We chat with author C. I. Jerez about At The Island’s Edge, which follows an Iraq War veteran who returns to Puerto Rico to reconnect with―and confront―the past in this heart-wrenching novel about duty, motherhood, and the healing power of home. PLUS we have an excerpt to share with you at the end of the interview!
Is there an author that’s had a big influence on your writing? How so?
Yes, my overall writing has been most influenced by Jodi Picoult. I discovered her books in 2009, introducing me to the multiple points of view writing style. I remember how impressed I was by her ability to create unique voices and perspectives for each character. Her stories tend to have an interesting question at the center of a controversial topic, and she does a great job exploring all sides of the argument. Most importantly, I think Picoult tells powerful stories that explore important issues. That’s critical to my storytelling. I want to tell bold and powerful stories that entertain and make readers ponder things from a new perspective.
For AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE, Robert Dugoni has been highly influential in my writing. In January of 2022, I read The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell. It was the first book I’d ever read by him, and I read it the same month I decided to pursue writing full-time. I was so incredibly inspired by the character Sam that I began to dream about creating a little boy who wanted his story told, too. That little voice turned out to be Teó, Lina’s son.
Serendipitously, I came across Bob a few months later at a conference in NYC and told him about the story I was writing. He autographed my journal and encouraged my journey. Nine months later, that manuscript earned me an agent and eventually a book deal with the same publisher that published Bob’s book and inspired this whole thing.
I will always be thankful for the magical spark of another author’s story. You never know what it might ignite.
Why do you think your agent and, soon after, your publisher were so eager to publish AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE?
I chose a topic that I was deeply passionate about. My passion for these characters and the book’s themes made me very conscientious about framing the story. It also forced me to challenge whether or not I was going “deep” enough in the writing. Constructing a novel about something vitally personal shifts your efforts in all the best ways. If you want your reader to experience the topics/ideas/places you’re passionate about with the same interest and importance you place on it, you’ll put your heart into the words. I think that shows up on the page.
There were also two unique hooks for this book. First, we’ve had minimal insights about women in combat on a large commercial fiction scale. Kristin Hannah’s The Women began to change that. However, until recently, all the post-combat stories in books and Hollywood have centered on the male experience.
I also think that while we’ve had some fantastic Puerto Rican artists in mainstream American entertainment, we haven’t had much exposure to life on the island itself. I’m seeing that shift. People are interested in having diverse experiences when reading.
Both things make the novel timely by offering an up-close view of topics that haven’t been all that visible before.
Your bio highlights Irish, Puerto Rican, & Cuban parentage. What made you choose Puerto Rico as the setting for this book?
I’ve lived and/or worked in Puerto Rico on three different occasions for a combined total of five years. That gave me firsthand experience of the island in a way I can’t claim for Cuba or Ireland. With a debut novel, I wanted to lean into what I knew. I needed that sense of intimacy and familiarity to deliver my promise to the reader, and I felt I had that with Puerto Rico.
Also, when I was thinking about ways to help Lina on her journey to healing, I kept returning to the magic of this little island and how happy and accepted I felt each time I made its shores my home. The people on the island were almost universally full of love and kindness.
I wanted to take an opportunity to show unique and differing perspectives about the island, that it isn’t just a tropical vacation place, but so much more. Having Eli’s, Lina’s, and even Dolores’s perspectives gave me a perfect avenue to explore cultural pride and present a new place in many different ways.
What was it like joining the Army in 2005, knowing that we were heavily engaged in two individual wars—Operation Iraqi Freedom & Operation Enduring Freedom?
It was terrifying, especially because when I raised my right hand and swore to die for my country, I had two young daughters at home who were 9 and 3 years old. I spent almost 12 months away from them in training before I was assigned to my first duty station. And there were times I thought I’d get sick from the heartbreak of missing my children.
It is a spiritual calling when you’re a parent and sign up to join the military during wartime. I made the decision to join after graduating college, when the wounds and memories from 9/11 were still fresh in my mind. I felt a deep calling to be a part of something bigger than just my individual purpose. I had always wanted to wear a uniform and stand for something important, and after finally graduating college, I heard about the Officer Candidate School program, and it felt like it was the right time to do it.
