“Rest of it?” I scan the water warily for snakes before quickly dunking my head beneath the water. It’s a bit like bathing in warm coffee. I squeeze my eyes and mouth shut.
“Drugs,” she says when I resurface, as if it’s obvious. “Hasn’t Rafael told you?”
“Apparently not,” I answer carefully. I wring the water from my hair.
“Drug trafficking,” she explains. Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Cocaine. Whoever controls the trafficking routes controls Calantes.”
“I know a little bit,” I say, thinking of Anna’s history lessons. “What about it?”
Margo wriggles into her clothes, skin still damp. She’s in a borrowed pair of pants and an ancient looking T-shirt from one of her chicken-murdering friends. Both are too big on her. In oversized clothes and makeup-free, she looks much younger. With her hair wet and loose, she could pass for fourteen.
“To get ahead, they’ll need to link up with one of the rebel trafficking factions,” she explains. “And that means dirtying their hands. Drugs. Weapons. This isn’t a fight that’s going to be won through televised debates and tax-break promises, and our friends here are afraid.”
I remember Rafael’s comments about other groups. Is that what he was referring to? Drug traffickers? Despite the warm water and humid air, I suddenly feel cold. The medication-seeking raiders seem tame in comparison to professional drug cartels. Do I tell Margo?
“Have you done it yet?” asks Margo, abruptly changing the subject.
“Done what?” I ask, guarded. I’m still in the water, naked from the waist up, trying to French-braid my hair. I don’t look at her.
Margo rolls her eyes. “It,” she says meaningfully. “You know. With Rafael.”
Oh. I blush so hard my whole body feels like it’s turning pink. Embarrassed, I drop down in the water to my chin. “No,” I mutter.
Margo quickly twists her hair into a knot and studies me. “You’ve never done it, have you,” she says.
“No,” I admit.
Margo raises her eyebrows. “Are you waiting for something in particular?”
I shrug. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
Margo continues, grinning. “A date at a five-star restaurant? Jewelry? Violins?”
“Violins?”
“Yeah, you know.” Margo mimes playing the violin. “Like, music in the background. Serenading you out of your pants.”
I stick my tongue out at her. “Very funny.” I frown, trying to find the right words. “I just haven’t done it yet. No reason. I haven’t had a lot of time for guys the last couple of years. You know, with my mom.” At the thought of my mom, I feel the usual crushing pain in my chest. It burgeons there, before slowly spreading to my shoulders and radiating down my arms. I read once that these are the symptoms of a heart attack, and I wonder idly if whoever coined the term broken heart suffered from a grief-related cardiac arrest.
“Shit. That really sucks.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. I don’t feel like talking about it. “What can you do.”
I stand up again and finish my braid, then emerge from the water. When my clothes are back on, I sit down next to Margo, who is drawing in the dirt with a stick. I peer over her shoulder.
“It’s a macaw,” she says. She moves the stick lightly across the sand, shading. “I saw one earlier. It landed right near me, but then it flew away.”
I watch silently as she works, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as the stick moves back and forth expertly.
“You’re really talented,” I tell her, awed by the delicacy of her work. “That’s beautiful.”
“I love to draw,” she says quietly. “I wanted to be an art major.”
“Why didn’t you?” I watch her deft hands work their magic, her eyes alive and focused.
“I have to go to medical school, Cat.” She smiles bitterly. “I can still paint, right? I’ll paint after surgery, my mom says. No big deal.”
I feel a wave of sadness for Margo, trapped between what she wants and what her parents expect. I don’t know what the right answer is. Once upon a time, I would have said she should follow her art, and her dream, but dreams don’t always come true. Usually they don’t come true. Would Margo be happy as a starving artist? Now that we’ve seen starving—real starving—does it seem less romantic? I pose the question to Margo, who seems startled.
“Maybe you’re right.” She freezes mid-sketch and stares at me.
“I’m not trying to be annoying,” I add hastily. “I just—”
“No, you’re probably right.” She shakes her head. “All this time here, and I’m still a privileged brat. Think Anna would whine about going to medical school?”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be medical school,” I suggest. “Maybe there’s a way to compromise.”
Margo resumes her drawing. “Maybe,” she says with a shrug.
“You’ve done a lot of good here,” I add, trying to be encouraging.
She snorts. “I kill chickens, Cat. It’s hardly brain surgery. You’re the one doing the important work. Have you thought about medicine?”
Medicine. I don’t think of the Enfermería; I think of the doctors and hospitals that dominated my life over the last two years. Could I do that? Be one of them?
Margo finishes her sketch. It’s beautiful, so lifelike. I touch her arm. “It’s wonderful,” I say, my breath catching. “It looks so real. Like it could take off and fly away.”
Margo looks at me, and then stands. She sweeps her bare foot across the drawing, erasing it.
“Why?” I manage, stunned.
She shrugs. “It flew away,” she says. “Let’s go.”
...
“Why do you braid your hair?” Rafael tugs on the elastic holding the end of my braid, releasing it. He runs his hand through the plait, unraveling it slowly. “It is so beautiful around your face like this.”
