“Fine,” I mumble. It doesn’t matter, because I won’t be taking it. I can stash it with my Abilify; they can keep each other company, do a pas de deux as they swirl down the drain together. “Can I get some more Ambien?”
“You’re still not sleeping?” He looks at his watch again, and I almost catch a glimpse of suppressed irritation.
“No,” I say flatly.
“Okay.” He scribbles something down and hands the slip to me. “That’s for a year. Normally I wouldn’t prescribe so much at once, but since you’re going away…”
“Right. Thanks.” I stuff the prescription in my purse. “I guess I’ll see you when I get back.”
He frowns, tugging at his overgrown beard. “Caitlin, please make sure this is really the best idea for you. Before you go. And if you need anything—”
If I need any mind-altering zombie fat drugs, I’ll give you a call, I finish silently. “Right,” I say again out loud. “Thanks Doc.”
As I pass through the waiting room, I accidentally knock a copy of Healthy Grieving to the ground. I hesitate, but don’t stop to pick it up.
Chapter 1
Before
“What’s wrong?” I know something’s up as soon as I see my mother. I’ve just walked in from school, and she’s hovering in the kitchen doorway, clutching a bag of pretzels to her chest the way a toddler holds a stuffed animal.
“Nothing.” She smiles brightly. “How was your day?”
“I see the pretzels, Mom.” I nod pointedly at the bag and kick my boots into the hall closet. Pretzels are my mother’s go-to snack for stress eating. “What’s going on?” I brush past her, tossing my backpack at the foot of the stairs before heading to the kitchen.
“I skipped lunch, that’s all.” My mom trails behind me. “Want some?” She holds out the bag.
I reach in and grab a handful as I settle down at the table, biting into one with a satisfying crunch. “So what’s up?”
“I have a lump in my breast.” She blurts it out, then covers her mouth in horror.
“What?” I nearly choke on the pretzel before I force it down, coughing. “What do you mean? Are you sure?”
Mom slides into the chair across from me, her head in her hands. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“You weren’t going to tell me?” I push the vase in the center of the table out of the way so I can see her. Her long, thick, dark hair tumbles over her arms and her voice is muffled. We have the same hair: thick, dark, and poker straight. When I was little, I would have her braid mine when wet in the hopes I would wake up to a head full of Rapunzel-esque waves. To my dismay, it always came out just as mercilessly straight when I undid the braids, no matter how many times we tried it.
“I didn’t want to burden you. You’re just a teenager.” She is still speaking through her hair, with only her nose poking out. She looks a bit like a Muppet.
“Burden me?” I raise my eyebrows. “Come on, Mom. When has that ever been an issue?”
My mom is not exactly the secretive type. She’s shared pretty much everything with me since I mastered peeing in the potty. While my friends’ parents shielded their children from the realities of the world in an effort to protect them, my mom was always blunt and matter-of-fact. She didn’t believe in nonsense or silly stories, even for kids; she felt it was akin to lying, and she’s a terrible liar. When I was four, my friend Ashley had a new baby brother that she claimed was delivered by a stork. My mother clarified that this was not, in fact, the case, and proceeded to explain in gory detail how babies were made and born. It caused quite a stir in the pre-kindergarten class, I can tell you that much. After that I wasn’t really invited to Ashley’s any more.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t know any other way to be.” Her head is still in her hands, but she sneaks another pretzel. It’s both furtive and adorable, and my stomach starts hurting on cue.
“Look, it’s probably just a cyst.” I try to sound nonchalant.
“How do you know about cysts?” Her head pops up, gray eyes hopeful. The sudden movement disturbs the vase of daffodils, and a sprinkling of yellow pollen flutters to the glass tabletop.
“I saw it on TV, I think. Dr. Oz, maybe.”
Her eyes darken. “I hate Dr. Oz. He’s such a self-righteous blowhard. Do you think he even takes his own advice?”
