Chasing the Sun: A Novel

by Natalia Sylvester

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll see you there, then. And hurry. She needs you,” Lorena says, with a softness in her voice that Andres hasn’t heard in years.

  He races through the parking lot, barely slowing down for the speed bumps along the way, cringing as the underbelly of the car slams into the gravel. Ignoring all the cars that are honking at him and the drivers who shout for him to move, Andres leaves the car by the entrance and makes his way into the market.

  For a weekday, it’s busier than usual, and as he passes makeshift tents with wooden figurines and pirated cassette tapes, Andres searches for Marabela’s yellow scarf. The noises of the market—the vendors calling out to him, the patrons cursing at him to watch where he’s going—all of it falls away when he spots her. Marabela stands behind a mountain of kiwis, massaging them with two fingers before dropping a few into her bag. A few feet behind her, Andres catches Guillermo’s silhouette, discreet as a shadow.

  Andres calls to her, and when she looks up they lock eyes. Her eyebrows lift swiftly and settle back down in a moment of recognition. Suddenly, the apathy behind her eyes is gone; she can tell something is wrong, and he can recognize for once the part of her that hurts when he does, and finally, here, in this unlikely place, he starts to remember how it feels to know everything will be all right.

  He feels the vibration in his feet first, then the explosion in the distance. It sounds like the world is crumbling into thousands of little pieces. It happens so fast he doesn’t think, but his body moves toward Marabela, wanting to shield her from whatever is behind him, even as his eyes clench shut. It is only when he opens them that he realizes she’s no longer there. Through the rush of people running, through the sudden panic, he sees her, clutching Guillermo.

  The only thing worse than the explosion is the silence that follows. It’s like the moment at the end of a play, when the audience is holding its breath, waiting for the curtain to drop so it can burst into applause. Except this anticipation lingers, thick with fear. All around him, people are ducked, low to the ground, covering their heads or their loved ones with their bodies. Andres finds himself alone under the white-and-blue-checkered apron that hangs from the kiwi table. Slowly, like children after a game, people start to emerge from their hiding places.

  He hears a man say, “It came from over there,” as he points into the distance by the overpass.

  A woman behind one stand shakes her head, tapping her boxes of produce, carefully arranged in clusters of five tomatoes. “Another car bomb, I suppose. Bless the souls of whoever got caught in its path.” She makes the sign of the cross and goes back to her work, making sure all tomatoes are accounted for.

  He hears sirens somewhere far away.

  Andres isn’t ready to stand up. He crawls to where he spotted Marabela last. Loose pieces of gravel and dust scrape against the palms of his hands, and he lifts his knees off the ground, letting his weight fall to his feet as he makes his way past several fruit stands, looking like a bear on the prowl. He almost misses her, but her yellow scarf catches his eye. Except for the silk fabric waving like fire in the wind, Marabela is concealed by Guillermo’s body. Her hands stick to his back, pale and stiff, reminding Andres of two pieces of meat frozen together. Even from several feet he can see that she’s shaking. A stranger might think she was having a seizure.

  When he reaches her he lets his body fall to the floor, exhausted. “Mari! Are you hurt? Are you all right?”

  She’s on him so fast it takes him several seconds to realize she’s not embracing him, but hitting him. Her punches are desperate but weak, fueled by fear.

  “It’s your fault! How could you make me come out like this? You knew I wasn’t ready!”

  His first instinct is to defend himself, but not with words. Instead, Andres finds himself curled into the ground, arms up, shielding his face. He waits for the impact of her frail fists but then he hears Guillermo’s voice—a whisper, really. His arms are wrapped over Marabela’s, reaching around her from behind, and his lips are so close to her ears that Andres can’t hear what he’s saying. Fierce, quick breaths pump out of her, slowly giving way to a steady, quiet pace. After Guillermo helps her up, he extends his hand to Andres, who turns away.

  “Let’s go home,” Andres says, feeling like everything he’s ever known has been shattered in the explosion.

