Gwen sniffles and wipes a tear from her face with the back of her hand. My words hang in the air like a storm cloud.
“Okay, yes, I guess it was exciting to be with Patrick—at first,” her tone is weary and forlorn. “But once you found out it changed everything. It wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t exciting. I felt dirty.”
“Then why’d you keep seeing him?”
“I was confused!” she wails. “I thought I’d lost you—that you were never coming back. Losing you caused me to see what a fool I’d been. I didn’t realize what an incredibly rare and beautiful thing I have with you…that we have together. I kept calling you but you wouldn’t take my calls and when you finally did, it was like talking to a statue. All the while, I had Patrick telling me to forget you. Okay, yes, it is true that I kept seeing Patrick even while I called you and tried to get you to come back to me, but I was not sleeping with him. Not anymore.”
“You expect me to believe that?” I sneer.
She is adamant. “You’re partly right when you talk about a consolation prize, but the consolation prize was not you—it was Patrick. When it looked like I had lost you forever I decided to salvage what I could, to see if out of the wreckage I could build something with Patrick. You were the one I wanted; Patrick was the one I was prepared to settle for. I tested him to see if his interest in me went beyond sex. You are right. I was just another trophy in his case. Once I realized that, it was fully and completely over between Patrick and me. I ceased all contact. Around this time, you started talking to me again. Just to hear your voice filled me with so much hope that I could reunite with the one man who made me truly happy. I was—and I am—prepared to do anything to win you back, even if it meant flying out to an island in the middle of nowhere just to spend time alone with you.”
I stare at her, uncertain what to say. She looks so earnest.
She takes my hand with both of hers and presses it to her heart. “I know I’ve lost your trust and you have no reason to believe me, but everything I just told you is true. Something horrible has happened between us, and it is all my fault, but I still believe we can move on from this.”
I pull my hand back and face the sea. It is so vast and empty. If only I could take all the anger, all the hurt I feel and throw it into that bottomless depth. How light I would feel—like being reborn.
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “It kills me to see the pain on your face and know that I put it there. Nothing I do seems to help. I don’t understand what I am doing here. Being with me only makes you miserable.”
“And being without you makes me miserable,” my voice is raw. “I can’t win, either way.”
“Phillip, let me ask you something,” she turns me around so that we are face to face. “I need to know this or else there’s no point in hurting ourselves any further. Do you still love me?”
I look into her eyes—those beautiful, beseeching eyes—and feel my heart disintegrating. The faith I’ve lost in Gwen cannot explain the intensity of the pain that sears my soul. If my agony only involved Gwen’s lies, then I would gladly believe the lies, turn a blind eye, and try as much as possible to believe in the illusion that was us. No, I realize that Gwen’s infidelity cost me two people: the woman I loved and the man I loved to be when I was with her.
“Phillip, please tell me. Do you still love me?”
“No,” I rasp.
A rush of emotions plays across her face—first surprise, followed by sadness, like a candle sputtering out. I start to speak, to say something else—maybe even to take back what I just said, but in that instant, all the lights in the resort go out, plunging us into total darkness.
Chapter Five
“Gwen?”
“I’m right here.”
“I can’t see a damn thing,” I look around waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of light. “We must have lost electricity.”
The half moon barely sheds enough light to see three feet in any direction. I hear the waves crashing nearby, and feel the sea spray on my face, but I cannot see the ocean at all.
“The power outage must be affecting the other resort,” Gwen says. “The lights on the resort across the bay are out, too.”
I look to where I believe the other resort to be. In the impenetrable black, it is difficult to be certain. Gwen is correct; no lights twinkle back to us from across the bay.
“A power line may be down,” I suggest. “Let’s head back to the restaurant.”