What could be more important than defending people’s right to freedom?
When I decided to pursue military service, I understood the risks I was taking and the sacrifices that could be required for me and my daughters, but I also knew that if they were faced with the worst-case scenario of losing their mother at war, then they would always understand the power of courage, the importance of one’s willingness to give everything for what you believe in, and the power of being a woman who believed in following her dreams no matter where they led. These are principles that I still wish for them today now that they are grown women navigating their own individual journeys.
I think the OIF/OEF Veterans across all branches have a deep sense of unity and pride within our ranks. We all had a job to do. We all trained to support the mission one way or another at installations in the U.S. and around the world. We have the memories of a very united country that rallied together in the fight for freedom and the protection of our nation. These are realities I will always carry in my heart and memories that have given me a sense of purpose and meaning in a unique and special way.
This novel tackles some heavy topics such as Post Traumatic Stress and using alcohol to numb the symptoms. How many of your ideas came from what you saw while in service?
A lot of it. At least eighty percent of the soldiers I served alongside deployed in support of OIF, OEF, or both. For the soldiers under my responsibility, it was my duty to lead them, know them, look out for them, and help guide their careers. This means I often saw their struggles and their unwillingness to admit to those struggles. That only lasted until things usually got out of control, or they were battling severe depression symptoms and needed to get help before it was too late.
I don’t think there was enough focus on the transition home after a deployment war. My husband was part of the fifteen-month extension in 2007. He worked 12-hour days, seven days a week, for the entirety of his deployment in the country. While he never turned to substances or alcohol, the transition back was hard on him and our family, and there were experiences and conversations during that time that I locked in my mind in order to write an authentic story down the line someday.
AT THE ISLAND’S EDGE is that story.
It was also important to me to have multiple post-war veterans serve as beta readers. I’ve been blessed by the general consensus that while this book shows some of the many faces of PTSD, the portrayals are honest and accurate.
Lina’s son battles Tourette’s Syndrome, is that a condition that was close to home for you? If not, why did you choose this condition?
While I have not raised a child battling Tourette’s, I do have a child within the close ranks of our family who has been diagnosed with a neurological condition. I have watched his parents manage his diagnosis with love, patience, and acceptance, and it has inspired me on a very personal and profound level. Not having experienced this type of diagnosis directly, I chose a condition that affects many families but that would also allow me access to thorough research and the ability to gain perspective directly from the voices of the children navigating their symptoms. I found that Tourette’s, like most neurological conditions, presents differently and requires a unique and tailored approach for each child to manage in a way that works best for them. I was incredibly inspired by my research on the resilience and strength of children affected by this condition. I knew Teó would give me a way to honor those kids and educate people, in a very general way, about what Tourette’s could be and how much an amazing fictional mom could love her son with such grace.
Eli’s background is a unique choice for a novel based in Puerto Rico. How did he come about, and did you have any doubts about how he’d fit into the overall dynamics?
I had the pleasure of living in South Carolina for three years while my husband was stationed there. Understanding that I planned to make this a deeply personal and authentic novel, the character from the continental U.S. I wanted to plant in Puerto Rico had to be a character I could thoroughly connect with.
There is so much richness to the culture in “The South.” In many ways, the culture I immersed myself in while living in South Carolina had strong commonalities to Puerto Rico. So, I had no doubt Eli would “fit” seamlessly with Lina and her family and the island way of life.
My specific experiences and background gave me insights into both places, and it would be a shame not to leverage that, especially when I wanted Eli to be a point of view the majority of my readers could easily relate to.
Recognizing that most of my readers may not be familiar with Puerto Rico, I wanted to offer a complete island experience. This was why I chose to highlight three unique perspectives. We have Lina, who has left and returned to the island, Dolores, who has never left, and Eli, an American expat who has chosen to make Puerto Rico his home despite lacking traditional family ties to the island. I think each perspective is uniquely beautiful, and each one adds to the story in its own way.