“Yeah, for sure. He spends all his off-screen time on a treadmill with a broccoli smoothie.” I carefully pluck a tiny crystal of salt off a pretzel with my front teeth. I love salt; I’ve eaten it plain, from the shaker. My sodium levels would probably give Dr. Oz a heart attack. Or maybe not, actually, seeing as how he’s such a paragon of healthy living and all.
“Will you feel it?” My mom leans across the table and grabs my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
“Feel what?”
“The lump.”
“Feel your boobs?!” I pull away, panicked.
“Oh, come on, don’t be like that. You nursed until you were two.” My mom is already pulling off her top, a stretchy black turtleneck.
“Ugh!” I make a face. “Please.”
“Oh, come on.” She’s unhooking her bra now, black and lacy. It’s nowhere near the sturdy, practical sort of bra you’d picture your mother choosing, and I avert my eyes, not wanting to see or think about my mom in sexy lingerie.
She continues talking as if nothing’s happened. “Breast-feeding is natural. You loved it.”
“I know, but I don’t want to think about doing it as a toddler.” I sigh and stand up. There’s no way around this, I’m going to have to feel up my own mom. She’s never going to take no for an answer.
“It’s over here.” She gropes her right breast and grabs my hand. “There. Can you feel that?”
I can feel it. It feels like a wad of old, hardened chewing gum stuck under her smooth skin. My heart pounds and I pull my hand away. I stare openly now at her naked breasts. You can’t see the lump at all; the breast looks entirely normal. Round and uniform. I notice with a jolt that her left breast is slightly smaller than her right, something we apparently share but have never discussed. I feel another sharp cramp in my left side and wince.
“You think it’s bad, don’t you?” Her voice is quiet.
“I don’t. I don’t!” I protest as she redresses. “I felt it, but it’s probably just a cyst, like I said before.”
“What if it’s cancer?” My mom blurts it out.
“Mom!” I recoil. “Don’t say that!” I clutch the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. A pretzel falls to the floor and snaps into pieces.
“You were thinking it,” she says. “I’m just saying it out loud.”
“Don’t even think it, then.” My voice is firm. “It’s a cyst. Are you going to the doctor?”
“Yeah, tomorrow.”
“What does Dad say?” I bend down to collect the pieces of the broken pretzel. I consider just eating them, but think better of it and toss them behind me, into the sink.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.” She frowns at me. “It clogs the drain. Is it so hard to throw your garbage in the actual trash can?”
“Hey, I just felt your boobs for you!” I feign indignation.
“Point taken.” My mom walks over to the fridge and swings it open to release a cool whoosh of air, rummaging inside for a Diet Coke. “Dad says it’s probably a cyst, too.”
“See?” I say. Against my better judgment, I take a Coke too, leaning against the kitchen counter as I flip open the top. Caffeine aggravates my IBS, but I want to share this moment with her. Diet Coke is another of my mother’s vices, one we both used to share.
“It’s hardly reassuring. Last I checked, your father was an English professor.” My mom takes a swig of her own can and exhales deeply with satisfaction before noticing mine.
“Should you be
drinking that?” She frowns. “I thought it made you sick.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I sip my drink and stare out the window to the backyard. The leaves are already mostly gone, while those that are left die slowly, fading from fiery shades of red and gold to brown. It’s windy out today, and my old tire swing moves back and forth in a slow, rhythmic fashion, as if propelled by a ghost.
My mom follows my gaze. “Remember how you loved that swing?” She sounds wistful. “You’d swing for hours at a time.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sixteen now, though. A little old for swinging.”
“Sixteen…” Her voice trails off. She’s not the type for nostalgic weeping over photo albums, but her eyes look glassy.
“What’s for supper?” I hastily change the subject.
“Well, about supper.” My mom turns to me, biting her lip. “After I found…it, I didn’t feel much like cooking.”
“Totally fair,” I agree, trying not to laugh. This happens at least twice a week, for any of a wide variety of reasons. My mother hates to cook, which is a shame, because she’s actually quite good at it.
