by Hagen, Layla
"But that's what I did," I say horrified, looking at his deformed back. "How do I get the claws out?"
"You can't. It's okay, I'll just take more time to heal."
"What if the spiders are venomous?"
"You were bitten about six times. You'd be comatose now if they were poisonous spiders."
I bring him a new shirt from his bag and help him put it on. "Can you help me to the cockpit?" Tristan asks, pushing himself up.
"No way. You are sleeping on this seat. I want to keep an eye on you."
"No." His refusal is strong, more of a command. I'm at a loss for words, so I silently help him into the cockpit. I’m appalled when I see it. It's the first time I've been in it. The place is tiny, and his pilot seat doesn't recline like the passenger seats.
"Tristan, you can't sleep here. There's no space."
"I'll be fine." He sounds so weak; his words are scaring me instead of reassuring me.
"Tristan, please come to the cabin," I plead. He shakes his head. "Don't be stubborn, I promise you I don't snore."
He chuckles, but then his chuckle turn into a grimace of pain. "Close the door and make sure you get some sleep."
Panic wracks me at the thought that something may happen to him. It’s so powerful and frightening, it chokes me up, making me forget about my own hurting arm. The idea that something might happen to him is unthinkable. His safety is important to me. Scratch that. He is important to me.
I barely get any sleep. My arm bothers me, and I can't stop wondering why Tristan insists on sleeping in that claustrophobic room. I shudder, remembering how weak he looked. Faint sunlight lances through the windows when I finally fall asleep.
The pain persists the entire night, keeping me awake, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I try to avoid sleep whenever I can anyway. Pain shoots through my back. I grit my teeth and stay still. I’ve known worse pain. She hasn’t, though. I strain my ears, trying to hear beyond the silence surrounding me in the cockpit, beyond the door. The thought that she might be hurting is excruciating. Someone like her should never, ever, know pain. I listen intently to hear if she’s crying. She isn’t, though she must be in pain—or at least very uncomfortable—from her bites. I breathe with relief. She’s stronger than I thought. Extreme conditions tend to bring out the worst in people. But not her, though she looks so fragile.
Of course, one of the first things I found out about her from Maggie, the Moore’s elderly housekeeper, was that Aimee wasn’t as fragile as she looked. Since I drove Aimee to the mansion regularly, and waited for her for hours, Maggie had plenty of time to tell me stories.
Maggie had been Chris and Aimee’s babysitter from the time they were toddlers. She knew Aimee well, and told me Aimee had been through a rough period, losing her parents before starting college. She was proud that Aimee had coped so well—that she hadn’t turned into a recluse, and remained kind and warm. That described Aimee perfectly. The first Christmas I spent in Chris’s employment, I learned that Aimee buys Christmas presents for every member of the staff. Maggie had told me Aimee had asked around for advice on what to get me, because I was new. But no one could help, since I wasn’t close to anyone.
She bought me a picture frame. She seemed uncertain when she gave it to me, but I thanked her politely, in awe that she’d gone to any trouble for me. She bought me a picture frame the second year, too—still looking unsure when she handed it to me, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had nothing to fill the frames with. The memories I had collected over my adult years didn’t make for good pictures. On that first Christmas I started thinking that if I wasn’t so beyond hope, if I could have a woman, I wanted her to be like Aimee. Strong. Kind. And why not admit it—I’m no hypocrite—beautiful. I wished Aimee could be mine.
Since we’ve been here, that wish has grown exponentially. I wish I could take care of her and make her happy in the way she deserves. I wish I could start fresh with her. Together, we’d build enough beautiful memories to fill those frames she gave me. My attempts to keep my distance have grown pathetically weak, because letting her inside my head has turned into therapy. Every little thing I share with her suddenly seems to get a new, brighter meaning. Therapy isn’t the right word. Addiction is. A dangerous one, because there are things I never want her to know…
I punch the seat when the pain in my back reaches a level beyond just gritting my teeth. Good timing. The pain rips me from my thoughts. Thoughts I should never have.
Wanting another man’s wife should be punishable by law.
