by James Klise
“You bet.” I leaned forward to give her a kiss.
“Not here,” she said, pushing me away. “My dad might see.”
I followed her inside and up the staircase to her bedroom. She closed the door and we kissed. All the adrenaline I’d built up racing to her house had made me sweaty. It felt nice to stop and hold her.
She’d lit a candle before I arrived, so the bedroom smelled like vanilla and coconut. I’d been in there only once before. It was a large corner room, painted soft green and pale yellow. In addition to the standard bed and dresser, she had substantial furniture—a grown-up desk, an overstuffed chair with an ottoman. On the walls, museum prints showcased the Getty Museum in California, the Tate Gallery in London, and the Prado in Madrid. These were mounted in real frames with glass, not just taped up like the movie posters in my bedroom. This was the room of someone who took her life seriously. When would Celia realize that she was way out of my league?
She pulled me down next to her on the bed, between the open suitcase and the pillows. “So, why are you really here?”
“To see you.”
“Stop lying or I won’t kiss you.”
“Okay, the thing is—here’s the deal.” I took a couple breaths, my mind racing. “I’m nervous about flying.”
Her head fell back with a laugh. “You’ve never flown before? That’s so cute!”
“I wish I saw it that way.”
“Flying is no big deal. You take your assigned seat, strap yourself in, turn on your music, and fall asleep. In no time flat, you’re in another country and the vacation begins.”
“Yeah, it’s the strapping yourself in part that makes me nervous. As if there’s a real possibility you could crash.”
“The whole experience is boring, actually,” she said. “You’ll see.” While listing the tedious aspects of air travel, she got up and returned to her clothes. I liked watching her pack, the way she created such neat, economical bundles. Compared to mine, her clothes were so tiny, stacks of pink and white squares, blue and yellow triangles. I fell into a kind of trance, far more interested in her wardrobe than was probably appropriate. I almost forgot the purpose of my visit.
“So relax, you’ll be fine.” She gave me a naughty grin and said huskily, “Honey, I guarantee, once you’ve done it the first time, you’ll want to do it again and again.”
To get the pills, I needed to be out of that bedroom and downstairs, closer to the lab. I stood. “I’m thirsty. Can I run downstairs and get us some drinks?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
I put my palms up like a snowplow. “You’re swamped with packing. I’ll be two minutes.”
She shrugged. “Hurry back.”
In ten seconds, I was down the hall and at the foot of the main staircase. The house always seemed empty. I never saw anybody except Celia, her father, and now and then a white-haired cleaning woman named Beatrice, who hummed while she worked and never greeted me. In fact, she never even seemed aware of us. “Don’t take it personally,” Celia whispered once. “Beatrice is on a mission.”
Near the kitchen, I stopped at the big, white, metal door that I knew led to the laboratory. I peered through the small glass window in the door and didn’t see anybody in the corridor beyond. I pulled the handle, guessing it would be locked. It didn’t even budge.
Crap.
Next to the door, below eye level, there was a security keypad. I remembered what Celia had said, that the password for the house security system was her birthday. This one was probably the same. But all I knew was that her birthday was in November. Did I really have time to punch in all thirty combinations?
Idiot. Mr. Never Prepared. Do your damn homework!
I went into the kitchen and grabbed two Diet Cokes from the refrigerator. I had just closed the heavy, stainless steel door when I noticed a briefcase sitting on a barstool at the counter. It looked like Dr. Gamez’s black briefcase—the same one I always saw with him—but I couldn’t be sure. How many briefcases did most men have? My dad, as far as I knew, didn’t even have one. But he didn’t have a normal job, not like other dads. Dr. Gamez didn’t have a normal job either. Maybe Dr. Gamez had a dozen briefcases, one for each different project he worked on.
Well, no harm in taking a quick look.
I stepped lightly across the room and set down the soda cans. I lifted the briefcase to the counter and snapped open the two locks, mindful of the noise. I froze.
Anybody hear that?
Beatrice’s vacuum cleaner began groaning, nearly howling, in another room.
The briefcase lid lifted with a smooth glide and clicked into the open position. Black silk lining, leather loops holding expensive-looking pens, all very elegant. The main compartment held half a dozen manila folders and oversized envelopes. No brown drug bottles like the one Dr. Gamez had with him at the coffee shop, but there were several clear plastic bags, smaller than anything my grandmother ever used. I saw a variety of pills, none of them blue. I could only imagine taking the wrong drug and sprouting enormous breasts or unwanted body hair.
Hey there, ole hairy face! Nice jugs!
With a bongo drum playing in my chest, I bypassed the pills and looked at the folders. One of the labels said, Rehomo—notes.
I removed this folder and it flipped open randomly. The page showed a printed list of names and contact information, all doctors, all over the world: Manila, Milan, Mexico City. I flipped to another page. More doctors, more cities: Sarajevo, Stockholm, Sydney, Taipei. Then pages and pages of handwritten notes—a nearly unintelligible scrawl. I tried to make out the meaning, but few words and phrases were decipherable: “… essential …” “… cannot change the patient unless …” “… only alleviate …” “… potentially lethal …”
Lethal.