How have your own personal experiences, either in service or elsewhere, impacted your writing?
I used to wonder why my life was full of so many twists and turns because, at times, it was pretty exhausting. As a military spouse, I had to keep my chin up each time we moved. That was never easy because each place was so different from the last. I also had these high-profile jobs in multiple industries, and every time we moved, I had to get a new job. In one season, I was learning about the regulated medical device manufacturing industry; in another, I was focused on warehouse safety and successfully running millions of square feet of warehouse operations across the US. These experiences have allowed me to serve on global teams, travel internationally, and work closely with people of all ages and backgrounds.
As a writer, I realize now what a gift all of that was! Over the last twenty years, I have filled the bucket with material for diverse, robust, and interesting stories.
My identity as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, soldier, mentor, employee, and more has helped me shape my characters’ inner thoughts and struggles. I’ve been out in the field with my soldiers and listened to what a tent full of young military men talk about at night when they forget there’s a woman in the space. I’ve been in the executive board rooms where I’m the only woman in the room and the only minority. Those experiences have given me very unique insights into worlds I would never have seen and experienced otherwise.
I feel incredibly blessed that all my personal experiences have given me pages and pages of ideas for so many books! I pray for the chance to write each and every single one!
How do you hope your novel will inspire Latino and minority communities?
First and foremost, I hope my novel helps a wider audience see the real beauty of Puerto Rican culture. Puerto Rico is so rich and vibrant. After reading this book, I hope readers will want to book a trip and experience it for themselves. The island’s economic environment is highly dependent on tourism. So, go and visit the beautiful Island of Enchantment!
I hope my novel inspires people to read more. I was very intentional about writing a story that grappled with heavy themes like combat and post-traumatic stress but didn’t sensationalize any of it. I kept the story focused on the inner struggle, the family dynamics, and the power of home and place so that anyone could read this book and focus on the heart of the message.
For my Latino readers, my novel is a mirror that reflects our stories, struggles, and triumphs. It offers a positive and authentic representation of who we are. I hope that by engaging with these stories, readers will feel a sense of connection and pride in their heritage.
Ultimately, whether it’s through promoting literacy, fostering a love of reading, or inspiring a call to military service, I will be proud if my book helps someone embark on a beautiful journey.
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.
My face warms, and I assume I match the material. For a split second I believed her gift might be a genuine token of affection. I know better. Her gifts are always a test. This one is a reminder of how she sees my worth now that I’m returning home and walking away from the bright future she envisioned for me. I think about her favorite reference—a simple mindset, a woman who grows up to be nothing more than a silly wife.
“Did you guys know about this?” I ask, looking up.
Abuela shakes her head in disappointment. “That woman always has a unique way of making a point. Don’t worry, Lina. We all know you are going to achieve great things here in Puerto Rico. Your tía Kika tells me you want to go to medical school.”
I shrug, the idea suddenly sounding far-fetched when spoken by someone else. Maybe Tía Lisandra is right, maybe someone’s silly wife is all I can hope for at this point.
Mami, ever the pacifist, says, “It’s lovely, Lina. I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it. Now let’s eat.”
She walks over to a small CD player in the dining room corner. Salsa music from the 1980s fills the room as she bellows Papi’s nickname in the hallowed call for lunchtime. I shove the inappropriate gesture back to the bottom of the bag.
On cue the back door slams shut. Papi chuckles at Teó’s triple sniffs as they make their way down the hall. He doesn’t understand Tourette’s syndrome. He believes the sniffs are an exaggeration—Teó trying to be funny. Papi’s generation didn’t pursue medical care for things like this. They chucked a medical condition off to a case of bad luck. If only it were luck, luck that could be reversed.
“Son, wash your hands for lunch,” I instruct when they reach the living room. I point to the small, pink-tiled bathroom in the middle of the hallway.
I follow behind him when a door at the end of the hallway opens. A young woman steps out in little more than a sports bra and a tiny pair of shorts that could pass for underwear.
