The show ended and it wasn’t until I touched my hands to my face that I realized I was crying. I left floating. Suddenly I heard “Macha!!! I’m here!” and I looked up—Andrea was walking toward me. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and looked sleepy. “Where have you been??” I said. “I looked everywhere!” She hugged me. “Sorry, sorry. The tent was too hot so I went to go sleep in the car with the windows down. My phone died so the alarm didn’t go off.” “I was so worried!” I said. “Don’t worry about me, silly. Even when you think I’m far away I’m always nearby. I’m always here.”
She said so many things like that that week—things I would reflect on for years afterward. We went to the hostel and I told her about everything she’d missed—the best show of all time! At the hostel I played her the song “Black as Night” and we lay on the bed, listening to it on repeat. I found a YouTube clip of an acoustic, live version of the song. We probably listened to it twenty times before we went to bed.
The next day we got to the festival early for yoga and spent the whole day there. We swam, listened to music, lounged in the grass, and just talked and talked and talked. There was a big, giant-sized dream catcher made of rope hung up between palm trees over one of the stages and we climbed up into it, dangling our feet from up in the air. “Can you believe that in only three months we are flying to Sweden? It’s so wild,” she said. “It’s mine and Gabriel’s biggest trip together for sure. And I’m finally going to meet the other bridesmaids! I can’t believe it’s in a castle. Whoa. What are all the Costa Rican hippies going to do in a castle?? I can’t wait to dance my butt off.” I could imagine it already; getting ready, putting our dresses on, doing one another’s hair, me nervous about walking down the aisle . . . Actually, just thinking about it made me nervous. “You have to calm me down in case I start panicking,” I said. Andrea started laughing. “You’re not gonna panic! You might turn into Bridezilla, but you’re not going to panic. It’s Dennis. It’s perfect.” I pushed her lovingly. “I know. And I’m not going to be Bridezilla!” “You sort of are already, just a tiny bit . . .” She laughed. “But in a good way! It wouldn’t be you if you didn’t obsess about all the details being perfect.” We laughed. I did want everything perfect and had had many a call with the vendors to alter things along the way. Suddenly she got serious. She looked at me. “Listen. I am so unbelievably proud of you. I don’t think I say it enough.” “Stop it,” I said. “I haven’t done anything special.” “No—I mean it. You’re building this whole life, with Dennis, you’re creating something that’s so beautiful. And I’m so proud to have you in my life. I love you so much.” She started tearing up. “Why do you have to be so sappy! You’re making me cry!” I said. “I mean it. Whatever happens, wherever we end up . . . I want you to know that. That I love you so much.” We hugged and stayed like that, holding each other, for a long time.
“Oh my god—look!” Andrea exclaimed. “It’s your music man!” She pointed, and walking toward us was Nahko, the singer from the show the night before. As he walked below us she reached down and touched his head. “Hey, music man! Up here!” He looked up and smiled. “Hey! What’s up! It’s a beautiful day, right?” “It sure is,” she said. He waved and walked on. “I’m bummed I missed that show! He seems like a cool dude. Oh well. You gotta learn how to do some things without me.” She leaned her head on my shoulder. I looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful, beautiful day.
You gotta learn how to do some things without me. I’d think about that one, too.
After a week together, we drove to the airport, listening to music and trying to come down from the high of our time at the festival. The closer we got to San José, the sadder I felt. I’d said good-bye to Andrea so many times before, so why was this time so hard? I wondered.
Pulling into the airport, I started to cry. It was the combination of so many things: the incredible week we’d just had, almost getting married, leaving my best friend . . . so much emotion wrapped up in one moment. Andrea squeezed my hand. “I know,” she said. Tears were streaming down her face, too. “I know.” We got out of the car and I pulled my suitcase from the trunk. “I don’t want to go,” I said. “I don’t want you to go either,” she said. We hugged, and as she let me go, I felt her hand go to my purse. I saw that she had left an envelope. “I didn’t want you to see it!” She laughed through her tears. “I wanted it to be one of those things you randomly find when you’re unpacking and then you call me and we smile about it together.” I smiled. “You have to get better at your sneaking,” I said. “Don’t read it now,” she said. “Read it on the plane or whenever you miss me.” “Okay,” I said. “I love you, gemela.” Andrea turned to look at me one last time before she stepped back into the car. “I love you, too,” she said. Then she was gone.
Sadness filled my heart. I cried silent tears through customs, and all the way into the plane. Why was I feeling so sad? I was going to see her in just a few months! Reaching into my purse for a tissue, my hand felt the envelope. As the plane took off, I opened it. It was a card. On the cover was a painting of a large spiral, framed by forests on both sides, with a shell sitting on the shore. As I studied it, the spiral seemed to move in both directions at the same time, an optical illusion. Transfixed, I opened it.
Always remember
Your light, your feet
In the sand
Your EARTH
Take care of that beautiful soul & body
I love you machita
For all the roads we have walked
And all the roads left to walk.
I love you.