I smile self-consciously as he tucks a still-damp wave behind my ear. He’s been to the river too, and his curls are damp and smell of soap and something else that is uniquely Rafael. I inhale deeply, intoxicated by his scent. We are alone together in his tent. It’s my first time here; usually we head to the fire late at night to chat privately, but it is raining tonight, and he suggested I come here. Unlike most, he has his own space. It’s much like the one Anna and I use as a makeshift hospital, only smaller and with little personalized touches—a picture of his family tacked to the top beam and a pile of books in the corner. I glance at the one on top. It’s Dostoevsky, in Spanish.
“Any news?” I ask casually. “Talk to any other groups today?”
Rafael shakes his head, and takes my hand, bringing me a bit closer. “Not yet,” he says. Do I push? I wonder. Do I ask about the drug traffickers?
“You smell nice,” Rafael says softly, moving toward me. He lifts a strand of my hair and twists it around his finger.
“I was just thinking that about you!” I watch as he releases the hair, which still holds the shape of his finger.
“What do I smell like, Catalina?” He puts a hand on my waist and draws me closer to him.
“Like soap and…like you.” I struggle to describe it. “Like wood smoke and peppermint and spices. Cloves, maybe.”
He laughs, burying his face in my neck. “You have…how do you say it? A way with words, cariño.”
I blush, feeling silly, but quickly let it go as he nibbles at the space between my neck and shoulder. I gasp, feeling it in every square inch of my body.
“I wish to kiss you on all the places of your body,” he whispers. He bends and lifts my shirt, dropping tiny kisses all over my belly. I moan softly as his mouth moves across my navel.
“Don’t stop.” Thinking of my earlier conversation with Margo, I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it aside.
He looks at me, hesitant. “You
are certain?” he asks. His hands travel up to my shoulders, and he runs his fingertips gently down my arms.
I shiver with pleasure. “Yes,” I say firmly. “Yes.”
He leans in to kiss me. I wrap my arms around his neck, and allow myself to be lowered onto his makeshift bed.
There are no violins, but I hear music all the same.
...
When I awake, I expect to feel different. Changed, somehow. I stare at my naked arms as if my skin should show some tangible evidence of last night. However, with the exception of a few extra mosquito bites, I look the same.
Rafael is no longer beside me, but sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at the tent wall. He looks deep in thought. I crawl over and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He jumps slightly, then relaxes, placing my hand over his. “Cat.”
His voice sounds strained.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, concerned.
He exhales loudly. “The president executed a group of prisoners last night.” He buries his face in his hands. “I think my father might have been one of them.”
“Oh, Rafael.” I curl up into his back and wrap my arms around him. His skin is cool, despite the morning humidity. “How do you know? Are you sure?”
“I need to speak with Eduardo,” he says, rising abruptly. “He can check the newsfeeds. I only know what’s been on the radio.”
He pulls on a shirt and pants, and I become acutely aware of my nudity. Feeling awkward, I grab the sheet from the edge of the mattress and pull it up to my shoulders. “Is there anything I can do?” I ask lamely. I’m reminded of people’s response to my mother’s cancer, the meaningless and oft-repeated “let me know if I can help.” I feel useless.
He stares at me a moment. “Maybe,” he says. “Cat, if you could, would you help me? Would you help Calantes?”
“Of course,” I say. I think of the children on the side of the road, of Anna’s bravery, of Rafael himself. “Of course I would.”
He squeezes my hand and runs a lone finger down my arm. “I will see you later,” he says, turning away to pull on his boots.
He’s partway out the door before he turns back and drops a perfunctory kiss on my forehead. Confused, it is some time before I slowly dress and make my way to work.
...
I’m with Rafael again the next night, and the one after. Taylor is full of disapproving glances and warning words, but I ignore them. Rafael needs me. His father is on the lists that have appeared on the Darknet. He has spent the days shut in his tent in near-darkness. The nights he spends with me, attacking me with a passion and ferocity born of grief.
“I know,” I whisper, clinging to him. I run my fingers through his hair, which is slick with sweat, and shush him the way I would a baby. His weeping is unpredictable, starting and stopping with no obvious pattern. I remember that feeling acutely. In the days after my mother’s death, I would be calm and reasonable, speaking with funeral directors and choosing a headstone. Then the reality would set back in and I would find myself huddled in the shower, screaming as the water rained down. I vividly recalled clutching a pink Bic razor and wondering if it was sharp enough to inflict the sort of damage that would end the pain. At those moments, the suffering seemed too much to bear, like it would be easier to just give in and stop it.
“They will pay,” repeats Rafael, over and over. “They will suffer, like I have.”
“Yes,” I say soothingly, because I don’t know what else to do. I have the experience to know that words are meaningless when you’ve reached a certain level of utter despair. Instead, I bring him closer to me.
He mutters something in Spanish that I can’t quite understand, then switches back to English. His accent is more pronounced when he’s upset, and at first I don’t catch what he’s said.
“The only way to stop him is to play his game,” says Rafael grimly. Warily, I stroke his chest.
“Don’t say that,” I say softly. “You don’t want to sink to his level.”