She looks close to my age, maybe younger. Dark streaks of yesterday’s mascara pool under her eyes, and her disheveled jet-black hair is piled messily atop her head. I struggle to recognize who she is. One thing’s for sure: she appears to have had one hell of a night. From the looks of things, she is barely waking up. I’m shocked. It’s typically considered a mortal sin in my mother’s house to be out of bed any later than seven thirty in the morning.
Who is this creature? And why is she allowed to break every conventional tradition my parents hold dear?
Teó and I stand frozen in the doorway of the small bathroom and gawk at her.
“Hola, prima,” she says to me, her eyes still adjusting to the daylight streaming through the aluminum shutters on the windows.
“Prima?” I ask, working hard to place the woman addressing me as cousin.
She reaches out and wraps her arms around me in an embrace, kissing my cheek with teeth yet to be brushed. I bristle at the touch, wondering if all this hugging is ever going to get easier. I step back and look at her. Dolores? It has to be.
Tía Lisandra’s sole child is the only one from our generation with light eyes. Except hers are gray, like storm clouds, not the bright-blue sapphires Papi and Teó proudly bear.
It has to be her. Dolores was six years old the last time I recall seeing or even hearing about her. Once I left the island, she vanished from my life. My aunt kept her tucked away from everyone, including me. Looking back now, I wonder whether Tía Lisandra wanted to remove as much life on the island from my new reality in Florida as possible. She probably thought it would be a good way to get me to move forward. Now, twelve years later, Dolores is a stunning, if sloppy, eighteen-year-old exotic bird.
“It’s been so long.” I press Teó’s chin upward, closing his gaping mouth shut, and nudge him gently into the bathroom.
“Wash your hands,” I say a little more sternly.
“¡Qué bella! You are even more beautiful now, Lina,” Dolores says.
I’m struck by the compliment, especially when I measure myself against the young woman. I am doing everything possible to keep my eyes on her face and not the private parts threatening to spill out from the tiny sleep attire.
“Dolores.” Mami smiles. Somehow this openly hostile stance on the traditional LaSalle-Rivera household rules has no effect on her.
“Qué bueno que pudiste dormir. Ve y báñate, que vamos a almorzar.”
Seriously! The girl comes out in the middle of the afternoon—in underwear, no less—and Mami is pleased she was able to sleep well and recommends she shower before lunch? What kind of spell does this freak of nature have on my parents?
Papi walks over and slaps Dolores playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, it’s time to eat,” he jokes.
I have entered the twilight zone.
She grins wickedly at everyone. “Okay, okay.” She sashays toward the same bathroom Teó exited.
I walk over to the kitchen sink, dumbfounded by what I’ve witnessed. I wash my hands and grab the remaining plates and glasses to help Mami finish the place settings.
Papi takes his seat at the head of the table while my mother buzzes around him, placing his glassware and cutlery down. Little has changed. He is still the king preparing to dine with his paupers.
I swallow my disdain.
This is our culture. I know it, but I’ve never liked it, and I silently vow to teach my son to be better. Except how will I do that when I’ve dropped him right in the middle of it all? Well, we’re here now, two eggs in the proverbial frying pan. How do I find a way to hold more influence on him than his new environment? My stomach sinks, not only because of the gravity of my choice to come back here, but because, if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I’m up for being much of an influence on anyone. I’m barely hanging on.
Teó jumps into the chair beside Papi, already enthralled, which doesn’t surprise me. My father is and always has been the star of the show. It bothers me how little space remains for Mami and all her grace, but you’d never know whether she minded it. She always appears perfectly content to operate in his shadow, seemingly grateful that of all the women on the island, he chose her. I think she’s devoted to the notion that the remainder of her life will be an exercise of said gratitude.
That bothers me, too, but it seems frivolous when it doesn’t bother her. In any case, I have more than enough to sort through without adding my mother’s life choices to the mix.
Everyone except Abuelo sits down at the table. Abuela sets aside her own plate to eat with her husband separately, but she joins us with a bit of pan de agua, a local loaf of bread and butter.