My eyes stopped hard on the word.
I heard a noise. Someone was approaching. I dumped the folder back into the briefcase. When I tried to close the case, the hinge remained stuck in an open position. Frantically I attempted to unfasten the stupid thing.
“Goodness sakes, what is taking sooooo long?” Celia’s playful voice rattled the silence as she shuffled down the hallway. The case was still wide open when she got to the kitchen. She skidded to a halt at the door.
“Hey there,” I said. Then the hinge-lock gave way, and the lid closed automatically under my hand.
Her eyes went slowly from me to the briefcase, then back to me. “What are you doing?”
I felt myself blush. “Sorry, I don’t know. I just saw this.” It wasn’t an explanation, just the truth. “It was sitting here.”
Her face broadcast her confusion, and she folded her arms. “It belongs to my dad, obviously. What were you doing with it?”
I made myself smile. “I’m so embarrassed. I wanted to see what it looked like inside.”
“Surprise, it’s a briefcase.”
“I know, but my dad has never had one.” I lifted my hands, searching for words. “And I wouldn’t mind getting him a classy one. To show I believe in his new package business.”
She remained silent, looking concerned.
“Yeah, this one is really sharp.” I stroked the edge of the case appreciatively, to underscore my point. “Classy, you know?”
“Jamie, be honest.” She came closer. She didn’t look angry now, just serious. “Were you … you know, looking for money?”
“Is that what you think?”
Her hand went to my shoulder. “Were you? You can tell me.”
As she touched me, the fear released its own grip on my shoulders. “Celia, look at this.” I opened my wallet and showed her the thirty dollars I’d taken from my parents’ cash box. “I’ve got plenty of cash right here. And more at home.”
Her expression softened, relieved. “Really?”
I nodded and put my wallet away.
Her own face reddened. “Now I’m embarrassed. I just figured … we’re leaving soon, and I thought maybe you were worried about not having enough
money.”
“You told me not to worry about that.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t insulted you.”
“Forget about it,” I said, smiling. “Let’s grab the sodas and go back upstairs.”
Fifteen minutes later, Celia left for her hair appointment and I left without any pills. I wondered if I’d spent enough time with Celia already to make it through Spring Break without them. Maybe after eleven pills, my body had been conditioned to be comfortable around girls—to respond like any other boy. Maybe some gays had to take only one round of the pills to become straight.
Yeah, right. I was an idiot.
When I was on the bus, my cell phone rang. Wesley. We arranged to meet in Warren Park, a sprawling, flat park that was located between our houses. We had a favorite spot—an isolated bench far away from the tennis courts and picnic tables. We never could figure out why they’d put a bench so far away from the action, but in elementary school we’d spent many late afternoons there on our way home, plotting to take over the world with a loyal army of robotic squirrels.
He got there before me. “Look at this, they’ve got swings here now!”
“Woo-hoo! Let’s swing!” I jumped onto the one next to him. It was a long rubber swing that wasn’t designed for butts my size. It pinched my hips. But it was fun to be alone with Wes for once.
He said, “So you’re leaving at the end of the week? South of the border? Promise me you’ll extend my best wishes to my people.”
“I’ll try to bring back some sun for you.”
“You are one fortunate fellow—off to a private resort with a beautiful girl. All expenses paid.”
“I agree. And I owe it all to you and your encouragement.”
“You bet your ass you do. I’ll expect payback in the future.”
“Only fair.”
He slowed his pace. “Guess what? I took my last pill this morning.”
“Really? Still going through with that plan?”
He nodded. “I feel good about it. Baseball tryouts begin the day we get back from break. At that point, my body should be completely drug free.”
“I don’t know, Wes. It makes me nervous. I remember what you were like back then.”
“I was a bratty kid, that’s all. I’m more mature now.”
“I still think you should tell your parents first.”
“Dude, relax. You’re going to Mexico with your girlfriend and you’re not telling your parents.”
“That’s completely different! I’m not putting anyone’s health at risk.”
He shrugged. “Me neither.”
“My fear is that you’ll get all Jekyll-and-Hyde on us. Let the record show, I like you the way you are now. Safely medicated.”
“Listen, if going off them doesn’t work, I’ll start taking them again. Right? What’s the risk?”
I nodded, kicking at the powdery dirt under the swings. He sounded so reasonable. I hoped what he said was true.
“Jamie, two minutes ago we agreed that you owed me, remember? So give me this. Give me your support.”
“I’m trying to.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
Later, walking home, I was struck by how unfair it was that the universe had given Wesley an amazing drug he didn’t even want while it denied me access to the one essential drug I really needed.
Stupid universe.
sixteen
So we went to Mexico.
We flew from Chicago to Houston and Houston to Mérida, a city on the Yucatán Peninsula. Two different airplanes. Despite Celia’s claims, the experience was ten times more terrifying than I had predicted. When the wheels were stowed after take-off, it sounded like a small missile had struck us from below. Each time the captain changed the seat-belt sign, making that loud ring, I worried it was an emergency warning. My hand reached discreetly for Celia’s.
“Sometimes,” she whispered, “your palms are so clammy it’s freaky.”