Andre <3 Macha
Envision 2014
As I read Andrea’s words, my sadness shifted. I have such a beautiful life, I thought. In just a few months I would walk down the aisle to marry the man of my dreams, and my best friend would be by my side. Gratitude washed into the space where the sadness had been. I posted a photo of the card on social media with a message:
On a plane, crying. Jetlag tired, festival smelly, rainforest dirty. But covered in glitter. And feathers. And love. Happy heart. Blessed with the best friend anybody could ever ask for. Gracias gemela por el amor infinito. Por todos los caminos recorridos y los que faltan por recorrer.
love
10
* * *
PROCESS
Two weeks later I was lying in a hospital bed listening to that incomprehensible word echoing in the back of my head. Falleció. Andrea was gone. I’d lost my best friend. Life, as I knew it, was over.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Our time at the festival had been so unbelievably beautiful—I’d just hugged her a moment ago, and now they were telling me she was dead? That she was gone? It couldn’t be. I was in a state of shock, dialing her number again and again, waiting for her to pick up and tell me it was all some terrible mistake.
I felt like I was moving through a fog. I couldn’t stand up straight after the surgery I’d just had and my whole body ached, but nothing could compare to the feeling of despair I felt in my chest. It was slowly suffocating me. I lost the ability to function altogether and stopped eating and sleeping. Nothing mattered anymore. After a few days all I wanted was to be left alone because I knew that whenever I picked up the phone to dial Andrea’s number, everyone looked at me like I was crazy. They were all expecting me to understand, for it to sink in, but I refused to accept it as truth. How could the most alive person I’d ever known suddenly be dead? There was no way. I called her, again and again, hoping she would pick up, hoping she would answer and tell me it was all just a dream. She never did. I had so many questions. Andrea had been at a concert by the beach on the night of the crash. She and her boyfriend, Gabriel, had driven there separately. She was a few minutes ahead of him on the way back home. He came upon a traffic jam. People ahead of him had stepped out of their cars, trying to see what was going on. He heard someone say something about a car accident. “A bad one. A truck and an SUV.” Andrea drove an SUV. Gabr
iel left his car, the keys dangling in the ignition, and ran. He saw Andrea’s silver Toyota turned upside down, demolished. When he got to her she was still breathing.
He rode with her in the ambulance to the closest hospital but it wasn’t equipped to treat the extent of her wounds. They had to turn around and go to San José. When they finally got there, the ER resident in charge turned them away. They were out of the hospital’s jurisdiction, he’d said. The “right” hospital was thirty minutes away. In the papers afterward they called it “the ride of death.” The whole country would come to know of Andrea’s accident and all the mistakes that were made by medical professionals along the way. She was taken straight into surgery when they finally got to a hospital that would take her in. She was bleeding internally. Hours had passed since the accident. They performed surgery on her abdomen to stop the bleeding. In another country, at the same time, I was writhing with stomach pain. Andrea had two heart attacks. Her body couldn’t take it anymore. It seemed as if no one knew all the details of what exactly had happened, so I did my best to piece things together.
At first it seemed that Andrea had ended up in oncoming traffic, which didn’t make sense. She never used her phone while driving. She was a good driver and she’d driven that road so many times. Had she been looking for something and gotten distracted? Did she fall asleep? Was it possible that the extra minutes between hospitals made the difference between life and death? Later we found out it wasn’t she who ended up in oncoming traffic, but the truck. She never had a chance. In the end, did it matter? She was dead. I felt like I died with her.
The last time we were together, Andrea had told me, “Don’t worry, macha. Even when I’m far away I’m always nearby.” Then why couldn’t I feel her? Why hadn’t she given me a sign that she was near? Why had she lied?
A few days after my surgery, I was released from the hospital in Bonaire. My body was healing. My heart was not.
I posted a photo of Andrea and me on Instagram with a message for her. I wanted the whole world to know that we lost an angel and that my heart was broken. A part of me thought that if I spoke the words out loud, if I wrote them down for the world to see, it would help me understand that it was all actually real. That it wasn’t a dream. The time we spent together last time I saw you and the conversations leading up to your death were so intense, so full of love, I’m wondering now: why didn’t I see this coming? You left me more voice messages than you ever have, just telling me you love me. You hid letters in my suitcase. You hugged me so tight. Why didn’t you let me know those were the last days? Why didn’t you let me say good-bye?
Andrea was cremated in Costa Rica but I was stuck in Bonaire, waiting for the doctor to give me permission to fly. I still couldn’t walk or bend forward or stand up straight. All I wanted was to lie in bed under the covers with the curtains drawn, but Dennis wouldn’t let me. Every day, he opened up the drapes and carried me out of bed and held me under the shower. One day he even shaved my legs. “If you want her to talk to you, go sit by the ocean,” he said one morning. “Go at sunrise and meditate with the wisdom we all know you have inside. Don’t lie here in the dark. She is in the light, so go where there is light and speak to her.” I knew he was right, but the dark was so comforting. And what if I tried to reach her but she didn’t answer? Or what if she did? Then everything would be real and I preferred that it weren’t. Except I was starting to understand that it was.
