I braced myself. After Gran died, people came to me and shared stories of death and destruction. I suspected they thought it was somehow a comfort. But it was more an initiation into a club you never wanted to join. And they wanted to teach you the secret handshake.
Instead of over-sharing, however, she motioned to Justin. “This will help.”
He held out his hand, and she dropped three small, pale-yellow tablets into his palm.
“It’s Xanax, dear. I always keep some handy for when I fly. Sometimes, I take them when I’m not flying.”
Before I could thank her, she returned to her magazine.
He gave me the pills, and I stuck them in with my vitamins and Ambien. For now, the vodka was doing the trick, but I might need them later.
When I woke, the pilot was announcing our approach to Guayaquil.
“You were out. I almost held a mirror up to you a few times to check for signs of life. Then you started snoring, and I knew you were good.”
I ran my fingers through my hair and wiped the sleep from my eyes. Justin grinned and tapped the corner of his mouth. I touched my own lips and discovered what I hoped was only a small amount of drool.
“I must look like hell,” I said and excused myself to go to the restroom.
In the harsh lightning, I saw the damage was worse than I expected, but I attempted a quick clean up, dabbing at smudged mascara, applying lipstick, and brushing out tangles. The result was less than satisfactory, but it wasn’t as if I were going to a party. It was more as if I was preparing for a wake.
Chapter 13
The pilot announced our descent to Guayaquil and informed us it was the largest city in Ecuador. From the air we could see an array of brilliant greens and blues. He explained that the Guayas River ribboned through the dense foliage. The pearl of Ecuadorian commerce, it often changed course twice a day. From what I had read about the area and its manic history, this fickle body of water was the perfect symbol for the country Ben considered safe. Not so much for Stella, though.
From the window I saw an array of colorful rooftops stacked into the hillside. At first, the city grid was carelessly defined. Streets started and stopped with no apparent plan. Buildings were scattered like children’s blocks. The nearer we got to the airport, the more order was restored. Our landing was a moderate white-knuckler for me, as we bumped and bounced to a halt. Justin continued reading his magazine until the plane came to a full stop.
I was stiff and sluggish waiting in the customs line. A website I visited warned of dishonest agents rifling through bags to steal loose valuables, but I saw no evidence of anything suspicious. The interior was modern with an organized and efficient system in place. The personnel were polite and friendly. Several mounted plaques proclaimed Guayaquil’s airport the best in South America.
Once they checked our passports, we headed for ground transportation, where Mike’s friend waited to drive us to the hotel. Before I could ask Justin how we would recognize him, a bronzed man in an orange and green shirt covered with parrots, knee-length denim shorts, and an Atlanta Braves cap approached.
“Grace Burnette,” he said. “Mike sent me your picture.” He held up his cellphone with a photo of my mother and me at her last birthday party on the screen. “I’m Harry, Harry Davenport. Welcome to Guayaquil.” He tipped his hat, revealing short salt and pepper hair. His smile unleashed multiple creases around his eyes and mouth. “And you must be Justin McElroy. I’ve heard good things about you.” The men shook hands.
“Here, let me take that.” He picked up my bags, and I didn’t protest. Almost ten hours of traveling weakens a woman’s need to assert her independence.
While my mother’s boyfriend had the build of a former college football player, tall with wide muscular shoulders and long legs, Harry Davenport was more of a wrestler. I guessed him to be around five-nine with thick arms and thighs. Like Mike, his stance suggested he’d been in the military.
Justin looked our escort up and down before following him to the parking area. He put his hand on the small of my back in either an unexpected gesture of affection or a proprietary statement. We passed a winding pond filled with fat goldfish and surrounded by palm trees, the only exotic touch in an otherwise typical airport setting. A steady drizzle emphasized rather than relieved the heat. Harry set our bags on the curb and instructed us to wait while he brought the car.
Minutes later he appeared in a black Ford Bronco. He hopped from the driver’s seat and escorted me to the passenger side. Justin loaded our luggage and sat behind me.
“Mike’s got you booked at the Wyndham,” Harry explained as he pulled out of the lot. “You’ll have an incredible view of the river from the Malecon, the city’s Riverwalk.”
The farther we drove from the airport, the less modern the city became. Small dwellings with roofs and doors painted in tropical colors were sprinkled in next to newer multi-storied buildings. Little chapels shaped like ice cream sundaes interrupted commercial areas with an occasional full-fledged cathedral asserting itself in the middle of the block.
He continued his narrative. “Guayaquil doesn’t have much in the line of tourist attractions. And the local bigwigs are fighting the reputation of being Ecuador’s most dangerous city. They beefed up security at the Riverwalk and around your hotel, but I’d still be careful. And avoid those yellow taxis. They aren’t always the real deal. Passengers get kidnapped, robbed and beaten and worse.”
I shivered at the duality of the place.
