Sixteenth, February, a month after her (somewhat surreal) arrival in this back-water Pacific town, and she had still managed successfully to avoid medical care, despite her aunt's practical, loving persistence. Actually, the warm acceptance of her father's sister had been depressing, and maddening, it violated her deep inner sanctuary of self-deprecation. If others accepted her, what right had she to be so disgusted with herself?

The sunlight did her good, though, and she loved that every morning she awake under a light sheet, in the warmth and the pleasantly heavy air, dusty with the house's age. On this particular morning, she stretched languorously, yawned with her whole mouth (and her jaw clicked satisfyingly), and, wrapped in a light robe, padded lazily downstairs towards the pleasant sounds of Aunt Maria and breakfast. "Good morning, Estrella," and Star had to smile at Maria's persistent use of the Spanish, "breakfast will be done soon, you want a cup of coffee? How are you feeling?"

Feeling? That meant another appointment set up at the hospital. Star sighed, "I'm alright, Maria. And you can call them and cancel it, I won't go."

Her aunt's face screwed up in frustration, an expression which Star recognised as only partly aimed at her, the rest was a doomed effort to construct over-long passages of English. Star went to the cupboard and pulled out a mug as she waited for her Maria's lecture.

"Estrella, va al hospital, usted tiene que ir al hospital, usted es enferma. Muy enfermo, y hay la gente que le ama. Usted tiene que tomar el cuidado de se, o me deja tomar el cuidado de usted. Please?" Her niece's mane of frizzed curls tossed as she shook her head, "No, I don't want to get worked up over the inevitable. I'm gonna let this go."

Maria snorted, "Everybody's death is inevitable. You get old, or sick, or into some accident or war or whatever. You need to preserve the life, push back what has to happen. Especially when the life in question is so young." Star knew, as she said these next words, that they were unfair. Why should she use this cruel bit of bullshit against the woman who loved her better than any other person in the world. But her lips seemed to move of their own accord, and she quoted, in harsh, deadpan voice.

"Such a young life, to be defiled like that."

"And those are her words, aren't they?"

Maria went flush with annoyance, old grievances stirred. She had never really approved of Star's mother, though she had developed a personal affection for her. 'You can like someone without liking how they treat other people," she had always said. Now, as she looked at her niece, young, bright, beautiful, sunken in despair and self-loathing, willing to let herself die rather than learn to live with herself, an angry love moved deep in Maria's breast.

"Why do you let her say that crap to you? Why do you let it into your head? Your mother is no holy blessed virgin, you know. She had Louise five months after she married my brother and-"
"It isn't about mama."
"The Hell it isn't Este! You let her tell you how to breathe and eat and think about yourself so much, you got yourself into this to get away from the life she giv-"
"You don't know! How would you know? It's my life!"

Now Star was angry, it was her life, it always had been: her mistakes, her hatreds and stupidities. And so she left her Aunt sitting there, and didn't say another word as she left the house. She raced out, sandals slapping the concrete, and she turned toward the sea- and the board walk. In winter, Santa Carla was a small town, and the people she passed smiled at her. They knew her, even if she did not know them. (She's a Hernandez, of the in-town Hernandez's, old Louisa's granddaughter. The girls of that family always DID carry on a bit, you remember... Anyway, she's the baby the oldest son had way out east, in New York, or some place like that. I hear she's sick or something, she's living with Maria and John now, Lord, what was her name? Estrella? No, no it was the English, Star. No wonder she's so over the top, such a name!) She ran on towards the shore - hoping.

***************

For what? For it to magically become the Atlantic? To some how, fantastically, be home? Stupid.
The sun was setting over the ocean; the beach was flushed red and fiery orange with its colour. Behind her the board walk nestled low to the sand, and no one was hocking hotdogs; the smell of roasted nuts was conspicuously absent. Besides, it was December, she ought to have felt the icy winds blowing from the north and east, cutting through her thin jacket, freezing even the marrow of her bones.
She fingered the crumpled five-dollar bill in her pocket, reflecting bitterly on the quality of pizza in Santa Carla, and the nonexistence of the bagel shops.