Undiscovered Country

by Jennifer Gold

  “They don’t,” he says carefully. “This—this wasn’t a raid.”

  In the corner, Anna makes a small, choked sound. She is searching for something, and I notice her hands are shaking, too.

  “What do you mean?” I watch Anna unearth an old sheet, a basin, and some sponges.

  “It wasn’t the raiders. It was a different group.” Rafael isn’t looking at me, or at Melody. He’s studying the tent frame very hard.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I—I invited them here.” The words come out in a rush. “I did not know this would happen, Cat. You must believe me. I—”

  “These are the drug traffickers,” I say, realization dawning. “The narcos.”

  “It was an accident, Cat. Melody was out of her mind. You know how she can be.”

  I shake my head. “Not now, Rafael.”

  “But—”

  “No.” Firmly, I turn to Anna, who is hovering anxiously.

  “We should clean the body,” she says softly. “Sew the wounds.” She holds up the basin. “Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” I answer. My hands shake as I hold them out towards Anna. “What do I do?”

  Rafael places another tentative hand on my shoulder. “Cat,” he says, his voice pleading.

  “Not now,” I say roughly, pushing him away. “There are more important things now, Rafael!”

  He backs out of the tent, stumbling as he leaves. Anna pulls back the blanket and we get to work, tenderly sponging Melody’s fair skin. Anna stitches her abdomen, while I dab at her hair with my sponge, cleaning away the blood that has made its way into her golden curls.

  My thoughts wander, and my stomach knots with grief. I should have made more of an effort, after our talk, I think, as guilt overwhelms me. Maybe she wouldn’t have done it. She bared her soul to me, and I was too busy with Rafael.

  Anna speaks up quietly. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “She was your friend?”

  I struggle for the right words as I wash Melody’s delicate shoulders. “She was a roommate,” I say lamely. I don’t feel I have the right to call her my friend.

  Anna shakes her head. “So much violence,” she says, sounding tired. I wait for her to say more, but she busies herself with Melody, trying to put together the pieces of the broken girl who will now never quite be whole.

  ...

  I don’t seek out Rafael that day, or the next. The SWB camp is in mourning over Melody, the administration caught up in a nightmare of bureaucracy as they try to arrange for the body to get back to the States. I spend the days instead with Valentina and her baby, comforted by the scent and feel of the infant against my chest. Valentina is grateful for the reprieve, and I am grateful for the distraction. With the baby, I feel hopeful; at the base, I am consumed by the guilt and fear and grief that is Melody’s tragic, violent end.

  Margo has been holed up in the tent since the death, curled in a ball and speaking in monosyllables. She had been on her way from the base to the village when the narcos arrived with their guns, making her a witness to Melody’s shooting. It was hours before Sofia found her, hidden behind a clump of trees, rocking back and forth. Since then, she’s barely said a word. Taylor, who has been busy since the shooting dealing with the media fallout, says Trish and the rest of the administration want her to go home. They’re worried about post-traumatic stress disorder. They want me to go, too.

  Back in the tent for the evening, I sit gingerly on the edge of Margo’s cot, and tentatively offer her a Milky Way. “Chocolate?”

  Margo rolls over and pulls out her earbuds, eyeing the candy bar warily. “Sure,” she says finally, propping herself up. “I’ll split it with you.”

  Hiding in the barracks for days without a shower or change of clothes has taken its toll on Margo. Her hair is frizzing at the ends, and there are trails of mascara down each cheek, like tribal war paint. She takes half the Milky Way, but doesn’t eat it. Instead, she stares at it in her hands as if it’s some foreign object.

  Taylor walks in then, carrying an armful of junk food: cans of soda, bags of chips, candy bars.

  “I see you had the same idea,” he says, nodding at Margo. He dumps the load of chocolate, pretzels, and other snacks next to Margo and collapses on his own bed. “She needs to eat something.”

  “Don’t talk about me in the third person, like I’m not here,” snaps Margo, glaring in his direction. “I’m not that far gone.”

