“He used to…touch me.” Her voice trembles. “He’d come into my room at night. He said if I told anyone he would send Jessie to foster care.”
“Jesus,” I say, then bite my tongue. “Sorry, that was unintentional.”
She keeps talking, shakes her head. “When I saw him start going into Jessie’s room, though, I lost it.” Her eyes have a faraway look in them.
I swallow. “What—what happened?”
“I went at him with a baseball bat,” she says flatly. “The police came. He’s in prison now, but Jessie and me, we ended up in foster care anyway.” She laughs harshly. “I should have done it years before.”
I don’t know what to say to Melody. I feel almost the same way as I do in the village—that I am living a parallel existence in a kinder, more gentle, universe. Her story is the kind I’ve read in the papers or seen on CNN.
“Melody, I’m—I’m so sorry.” Tentatively, I reach over and put a hand on her arm.
She flinches slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. She takes a deep breath and reaches under her bed for something.
“Diet Coke,” she says. “My sister and I would always buy one and share it on our way home from school.”
I recall Taylor’s earlier taunts and feel a pang of guilt. “Do you know where your sister is?”
“Yes.” She brightens. “She got placed with a great family, and she’s doing really well in school. Straight As.” She sounds like a proud parent. She fishes a cellphone out from under her pillow and shows me a picture of a girl who is almost a carbon copy of herself, only with redder hair and several years younger. She’s smiling in the picture, a genuine sort of smile.
“That’s wonderful.” We’re both quiet as she tucks the phone back under her pillow and pops open her soda can with a crack and a hiss.
“Want a sip?”
I don’t, really, but I don’t want to refuse either at this point when we’ve made so much progress. “Thanks,” I say, reaching for the can and taking a small sip before passing it back to her.
“I wasn’t always religious,” she says after taking a long swig. “When I was in a group home, I turned to God, you know? It was either God, or a bottle of pills. For Jessie’s sake, I went with God.”
“I guess,” I say, though I don’t understand. Any doubts I had about a higher being were confirmed when my mom died. Grief had not made me religious, and in fact had pushed me farther in the opposite direction.
“It helps,” she says. “Like maybe this life sucks, but the next one—that’ll be good. Like me and my mom and my sister will all be together again, in heaven.”
I blink. I can’t understand this kind of thinking. My parents weren’t religious or even spiritual, and I’ve always thought that when you’re dead, you’re dead. Finito, full stop. But I guess we all think—and cope—in different ways. After all, most people probably wouldn’t have dealt with personal tragedy by running off to the rainforest. Grief and its ensuing madness have many faces, I suppose.
“Do you…believe all that stuff?” I have to ask. I can’t help it.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “Sometimes, yes. Other times…I’m not sure. But I want to. I try to. Otherwise what is the point of it all? Why not just end it?”
I ponder this, wondering if perhaps Melody is lucky. Religion is a comfort to her, whereas I have no security blanket to cloak myself. I try to picture my mother as an angel in heaven, but don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mom would have snorted in ridicule at such an image.
“I’ll try to tone it down,” says Melody. “I know everyone hates me.”
“We don’t hate you,” I say lamely.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You do. I sort of do it on purpose. I can’t explain it. It’s like it’s easier to just have everyone hate me than deal with people and relationships and all the rest of it.”
I wince. “That’s really sad.”
She shrugs. “I’ve lived in three foster homes. Trust me, it’s easier this way.”
I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. Instead, I grab Margo’s iPod, plugging it into her wireless speakers. I flip through her songs until I find what I’m looking for: “Let it Be,” Paul McCartney’s tribute to his own deceased mother. Melody and I lie together, silent, listening to his words, absorbed in the melancholy sound and our own sense of loss.
...
Rafael makes a special effort over the first week to ensure we are, as he puts it, “settling in comfortably,” which annoys Margo.
“This isn’t the Hilton,” she mutters to me and Taylor as we set back on the path toward the base. “He’s acting like the concierge of a hotel or something.”
