the top of her head reaches the center of my chest. She shrank since I last saw her.
“Que Dios te bendiga, mi amor,” she says.
The waft of delectable scents from the kitchen follows her into the living room, and my stomach growls. I am again surprised by my hunger. They say the island air has this effect. I guess it’s true.
“Come, Lina. Look at what your abuela and I have prepared for your arrival,” Mami says from the kitchen. I nearly announce how they “shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” but stop, remembering anything less than extravagant gratitude at the feast before me would generate unspoken offense.
“Wow, Mami,” I force out, eyeing a kitchen filled with a variety of different colors and various-size pots. These have been handed down from at least one generation, possibly two. They rest on each of the four burners. “The food looks delicious. Thank you for going to so much trouble for us.”
Mami blushes with pride. “It’s no trouble.”
I kiss her cheek, then look around for Teó, but Papi has already taken him away. They must be in the backyard, admiring the vegetable garden, the plantain and fruit trees, and his prize chicken coop.
By the size of the pots and the rich aromas filling the small space, I can already guess the traditional dishes inside each of them: arroz con gandules, ensalada de papa, pollo guisado, and boiled batata.
Three covered aluminum trays sit on the kitchen counter, one stacked atop the other. I can easily guess the contents of each one. On the top, a green salad with thick, crescent-shaped chunks of avocado, the large kind, fresh from the trees of the Caribbean. The second must be ensalada de coditos, with thick squares of ham, peas, and mayonnaise dressing. Lastly, for Teó, the bottom is dessert. I’m pretty sure it’s rice pudding. Tía Kika would have given Mami a heads-up in preparation for our arrival.
“Lina, te ves muy flaca. Tienes que comer,” Abuela says, admonishing how thin I’ve become.
“I know, you’re right,” I agree. No matter the excuse, there’s never justifying weight loss. It is always better to look a little fuller, vibrant, and well fed in this house than thin. Here thin means misery. Touché.
Mami’s eyes search me. I bet she’s assessing how bad I’ve gotten.
She doesn’t know what happened overseas, but she sees the weight loss, coupled with my sudden departure from the military, despite my previous assurances I would use the army’s programs to go to medical school, serve twenty years, and retire by forty to open my own private practice. I’m sure Tía Kika has offered her two cents on the matter. The woman she picked up on the tarmac wasn’t the same as before. Everything else could be surmised.
“There’s a gift from your tía Lisandra on the coffee table,” Mami says. “She wanted to be here, but she is the president of the housing authority in her urbanización, and they’re having their monthly meeting tonight. I promised to make sure I gave it to you.”
Tía Lisandra, the oldest, became the family matriarch on Papi’s side following Mamá Lina’s death three months after my grandfather’s. Tía Kika, the youngest, says my abuela died of a broken heart after fifty years of marriage. She called it romántico. Papi remained mute on the matter. Tía Lisandra scoffed, infuriating everyone with her assessment that her mother’s death was caused by a lifetime of foolish infatuation and servitude to a man who never respected her independence and individuality. It was a harsh stance, but following her own divorce, Tía Lisandra frequently referred to herself as a wise feminist. Mami said she was a man hater.
I couldn’t imagine what she’d decided to give me. For her, leaving the army was a professional failure. She’d finally broken her silence and said as much via voicemail the night before. To her I was quitting, giving up on my future, relinquishing my potential, and any possibilities she ever dreamed I might achieve. I force back the angst at the memory of the dark-purple roses. I don’t think I want to see another of my aunt’s “gifts.” Her presence here to receive Teó and me would have meant so much more.
The gift bag glares at me ominously. I walk past my abuelo with trepidation and reach for the glossy silver bag filled to the brim with bright-gold crepe paper. “Is this the one? For me?” I call out.
“Sí,” Mami says, stepping out into the open space and casting a worried glance over at my grandmother. Abuela eyes the bag as though something is ticking inside. “Go ahead, Lina. Open it.”
I reach in, my fingers running against a soft and light material. That’s weird. Reaching down, I pull out a bright-red satin-and-lace nightgown with a small handwritten message on the gown’s tag.
Since you’ve chosen to trade in your uniform and your independence, here’s a little something in your journey to finding a husband.
About the Author
C.I. Jerez is a proud Latina who was born in Miami. Her mother, a native New Yorker, blessed her with both Puerto Rican and Irish roots, while her father, a Cuban immigrant, inspired her to embrace the culture of the Caribbean. These multicultural influences, including growing up on the West Texas border in El Paso, have shaped her desire to bring Latina and Latino characters to life in her stories.
After graduating from the University of Texas at El Paso, she commissioned as a signal officer in the US Army and rose to the rank of Major before transitioning out of the military. She holds an MBA from Webster University and a doctorate in international business from Liberty University. When not writing, she serves as cofounder and vice president for Ashire Technologies & Services Inc., a cybersecurity firm specializing in securing federal information systems. She lives in central Florida.
