“I do know,” Margo says, nodding. “I get it. But really—are we doing it for them? Or is it really for us? Sometimes it’s not clear to me.”
We sit in silence, contemplating each other’s words. Was Margo right? When I mended someone’s wound or offered them relief from pain, was I helping them, or was I helping myself? And did it matter?
“I miss home,” Margo announces, out of the blue. Startled, I drop my canteen into the dust. I watch as grains of sand and bit of dirt stick to the spout where it was still wet, and curse inwardly.
“That’s not like you,” I reply carefully, reaching for the canteen. It’s not like Margo to admit any kind of weakness, any kind of vulnerability. Especially not when it comes to her life and family back in Toronto.
She wraps a strand of dark hair around her index finger. “It was my mom’s sixtieth birthday yesterday.”
“Oh,” I say, not knowing how to respond. I think of my own mother’s birthday, several days back, and feel the familiar ache. I don’t look at Margo, instead focusing on a bright orange-and-black beetle bobbling though the tall grass. The pattern on its back reminds me of one of my dad’s uglier ties.
“My dad has been planning this huge surprise party forever,” she continues. “It meant a lot to him. He was crushed when he realized I’d still be here.”
“I thought they wanted you to come out here,” I say. “For your résumé.”
“They did,” Margo says. She breaks a branch off a nearby tree and snaps it in her hands. “But I timed it so I would miss the party.”
“Oh,” I say again. I’m still not sure what to say.
“I just—I wish I had done things differently,” she says. She uses the longer piece to scribble in the sand, drawing abstractly. “I wish I could have been there for the party.”
“Yeah.” My mother will never have a sixtieth birthday party.
“Anyway.” Margo tosses the stick aside and straightens. “Maybe Taylor’s right. What good is killing chickens really doing for these people? Do they need us here? What they need is money.”
Margo swats irritably at a mosquito. The little pests have become more active recently. Rafael says it’s the start of the rainy season that brings them out in swarms.
“But we are helping,” I protest. “You’re helping feed people. I’m helping heal them.” I think of earlier today, when I helped set a girl’s broken arm. When Anna forced her dislocated shoulder into place with a satisfying snap, I had felt empowered. I tell Margo this, as she goes back to her doodling.
Suddenly, Margo slaps violently at her forearm, hissing loudly. We both watch the little fountain of blood that spurts forth: she must have caught the annoying insect mid-feast.
“The problem is,” she says quietly, “that not all problems are like a broken arm, where you can set them. Some are like—” she stops abruptly, flushing.
I’m puzzled at first, but then I realize what she was going to say. “Some are like cancer,” I say flatly.
“Sorry,” she says, abashed. “I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug irritably. “You can say cancer in front of me. I’m not going to break. Cancer, cancer, cancer!” I shout loudly, to prove my point. My voice reverberates around me in the stillness of the jungle.
Overhead, there is a flurry of brightly colored feathers as a bird makes its escape, frightened into flight. Margo stares at me warily.
“Sorry,” I say. I kick at the ground, accidentally sending the beetle flying. Margo and I both watch as it lands on a log nearby. I wonder if it’s scared, and I feel guilty.
“It’s true, though,” she says. “This place has huge problems. It’s going to take major changes to fix it.”
“Like?”
She shrugs. “Taylor says Eduardo talks a lot about elections. Getting the UN in here to supervise, like in Ukraine.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “That sounds reasonable.”
Margo snorts. “The president isn’t reasonable though, Cat. He’s a military lunatic.”
I think of what Rafael has been saying, about uprisings and guns and armies. “But a peaceful resolution—”
“There is no such thing,” she cuts in flatly. “And Rafael knows it, I think. Taylor says that Eduardo says Rafael is talking to militia groups. And Eduardo is worried.”
Taylor says that Eduardo says…it sounds like high-school gossip, like the game Broken Telephone that we used to play as kids. I don’t say anything.
“Has Rafael said anything to you?” she asks. “Or do you two not do much talking?”
“Funny,” I say. I hesitate before answering, but then I see no reason not to be honest. After all, Rafael certainly isn’t keeping his thoughts under wraps. He’ll tell anyone who will listen.
“He talks about change,” I say carefully. “And he’s mentioned uprisings and whatever.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. Her lips are pursed and she looks worried. “Maybe you should talk to Eduardo.”
Now I’m annoyed. I’m not tattling on Rafael, who’s been so kind to me. Who’s made such an effort, who has been the first good thing to happen to me in ages. What do I care what his politics are?
“I’m not talking to anyone,” I say flatly. “Rafael is just trying to do good work for people here, and so am I.” I take a final swig from my canteen and screw the cap back on. “I have to go now.”
Margo calls after me as I stalk back to the Infirmary, but I ignore her.
...
“That feels good.” The words escape my lips involuntarily, and I cringe, realizing how silly they must sound in context. Rafael is applying insect repellant to my exposed shoulders, rubbing it in carefully so there are no gaps. He chuckles softly and brushes my hair to one side with his hands.