Almost wife, I remind myself. Almost. That doesn’t make it less unforgivable.
When I wake up the blotches on my arm are almost gone, but I can't move my fingers—my hand, actually. I hurry to the cockpit and find Tristan is already awake. He’s so weak he can't stand up. He eyes my arm and my stiff hand, and when I tell him I can't move it he replies, "It'll pass; I'm sure the spiders weren't the poisonous kind. At least not the very poisonous kind."
I put up a brave face and help him stand up. He's far worse than I am. He can barely walk, and as soon as we descend the airstairs, he asks to rest. He has a shirt on and won't let me look at his back, instead asking me to bring him a bunch of sticks, the kind we used for the fence and shower. I drop a pile of sticks next to him, and he starts chopping one with his pocketknife, frowning in concentration. He doesn't offer an explanation for what he's doing, and I don't ask for one. Since he can't move, he needs something to occupy his time. I put a can of water next to him.
Considering the position of the sun, it must be past noon. "I'll search for eggs and wood for the signal fire," I say.
He nods, but doesn't say anything.
“Are you in pain?”
“No. It hurt last night, now it’s numb. It’s like the nerves are paralyzed or something and I can’t move by myself.” All of a sudden he clutches his left shoulder, grimacing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask in alarm.
“Just a cramp,” he replies, breathing frantically, one hand groping his shoulder. Without thinking, I put my non-numb hand beside his on his shoulder, squeezing gently, hoping the cramp will pass. After a few seconds it does, and his breathing becomes even, but I continue the light massage, in case the cramp comes back. I’m too preoccupied with my own thoughts to realize his breathing pattern has changed again—it’s quicker, sharper. Not because the cramp is back. When something that resembles a moan too much reverberates inside his chest, I freeze. I pull back my arm so fast, my own shoulder snaps lightly. Avoiding Tristan’s eyes, I say, “I'll go now."
I’m thoroughly confused making my way through the forest, unsure what to make of what just happened.
A bird in a tree steals my attention. I stare at the tree even after the bird is out of sight. I'm jealous of the trees rising high, high above us. It's as if they want to scrape the sky, steal bits of clouds and sun rays, hide them in their thick foliage, and then drop them in undulating cascades over us, bringing light to the dark beneath the canopy. Some forms of life thrive without light: like moss and ferns. But others don't, and they desperately try to reach the canopy and the light beyond. There are trees that latch themselves onto other trees, enveloping them, strangling them in their fight to find light and escape the suffocating darkness. I empathize with them, though it's not just the darkness that suffocates me. It's the routine of every day, the repetitive tasks required for survival. They threaten to drive me crazy. I yearn to sit in an armchair and devour a good book, or a newspaper. The three magazines in the plane have been read cover to cover multiple times. I've memorized every word. I’ve read everything, from the technical books of the plane to random instructions written on doors, until I ran out of new things to read. At this point I would be glad to read anything new, even instructions on how to use toilet paper. Anything to break off the repetitiveness would be welcome.
The day passes in a blur. I’m exhausted and move slowly. After finding enough wood for the daily signal fire, I search for eggs. It takes twic
e as long to find anything, since most of the nests are in the higher trees, and I can’t climb high today with my numb hand. It takes a while to find a nest and it only has two eggs in it. That will have to do. Trudging back to the plane, my stomach growls and the sun is starting to set. I build the signal fire first, then cook the eggs. The numbness in my hand is almost gone. When I approach Tristan my jaw drops. He wasn't playing with the bamboo sticks. He made weapons. A few spears, arrows, and two bows.
"I should have made these a while ago, but there was so much to do, I never had the time. Making a good bow takes a lot of time, but these are solid. It should be easier to get food now."
"You need exceptionally good aim to hit anything with a bow and arrow," I say, raising an eyebrow.
"I've got good aim," he says. "It's your aim we'll be working on."
"Why?" I ask, stuffing half a boiled egg in my mouth. I realize just how hungry I am with only half an egg left. At least it’s already dark, so we'll go to sleep soon. Tomorrow I'll be climbing trees for more eggs no matter what shape I’m in.