  “Well then, eat,” says Taylor flatly. “You haven’t eaten in two days.” He glances sharply at me. “You’re eating, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a shrug. My appetite has been substantially whittled down by memories of Melody’s end, coupled with anxiety over Rafael, but I did have some flatbread earlier with Valentina. “More or less.” I take a bite of the chocolate bar. It’s ordinarily a favorite of mine, but it doesn’t taste as good as usual.

  Taylor opens a soda and takes a long swig before speaking. “I know it’s nothing compared to what you guys are going through,” he says. “But I can’t stop thinking about how mean I was.”

  He pauses, looking miserable. “I was such a jerk to her. Over everything, even soda. And now she’s dead.” He flinches as something lands on his shoulder. He bats at it, frantic; its wings are large and transparent. Before we can identify it, it flies away with surprising speed.

  I don’t answer, but Margo does. She’s still clutching at the chocolate, now rapidly melting between her fingers. “It’s not your fault,” she says quietly. “No one could have guessed she was going to get shot like that.”

  I could have, I wanted to shout, to confess my guilt to the entire rainforest. She let them shoot her. “We could have been nicer to her,” I say instead, lamely. “We could have made more of an effort.”

  “We weren’t nice because she was a proselytizing fanatic, who thought Taylor was an abomination.” Margo’s eyes are hard. “She didn’t deserve to die, but it wasn’t our fault. And she isn’t some saint now that she got shot.”

  “Wow, you are cold, girl.” Taylor shakes his head. “Even this heat can’t melt you.”

  “I’m just a realist,” says Margo. “If you want to paint me as the ice queen, go ahead. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  “I’m sure,” replies Taylor under his breath. He takes another sip, checking the rim of the can first to make sure it’s free from flies. We’ve all come to learn that a can of soda in the jungle is an inadvertent insect trap. “But then, if you don’t care about Melody, why lie here in the fetal position?”

  “I’m not a monster,” she snaps. She takes a bite of chocolate, accidentally smearing it across her cheeks. “I didn’t want her dead. And I certainly didn’t want to see her shot.” At the word shot, Margo flinches and her eyes go blank, as if she’s gone somewhere else. Seconds later, she blinks, shuddering.

  “It was awful,” she says, her voice choking slightly. “But I don’t feel guilty.”

  I don’t join in their conversation. They’re both right: it’s not entirely our fault, sure, but the guilt remains all the same. We—I—could have tried harder. And while illness, injury, and death don’t make saints of otherwise ordinary people, I know as well as anyone that the shadow of impending death veils people’s imperfections, renders them incapable of criticism. Melody could be awful, but she had been a victim, too. Who’s to say how any of us will emerge after a tsunami of grief and trauma?

  “Melody told me she let them shoot her,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Before she stopped breathing.”

  “Let them shoot her?” Taylor looks baffled. “What do you mean?”

  I wonder if it’s breaking her confidence if I tell her secrets now, but I keep talking. “She had been sexually abused,” I say. “By her uncle. Then she was stuck in the foster system. She told me one night.” I start to tear up, the events of the past
forty-eight hours overwhelming me, pulling me under like a powerful river current. “She said some things about heaven, about death being peaceful.”

  Margo groans loudly. “Jesus,” she says.

  “I didn’t realize she meant it,” I say, choking. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t bother making more of an effort with her. If I had—”

  “Don’t,” says Margo, cutting me off. “It was not your fault.”

  “But—”

  “Melody was battling some serious demons. You barely knew her. Befriending her wasn’t going to cure whatever hell it was she endured.”

  I’m crying now, full, wracking sobs. For the first time since I watched Melody’s life fade from her, I let the tears flow. “I came here to help,” I say, gasping. The chocolate falls to the ground, and I ignore it. “I thought—I thought I could make a difference. And I couldn’t even help one girl, and she’s dead, she was shot—”

  “Melody died because Rafael cut a deal with the narcos,” interrupts Taylor. His face is hard. “If he hadn’t invited them, Melody wouldn’t have had the chance to let them shoot her, or whatever happened.” He stands and reaches down, unflinching, to retrieve the dropped Milky Way, now host to a small family of burgundy ants. He wraps it in a tissue and puts it aside.