“Japanese?” She suggests. She opens a drawer and riffles through it, looking for a menu, her dark hair sliding like a curtain over her face.
“Perfect,” I agree, then pull her in for a hug. “It’ll be fine,” I say firmly, even as my own stomach seizes, promising to exact its revenge for the Diet Coke.
She hugs me back tightly, and I close my eyes and pray that I’m right.
Chapter 2
After
The first thing I see when I get off the plane in Calantes is a goat. I’ve seen goats before, obviously, but this is the first one I’ve seen outside a petting zoo, let alone at an airport. It would feel very Third World, only the guy standing next to the goat is swearing loudly in Spanish on an iPhone, holding something like a Starbucks frappuccino. Every so often he kicks the poor goat for no reason. The goat takes it, bleating quietly to itself and shuffling its hooves. It doesn’t try to make a run for it, even though it’s not on a leash. My eyes travel to the door, which is flanked by about a dozen soldiers with machine guns. One notices me staring and smiles lasciviously.
“Caitlin Marks?” Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I jump about six feet in the air.
“Sorry!” The guy holds up his hands as I whirl around, ready to defend myself. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m from Students Without Boundaries.”
“Right,” I say, relaxing. “I thought you’d be holding up a sign.”
“We don’t like to do that,” he says. He lowers his voice. “You don’t want to give people any unnecessary information.”
They taught us that at orientation. Something to do with stealing and ransoming your luggage, I think. “Right,” I say again quickly. “I remember now.”
“I’m Emerson Anklewicz.” He puts out his hand, and I shake it as I follow him past the goat to the baggage claim. The floors are cracked terra-cotta tile, and I can feel the grooves beneath my feet as I walk. There’s a large fan overhead; the airport is not air conditioned.
“It will take a few minutes for the bags to be unloaded,” says Emerson. I guess he does this all the time. “How was your flight?”
I shrug. “Fine, I guess. Long.” I don’t mention that I watched The Notebook twice. There are some things you just don’t share with a guy.
“You connected in Mexico City?”
“No, in São Paolo.” I don’t remember much about São Paolo. I spent my layover slumped bonelessly in a chair, asleep enough to have dreamed that I missed an English final, but sufficiently awake that I could have fought someone who tried to pry my carryon out of my arms.
“Nice.” Emerson nods, and I nod too, though I don’t actually know why we’re nodding at each other. I notice he’s dressed pretty much head to toe in navy clothing emblazoned with SWB in white. I wonder if that’s required, or whether he chooses to go around wearing swag. He’s not bad-looking—his close-cropped, curly brown hair is pretty cute—but he’s channeling some kind of weird nineties vibe, wearing his SWB hat backwards.
“There’s my bag.” I point to the large red hiking backpack jostling its companions on the carousel, relieved that it showed up. I hadn’t wanted to check it, but it had stalwartly resisted all my efforts to cram it into the overhead bin. Finally, I had yielded it to a smirking flight attendant, red-faced.
Emerson leans forward and neatly grabs it for me. “Thanks,” I say, reaching out for it.
“You sure?” He eyes me skeptically, taking in my diminutive height and small frame.
“Yes,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind. I hoist it onto my shoulders and make an effort not to wince. “I need to be able to carry it myself, right?”
“It can’t hurt.” Emerson leads me towards the exit. “We don’t do a lot of traveling by foot, but I guess you never know.” He pauses. “Do you have your passport and papers ready?”
“Yeah.” I dig through my purse and find both. A packet of Imodium—I have at least twelve just in my handbag—peeks out of the top of the passport, having somehow managed to wedge itself inside. Discreetly, I shove it back into the bag.
“Bienvenudo a Calantes.” It’s the soldier who was staring at me before. I hand him my papers without meeting his eyes.
“Catalina Marks, from the USA,” he drawls in thickly accented English, latinizing my name. I don’t correct him, just nod my head. My heart pounds and my stomach starts to churn.