“He’s just trying to be nice,” I protest lamely. I don’t want to say too much, in case Taylor resumes his teasing.
On cue, Taylor snorts. “He likes Catalina here,” he says, putting heavy emphasis on an affected Calantes accent. “He’s trying to win her heart.” He fakes a swoon, hands folded across his chest.
Margo coughs. “Win her heart?”
“Well, at least get into her pants,” Taylor concedes with a smirk.
There’s a rustling behind us and we all jump; everyone here has warned us repeatedly about jaguars, ocelots, and other stealthy and carnivorous creatures of the night. With dusk falling, our senses are alert.
“Sorry.” It’s Rafael. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was wondering if I could speak with Cat.”
Margo and Taylor exchange a knowing glance. Taylor once again mimes a swoon, and I feel myself go as red as the passion flowers that decorate the rainforest like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
“Sure,” I say. I motion at Taylor and Margo to go ahead. “I’ll catch up.”
I stand on the edge of the path, yanking my shirt-sleeves down as far as I can. It’s best to expose as little skin as possible at night. The mosquitoes seem to be particularly vicious at dusk, as if the setting sun brings out the worst of their blood lust.
“Hi,” I say, unnecessarily. Margo and Taylor are out of earshot, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever really been alone with Rafael. Feeling awkward, I gather my hair into a ponytail, just to have something to do.
He smiles. “Sorry to bother you.” He pauses, as if unsure how to continue. My heart speeds up a bit as I watch him struggle for words. His hair is curlier in the evenings from the humidity, and it’s extremely attractive.
“I was thinking,” he says carefully. “That you might be interested in some Spanish lessons. As long as you’re here.”
“Oh!” I say, deflating. I wasn’t expecting this, but then what was I expecting? An invitation to a movie? Coffees at the local Starbucks? “Sure. I mean, that’s probably a good idea. For Taylor and Margo, too?”
“Oh. Um, yes. Of course.” He fidgets with the sleeve of his windbreaker. “Would you like to go for a walk?”
My heart accelerates again, but I’m wary. “Now?” I gesture towards the tree canopy, which obscures the setting sun. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Just to the water,” he says quickly. “I’ll walk you back to the base afterward. I know the path by heart, and I have a flashlight. And a knife,” he adds.
A knife. I shiver, and ask myself how I ended up here, being courted in the jungle by a veritable stranger who admits to having a knife.
“Sure,” I say, wondering if Margo and Taylor will know where to look if I don’t come back. “Let’s go.”
Rafael leads me through a partially cleared path, taking my hand at times to guide me over tree roots and uneven terrain. The mosquitoes buzz hungrily about my face, longing to make a meal of my exposed cheeks. The ever-darkening jungle leaves me with a sense of dread and foreboding, but each time Rafael touches me, I forget about anything else but the feel of his calloused palms. It’s electric, a pleasant rush like the drop of a roller coa
ster, and despite my natural instincts for caution, I long for more.
We reach the water. There’s still enough light streaming through the trees to see the gentle waves ripping across the dark surface of the river. Rafael stops and settles down on a large rock, motioning for me to join him.
“I love the river,” he says. “Knowing how long it is, how it links so many different places. I like to come here and just watch.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t feel quite the same way. The water is murky and opaque, and I know from my reading it is full of hideous creatures—anacondas and piranhas. Feeling guilty, I stare harder, trying to capture for myself whatever sense of peace the river seems to bring Rafael.
“Do you feel it?” he asks, putting his hand on my thigh. “The river? Almost magical.”
“Mmmmm,” I say. The river isn’t doing much for me, but his light touch on my leg is working wonders.
We sit in silence, his hand still gently resting on my thigh.
“Your English is really good,” I say, when the quiet between us becomes awkward. “Did you learn it in school?”
Rafael turns to me. “No,” he says. “My father is a history professor. He studied at Oxford, and he’s always spoken English with me.”