We say nothing as we trod towards the restaurant. Surrounded in endless black, walking in solemn silence, I wonder if this is what death is like. A Greek myth springs to mind—that of Orpheus descending into Hades. Orpheus, stricken with grief over the death of his young wife, journeys to the realm of the dead to retrieve her soul. He sings a song of such beauty that the lords of the underworld permit him to take his wife’s soul back to the land of the living on the condition that he does not look behind him as he leaves. As I trudge in the darkness back towards the restaurant, Gwen silently following me, I imagine this is what Orpheus would have felt like. I cannot help but remember the myth ends badly; as they leaves Hades, Orpheus suspects his wife is no longer behind him and turns to check. She still followed him, but for breaking the rule against looking back, ghostly hands drag her to the realm of the dead, separated from Orpheus forever.
As my eyes adjust to the absence of light, I discern the shapes of the bungalows that line the beach. Tiny spots of light hover near the restaurant. Cigarette lighters. The people in the restaurant huddle around the small flames. I hear other guests emerging from their bungalow, stumbling in the darkness, and calling out in dismay over the power outage.
We ascend the restaurant steps to find Jonas Dunlap returning from the kitchen with a bundle of tiki torches and a large flashlight. “This should shed some light on the situation,” he lights the torches and passes them amongst his staff to disperse around the restaurant. He tries to use the flashlight but it does not turn on.
“That is odd,” Jonas empties and reinserts the batteries to no avail. “These batteries were not that old. Ah, well, now I know the meaning of the phrase when it rains, it pours.”
Jonas whispers instructions to the head of his wait staff, and then speaks to all those gathered in the restaurant. “I apologize for the inconvenience and assure you our back-up generator will be on momentarily. During this short wait for the electricity to return, I recommend you take advantage of our gracious staff and expert bartenders. If anyone wishes to return to their bungalow one of the staff will guide you, however I recommend remaining here until the lights come back on.”
“What the hell just happened?” Conner approaches the group with Alexandra and some other guests in tow. He wears the same dress shirt he wore earlier in the day, open to the waist, a white towel draped over his shoulders and his hair wet and slicked back. “I was in the middle of taking a shower and then it went black.”
“I am afraid we have temporarily lost power,” Jonas explains in a soothing tone designed to keep everyone calm.
“You’ve got bigger problems than that,” Conner asserts, his voice a little too loud. “There’s no water pressure.”
Jonas arches a questioning brow.
“Yeah, there’s no running water,” Conner says. “I couldn’t even finish my shower.”
“He still has the conditioner in his hair,” Alexandra volunteers to Conner’s annoyance.
One of the bartenders tests the faucet behind the bar. With a loud gurgle, water spurts out, but immediately dwindles to a trickle. With evident consternation, Jonas tents his fingers and touches them to his lips.
“I don’t see how this could be,” he muses aloud to no one in particular. “Unless the water plant also lost power, in which case the outage would be island wide.”
“I hope no one needs to use the loo,” one of the British guests gripes. Other guests mutter unhappily.
“Any water plant would have a back-up generator,” Bill advises.
“The water pressure should be back soon. Call into town—to your sheriff, or whoever your authorities are. Let them know we’ve lost power.”
“Hmmm, yes,” Jonas agrees, his brows still wrinkled with concern. “In the meantime, let me check on our own generator. Please, everyone, order something from the bar while we make this inconvenience as brief as possible.”
The calypso band switches to acoustic guitars and steel drums to play again. A few stalwart couples make light of the disruption to their otherwise lovely evening and resume dancing.
Following his instructions, the staff encourages the throng of guests to take a seat at one of the tables so they can take our drink orders. Pamela and Bill beckon me to join them at their table. I begin to walk over to them and realize Gwen is not moving.
“You coming?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” she advises without looking at me, her tone flat and emotionless.
I leave her and sit with Pamela and Bill. A waiter comes for my drink order. The disorder from the power outage mirrors the confusion in my heart. It seems that nothing in this world works as it should—from the machines we build to the relationships we have to each other.
“A double shot of rum,” I say to the waiter.