“Here we are,” he announced as he turned into the Wyndham lot, situated across from tenement dwellings painted in vivid oranges, reds, blues, and yellows. As we neared the boxy units, they became less vibrant. Peeled paint and cracked foundations, so close to the casual elegance of our building, were disorienting. A lighthouse with a swirled blue tower, topped by a golden dome, overlooked the apartments. Next to it, the Ecuadorian flag waved high above the cluttered chaos of the city. The hotel curved outward toward the river, away from the hillside homes. The arrangement was a subtle reminder that proximity means little in a world of haves and have-nots.
Harry parked in the check-in area and we walked into the lobby. Soft gray carpeting and furniture were surrounded by multi-paned windows, which offered spectacular views of the river, now sheeted in mist. A tree decorated in gold and silver with rows of twinkling lights sat beside a Nativity scene, reminding me Christmas was less than three weeks away. Only a week and a day since someone had murdered Stella, but it seemed a lifetime ago.
Before, whenever anyone asked if I had any siblings, I would shake my head and smile. “No brothers, but I have this incredible sister.” Now, what would I say? The simple answer “no” wasn’t right. Wouldn’t that negate Stella’s existence and somehow lessen my own? But “yes” didn’t work either. I’d entered the ambiguous world of loss.
I had become the main character in a fairy tale gone horribly wrong. Once upon a time, I had a sister, but an evil force ripped her from me.
I turned my back to the glittering tree and the Virgin Mary’s luminous face.
“Earth to Grace. You were a million miles away,” Justin said. “Why don’t you check out your room and freshen up. We can meet in the bar in an hour, get some dinner, and talk about what to do tomorrow.”
Images of steaming water and luxurious soap and shampoo were so enticing I barely noticed the conspiratorial looks exchanged between the two men. I suspected Mike had talked to them and they were making plans without me. It made sense for them to be in charge but giving up power gave me a helpless feeling.
When Ben and I were together, I’d given him permission to make important decisions for me. After he left, it took a long time for me to regain confidence in my judgment, to retake control. I ne
ver wanted to lose it again.
An attentive young man in a loose-fitting cotton shirt bearing the Wyndham emblem helped me with my bags. I worried on the way up about how much to tip him. To single-handedly dispel the myth that women are bad tippers, I give more than necessary. Lesroy said it’s because I’m an insecure feminist. My ex cautioned against the habit, especially if I was staying more than a day or so since it set an unrealistic tone.
I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my bag and watched the boy’s smile grow wider. Screw you, Ben.
My room was bright and clean. The blue carpet matched the trim of the thick white comforter on a king-size bed covered with six enormous pillows. A large flat-screen TV was mounted above the dark wooden dresser. The bath had a shower tub and lots of expensive-looking lotions and shampoos. In the next twenty minutes, I used them all.
I slipped on a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Thanks to Lesroy’s insistence, my layered haircut was both stylish and easy to manage. Requiring a minimum of fluffing and drying, it framed my face with strands of caramel highlights my stylist promised would emphasize my high cheekbones and make my silver-gray eyes pop. After a little mascara, I’m not sure if pop was the right word, but I looked better than when we’d landed. And I accomplished it all in less than forty-five minutes.
With time to spare, I considered Stella’s letters, lying on the dresser. After my mid-air breakdown, I knew to be more cautious about how to approach them.
I distanced myself from the pain by telling myself These aren’t from your dead sister. No. They’re clues to a mystery you have to solve. No reason to get emotional.
I opened the envelope marked “Letter two.” She wrote it in May, a few months after they left the States.
Dear Grace,
It’s early morning—no, not Stella-early like you and mom used to say—but early early, just after sunrise. I see a lot of sunrises from my bedroom window. Today I wanted to watch it from the balcony, but I didn’t want to wake Ben. Now that he doesn’t work every day, he hates mornings. Should I not mention him? It’s hard not to because so far, I haven’t made any new friends, and he’s the only one around to talk to, except for Eva, our housekeeper, but I don’t think she likes me. And I keep thinking by the time you read this, he’ll only be a bad memory for you. I guess that means I will be, too.
Anyway. What I meant to say is that when I woke up and saw the ocean, I wanted to take a picture and send it to you because I know how much you love the beach. But you wouldn’t look at it, so I stayed in bed. I thought about the nights we stayed awake talking in our room at Gran’s. Mom yelled at us to get quiet, but Gran never raised her voice. She came in and whispered it was time to go to sleep so something good could happen in the morning. I always tried to wake up before you, so I’d be sure to beat you to whatever good thing was waiting. That’s what I did today. I didn’t stand outside on the balcony and breathe in the sunrise and let the salty air wash over me, I lay waiting for that something good to happen.
Still waiting.
I folded the letter into its envelope and placed it back in the packet. I pictured Stella miserable and alone and dismissed our grandmother’s optimism.
Chapter 14
Justin and Harry were at a table near the entrance to the bar, drinks in front of them. Harry stood, pulled out a chair for me, and said, “You look livelier.”
Justin signaled the server. When I asked her about the beer selection, she recommended a pale ale brewed in Montañita. It was the country’s first and only beachside brewery, and they had just started shipping to Guayaquil.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for a beer drinker,” Justin said as our server delivered my order and poured it into a cold mug.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I guessed there wasn’t that much since Mom had most likely provided a full bio on Grace Burnette.