“Ah,” I say. That explains the trace of a British accent and slight formality to his speech. “My dad is a professor, too. English.”
“Really!” He looks pleased at this commonality. “Is he the absent-minded professor, like mine? Papa once left the stove on and went to South Africa for a conference. Mama and I were visiting relatives in Brazil. It’s only due to luck the house did not burn down.”
I laugh. “Not as bad as that, but he definitely has his moments.” An image of my dad in the dark, clutching a bag of chips, comes to mind, though I desperately try to block it out. Not now! “He once almost went to work with no pants on.”
“What?”
“Yes, he got all dressed in his suit jacket, tied his tie and everything, but somehow forgot to put on his pants. He was almost at the door before my mother stopped him.”
Rafael looks amused. “He’s lucky she noticed.”
“Yes,” I say, and feel a stab of guilt. Who would watch over my father and make sure he was fully dressed, now?
“When they came for my parents, I tried to fight them,” says Rafael. The laughter has faded from his eyes. “I had a stick; they had guns and knives.”
I recall his scars. “Is that how you got those?” I ask softly, gesturing.
“Yes,” he says shortly. He runs his hand over the scar along his chin. Though faded, it is still visible, a thin red line, like the Amazon as depicted on a map.
We are both silent. I try to imagine having to fend off armed men with a stick, but I can’t. To me it’s like a scene in a movie.
“El rio,” he says then unexpectedly, pointing at the water.
I blink, confused, then realize he’s started his Spanish tutorial. It’s clear he wishes to change the subject.
“Even I know that one,” I say with a smile. “My Spanish isn’t that awful.”
“Siento,” he says, apologizing with a grin. “I will have to get a better idea of what you know and what you don’t know.”
The insects are out in full force now. It’s almost like looking through a screen, only instead of mesh the screen is made up of thousands of tiny beings, all humming and fluttering wildly. Somewhere nearby, an animal howls, and some primal part of me becomes overwhelmed with fear. What am I doing in the middle of the rainforest at night, with a stranger?
“I want to go back now,” I say abruptly, standing up.
Rafael looks surprised, but doesn’t argue. “Of course.”
He walks me back to the base in near silence. He’s a perfect gentleman, touching me only to help me over tree roots or to hold back branches and vines. He asks repeatedly if I am okay, and I say yes each time, even though I’m not sure that’s true.
When I’m safely back in my barracks, I collapse underneath my mosquito net, the fatigue setting in. I dread this time of day, when I am no longer busy enough to ignore the perpetual hollow ache that is my mother and the sadness that is the longing for my father. His perfunctory emails have become few and far between, and I wonder if he is still wandering from room to room with F. Scott in one hand and potato chips in the other. I stare at the net overhead until it is a blur of white, debating whether to email Aunt Caroline about his mental health. My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden loud snort: Margo, though she denies it, snores loudly. It’s like sleeping in the vicinity of a noisy garbage truck.
I look around. Melody is absent. I know she showers at night when everyone else is asleep, so she can lock the door. She has been quiet since our unexpected heart-to-heart; she has reached a sort of cold détente with Margo and ignores Taylor entirely. She’s civil with me, but she acts as if we never spoke. I don’t know whether to engage her to bring out the good I know is in there or to leave her alone.
I look over at Taylor and notice that he is awake, and watching me.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I don’t mention the internal turmoil of being drawn to and repelled by Rafael, or the fact that he led me out into the jungle with a knife.
“You okay? I’d have thought you’d be more excited, hooking up with Latin Loverboy.”
I make a face. “We did not hook up. We just talked.”
He shakes his head. “Pity. Better luck next time.”
Before I can answer, Melody comes in, stealthily—like a jaguar stalking its prey. She’s clutching her shower caddy and is fully dressed in leggings and a T-shirt, even though it’s oppressively hot and the rest of us sleep nude or nearly so. She eyes us both but says nothing.
“Hey,” I say casually. “How are the wells going?”
