“You bet. I just hope we get to see where we’re going for this one.”
Jess laughs, then she gets up and joins Gracie and Layla. The way they’re sitting on the edge of the shelter, their legs dangling, they look like three teenagers enjoying a week away at camp. I wonder if she ever did that. There are so many things I don’t know about her, so much I want to learn. But the time has to be right, and I’m pretty sure she’s the one who needs to determine when that right time is. So for now, I’ll just keep on cooking bland food and fumbling my way through challenges. Eventually, my daughter will initiate a meaningful, heart-to-heart conversation.
I hope.
***
An hour later, we’re ready for another challenge. But this time, we’re on the beach about half a mile from our camp. From the looks of the course, which starts on the beach but extends out into the ocean, it will involve swimming. Great, today I have the opportunity to avoid drowning.
Rick explains the rules, and this time, two of the staffers run the course to show us how it’s done.
“One team member starts here, on the platform. You’ll go across the balance beam to the next platform. Then across the rope bridge.”
The rope bridge looks simple, until we see both the staffers fall off when the thing twists around.
Rick grins. “Not as easy as it looks. From the second platform, you’ll swim to the buoy and dive down to untie a bag. Once you have the bag, swim back to the start, and hand it off to your teammate.”
They sure do love two-part challenges. I really, really hope Jess is a good swimmer.
“In each bag is a key that unlocks a chest. Inside that chest is a slingshot and ammunition.” He points farther up the beach where rows of clay pots are set up, three in each team color. “The last two teams to break all their pots will be up for elimination this evening. I’ll give you time to strategize.”
This shouldn’t be so bad. All we have to do is come in somewhere between first and sixth.
“How are you with a slingshot?” Jess whispers.
“I have no idea. I’ve never used one.”
“Me neither.”
“But I have good aim.”
She nods. “I’m pretty good in the water. And after yesterday, I don’t think we want you doing anything that requires balance.”
“Sounds good.”
I watch the other teams as they decide who does which leg of the challenge. For the most part, lighter, more agile people are chosen for the water portion: Jess, Layla, Gracie, Jasmine, Maxie, Tracy, Wendy, and the gal whose name I still don’t know. Of the ones manning the slingshots, I’m the least muscular, but that won’t matter too much if I’m the most accurate.
Finally, the cameras are ready, including two crews in the water, on their own platforms on either side of the course.
Rick raises his hand. “Families ready . . . Go!”
Those of us on the beach can’t keep from screaming and cheering on the ones in the water, even though it’s doubtful any of them are paying attention. Jess, and most of the others, cross the balance beam quickly. Only Maxie and the nameless one fall off and have to start over.
The rope bridge is an entirely different animal. No one makes it across the first time, which means they all have to go back and start over. When Jess gets to the second platform, she stops on her hands and knees and looks to her right and her left. I wonder if she’s too scared to go on, but then I understand what she’s doing. She’s looking to see how the others approach the bridge to figure out what works the best.
“Smart girl,” I murmur to myself.
She slowly inches forward, one hand on either side of the bridge, her weight evenly distributed. When it begins to wobble she stops and centers herself. Then she moves on. It takes her a while to get across, but even so only Layla and Wendy made it ahead of her. The rest of the course is cake. Spongy, soggy cake.
She swims to shore with the small bag clenched between her teeth. I run to meet her, and when she hands off the bag, she gasps out, “You’ve got this.”
I’ve got this. Oh boy, I hope I’ve got this.
Malcolm and Trevor already have their bags open and are taking aim at the pots. I take my spot, which, judging from the colors of the mats, will be in between Bob and Marcy when they get here. Tuning out the noise all around me, I put a heavy glass marble in the slingshot, pull it back, aim, and let it fly.
Only it doesn’t fly. It plops to the ground about three feet in front of me.
There’s a learning curve, no doubt about it. The mats are filling up as people finish the water course, but still no one has broken a single pot. I relax, take a deep breath, and try again. Nothing breaks, but I get a lot closer this time.