“You come to help los rebeldes,” he says darkly. Los rebeldes. Rebels.
“Just helping to treat the sick. Children and the elderly.” This was the reply I was taught to provide in orientation. It felt very different giving it in person, in real life. I feel a bead of sweat trickle from my hair right down to the small of my lower back. Still avoiding eye contact, I focus my glance on a large map on the wall, which is brand new, unlike most of the decaying airport.
The guard snorts and rattles off something I can’t quite catch in rapid-fire Spanish. I stand perfectly still and don’t say anything. He leans in towards me, leering, so close I can feel his breath on my ear. He smells like cigarettes and stale bread. “You don’t speak Spanish?”
“I do!” I look up, panicked. “Pero solo…solo hablo un poquito de Español.” I only speak a little bit of Spanish. I had been required to do the Spanish crash course as part of orientation. Not for the first time, I curse my decision to take French in high school. Tess would have said it was a sign I should have gone to Paris.
Sergeant Sleaze says nothing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. Fumbling for a lighter, he thrusts my papers back at me before lighting up and exhaling loudly. I try not to gag as he blows a toxic whorl of smoke right into my face. I notice Emerson is already through the door, looking worried. I wonder if I messed up the Spanish and accidentally insulted his mother or something.
“No you worry, Princessa.” He steps aside, giving me that stomach-curdling grin again. “I let you go.”
“Gracias,” I stammer. He presses up against me as I try to get by, and I feel the butt of his machine gun against my stomach. I shudder and practically fling myself at Emerson.
“Did he give you a hard time?” Emerson gives me a sympathetic look. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a roll of Mentos, offering me one. The foil wrapper is crumpled, and there are bits of lint stuck to it, but I take one anyway, because it’s something to do.
“Thanks.” I bite into the mint, enjoying the satisfying crunch before it gives way to the soft interior. “He was just kind of a jerk.”
“They’re all like that.” He shakes his head. “This place is really screwed up. You’ll see soon enough.”
I look around me. The ground is dusty, with tufts of grass and weeds growing here and there, as if someone forgot to water their lawn for three or four years. It�
�s littered with cigarette butts and other trash: rotting food, torn items of clothing, empty bottles. A few feet away, I notice a baby doll on its back. Its head is cracked open and you can see the mechanism inside that opens and closes the eyes. There is something horrifying about it, and I feel my insides churn as I look away. There’s a chain-link fence around the airport and it’s topped with barbed wire. More soldiers with machine guns and cigarettes patrol the perimeter.
“Over here.” Emerson motions toward a red vehicle that looks like a cross between a Jeep and a pickup truck and unlocks the doors. I toss my things in the back, but Emerson shakes his head. “You can’t leave it there,” he says, picking up my backpack. “It will get stolen.”
“While we’re moving?”
“You have no idea.” His expression is grim. He shoves my pack under my seat for me, and helps me inside. “Like I said, this place is screwed up.”
Emerson starts the car and clicks the lock switch at least five times. I wonder if he’s paranoid, or if it’s really that bad outside. As if reading my mind, Emerson catches my eye. “This is your first time in a Third World country.” It’s a flat statement, not a question. My lack of experience must be glaringly obvious.
“Yeah.” I slump forward in my seat, my hair falling like a curtain around my face so he can’t see my reddened cheeks. “It’s not yours?”
“No, it is.” He’s blushing too. “I didn’t mean it like that. Some of the others are just, like, veterans at this sort of thing. They’ve volunteered in Africa, or whatever.”
“Not me.” I can’t even believe I’m here, I add silently. Out the window, I notice a small group of children waving to us from the side of the road. They don’t look old enough to be in preschool, let alone wandering the road by themselves. Emerson notices them and toots the horn. They clap, delighted. Their faces are filthy and their clothes are ripped and smeared with dusty dirt. The oldest one—she’s maybe five—picks up the youngest and props her on her hip, just like a mother with a baby. I stare, transfixed. I have never held a baby.
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