“I’m sure there is,” Justin replied and lifted his drink. “Here’s to finding out more.”
“Sounds good to me,” Harry chimed in and we clinked our glasses.
The golden ale went down easily, malty with a fruity aftertaste. I stared into my drink as the bubbles drifted upward. Ben had been a pseudo-wine-connoisseur, throwing around terms like rustic, oaky, and vegetal. He’d insist I try this or that Merlot or Pinot when all I wanted was a Bud Light.
“Harry and I’ve been discussing the best way to approach the situation. Why don’t you fill her in?”
Harry finished chewing a pretzel and washed it down with a sip of his drink. “Most people get their ideas about autopsies and criminal investigations from TV and movies. The truth is even in the States, it’s not an exact science.”
He caught the eye of our server. “In Ecuador it’s even less so.”
I fought the bile rising in the back of my throat, painfully aware of where this was going. This time, I ordered a vodka tonic.
“Are you saying they refused to do an autopsy on Stella?”
“It’s more complicated than that, Grace,” Harry continued. “A few years ago, Guayaquil’s police force—hell, the entire country—came under scrutiny because of the high murder rate. It was only slightly higher than the US’s, but it wasn’t doing the tourist industry any good. Guayaquil doesn’t offer much in that department anyway. But it is the jumping off point for the Galapagos, and the bigwigs were afraid people would hesitate to come to one of the most violent cities in a violent country.”
My drink came, and I downed about a third of it. Justin pushed the bowl of pretzels toward me, but I ignored them.
“The government pledged to lower the murder rate, and, according to their data, it’s working. They cleaned up local police departments—better training, more funding. The emphasis was on getting people to work with the authorities to prevent murders. That meant the pressure was on the cops to perform. One way to cut down on the killings is to under report them. Nobody’s been keeping track of accidental deaths.”
“Are you saying they ruled Stella’s death an accident?”
“That’s right, accidental drowning.”
“But I thought Mike said something about her body being…” I couldn’t put the description of a broken Stella into words.
Justin spoke. “They explained her condition as trauma from the wreckage of the boat. They aren’t planning to investigate.”
“We could find a doctor in the states and ask for a second opinion, right?” That Ben might get away with staging my sister’s death as an accident filled me with anger strong enough to pull me from despair.
“We’ll try, Grace,” Harry said. “But don’t get your hopes too high. The only one who can request anything regarding the case is Ben. I set up a meeting with a friend at the consulate’s office to see if he’ll help us.”
I stood, rushed toward the restroom, and made it just in time to throw up into a gold inlaid toilet. I sank to my knees for another round of vomiting followed by dry heaves that wracked through my body. When I emptied the contents of my stomach, I remembered I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch on the plane, at least eight hours ago. After what I hoped was my last bout of heaving, I realized someone was holding my hair back.
“All done?” Justin asked.
I struggled to my feet, avoiding eye contact with the man who had just seen me hugging a toilet. Sure, it was a sleek marble toilet, but it was still a toilet, and I’d been clinging to it with my head only inches from the water. He guided me to the seashell-shaped sink complete with elaborate gold-plated faucet. For an awful second, I feared I would throw up again, this time all over the sparkling fixtures, but the feeling passed. He handed me a wad of wet paper towels, and I held it against my throat.
Before I could thank
him, the restroom door flew open and three giggling women burst in. They were dressed for clubbing—sheer peek-a-boo blouses, visible bras in shades of black and red, short tube skirts, and frighteningly high heels.
“Sorry, ladies.” Justin blushed and turned to me. “If you’re okay, I’ll wait for you outside.” He was out the door before I could reply.
The women assumed positions at the mirror, applying and adjusting make-up while I made sure my face and dress were clean before rejoining the men at our table.
“Are you all right, Grace?” Harry asked.
I was still shaky, but it was the genuine sincerity of his tone that almost brought me to tears. Dealing with people locked in grief is tricky. If you ignore the pain, it’s as if you don’t care. But if you acknowledge it, you risk unleashing the beast. I breathed in deeply, then said the worst had passed.
Justin suggested I needed to eat and rest. I questioned the wisdom of eating but agreed to order something later. He insisted on escorting me to my room before he and Harry went to dinner.
My stomach lurched with the sudden motion of the elevator, and I stumbled as dizziness overcame me. He wrapped his arm around my waist as we walked down the hallway. After prying the key from my shaking hands, he opened the door. Once inside, he led me to the bed and eased me onto the mound of pillows. While I tried to get the room to stop spinning, he brought a cool, wet cloth and put it on my forehead. Then he ordered toast and ginger ale.
The same happy bellboy who carried my bags delivered the food. I noticed what I took as a look of disappointment when Justin tipped him. Even in my sorry state, a twinge of triumph at striking a blow in defense of female tippers lightened my mood.
The Sometime Sister Page 7