“I am experiencing an unusual level of anxiety.”
“No reason to,” she promised.
No reason? We were 35,000 feet in the air, I was facing seven days alone with Celia, and I had zero doses of the Rehomoline. On top of all that, my biggest concern was that Celia and I were going to share a room, and maybe even a bed. Dr. Gamez might have thought that she and I were just friends, but was he so trusting that he’d allow us to sleep in the same hotel room? As generous as Dr. Gamez seemed, I could not imagine that he’d pay for a separate room for a kid he barely knew. In my mind, I kept replaying the scene when Celia and I would climb into bed and lie next to each other in the dark, each waiting for the other to make a move. Two faces, staring at the ceiling with opposite expressions: one eager, one paralyzed with fear.
When the plane landed in Mexico, I gasped, thinking we’d hit the ground much too hard, and then clutched Celia’s hand again as the plane struggled to slow down.
Do planes ever crash into airports? We’re going to cra—
The plane stopped. We gathered our things and stepped into the terminal. The airport was small and hot and very crowded. There seemed to be just as many Americans as Mexicans. Because I was fifteen, I had to show my birth certificate along with a notarized letter from my parents that allowed me to cross the border with Dr. Gamez.
We took our bags outside. The evening air was humid and thick with flying bugs. Dr. Gamez said a car would be waiting for us. The one that met us was surprisingly shabby. Dr. Gamez shook hands with the driver, and then all three of us climbed into the back seat, Celia in the middle.
The car sped along a country road, and the headlights revealed, in thin clusters, a thousand tall skinny trees that we whizzed past in the dark. The terrain was woodsy and weedy, with few signs of human life—here a car abandoned at the side of the road, there a rusted-out piece of farm machinery. We drove farther and farther from the airport, into the dark landscape. Something about the route didn’t seem right. Ten minutes turned into forty, forty-five, an hour.
This driver is taking us deep into the country to kill us.
Celia must have noticed my concern. She patted my knee. “It’s always a long drive, just when you want to eat or climb into bed.”
We came to a small town, not much more than the intersection of two roads, where a church stood. The church looked like it could hold fifty people max. Its rounded stucco exterior was painted beige and brown. The houses that surrounded it were one- or two-room structures built of cinder block. The roofs were made of tin or tile, and some out of grass. Several of the houses were painted brightly—light blue, yellow, red—and some were decorated with Christmas lights that outlined their windows or drew attention to a statue of the Virgin Mary.
“These houses,” I whispered to Celia. “So tiny.”
Dr. Gamez leaned toward us. “One room serves as the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. No beds, usually. They pull hammocks across the room for sleeping. One hammock for mother and dad, one for the kids.”
For once, my grandparents’ apartment in Chicago didn’t seem so small.
We passed the town and drove for another mile, and then the car slowed and turned off the road. We cruised through a large gate with two tall stucco columns, then drove down a long gravel driveway flanked by palm trees. I thought I saw a house, but we passed it.
“That’s not it?” I said to Celia.
She smiled. “That’s a chapel. If you want to sleep there, we’ll have to clear it with the padre.”
The car pulled to a stop in a graveled circular clearing, and we got out. We were at the base of a terraced garden. I could hear the steady splashing of fountains.
The massive rustic house, looming above us, looked incongruously like something you’d see in a TV ad for spaghetti sauce. There was a central structure, plus two wings connected by elaborate arched colonnades. Everything was covered in stucco, which was painted dark red and mustard yellow, and dramatically lit with spotlights. I didn’t see anybody except for a few
members of the smiling resort staff, dressed in white jackets and black pants.
“The pool is in the back,” Celia said, as if to reassure me. But it wasn’t necessary.
“This is amazing,” I said. “Already I want to live here.”
“It’s almost two hundred years old,” Dr. Gamez explained as we climbed the steps toward the main entrance. “The man who built this would have owned much of the surrounding land. They grew henequen, or sisal, which they used to make rope. This is the Mexican equivalent of the plantations in the southern United States.”
“Do they grow anything now?” I asked.
“Not here, not for many years,” he said. “In fact, this whole estate, like many others, had fallen into terrible disrepair. Deep neglect. It was a ruin for many decades, until a wealthy American corporation came in and restored it. So often in these matters, progress is about transformation.” He’d emphasized the last word—transformation—and I wondered if it meant the same to him as it did to me.
“They rent the resort for weddings and conferences,” Celia added. “But we’ve got the whole place to ourselves this week.”
I stood with her on the terrace while Dr. Gamez checked in at the front desk. Crickets filled the night air with a rhythmic beat. The resort property was thick with trees—palms and scrub—but lighted paths made their way through the branches. Despite my fatigue, I was eager to explore. For the first time in ages, I was sad that my parents weren’t with me. They’d never seen anything like this.
Dr. Gamez returned with three keys, and relief flooded me. Separate rooms! I wanted to leap into the air with joy. He handed two to Celia. “The keys are rather a formality,” he told me. “Your belongings will be safe whether you lock your door or not. As Celia said, we are the only guests here this week.”
“The rooms are close together,” Celia said, looking at the numbers.