"You need to be able to defend yourself from animals." Considering the howls we hear at night, I can't argue his point. We haven't encountered any predators yet, but that can change. "And you need to be able to keep yourself fed."
I grin. "You're doing an excellent job at it."
"Yes, but you can't depend on me; maybe you'll be forced to do it yourself at some point. Something could happen to me, and you'd be left on your own. You're good at finding eggs and fruits, but…" His voice trails as he registers the shock on my face. The meaning of his words inching to my brain, the shock spreads through me until half of my body is as numb as my left hand.
"Let me look at your back, Tristan," I say in a trembling voice. He hesitates for a moment, then nods. I raise his shirt and gasp. In the light of the flickering fire, I see the skin on his back is twice as swollen as yesterday, and so red I have to look closely to make sure it's not raw flesh.
I want to gag.
"So it's as bad as it feels, huh?" he asks.
"But how…is this all because the claws are still inside?"
"Partly. It might be an allergic reaction. I'm allergic to bee stings, but no other animals. Then again, I’ve never gotten bitten by this type of spider before."
"This doesn't look like a regular allergy, Tristan."
"Well, did those spiders look like regular spiders to you?"
"Let's get you inside the plane."
I help him to the seat where I usually sleep, then get the first aid kit. "There's nothing except the insect cream, and that didn't seem to do much."
"No, it didn't," he agrees. His forehead is covered in sweat beads. When I touch it, I realize his skin is fevered. "The andiroba tree we saw some time ago, do you think its leaves would help? I don't even know if they can be used if they're not processed…"
I spring to my feet, as an image flashes before my eyes: the pharmacy smelling like freesias I went into in Manaus with Chris, where I saw the anti-insect and arachnid cream tubes with the andiroba tree drawn on them. "Well, it's our best bet." My stomach clenches, remembering the tree was very far into the forest. Farther than I go during daytime without Tristan by my side. "I'll get it," I say, sounding far braver than I feel.
"But you are afraid to go in the forest at night." It's true. Going out of the plane at night terrifies me. The sounds are loudest and most ominous then. "I'm more afraid you might die. I don't want to be alone here."
Tristan bursts laughing. I cover my mouth with a hand.
"I'm sorry, that came out horrible. I didn't mean it like that…" I say between my fingers.
"Understandable feelings," he says jokingly. "Not the best place to be alone."
"Can you describe the leaves of the tree? I didn't pay much attention, and don't want to risk coming back with the wrong leaves."
His next words come out so weak, I have to strain to hear him. "Well, they are green and…" He takes a deep breath and starts gasping for air.
"Everything around here is green, Tristan. I need more than that," I say, attempting to joke. But Tristan no longer seems to be able to concentrate. Realizing I won't get more details about the plant, I put on my most reassuring smile.
"I'll get it, I remember now what it looks like. I just need a torch." Not the easiest thing to do. I can't just light a branch; it will burn off. Tristan showed me how to make one. A month has passed since then, but I remember the instructions. I need to wrap fabric around the top of the branch, pour animal fat on it, and then light it up. We have fat stored outside, but I need a piece of fabric first. As if reading my mind, Tristan says between gasps, "Take my shirt and wrap it around a branch. The shirt you ripped apart yesterday."
"No. I'll sew that one back together. We can't afford to waste any single piece of clothing." As the words roll off my lips I realize… there is one piece we can afford to waste. One that will never be anything but impractical to wear out here.
My wedding dress.
With small steps, I head toward the back of the plane where I put the dress. With trembling hands, I unzip the protection bag and suck in my breath.
Strange.
The sight of my dress doesn't unleash the torrent of emotions I experienced when I put my dress away, weeks ago. But the tumult of despair that wrecked me that day rears its head anew as my fingers curl around the knife.
"Don't, Aimee. I know what that dress means to you."
The weakness in his voice snaps me from my moment of weakness like a lightning bolt. I don't hesitate and drive the knife into the fabric, cutting away a strip.
"I'll be back as soon as I can." I hold the white fabric in my hand. "I'll find the tree, I promise."