The rest of us are serving our plates from the feast of offerings strategically placed in the center of the large table when Papi’s voice rings out. “So, Lina, now that you’ve come back home. What are your plans for work? With a degree in biology, I’m sure you can get a job at one of the local farmacéuticas. Maybe even in the quality department.”
I stare down at my hands at the mention of going to work in Puerto Rico’s most prominent industry, especially on the production line of a local pharmaceutical manufacturing facility. While I can’t disagree with the logic, everything about returning to the island and relinquishing my dreams to practice medicine feels like failure.
“That’s a possibility, Papi,” I answer quietly, hoping he changes the subject. “Teó and I are going to get settled in this week before he begins school next Monday. I’ll have a solid plan by then.”
His eyebrows raise as though he isn’t sure he believes me, but he remains uncharacteristically silent and pours the ice-cold two-liter bottle of Coca-Cola into his glass before passing it to Teó.
“Only a little,” I caution. “It has a lot of sugar.”
“Nonsense,” Papi replies. “He is a growing boy, and you just got here. We are celebrating. Relax, Lina.”
I remain silent at his admonishment—this time. I know when to pick my battles. Today isn’t one of them. I’m too edgy and too sober.
The food is served, Papi says grace, and we all dig in. Flavors of garlic, achiote, culantro, and fresh tomato sauce fill my senses with sentimentality. Tía Kika taught me how to cook, but there is something distinct about Mami’s hand in the kitchen. The warm, starchy saltiness of her garlicky tostones reminds me of more innocent times.
I take a bite, and I’m a young girl again, playing trompo with our spindle tops or cheki morena, a game where you had to “shake it” in the center of the circle of singing children.
“Lina,” Mami calls out, snapping me back to the present. “Why you no take Dolores a pasear.”
“To hang out,” Papi corrects her gently.
“To hang out,” she repeats, smiling at him.
I look over at Mami, confused. She’s speaking English, too?
Dolores’s voice bellows through the house as she holds a concert in the shower. My parents smile, endeared by the girl’s exuberance.
“Is Dolores visiting you guys?” I ask.
“No, Lina,” Papi answers. “She lives here now.”
“She lives here? Why didn’t you mention that when we talked about me moving back? Where will Teó and I sleep?”
“Lina, tranquila.” Mami’s voice drops. She stretches her arm across the table and places her hand on mine. “We added another room at the back of the hall. Papi built it last year. You and Teó will sleep there.”
“Yuck!” Teó interrupts. “I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with my mom. I’m too big!”
Papi chuckles and ruffles his hair with his large hands. “Of course you are, Teó. That’s why I put a sofa bed in the room for your mamá. You sleep in the big bed.”
“Así mismo,” Abuela agrees.
I roll my eyes at them both and take a forkful of rice and chicken, then a swig of the soda, wishing desperately it had two shots of rum to accompany it. Good thing there is always a supply of chinchorros, roadside bars.
Hanging out with Dolores may be exactly what I need.
I inhale the rest of my food as though I haven’t eaten in weeks. I guess I really hadn’t, not much anyway. I am swiping up the last grain of rice from my plate when Dolores steps out into the hallway, wearing nothing but a small towel around her tiny figure. She kisses Teó on the top of his head, causing him to blush a bright shade of crimson. He battles a series of blinks, trying not to look directly at her. Sniff. “Mamá,” he says nervously. Sniff.
“Teó, deep breath,” I whisper, not wanting to draw any more attention to him. It will only make it worse. He looks up at me and inhales deeply until his nervous system quiets again.
Dolores backs away from the table, unnerved by Teó’s reaction to her.
“Buen provecho,” she states politely, a local custom of wishing everyone a pleasant meal. “Lina, let’s hang out, okay?”
I nod, forcing away my discomfort at the invader. At least she presents an immediate solution in my desperation for a drink. “Sure, sounds great.” I punctuate my sentence with a tight-lipped smile, only halfway caring if she’s buying it.
My mouth waters at the thought of an adult beverage. Invader or not, my cousin’s presence is exactly what I need to help me relax and deal with the return to life on the island.