  When they get back to the car, Guillermo jumps into the backseat with Marabela, like it’s not even a question to be discussed. Andres heads to the driver’s seat.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” Marabela mumbles, over and over like they’re still running from danger. Every second it takes him to find his keys, grasp the right one for the ignition in his trembling hands, and turn on the engine is a second too long. A part of her wants to reach over the front seat and yell at him, hit him all over again, but the other part, the rational part, wins out. She lets her body sink into the seat until her head is ducked beneath the window. Guillermo sits beside her, one hand on the seat in front of him, the other arm stretched over the back, as if just by holding on he is anchoring both of them in place. His head turns in every direction as they pull away. His eyes are everywhere.

  “Make a left here,” he tells Andres. “We’ll double back to avoid the traffic jam on the highway. It’s safer.”

  Andres obeys wordlessly.

  From where she’s sitting, Marabela can feel the vibration of the engine stirring through her chest, can feel every bump in the road like it’s a mountain. It reminds her of being transported to an unknown destination, hands tied behind her back, face digging into the dusty carpets as she tried to rub off the blindfold in hopes of seeing where they were headed. She wants to sit up but her body won’t let her. It’s as if her brain is trying to send a signal that her legs are rejecting. This little alcove in the car is both her sanctuary and her prison, and she can’t will herself to get out of it.

  “You can come up now,” Guillermo says.

  She shakes her head no.

  “It’s really okay.”

  Eyes shut now. Still, no go.

  With her head practically underneath Andres’s seat, she can hear him mumbling to himself.

  “This can’t . . . this can’t be happening,” he says.

  “What is it?” she yells. “What now?” She is not completely surprised at the possibility that things have gotten worse. They always do.

  “Nothing. I just . . . there’s something urgent that I need to take care of as soon as we get home. I’m going to drop off you and Guillermo.”

  “This isn’t urgent enough for you?” she says.

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay, Mari. I know you need me right now—”

  “What is it? Is it the kids? Are they all right?” They’re so far from the schools that the thought hadn’t entered her mind, but seeing Andres like this erases her sense of logic. “Call the schools. Call the schools right now!” She finally gets up, reaching for the phone in the partition between the two front seats. Her sudden movement startles Andres, and the car swerves into the next lane, tossing her back and to the side. It takes all the strength Marabela has to fight against the momentum and reach again for the phone.

  “I have to know that they’re okay.”

  “Will you please control her!” Andres barks at Guillermo. “I can’t drive like this.”

  Guillermo lowers her arm back to her side. “They’re fine, señora. The explosion wasn’t anywhere near them.”

  “I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t. Andres is hiding something. I knew it before the explosion and I know it even more now.” Her voice is so loud, it hurts coming out of her. “I deserve to know. If something has happened—”

  He slams the brakes at a red light and turns to her, his hand grasping the back of the passenger seat. “It’s Elena. She tried to kill herself last night. She’s not well, Mari.”

  “Elena? Why would she do that?”

  “It’s complicated.” Andres sighs.

&nb
sp; “How would you know? Have you been seeing her again?”

  “Yes, but it’s a long story. I’ll tell you after I see her. Please, just let me concentrate on the road right now.”

  “All I’m asking for is an explanation. This doesn’t make sense. Why would she . . . ?” Marabela lets her voice trail off.

  They drive the rest of the way in silence, both knowing that the conversation isn’t over, but acknowledging that it’s not one they want to have in the car. Guillermo is not the problem—he is so quick to turn invisible. But the conversation they are about to have is one they’ve put off for years. It’s like an old weapon they’ve hidden in the depths of their drawers, hoping that they’d never have to dig it up and dust it off. Now it requires all their caution and attention.

  They wait until they’ve pulled into the garage and Guillermo helps Marabela out of the backseat. Andres still has the car running, still sits behind the wheel. Understanding that time is against them, Marabela gets back into the car, sitting in the front this time while Guillermo enters the house.

  “Tell me everything. Quickly.”