Many of our friends flew in to be with us. I had an outpouring of support flooding my way but I felt none of it. The first sign of light came a few days later. After everyone had left the house we were renting I went with my friend Rose to sit on the dock in the sunshine. She swam and I lay on a towel. A feeling overtook me. I wanted to be naked—to shed some of the heavy layers weighing me down. But there were people on the island, so how did I dare strip down to nothing? I thought to myself, What would Andrea do? Andrea wouldn’t give one gram of a fuck. Andrea would say, “If you need to be free, you need to be free!” So I took it all off, ran screaming across the pier in all my glory, and threw myself into the ocean. When I came up to the surface there was light glittering all around me. It was so special—like I was swimming in a pool of it. I’d never seen light glistening across the ocean in that way before. The water was so soft, so clear, so comforting. I called out to Rose, “Hey!” “What?” she asked. “I feel something!” I shouted. “That’s good!” she said. I felt something and that was not nothing. Afterward I sat down on the pier and opened to the first page of a brand-new notebook. At the top of the page I wrote: “To the light that glitters across the ocean as the sun sets.” Out of me poured a love letter to Andrea. I sat there for more than an hour, writing to her. When I finished I felt a strange sense of calm in my heart. I realized there were many ways to talk to her. The light would show me the way. If only it would last; but grief doesn’t work that way. The moment dissipated as quickly as it came and I fell back into the darkness.
I started listening to the song “Black as Night” by Nahko and Medicine for the People again. Andrea and I had listened to the song over and over during the Envision Festival. It was our most recent anthem. Now it became my obsession. I listened to it on repeat. “I believe in the good things coming, coming, coming, coming.” I cried with the lyrics because I so badly wanted them to be true. I realized I was stuck in the in-between. I was still alive, but I’d lost the ability to be happy. I felt cold. Dead. Empty. I was supposed to be planning my wedding, but the thought of life returning to any degree of normal was too far away to grasp. I didn’t know what I was looking for. All I knew was that my heart was in San José and I needed to get there.
As soon as I was cleared to travel, Dennis booked the flight to Costa Rica. When we boarded the plane, I was in such an emotional spiral that another passenger asked the flight attendant to help me. I was hyperventilating and crying. They brought me water to drink, and tissues to wipe my tears, because what else could they do?
We arrived in San José and grabbed a taxi to Andrea’s house, where her whole family was waiting. Standing at the front door, I froze. Everyone was inside: Her mom, Doña Patri; her sister, Juli; her aunt and cousins; and Gabriel, her boyfriend. How will I face them? I wondered. I wasn’t sure I could. I looked at Dennis, standing on the sidewalk, holding Ringo in his arms. I could see that he, too, was terrified. “Are you ready?” he asked. “No,” I said. He hugged me. “You’ll feel close to her here,” he said. I opened the door.
Just inside was a table with flowers, a lit candle, and Andrea’s picture. She was wearing a scarf and smiling. Andrea’s mom saw me first and her jaw dropped. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost. She grabbed me and held me and I began to sob. This is so wrong, I thought. I wanted to comfort her, not the other way around. We held each other for a few minutes before she spoke. “I forgot how much you look like her,” she said. “For a moment, it was like she just walked through the door.” Her eyes were red and her skin pale. I greeted the others, and someone handed me a plate of food. That’s how it always was at Andrea’s house. It felt the same this time—except she wasn’t there, so nothing was the same. Everyone was talking and I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, Gabriel was standing there. His face was so tense I barely recognized him. We hugged for a long time. How would he get through this? I wondered. How would any of us?
Dennis and I slept in Andrea’s bed. That night I woke up crying from a terrible nightmare. I dreamt we were all staying in a huge house for Andrea’s funeral. It was so full of people I couldn’t find a place to sit. As I stood there, looking for somewhere to rest my legs, a family with a small baby approached me to say they were there for Ringo. I didn’t understand. Why Ringo? I asked. “Because you’re giving him to us, and we’re taking him,” they said. “This was decided months ago.” I turned to Dennis in a panic. “Who decided this?” I asked. “You did,” he replied. And then they took Ringo and he was gone. The dream ended with me screaming for him to come back. When
I awakened, I knew. Ringo was Andrea, but my mind still couldn’t process it. I couldn’t let go.
• • •
On our second night, Doña Patri asked me to sleep at Andrea’s house.
No one had slept there since the accident, but she insisted I go. “I think she would have wanted that,” she said. “Go sleep there tonight. See if she is there. See if you feel her. I feel so near her when you are here. Go stay in her space. Please.”
We made plans for Gabriel to take me; Dennis would meet up with us later.
Andrea loved her house. It was tiny but beautiful, nestled in the jungle on a mountaintop above San José. Gabriel’s knuckles were white as we drove. Sitting in the passenger seat, I noticed his car smelled really bad. Gabriel worked with sustainable fishing projects so I assumed there were fishing nets or equipment or something in the car.
To Love and Let Go Page 12