Pamela guffaws and slaps my knee. “That’s the spirit. When life hands you an impossible situation, getting plastered is an excellent option.”
She only refers to the lack of electricity, but her advice is especially apt for me considering the shambles of my personal life. Bill and Pamela discuss the power outage; I am not paying attention. Gwen stands at the bar, making small talk with other guests, not looking my way. I am sorely tempted to head back to my room pleading some excuse—a headache, upset stomach, anything just to be alone again. Coming to this resort was a mistake. My marriage is over. It is obvious now. These past few months I deluded myself into thinking it could have any other outcome.
Emotions churn within me like a cyclone. Anger, sadness, doubt. I am even angry with myself. Gwen offers herself to me, willing to endure whatever she can to bring us back together, and I am the one unwilling or unable to get over what happened. No! I shake my head as though to cast out this unwanted thought. I was not the one who cheated. I should not feel guilty just because I am unable to forgive her infidelity. Besides, Gwen is not the woman I believed her to be, therefore our marriage was a fraud. Gwen might be comfortable continuing to live a lie; I am not.
And yet, if that is true, why don’t I just get up and leave? Why do I keep glancing at Gwen hoping to catch her eye—hoping she will leave the people gathered at the bar and come sit with me?
Amidst my turmoil, one thing is clear: It is going to be a long couple of days until I am home again. The thought of feigning happiness to the other couples for several days and then returning to my loveless bungalow with Gwen is unbearable to me.
The waiter returns with our drinks. Pamela clinks her martini glass to mine and jests, “No electricity. No running water. Tiki torches to ward off the darkness. However, I have an ice-cold martini that embodies the perfect balance of gin to vermouth. At least I’m roughing it in style.”
Across the room, I spot Jonas Dunlap conferring with Owen, the man who picked us up from the airport. At this distance, it is impossible to hear what they are saying to each other, but from Jonas’s grim expression and sharp hand gestures coupled with Owen’s bewildered expression, it is safe to assume the news is not good.
At a nearby table, a woman remarks that her cell phone is dead.
“But I just charged it,” she complains.
“Hey, mine is dead, too,” responds another.
A murmur ripples through the crowd as other guests check their phones. I stand up. Something is seriously wrong.
“Bill, check your watch,” I say.
“Why, this can’t be right,” he says. “It’s at least an hour off. It seems to have stopped. Is your watch working?”
“Mine is working, but it’s a wind-up,” I reply.
The guests mill about in confused, anxious groups, like children who lost their parents in the mall. I cross to the edge of the restaurant where the wooden deck ends and the beach begins. I lean against the rope that acts as a guardrail, squint and peer across the bay.
Bill is at my side. “What is it?”
“Look,” I point into the darkness.
“What am I looking for?”
“That’s just it. There should be a red flashing light on that island across the bay. That light has its own generator; it does not rely on a power supply from the mainland. The light isn’t flashing. It is gone.”
“So it is,” Bill exclaims. “What does this mean?”
I am about to venture a guess, but a commotion near the bar stops me.
“What is going on, Jonas?” A frustrated guest demands. Everyone moves to the bar to listen. “You said the back-up generator would be on by now. What did the authorities in town say?”
Jonas pauses. “Actually, our phone lines are also down. We have been unable to call them.”
“And you are just informing us of this now?” asks an incredulous older woman. Her face is as taut as the leather on a wallet from what seems to be multiple face-lifts. Botox injections have rendered her brow as smooth as a field blanketed with snow. The total placidity of her expression is completely at odds with her alarmed tone of voice.
“I did not see the need to trouble any of you regarding the phone lines, especially in light of the fact that our generator would be on shortly,” he responds.
“Then why isn’t it on?” the botoxed woman shoots back.
Jonas looks at rows of angry, worried faces. For the first time I sense he is losing control of the situation. “Please, I must ask for everyone’s patience. Unfortunately, the back-up generator is also malfunctioning. We will continue working on it to return power to the resort as soon as possible.”