  His hands and eyes on the wheel, Andres chooses his words slowly. “Maybe it’s easier if I start with how I hired Guillermo. He was recommended to me by my mother because she was familiar with his work. He helped recover Elena when she was kidnapped a couple of years ago.”

  Andres gives Marabela a concerned glance, but she just nods at him to continue. He turns away.

  “When she came home, it was too much for her. She was scared to leave the house, and even then, she didn’t feel safe. Saul was worried she’d hurt herself so they took her to an institution where she’d be supervised and have some time to deal with her pain. I visited her there while you were gone. I couldn’t keep pretending after all she’d been through. I couldn’t stand the idea of her being alone, with us never making amends. And there was only so much I could do, Mari, while I waited for the calls and the negotiations. Maybe in a way I thought if Elena was okay, you would be, too.”

  She doesn’t know what to say. Her voice, when it comes out, is feeble and shaky. “Is that why you wanted me to leave the house? So you could pretend I’m okay?”

  He shrugs, looking ashamed at the very idea. She clears her throat, refusing to fall apart all over again. “Okay then. Let’s go. What are we waiting for?”

  Marabela readjusts herself so she’s sitting in the center of the seat and reaches over her shoulder for the seat belt.

  “Mari. It’s not a good idea for you to go.”

  “She was just as much my friend as she was yours.”

  “She’s too delicate right now. It’ll be too much for her.”

  “Then I’ll wait outside. I don’t care if she doesn’t see me or I don’t see her, but I want to be there. It’s the least I can do.”

  At this, Andres doesn’t try to argue. He pulls out of the driveway slowly and then, once they’ve straightened out on the road, drives like he’s chasing the sun.

  12

  THE FACILITY IS busier than ever, bustling with patients who wander the halls, dragging their feet across the linoleum, and nurses who speak to them in exasperated tones. The space is so full of life and yet all Andres can think about is death. If Elena slips away today, if she succeeds in a mistake she never would’ve made had it not been for him, Andres will never forgive himself. He thinks back to the last time he left her nearly three weeks ago. He’d basically revealed that her worst fear had come true and naively assumed she was strong enough to pull herself together. He curses under his breath.

  The guilt spreads over him.

  He walks down the corridor, feeling torn by the distance growing between him and Marabela, whom he left in the waiting room, and the distance that’s shrinking between him and Elena. Andres follows two steps behind the doctor who is leading him to Elena’s room. He wishes the man would pick up the pace, and he considers telling him that he can find his own way, but he changes his mind when he realizes he would betray the morning nurse by revealing his earlier visits.

  “How did she do it?” he asks.

  The doctor flips through a chart as they walk, perhaps out of habit or to avoid looking at Andres. He never stops at one page long enough to read anything. “We found pieces of a ceramic vase. Frankly, I’m surprised how deep she managed to cut herself. They weren’t very sharp,” he adds defensively.

  “Thank God someone found her in time.”

  “Our patients are constantly supervised. They’re never out of our sight for long.”

  “Long enough,” Andres says.

  “¿Perdón?”

  “Has she had many visitors?”

  The doctor nods distractedly. “Her family was here earlier.” He opens the door for Andres. “She’s been in and out all morning. Try not to upset her.”

  Before he sees Elena, Andres hears the mechanical beep of her heart. As he turns the long corner of the hall in her room, a white figure under a flurry of sheets moves and rustles. She calls his name out before they even see each other.

  “How did you know it was me, linda?”

  “I recognize your footsteps.” She gives him that sad smile. She looks like she hasn’t slept or eaten in weeks. Her face sinks into her skull, and even the slightest turn of the head seems like an exhausting effort. She is almost unrecognizable except for the softness in her eyes.

  “Do you want some water?”

  She shakes her head and reaches for his hand, pulling it down in her direction so he’ll take a seat. “You must be so disappointed in me.”

  “Never.”

  “I heard my mother tell my father I was selfish for doing this. That suicide is a coward’s way out. They thought I was asleep.”

  “That’s just anger and fear talking. The anger will fade—it’s just a reaction.”