“You’re easy to please, Catalina,” he says softly. His breath is hot and tickles my ear. He bends in closer and bites it, gently. “Now only I can bite you.” I shudder with desire and lean into him. My entire body feels useless, as if it has turned into a quivering mass of jelly.
Rafael’s hands slip under my T-shirt, and he very lightly strokes my stomach with just the tips of his fingers. He hesitates at the bra line, but I shake my head.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Please. Yes.”
Encouraged, he explores my breasts with the same delicate touch. I close my eyes, and wonder how they can be the source of both such pleasure and such pain.
Rafael can sense my change in mood. “Are you okay, cariño? I will stop.”
“No,” I say, feeling frustrated. “It’s just—it’s my mother.”
“Oh,” he says. His arms fall to his sides and he reaches to take my hand in his. “Let’s sit down.”
It’s night, and Rafael and I are alone. We’ve taken to meeting like this when we can. Margo and Taylor don’t even bother asking me to walk back to the base after supper. Rafael and I always meet here, in this same spot by the fire, once the others have gone. Our spot. We don’t pretend we’re studying Spanish anymore.
Wordlessly, I allow Rafael to lead me over to a fallen tree. He pulls me down next to him and touches my cheek. “It’s okay, Cat. I understand.”
“Margo and Taylor keep telling me to be careful,” I say suddenly.
Rafael stiffens, but doesn’t pull away. “Why is that?” he asks.
I sigh. “They’re worried you’re talking about uprisings and stuff. Weapons.” I pull back and look at him, my hand on his chest. In the moonlight, his eyes are even darker, barely distinguishable from the blackness of the night around us. I can feel his heart speed up under my hand, the beats closer together now.
“I just want to do what is best for my country and its people,” he says. He sounds angry, and I regret bringing it up, spoiling the mood. Somewhere out in the darkness, something shrieks. It’s eerily human-sounding, even though I know it
must be a bird or a monkey. My skin is riddled with goosebumps.
“We have tried peaceful negotiations. Envoys. Nothing works. Do I let my parents rot in prison forever?” He’s nearly shouting now, though he pulls me closer, his hands now tightly grasping my wrists.
I don’t how to respond. He’s told me this before. “I know,” I say finally.
Rafael exhales loudly and loosens his grip. “There are two camps among us,” he says. “Some, like Eduardo, still think this can be done peacefully. But I’m past that.”
“What will you do?” I whisper. I take his hand, feel his fingers entwine with mine. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“We need help. Money,” he says grimly.
“Money.” Unwittingly, I picture Rafael emptying a piggy bank, counting quarters and stacking them in little piles. “For weapons, you mean.”
Rafael doesn’t answer, and I feel my heart sink like a stone tossed into the river.
“Are you still in touch with others?” I ask hesitantly.
“We have—” he pauses, a look of hesitation on his face, “other groups assisting us with this.”
“Other groups?” I repeat warily. “What kind of groups?”
“We are not the only group unhappy with the current government,” Rafael says carefully.
I can tell he’s uncomfortable with this line of discussion. He busies himself with tending to the fire.
“But aren’t you afraid?” I pull my knees up to my chest and hug them. “The other groups may have a different agenda. How can you trust them?”
“They have better connections with the outside. With government,” he says, not answering my question. “More experience.”
“More experience,” I say, frowning. “With what?”
He still doesn’t look at me. “With this sort of situation.”
“You mean war. Weapons. Violence.” My voice rings hollow.
Rafael cringes at the word “violence.” He touches my cheek, then tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. My mind is brimming with questions. I think of what Margo said earlier: there’s no such thing as a peaceful revolution. Is she right? Is this the only way forward? Is that the real way to do good? I don’t know what to think.
Rafael moves to kiss me again, but the moment is over, the mood spoiled. It feels different, more clinical somehow. Like I’m analyzing kissing for a science project. I don’t pull away, but Rafael can sense it and stops.
“I will take you back now,” he says. He waits for me to respond, but I just nod, staring at the ground.
...
“You were out late last night,” Taylor says pointedly. He’s already dressed, poised to leave the barracks, when I wake up. He looks so different from when we first met. His hair is almost long again now, and like the locals here, he’s sprouting a full beard.
He grabs his canteen and waits, glowering, for me to answer. I look around for Margo, but she must have left early to feed the livestock. Melody, of course, is nowhere to be found. I meet Taylor’s fierce gaze and feel a wave of resentment.
“I didn’t realize you were in charge of curfews,” I snap, fussing with the twisted mosquito net. I try not to tumble head first out of the hammock.
“You were with him, I guess?”
“Rafael? Yeah.” I frown. “Why do you care?”
Taylor hesitates. “I’m just worried about you,” he says carefully. “Eduardo told me some stuff about him. He can be a bit of a fanatic, with the idealism. He knows Rafael from growing up.”
“And?” I say, feeling impatient. I don’t like being lectured by Taylor.
“And he didn’t deal well when they took his parents, that’s all. Eduardo says he’s getting restless here. Wants to do more.”
I think of his words last night, about his plans to join with more militaristic groups. I don’t say anything to Taylor.