It's dark outside when I step out of the plane. Very dark. I stumble in the general direction of the wood shelter. I find a branch to make a decent torch and wrap the fabric around it. The makeshift metal container of animal fat is on the floor of the shelter. Tristan stored the fat of a sloth we found dead last week, saying it would be handy in case we need torches. We were supposed to need torches in emergency cases—this counts as one. I put the metal container on the smouldering signal fire, melting the fat, and dip the fabric in it. Then I put the torch over the fire, and it starts burning.
As the flame grows, my breathing slows down, my heart stops racing. This is good. Light is good. Fire is good. Beasts are afraid of fire, aren't they? Nothing will attack me while I have this. Holding the torch up, I enter the forest, clinging to this idea. I take small steps deeper in, and I feel a dreadful tingle on my feet; something is trying to crawl up my running shoes. The creatures slithering on the forest floor don’t care about my torch. Trying not to concentrate on them, I keep my eyes on the flame, watching it burn the white fabric. I once read white is the color of hope, so I chose white instead of ivory for my wedding dress, because I found hope fitting for a wedding. Hope for happiness. A bright future.
How bittersweet to watch that hope burn away shred by shred. I tighten my grip on the branch, hearing howling sounds around me. My heart rate picks up; sweat breaks out on my forehead. What's making the sounds? Some sort of owls? Monkeys? Or something worse? I wish I couldn’t hear them, but if there is something inescapable here, it’s the sounds. The jungle never sleeps.
It feels like I've walked forever when I reach the place where we saw the andiroba tree. I try to remember what its leaves looked like. Long and oval, perhaps. I spin around, looking for one with oval leaves. I see trees with round leaves, star-shaped leaves, spines, and no leaves at all. But no oval ones. I go in circles until I notice one with leaves that come closer to oval than anything else. I cut a few handfuls of leaves then realize I didn't bring anything to carry them in. Brilliant, Aimee. Just brilliant. I pull at the hem of my T-shirt and put the leaves in it. Keeping my eyes firmly on the leaves, trying not to drop any, I walk back to the plane. I'm halfway to the plane when I hear a growl. Animals are afraid of fire, I remind myself. I'll be all r
ight. But the light from my torch is significantly weaker. I raise my gaze from the leaves to the torch and stumble in my steps.
The flame.
It's almost gone. I remember Tristan telling me such a torch would last ten or fifteen minutes. I've been gone longer than that. My feet shoot forward at the same time panic sets in. I run, faster than I ever have, terrified I will lose the leaves, but more terrified that the flame will vanish, and I won't find my way back. Pain slices my calves from the effort, branches scratch my cheeks, as I move faster. The light goes out before the plane comes into view, but I'm almost there, so I keep running, tripping, falling, rising, and then running again, until I find the entrance in our makeshift fence. I don't stop until I reach the airstairs. I drop the useless torch, grabbing the airstairs to steady myself. I'm shaking like a leaf, fighting hard the urge to collapse. I don't look at the T-shirt I'm clutching, for fear I might have indeed lost all the leaves. When I can't postpone the truth any longer, I look down and breathe with relief. I've lost a lot of the leaves, but there are enough left to hopefully help. I grab one of the water baskets. If his fever doesn't subside, he'll need to keep hydrated.
Tristan is worse. Much worse. He's pale and soaked in sweat. Despite that, he smiles when he sees me. "I was worried something happened to you."
"How did you find any energy to worry about me?" I say, filling our soda can with water and helping him drink. My fingers touch his cheek. He's burning up.
After drinking the entire cup he says, "You're not the only one who isn't overjoyed with the idea of being alone in this place." I flush, remembering my insensitive comment from earlier, dread overwhelming me as he grins again. The fact that he forces humor in his voice means he's not just looking, but also feeling, worse. I show him the leaves. "These are the ones I meant, yeah," he says.
"Let me put them on the stings."
It's all I can do not to vomit as I take off his shirt, apply more of the insect cream, and then cover his back with leaves. I'm not very optimistic, but I try not to show it.