A crash sounds. Rick calls out in his excited voice, “Evelyn breaks the first pot!”
It’s time for a personal pep talk. You can do this, Monica. Aim, pull back, aim again, and let it fly.
This time, my aim is high and the marble sails over the pots. But that’s good. If I just bring the next one down a little . . . Crash!
A shriek explodes from me as an orange pot shatters. Then another pot is hit.
Rick is almost as excited as we are. “Monica and Malcolm have both broken pots. We have a race going now!”
On my left, Bob is beyond frustrated. He pulls back on the slingshot, his arm shaking. “Why won’t this thing work? It’s got to be broken.”
On my right, Marcy lets out a sound reminiscent of an angry bear. “It’s not broken. You just can’t aim worth squat.”
“I haven’t seen you hit anything.” He turns toward Marcy, which unfortunately means he turns toward me at the same moment that he loses control of the slingshot.
It’s one of those moments when time slows way, way down, and you’re able to cram a thousand thoughts into one little second. There’s a big, stone-sized, solid glass marble shooting toward me. I imagine it hitting me in the temple. If I was lucky, it would kill me straight out, but more likely, I’d end up in a vegetative state and the only people who would come to see me after several years in that condition would be the midnight cleaning crew at the full-time care facility. Oh no, I’m not going out that way.
I cover my head with my arms, but I get hit anyway. Smack dab in the elbow. Needles of pain radiate up to my shoulder and down to my fingers as I scream and do a most unflattering dance.
“Everybody stop!” Rick makes his way to me while Marcy and Bob continue yelling at each other.
“Look what you did, you big klutz,” Marcy yells.
“What I did? That never would have happened if you’d kept your big mouth shut.”
Doubled over and holding my elbow, I say through gritted teeth, “I wish you’d both keep your mouths shut.”
Rick is beside me now. His lips are twitching like he doesn’t know whether to be concerned or amused. “Do we need the medic?”
“No. No medic. I am not dropping out of this challenge.” Not again. Because if I drop out, that automatically puts Jess and me in the bottom two teams, which is totally unacceptable.
Not looking at all convinced, Rick wraps his fingers around my wrist and supports my elbow with his other hand, then unbends my arm. “Does that hurt?”
Can he see that I’ve broken out in a cold sweat? “A little. But it’s getting better. Really.”
He looks closer at my skin, then whistles. “It’s already bruising. Keep this up and you’ll set the record for most injuries by one person in one season.”
That’s a record I’d rather not hold. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He claps his hands and goes back to his place.
Marcy and Bob have finally stopped bickering, but I notice that neither one of them apologized to me for what happened. That’s fine. I flex my arm, working the elbow until the pain is more like a dull throb. When I win this competition, that will be thanks enough.
It’s more difficult to hold the slingshot now, so the first few shots go astray. All around me, it seems they’ve f
igured out the trick of making contact. Except for Bob, who is still convinced he has a defective weapon. Finally, I manage to break my second pot. There are four of us who are down to the final pot. Rick keeps up his commentary until finally he congratulates Trevor and pronounces him the winner.
“Don’t stop,” Rick says. “Remember, the two teams that come in last are up for elimination tonight.”
There’s no stopping me now. Aiming, shooting, I clear my head of everything but the last orange pot. For good measure, I imagine Bob and Marcy’s faces on it. Three shots later, it’s over. I’ve cracked all our pots.
My hands shoot up in the air, and I emit a simultaneous victory yell and cry of pain.
“Monica and Jess finish second and are safe from elimination!” Rick shouts.
I drop the slingshot and turn, right when Jess runs up and tackles me in a bear hug. “I can’t believe you did it!”
She can’t realize that her arm presses right against my sore elbow, and there’s no way I’m telling her. So I force a smile. “Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?”
“Not after you got beaned in the elbow.”