“I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” I advise. They all turn to me; Gwen locks eyes with mine. “If what I suspect is true the back-up generator will not work. Nothing that relies on electricity will work. I believe we just experienced an E.M.P. blast.”
It is obvious from their blank expressions they do not understand what this means.
Conner grips the towel around his neck like a lamb tossed over his shoulders and asks, “What the hell is that?”
“An electro magnetic pulse,” I speak slowly and deliberately. “It’s a surge of energy that fries electrical equipment. Cables, wires, batteries—any device that uses them will be rendered inoperable by the blast.”
“What blast?” snaps a surly British man close to my age. “There was no blast. Nobody saw an explosion. You’re talking out of your arse.”
Some guests become increasingly dismayed, while others look at me as though I were a babbling idiot.
“It’s not a blast you would see,” my voice rises above the noise of the crowd. “If this is what occurred—I am not saying for certain that it has—it occurred in the uppermost levels of the atmosphere. We wouldn’t see anything or feel anything.”
“Please, everyone, I am sure there is a simple explanation for this,” Jonas waves his hands to settle everyone, and then he casts an irritated look my way. “There is no need to begin speculating wildly. I understand this is a major inconvenience. We will do everything in our power to make this as tolerable for you as possible. I’ve sent Owen into town to ascertain what has happened.”
No sooner do the words pass Jonas’s lips then Owen enters the restaurant.
“The van won’t start,” Owen hands Jonas a set of keys.
There is no response from anyone—just mute bafflement.
Finally, Jonas speaks, “Try the other vans.”
“I tried them all. Nothing. I think the batteries are dead.”
“This confirms my theory. We’ve had an E.M.P. blast,” I speak up. “Engines will not start—not so long as they need an electrical spark to kick on. It’s likely every vehicle on the island is useless. In t
he blink of an eye, we’ve gone back to the Stone Age. Help must come from outside the island. Doesn’t a commercial flight land every day on Isla Fin de la Tierra? We can tell the pilot what happened and an emergency generator can be flown in.”
“That could take days,” Amy gasps.
Someone in the crowd asks, “What are we going to do for electricity in the meantime?”
Jonas turns to Owen and orders him to scour every tiki torch and candle he can find. “Since it seems none of our automobiles are functioning I will send someone on foot into town to find more information. Perhaps someone from the town is already on their way over here to inform us what occurred. In the meantime, my staff and I will endeavor to make this situation as tolerable as possible.”
“But the toilets aren’t working,” Don insists. “Where are we supposed to go to the bathroom?”
Jonas—previously so sophisticated and courteous—wavers with distress by the fact that he must discuss provisions for the waste elimination of his guests. “I realize this is incredibly challenging for all of you. We will provide buckets for those purposes.”
A plump British man at the back of the crowd bellows, “Buckets! What kind of nonsense is this? We are not living in the Dark Ages.”
“We will close the restaurant shortly,” Jonas announces, a total reversal from his earlier advice for us to remain drinking at the bar. “Your safety is my first concern, followed, of course, by your comfort. So that you are not wandering in the dark trying to find your rooms, the staff will escort you. We will provide candles…and any other items you may require. Hopefully this issue will be resolved by morning.”
Several in the crowd continue to grumble and gather in small groups to vent their displeasure, but the staff begins closing the restaurant, dispersing the irate crowds before they turn into a rowdy mob. A waiter holding a tiki torch guides a batch of us down the winding path to our rooms. It is so dark and the bungalows so identical that several times we try to enter the wrong one. Gwen and I reach our bungalow. The waiter hands us a small citronella candle and a bucket. Alone with Gwen, the room is as cheerful as a tomb. The gloom swallows the candle light. Without air conditioning, the air in the room is heavy and warm. Fumbling with my hands, I open the sliding glass door at the back of the room and throw the heavy curtains back to let fresh air into the room.
Last Resort Page 6