Over dinner that evening, we swap our phones back and forth, admiring the pictures from our adventure in between trips to the buffet. I remind The Child to send me the photos I like: The one of her holding the giant iguana, the one of us together, and she says she will.
We finish dessert, and decide we’re not done exploring, so we wander up the beach, pausing to watch hotel staff set up a dozen or more tables for romantic lobster dinners by sunset. At the end of the sandy strip, there is a narrow channel and then a rocky island, with a few rocks in between, as well as a couple of determined snorkelers.
We’re both wearing flip-flops, and holding our phones in our hands, so when The Child suggests we hop across the rocks, I suggest we go tomorrow instead. When we’re dressed for it, I say, and don’t have to worry about dropping phones in the ocean.
I’m going anyway, she replies, jumping to the first rock, then the next, but not the next because she misses and lands with a splash in water that is unexpectedly deep. I reach in to grab her but she says, I got this, and reaches to pull herself up, bringing the phone down with a whack on the ground.
I hand her a towel, and as she dries herself I take her phone and dry it with my towel, removing it from the waterlogged case, trying to find each last droplet before they get inside. I inspect the phone for cracks, but find none, so I hand it back to her.
She powers up the phone, and shows me the lock screen. See? No problem.
We head back to the hotel room, where we she chats on skype while I peruse the photos I purchased on the flash drive. I remind her again to send me the photos from her phone, and she says she will, but she’s busy with her conversation. A little while later, she looks at her phone, then complains, The battery is still dead. I think that outlet doesn’t work.
The outlet worked earlier, when my phone needed to be charged, so I suggest maybe it’s the cable, and give her mine. She plugs it in, but nothing happens, then moves to another outlet, where nothing happens. We let it sit for a bit, and check on it here and there, but the only thing the phone is capable of doing is very briefly flashing a symbol saying it needs to be charged, even though it’s plugged in.
She returns to her laptop and starts watching movies on Netflix.
I return to my laptop and try to troubleshoot her phone.
I ask if the photos are backed up on the cloud, and she says she doesn’t think so.
I google again, looking for the one website or chat thread that will tell me we haven’t lost the pictures of us being happy together for the first time in such a long time, but there isn’t one, or if there is, I can’t find it, and finally my frustration explodes.
God Damn It, why couldn’t you just have texted me those pictures when I asked you to?
Saying it doesn’t make me feel any better.
After a few minutes, The Child lets out a barely stifled cry and runs out of the room.