  “And the fear?”

  He doesn’t have an answer for that, so he holds her hand, careful not to tug at the IV pressing into the back of her hand, the blue veins poking out of a white bandage like rivers and deltas. “I should’ve never told you about Marabela. I got you all worried for nothing. She’s home and safe now.” Andres knows Lorena told her this weeks ago, but he feels the need to repeat it, as if it would bear more weight now coming from him.

  Something that is not quite a smile spreads across Elena’s face. It is more like a stretch of the mouth and skin, her lips pressing together and her eyelids wrinkling shut as she nods her head in gratitude, tears crawling across her temple to her pillow. Her breath and her heart monitor accelerate, and Andres stands up to call a nurse but she pulls him back down. “Does she know that it was me? Does she hate me?”

  “She doesn’t know and she never will. And Marabela could never hate you. Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

  “If she ever found out—”

  “She won’t.”

  “She would hate me. I would. I do,” she whispers, the words shaky but resolute. He has never heard her speak like this, and he starts to wonder if the Elena he once knew is gone, if there is really power or experience strong enough to erase a person completely.

  “Do you remember when we were ten and I ran your leg over with my bike? You were trying to sunbathe in the backyard and I thought I could jump over you while you slept.”

  She gives a short, courteous laugh.

  “You said you wanted to be angry with me, but you couldn’t stay that way for long, because you knew I never meant to hurt you. You said me feeling bad about it was punishment enough for the both of us.”

  “It’s not the same thing, Andres. We were children . . .”

  “And these people you were dealing with are criminals. They made choices for you that you never had.”

  “That’s not true. I could’ve let them—”

  “Could’ve let them what?”

  “Kill me.”

  “Please don’t talk like that. I didn’t come here to upset you even more.”

  “There’s no one else I can talk to about it. Not e
ven the doctors, or the therapists, even though it’s their job. They think I’m just another number they can plug into a formula.”

  He sighs, not because he’s tired, but because he’s bracing himself for what’s to come. “I’m here if you need to talk. You know I’ll always listen.”

  She sits up and rests her hands on her lap. He realizes that this is something she needs to psyche herself up for, like a runner who stretches before a race, or a speaker who gathers his thoughts before going onstage. Her face glistens with sweat even though the room is perfectly cool. He can almost smell it on her, how close she came to death. Andres rubs her arm, lets his hands travel up to her shoulders, her neck, her face. He’s like a child who needs to touch, squeeze, feel, that something is real before he can let himself believe it. He leans forward and kisses Elena’s forehead.

  She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

  “Here’s how it happened for me, though you never asked and maybe that’s why I want to tell you so badly. Everyone else has been a morbid spectator. But they can’t handle the real story. They want to relive it with the safety on—with the knowledge that it’ll all work out in the end. I refuse to be their source of catharsis.

  “I was driving home from a friend’s house, trying to make it back to my parents’ before dinner. She’d lent me some patterns for my sewing, because I had an old fabric I’d been wanting to use for years, and in my boredom I’d decided to take up a hobby. It was gray, with pale green leaves and purple berries. The fabric, I mean. Not the day. It was gorgeous out that day. Funny how that works sometimes, isn’t it?

  “That afternoon I’d picked up my sewing machine from the shop and stopped by her house for the patterns. I always took back roads to avoid the traffic. I suppose they expected that. There were two cars, though I didn’t know it at the time. The one in front stopped so suddenly I crashed into him. He ran out of the car, shouting about a cat he was trying to avoid, and when I got out to check the damage, he pointed at the bumper and said, ‘See? See?’ When I leaned in to look, his hand was on the back of my neck.” She moves her hand up, grabbing the spot. “This is how much reason fails us sometimes: for maybe half a second, I thought he’d tripped and lost his balance. I thought he’d grabbed me for help, and that I was falling with him. My head slammed against the hood of the car. It was so warm. Nothing really struck me until I tried to recover my balance and couldn’t even lift my head. The man was holding me down.