Melody has chosen well-digging as her placement. I don’t think she enjoys it, but it’s predictable work that doesn’t require any emotional involvement or interpersonal interaction.
“Fine,” she says softly. “How is the village?”
“Fine,” I answer back, though nothing really is fine.
Taylor scowls, and even in the dark I can feel his animosity toward Melody. She must feel it too, because she stiffens and her face turns hostile. She crawls under her net and props up her bible before pulling out a flashlight.
“Could you turn that off?” says Taylor loudly. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
Melody says nothing, but yanks a blanket over her head to dim the glow. Taylor makes an angry sound and turns the other way.
I don’t intervene. Instead, I think of Rafael’s hand on my thigh. The feeling in the pit of my stomach has nothing to do with fear or caution.
Chapter 13
Before
“That’ll be twenty-seven dollars and thirty-six cents.” The woman at the counter waits expectantly while I dig out a couple of crumpled bills. She peers at me, frowning, from behind a large pair of red plastic glasses that clash with her eggplant hair.
“Here you go.” I hand over the cash and grab the sweatshirt, sighing with relief as I shrug it on and zip it up. It’s overpriced and tacky—“San Francisco” is scrawled across it in bright pink script—but it does the job. I hadn’t realized it would be so cold here.
“I thought California was supposed to be warm,” I complain, as my parents pass me a hot chocolate. They’d been at Starbucks while I was in line buying my tourist-trap hoodie.
Dad grins and sips his coffee. “Not in San Francisco. I did try to warn you.”
He had tried. And I’d brushed it off as typical parental over-caution, the kind that inspires moms and dads everywhere to try to persuade their kids to pack gloves and hats in May. But in this case, he’d been right. San Francisco is cold. Not just cool—cold. Like, chilled to the bone, f
antasizing about a blanket and hot shower kind of cold. I had been woefully unprepared, hence the impromptu sweatshirt stop.
Mom, thankfully, had listened to Dad and packed accordingly. She’s dressed now in a woolen peacoat and cashmere sweater. She’s knotted a mint silk scarf at her neck, and she’s pink-cheeked from the cold; she looks healthy, better than she has in months. Her hair is starting to grow back, too. It’s almost in a pixie cut now, and she’s happily discarded the wig in favor of cute caps and hairbands. She’s wearing a little cream knit hat now, with her new hair peeking out in the front. The new hair is curly, and lighter than her normal color.
“What’s with these curls?” she asked last night, frowning at herself in the hotel mirror.
“They’re cute,” I’d said. “I’m sure they’ll look great with a little gel.”
“How do you grow this out, though?” She pulled at a tiny ringlet. “I’m going to look like Art Garfunkel.”
“Who?”
“Old guy. Singer. Wild mass of curly hair.”
“You don’t have to worry. I read the chemo curl eventually goes away.”
“Chemo curl?” She made a face and pointed at her mouth in a gagging gesture. “It has an alliterative name? Like it’s cute? That’s awful.”
I had agreed, and we’d both laughed.
Now, she brushes a stray curl back under her hat and grins at me.
“Stylish sweatshirt.” She nods at the window of the souvenir shop I just left. “Didn’t you want the matching hat?” I turn to look where she’s pointing; the mannequin in the window is wearing a decidedly uncool San Francisco baseball cap.
“Funny, Mom,” I say, turning back to stick out my tongue. Inside, though, I feel a warm glow of happiness spreading from my belly all the way to my fingers and toes. Six months ago, I’d never dreamed we’d be on this trip. I figured if I wanted to go see Stanford, I’d have to go myself, or with Tess. Or, more likely, not at all. I’d even been rethinking Stanford entirely, looking into options closer to home. But things seem on the upswing now. Mom’s latest mammogram was free of any suspicious lumps or bumps, and her strength was gradually returning. The trip had even been her idea: we would check out Stanford, visit San Francisco, and drive down the coast to LA. She’d always wanted to visit California, she said; she’d just never had the chance.
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