Rafael laughs harshly. “Sometimes,” he says ominously, “one cannot afford to take the moral high ground.”
Uneasily, I lace his hands through mine. What does he mean? I start to ask, but before I can form the words, the weeping starts again.
“Come here, Cat,” he says, pulling me to him almost roughly. “Help me make the pain stop.”
Wordlessly, I move closer.
Chapter 19
Before
“We don’t have to do this,” I say, eyeing my mom warily through the mirror. I watch as she carefully applies her eyeliner, hand trembling ever so slightly. “Not if you’re not up for it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Cat.” My mother grins and reaches for a plum-colored lipstick. “This is finally something I want to do. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
We’re going shopping together for a prom dress. I want to tell her I don’t want to go to the prom, that it now seems trite as well as inappropriate, that I don’t have a date, because everyone at school is afraid of me, and, most importantly, that I am no longer capable of having fun. But I don’t say anything, because she is so excited about this, and I don’t have it in me to disappoint her.
“I see you in a delicate fabric, like peau de soie,” she says dreamily. She brushes her hair gently with a tiny comb. It’s still soft and fine, like a baby’s, but it’s hers. The wig is at the back of her closet, tossed haphazardly on a shelf. I try not to go in there, as it scares me. It’s like seeing my mother’s disembodied head lying there with the sewing kit and her flip-flops.
“I don’t know what that is,” I say warily. “I don’t want you to spend a lot. We don’t have to drive all the way to Cleveland. We can go to Miranda’s—”
Mom makes a face. “My daughter is not getting her prom dress at Miranda’s,” she declares, dismissing the local dress shop with a wave of her hand. “We’re going to Cleveland, and we’ll spend an absolute fortune if we have to. And you can’t argue with me, because I have cancer.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I grab a lip gloss from her vanity and apply some. It’s tinted a raspberry shade, and tastes of vanilla.
Mom studies me critically. “That doesn’t suit you,” she says, handing me a tissue. “Try this one.” She rummages around and pulls out a sheer pink lipstick.
She’s right; this one is much better. It brightens my skin and brings out the blue in my eyes.
“See?” she says smugly. “I always know these things.”
Don’t leave me, I want to scream. I need you. I don’t even know how to choose lipstick. I don’t know what peau de soie is! But this is a happy day, so I don’t cry or shout. Instead, I lean forward and kiss the top of my mother’s downy head.
“You look beautiful,” I say. “Let’s go.”
...
The drive to Cleveland takes us a little over an hour. Mom puts on her favorite classic rock station, and we roll down the windows and sing along to familiar tunes by the Beatles and Eric Clapton. I drive; Mom voluntarily relinquished her license when we returned from San Francisco. It feels weird to be in the driver’s seat. When I first got my learner’s permit, I accidentally drove up on the curb and nearly crashed into a post, with Mom in the passenger seat, shrieking. She refused to drive with me after that, leaving my driver’s ed to Dad. Since getting sick, though, she hasn’t made any negative comments about my chauffeuring abilities, other than to ask if she can have control over the radio. It’s as if our roles have reversed, with me as the parent, and her as the teenaged daughter, lounging in the passenger seat and complaining about my crappy choice in music.
“How do you think you’ll wear your hair?”
“Huh?” My eyes flicker to a sign on the freeway indicating we’re two exits away from our destination.
“Your hair.” Mom r
eaches out and touches it gently. “Were you thinking up or down?”
“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it.” I haven’t thought about any of this, I add silently. Because I don’t really want to go.
“I think you should wear it down,” she says. “It’s so pretty down. You have your whole life to wear it up, but you can really only wear it long like this when you’re young.”
“Okay,” I say automatically. “I’ll wear it down, then.”
“We can put rollers at the bottom, if you want,” she offers. “Give it a Kate Middleton look.”
“Sure,” I say. “Do you think you could get it to look like that?”
“For sure,” she says eagerly. “And I’ll do your makeup. We’ll make your eyes look huge and glamorous.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling. For the first time, I feel a small twinge of excitement. When I was little, I’d beg her to put makeup on me, to make me look like Ariel or Cinderella, and sometimes she would agree. I would be almost breathless with excitement as she’d delicately apply the tiniest bit of eye shadow or lip gloss. Afterward, I’d stare in the mirror, mesmerized at my transformation, while my dad muttered about gender stereotyping to Mom and she rolled her eyes in his direction good-naturedly.
I park as close to the door as I can—Mom is tired these days, and I don’t want to wear her out before we even get to the mall. It’s a handicapped spot; we got the permit a few days ago. It feels strange, but neither of us says anything.
It’s a surprisingly fun morning. I try on dozens of dresses in a handful of stores, while Mom examines me critically from all angles, snapping photos and making notes on her phone. “We’ll try on everything, and then we can go through and pick the best one,” she explains, as I pose in a lavender taffeta gown. She circles me and frowns. “Not your color,” she says. Relieved, I unzip it. It made me feel like a parade float.
We stop for frappuccinos, which are my mom’s absolute favorite thing. I order her a huge one, topped with whipped cream and drizzled chocolate.
Undiscovered Country Page 18