We get to the spot where the contestants are gathering and watch the rest of the challenge. It’s impossible not to cheer them on, especially when it gets down to three men: Payton, Bob, and Sal.
“Sal has to win,” I whisper to Jess, who nods in agreement.
But he doesn’t. Payton is the next to break his last pot. Which mean that either Bob or Sal will be out of the game by tonight.
17
The mood around camp is tense. Twelve people are relieved to be safe, and four people have no idea what the outcome of tonight will be.
Evelyn is sitting by the fire pit with Sal and Gracie, tutoring them in the best way to start a fire. We have no idea what the challenge will be tonight, but it will pit the two teams against each other. At least once every season, it’s been fire starting. Since the other team has no flint to practice with, our guys will have a definite edge. If fire is the challenge.
But we won’t know that until we head to the final challenge area, and that won’t be until after dark, which is several hours away. I can’t sit around doing nothing until then, so I grab one of the machetes. “I’m going to hunt for food. Anyone want to come?”
“I’ll come,” Malcolm says.
I was hoping Jess would volunteer, but she and Layla are taking turns braiding each other’s hair. Having company is better than going out alone. Not that we’re ever alone, but the camera men take the “no interaction” policy so seriously, they’re worse company than mute introverts. In fact, if I was alone in the jungle with a cameraman, and I fell and broke my leg, I doubt he’d do anything to help. It would be just like those wildlife documentaries, where the person behind the camera keeps on filming, even when the cute little baby wildebeest is being gobbled up by the hyenas.
Malcolm grabs another machete and we head through the trees and vines. “What are we looking for?” he asks.
“Anything edible.” I poke at a clump of plants. “I’m really not picky.”
“Funny, we’ve only been here two days, and we’re already desperate for real food.”
“Imagine how it’ll be in a week.”
Malcolm sighs and shakes his head. “You know, there are people in the world who never know where their next meal is coming from. It’s how they live every day of their lives. Those bags of rice and beans we have would be a feast to them.”
He’s right. As a chef, I’m extremely familiar with the plight of the hungry in America and abroad. I’ve participated in charity cook-offs and auctions to raise money for organizations like The Brown Bag Gang and Goats for Ghana. But I’ve never attempted to empathize with the people we were feeding. I’ve never been really, truly hungry. The next time I’m asked to participate in one of those fund-raisers, I’ll have a much better appreciation for what I’m doing. But that doesn’t make me any less hungry now.
“I hope you know the difference between what’s edible and what’s not,” Malcolm says.
“For the most part. If I don’t know what something is, I wouldn’t suggest we try eating it.”
He salutes. “You’re the chef.”
“Yes, I am. And what are you?”
“What do you think?”
Twenty questions isn’t my favorite game, but in this instance, I’ll go along with it. “Well, your talk about the hungry people in the world makes me think you’re involved in some type of humanitarian work.”
“You could say that.”
When I first met him, I thought he looked like a model, but now I rule that out. “Do you work full-time?”
“Oh yes. Actually, I work a lot of overtime.”
“How does your wife feel about that?”
“My wife died four years ago. Ovarian cancer.”
I want to rip my tongue out. “Malcolm, I’m so sorry.”
His smile is melancholy, but sincere. “It’s all right. Viv’s in heaven now, so she’s happy about everything.”
As soon as he mentions heaven, I remember how he and Layla talked about having faith, and it clicks into place. “You’re a pastor.”
“Very good.” He squats down beside something growing low to the ground. “If this is the plant I think it is, our information packets said the roots are edible.”
Squatting beside him, I poke into the dirt around the base of the plant. “You’re right, it’s taro. They’ll make you sick as a dog if you eat them raw, but cooked they’re fine. They’ll make the rice and beans go farther.”
After digging up about a dozen, we decide to head back. “But keep your eyes open for coconuts,” I say. “If I boil these with coconut milk, it will enhance their natural nuttiness.”