  “Well, Cat is thinking of joining them,” says Margo sarcastically. The chocolate has energized her, given her back some of her caustic wit. “You heard her last week. She wants to stay here with Rafael. Soon she’ll have her very own rifle.”

  I don’t say anything. I haven’t faced Rafael since Melody’s death. What will I say to him?

  “I don’t get it,” says Taylor, shaking his head. “How can you even consider it? Do you want to die?”

  I start to retort angrily, but then pause, considering. Dr. Shapiro’s voice again nags in my ear, going on about “joining” loved ones. Do I want to die? I ponder the question. Was that the real reason I had come to Calantes? To end it all? Was my world like Hamlet’s, weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable?

  I think of the way I felt with Rafael, and when I helped deliver Anna Catalina. I think of prom night, and Tess, and school, and California. I think of my dad, Gatsby and all. And then I picture my mom’s face the night she died.

  “No,” I say aloud. “No, I don’t want to die.”

  “I don’t want to die, either,” Margo’s voice is small now, the burst of energy and sarcasm gone as quickly as it had come. “That time I tried to kill myself—they blamed it on the Paxil, but I don’t know. I really thought I wanted to die, but it was stupid. I don’t. I don’t want to die. That’s why I’m so freaked out, I guess. It was sad and scary, for sure, but it’s more than that. When I saw Melody get shot, all I could think of was, please, don’t kill me, I don’t want to die. I want to go home, see my family.”

  She looks impossibly young as she confesses, her cheeks pink with heat and fear and shame. I reach over and squeeze her hand. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay to feel that way.”

  “You’re not going to stay here, are you, Cat?” She looks serious now, her eyes wide. Taylor’s eyes are also concerned, questioning.

  “No,” I say, quietly, and, as I say it, I realize I’ve made my decision. “No, I’m going home.”

  Chapter 25

  Before

  I take the stairs two at a time. Mom is waiting for me, still dressed in the little black evening dress. She hasn’t washed the makeup off, and her hair remains perfectly coiffed. She’s sitting in her bed, propped up with several pillows, an IV in her arm.

  “Mom,” I burst out breathlessly. “What happened?”

  “Cat!” Her smile is wide. “How was it? Tell me everything.”

  “It was a lot of fun,” I say, my eyes never leaving the IV. “What happened?”

  “I had another seizure,” she says casually, turning to shuffle around some pillows. “The pain after was terrible. One of the home-care nurses came by to put in this IV.”

  “What is it for?”

  “It’s a morphine drip,” she says. “And fluids. But tell me about the prom. I want to hear details.”

  I sigh, knowing she won’t rest until I’ve described the evening in painstaking detail. I give her as much as I can, detailing everything from the decorations to the food to the music. Finally, she looks satisfied.

  “Wonderful,” she says, looking happy. “I’m so glad. You look so beautiful, like a princess.” A shadow passes across her face, and I can tell she’s in pain. Her breathing becomes more labored, and her eyes close briefly.

  “Mom?” I reach for her hand. “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Cat.” She pats the bed, inviting me to join her, and I crawl in next to her like I used to as a little girl. I wrap my arms around her, tucking my knees beneath hers as if we are a pair of spoons.

  “Cat,” she says again. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. My heart pounds with fear; I don’t want to hear the answer. Instead, I bury my face into her back, inhaling her scent, the soft silk of her dress against my nose and forehead.

  “The pain.” She reaches for one of my hands and squeezes it. “The pain is so bad.”

  “We should call the nurse,” I say, bolting upwards. “She can call those palliative-care people the doctor told us about. They can come in and make you more comfortable—”

  “No.” Mom cuts me off, shaking her head. “I don’t want to linger like this in bed, weaving in and out of consciousness from the drugs.”