“Maybe you just don’t know what it’s like to lose your parents,” I retort instead, my voice trembling.
“Rafael’s parents aren’t dead,” he says patiently. “They’re in prison.”
“Which I’m sure is a really nice place to be in this country,” I shoot back.
“The point is, Eduardo is worried that—”
“Oh, Eduardo,” I interject, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “Enough. I don’t want to hear any more about wonderful Eduardo.”
“Huh?” He stares at me.
“So your boyfriend is trustworthy, but mine isn’t?” I’m on my feet now. It’s hard to stand in the tent—even at my height, the top of my head skims the rough canvas.
“Boyfriend?” His tone is shocked, defensive. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Margo told me all about you and Eduardo. I find it really interesting that it’s okay for you to get involved with someone here, but there’s something wrong with me seeing Rafael.”
“Margo doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about,” snaps Taylor. His face is bright red, as if he’s been sunburned.
“I saw you with him yesterday.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw.” He doesn’t look at me. “Eduardo is engaged. To a girl,” he adds for emphasis.
I watch Taylor’s shoulders sag slightly as he conveys this news.
“But you’re in love with him,” I whisper.
“Don’t be stupid.” His tone is sharp, but he still won’t look at me.
“Then why are you so convinced he’s right, and not Rafael?” I sit back down on the edge of my hammock, but I’m still angry.
“Rafael has big plans, Cat. He has other loyalties, responsibilities. I’m not saying he doesn’t really like you, I’m just saying you should be careful.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.” My voice is firm. “And maybe I agree with him. Have you thought of that?”
Taylor stares at me a long moment. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, turning to leave. He lifts the tent flap and then changes his mind turns back once more. “Be careful, Cat,” he says quietly. He leaves without another word.
I sit staring at the blank tent canvas for ages after that. Anna is waiting for me at the Enfermería, but I remain paralyzed, spooling Taylor’s words in my head over and over.
Chapter 17
Before
“I don’t want any more chemo.” Mom’s voice quakes, and she shrinks back in her seat. “It’s not going to do anything. I don’t expect a miracle. I just don’t want to suffer.”
“But sweetheart,” Dad pipes up, his face ashen. “Shouldn’t we at least try? How can we say for sure it’s not going to do anything?” He clutches the sides of his chair like a security blanket.
“I have brain cancer.” She stares at him flatly. “There is no good outcome here.”
We’re in the oncologist’s office. She’s a good doctor, smart without being patronizing or condescending. Instead, she’s frank and practical, and doesn’t wear a stethoscope around her neck like some sort of status symbol. She’s sitting now on the examination table, her legs dangling. She’s a bigger woman: not fat, but broad-shouldered and big-boned, and seeing her like that is disarming.
“I understand,” she says now. “I wouldn’t want to do it, either.”
My father glares at her, his jaw clenching.
“What do most people do?” I interject, before Dad can say anything. I am calm; the Abilify, clearly, is working. I am vaguely aware that this is the sort of conversation that, a week ago, I would have found upsetting. Instead, I just feel numb.
“It really depends.” Dr. Allport shrugs slightly. “Some people will try anything—they’ll go for the clinical trials as a last hope. Others don’t want anything. It’s very personal.”
“I will not be a guinea pig,” my mother quails. The clinical-trial option scares her. She pictures herself as a lab rat in a cage
, being injected with glow-in-the-dark poison or whatever. I’ve tried to explain it’s not quite like that, but she’s adamant it’s not something she wants to pursue, and really, who can blame her? Statistically, the chances of a clinical trial being of any value are probably less than winning the lottery, and the side effects truly suck.
“I can’t believe we have to make this decision.” My dad is on his feet now, pacing the tiny room. “You’re the doctor!”
Dr. Allport’s eyes brim with sympathy as she watches him walk the perimeter of her office. “It’s a terrible thing,” she says simply. “I wish there was an easy answer.”
I interject. “What about radiation?” I’ve done my googling; radiation could be an option here.
The doctor nods, her blunt hair bobbing. “It can be useful in shrinking the tumor a bit so that the side effects of the brain mets aren’t as severe. It wouldn’t be curative, but it could help.”
I blink at the word “mets.” Metastasis. You don’t have to be a doctor to know that’s a bad word. It should devastate me. I should feel sick at the very word. Intellectually, I know this, but am unable to feel it properly in my medicated haze.
“What are the side effects?” Mom looks wary. She was exhausted during radiation last time, and the skin around her breast became so swollen and inflamed, it looked a bit like she’d grown a third boob.
“You may experience nausea and seizures,” Dr. Allport begins, and my mother cuts her off.
“I’m already experiencing those,” she says sharply. “How is that helping, then, exactly?”
“That’s a fair point,” the doctor concedes. “You don’t have to do anything right away. You don’t have to do anything at all.”
“I don’t know.” Mom buries her face in her hands. “I just don’t know what to do.”
This isn’t the first time we’ve been here, dissecting our options. We came right away when we got back from San Francisco, and Dr. Allport presented the various possibilities and gave us some reading material. The three of us have been waffling ever since, unsure of what the right thing is. If there is a right thing at all.
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