We walk in silence, but then I can’t stand it anymore. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“I’m just wondering how a guy like you feels being on a show like this. I mean, the competition gets pretty cutthroat.”
“You mean, what’s a nice pastor like me doing in a place like this?”
I laugh. “I guess so.”
“Like I said before, it meant a lot to Layla. But just the fact that we were chosen . . . it makes me think we’re meant to be here for something bigger than the game.” He scratches the back of his neck and looks away from me. When he finally speaks again, his tone is serious. “I think part of the reason Layla and I are here is because of you and Jessica.”
“Me and Jess?” I stop short and lift my arms, clumps of dirt falling from the taro roots in my hands. “Why?”
“How do I say this?” He glances past me for a brief moment, and I realize that what he really means is, How do I say just enough so you’ll understand, but not so much that it ends up on television?
“You’re in a difficult situation. Not just playing this game, but getting to know your daughter. There may come a day when you need to talk or pray with someone. And maybe God put me here for that reason.” His serious mood vanishes as quickly as it came when he spies something under a tree. “Look. A coconut!”
He jogs over and snatches it up, as if it might disappear if he takes too long. Obviously, we’re done with our conversation, which is fine by me. I’m not ready to discuss my relationship with Jess, not even with a man of the cloth. But it is good to know he’s around . . . just in case I change my mind.
***
The final challenge area is designed to make a statement. Tiki torches surround the playing area, which is a large, round sand pit. On one side, two tiers of roughly hewn bench seats are meant for those of us who will watch. On the opposite side is a raised, black platform.
We file in, first the audience filling the benches, then Bob and Tracy, and Sal and Gracie move into the middle of the sand pit. Rick jumps onto the platform, grinning like the head frat boy at a hazing.
“Welcome to the proving ground. This is where we find, after one simple challenge, which family will stand
and which will be out of the game.”
Everything I can cross, is crossed: fingers, toes, arms, legs. If it wouldn’t make my head hurt worse, I’d cross my eyes. Please, oh please, let it be making fire.
Rick makes the announcement, and my heart plummets. The challenge that night is an old-fashioned egg toss.
Sal and Gracie look terrified. Bob and Tracy are their usual smug and sassy selves, making me wonder if they hold some kind of father/daughter egg toss title.
Beside me, Jess hangs her head, looking down at her folded hands. “This isn’t good,” she mumbles.
No, it’s not, but rather than agree out loud, I bump her shoulder with mine. “They still have a chance.”
But not much of one. As it turns out, Gracie is scared of raw eggs. More specifically, she’s scared of raw eggs breaking in her hands and sliming her. The first couple of throws are okay, but after every one, Rick orders each person to take a step backward. The farther away Sal gets, the harder he throws. And the harder he throws, the stiffer Gracie becomes, until finally, that thing she most feared happens.
She stands there, staring at her father, hands out, palms up, egg yolks and whites oozing through her fingers. Sal smiles and tries to console her. “It’s okay, mija. We did our best.”
Meanwhile, Bob and Tracy are being poor winners. Tracy jumps up and down in a circle, then jabs her finger at them and yells, “We owned you! You’re cracked, just like your egg!” I want to slap her.
Rick puts an end to their victory party by telling them to sit on the benches. Then he comes down from his podium and stands between Sal and Gracie, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’m sorry, but you will not be the last family standing. Grab your things and go.”
It’s an abrupt, unceremonious dismissal, but it’s the same one Rick gives to every team when they leave. Then he turns to the rest of us. “As you see, anything can happen. One thin eggshell could stand between you and victory.” He claps his hands together. “Make your way back to camp.”
We stand up and are almost out of the play area when Rick stops us.
“I almost forgot.” He grabs a small burlap sack from the edge of the platform and tosses it to me. It’s heavier than it looks, and I’m pretty sure I break one of my already short nails as I catch it. “A flint for each team. Pass those out when you get back to camp.”
Last Family Standing Page 10