  “So what are you saying?” I ask in a small voice.

  “I’m going to end it.” Her tone is calm. She gestures toward her nightstand, which is cluttered with bottles of pills. Big ones, little ones, yellow ones, blue ones. “See those blue ones? They’ll make this stop.”

  “Stop?” My tone is high-pitched. “Stop what, exactly?”

  “This. Suffering. The end.” She puts her hand gently on mine. “I googled it. I’ll just fall asleep. It will be painless.”

  I stare at her, brimming with horror. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Please, Cat,” she says, anguished. “I want it to be tonight. I want you to remember me like this, with my hair and makeup done. It was such a nice evening. I can’t bear to just keep deteriorating. I can’t stand the loss of control.”

  She’s crying now, her breathing ragged. “I don’t want to die an ugly vegetable,” she says quietly, in between sobs. “Please. I want your blessing.”

  My heart is pounding. How can she ask me to do this? How can I possibly agree? I bury my head in my hands as I look at her desperate face. How can I not?

  “Dad doesn’t know anything about this?” I pose it as a question, but I already know the answer.

  Mom shakes her head, looking sad. “Dad is still holding out for a miracle,” she says.

  “So this is it,” I whisper. A bead of sweat trickles down my neck. I feel it land inside my dress. “Aren’t you…aren’t you scared?” I think back to English class, to Hamlet and his famous navel-gazing about taking his life. Ultimately, he was too afraid of death—that undiscovered country—to go through with it.

  “A little,” she admits. She shifts, against her pillow, looking uncomfortable. “But I’m more afraid of losing what little dignity I have left. I don’t want to end up comatose, or on a feeding tube.”

  It’s all too much. I sit at the edge of the bed and stare at the portrait on the wall opposite me. It’s of my mother and me when I was a newborn. She’s cradling me and staring down at me as if I’d hung the moon. Her hair is long in the picture, and her eyes are luminous. The expression on her face is one of pure joy.

  She sees where I’m looking and speaks up. “It was the best day of my life, when you were born.” She sounds wistful. “We didn’t know you’d be a girl, and I didn’t care either way, but when you came out, you were so b
eautiful, and I was just so grateful to have a daughter.” She takes a deep breath. “You’re my daughter, but you’ve always been more than that. You’re my best friend.”

  Silent tears pour down my face. I turn back to her and wipe my cheek, noting my black hands.

  “You have eye makeup everywhere,” Mom confirms with a small smile. “We should have used waterproof. That was foolish, under the circumstances.”

  I laugh, in spite of myself. Same old Mom, talking about suicide and mascara in the same breath.

  I stifle a sob and bend over to her. I’ve made my decision. “If this is what you want, I won’t tell you not to do it,” I say. My tone is full of both conviction and fear. “I want you to die feeling at peace.”

  “Oh, Cat.” She reaches for me again. “I knew I could count on you. My wonderful girl. My special little girl.”

  I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve agreed to do, but more than that I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll ever see my mother, the last time I will ever hear her voice and feel her skin and smell her hair.

  “Better like this, where I can say good-bye.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are full of tears. “I’m so sorry to do this to you. To make you do this. To leave you as a teenager.” She shakes her head, her voice breaking. “I would have loved to see the amazing woman I know you’ll become. As a mother, with children of your own.” Her voice trails off, and I can’t answer. My voice feels stuck in my throat, my vocal cords paralyzed with sorrow.

  She reaches into the drawer of her bedside table and pulls out an envelope with my name across the front in her familiar script. “This is for you,” she says. “Don’t read it until after, okay?”

  “Oh, God.” I groan loudly, slumping on the bed. “Mom, please—please don’t do it.”

  “No, please!” She grabs my arm and her eyes are full of such pain and terror that I know I have no choice. “Give me this. It’s all I have left.”

  I breathe deeply. “I’m not ready yet,” I say.

  “No,” she agrees. “Lie with me here, Cat. Let me hold you.” Her eyes travel again to the portrait.