After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  He laughed as he pushed his two daughters on the swings. The girls squealed with delight as they flew through the air, hair blowing in the wind. They swung in alternating directions — one would go up while the other would go down, forward and backward, as their father kept them swinging with a single hand on each little back. Beside him stood his lovely wife, holding a cup of coffee in both hands while laughing along with them. They looked so carefree. So untouchably happy.

  I made a decision then. I wouldn’t suffer alone. If I was going to be made aware of how easily happiness can crumble into dust, I would not let these people escape. If that meant destroying this portrait of perfection, waking them all from this dream, so be it.

  The following day was Sunday. The sun shone brightly as I made my way to the handsome brick building where Adam lived. I waited by the locked entrance until an elderly couple emerged from inside. As they opened the door, I held it for them with a pleasant smile. What a nice young man, I imagined them thinking as I slipped inside the building’s lobby.

  The elevator seemed to ascend even more slowly than I remembered. As it climbed to the sixth floor, I realized I didn’t have a plan. I suppose I was going to confront him. If he was alone, I would threaten him until he agreed to confess. If his wife was there with him, I would tell her everything. My hammer sat in the backpack slung over my shoulders. I still don’t know what I intended to do with it, but it gave me strength.

  I finally reached the sixth floor and walked down the carpeted hall toward the big wooden door, just like I had done months ago. I don’t know how long I stood on that black welcome mat, hands by my sides. All I had to do was raise a fist and knock on the door, and it would all be set in motion. Everything would play out the way it was meant to.

  But I just stood there. I couldn’t raise my fist. I couldn’t knock on that door. Again, I was powerless. Perhaps this is why my first instinct was to swing at the figure that approached me many years later, as though it took that much time for me to find the courage to raise my fist.

  Eventually it dawned on me. This was how things were meant to be. Adam was supposed to carry on happy and unburdened by the damage he left behind. I was supposed to remain trapped in this violent cycle, failed by my brother and everyone else in the world. This had existed long before Adam entered my life. He came to me to serve a purpose — to remind me that no matter how much I pretended, no matter how much I let myself be fooled, I would always be one misstep from falling to the bottom again.

  The chamber would always be there to catch me. The shadow would always be there to reel me in.

  I turned away from the door and climbed the stairs to the rooftop.

  • • • • •

  I could tell I was in Vancouver without opening my eyes. The scent was undeniable — damp and wild. The air was steeped in cedar and sweat and ocean, then carried by the breeze to purify the grit of the city. This was home.

  My eyelids fluttered open. Below me was a courtyard filled with magnolia trees. It was surrounded by tall brick walls painted white, each of them with six rows of shuttered windows stacked on top of one another. I stood on the edge of the rooftop, gazing down at the cloud of muted pink petals below. I knew the magnolias blossomed for only a handful of weeks every year. I was lucky to see them in full bloom.

  At that moment, there was a noise from behind. I turned around to see a man emerge from the doorway with such command that it startled me. There was a noble quality in the way he carried himself. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but they reflected the light like two satellites in a starless sky.

  I could tell by his face that he was surprised to see me standing there. He froze, his black eyes locked on mine.

  “What are you doing on the roof?” I asked curiously.

  “I live in the building,” he responded. “I come up here to read.”

  I glanced at the book in his hands. The pages were worn and the cover was faded, but I could still make out the title. Peter Pan.

  “Nice choice,” I said.

  “What are you doing on the roof?”

  “I’m going to fly,” I answered. “Just like Peter.”

  That was when I jumped.

  Part Three

  The Virgin or the Skull

  SUITE 319

  Eight days after the crash

  I know I’m in the chamber as soon as my eyes open. The dullness of my senses and the smoke in my mind aren’t strangers. The shadow has been trying to pull me inside since the day I learned about the crash, but I fought. I resisted because I’d almost forgotten how futile it was. I had myself fooled so well.

  Now I am so tired of resisting. I have let go.

  I sit up in the king-sized bed with my back against the head-board and wait for my vision to adjust to the cloudy darkness of the room. There’s a person asleep on the couch wrapped in a blanket. I can tell by the angular helmet of straight black hair it is Vivi. On the floor is a makeshift mattress of cushions and sheets. There lies Decker, limbs sprawled in all directions.

  Elias’s altar remains on the windowsill. The marigolds are dead now. The candles burned out days ago.

  The pain inside my chest announces itself, throbbing so severely I can feel it in my lungs. Without my hammer, I’ve been using the glass cylinder of the candle from the altar — the one with the angel that Maria had given to me. It has helped me find relief over the past few days from the pain inside. I look into the angel’s peaceful eyes as I pound it against my chest. I want to reach for the candle now, but I won’t do that with Vivi and Decker asleep in the room.

  I lie back in bed and pull the sheets over my head. My legs and back sting with pain, something I’ve lived with for the past eight years that I doubt will ever leave me.

  There is clarity inside the chamber. I no longer need to pretend — about who I am, about the day I met Elias, about how happy we were, about the crash. All of these costumes we wear and stories we tell no longer matter. I’ve been telling them for so long that I believed them myself. In here, they mean nothing.

  Life is trivial. The rules we place on ourselves. The trials we choose to go through. The deadlines we set and the promises we make, then break. For what? For whom?

  Life is nothing more than an elaborate house. It starts out small, a simple shelter. Then we build upon it, room by room, believing in the necessity of every expansion, every renovation. By the time we realize it is no longer shelter but a tomb, it’s too late.

  This is all clear from the inside.

  I think about the life I once hoped to build with Elias. Photographs of us laughing, hung on the walls. Untouchably happy. More a Coca-Cola advertisement than a life. Isn’t that what I used to think?

  This was Adam’s life I had come to want. I’ve been trying to emulate the man who sickens me most in the world. This is how sick I’ve become.

  Soon Vivi and Decker wake up and lie beside me in my bed. I see something in their eyes that was once so common — the look of helplessness. It is more complicated than sadness. It is more severe than concern. It is tenderness and love and anger and fear. They see me and know there is nothing they can do to help me. They haven’t looked at me like that in such a long time.

  The waves were powerful when I ran into the sea. I didn’t get far before I was carried out of the water by arms that felt stronger than the ocean’s current.

  I don’t recall much of what happened after that. I do remember lying on the beach with the vast night sky spread out above me, stars shooting in all directions as they redrew the constellations. The sky was the colour of Clark’s suit. Then I saw a face hovering above me. His long black hair was wet. His skin was speckled with sand. The stars danced above him.

  “Gabriel was the first one to reach you,” Vivi confirms. “He sprinted so quickly and dove right in after you. He pulled you out of the ocean by himself.”

  Vivi and Decker lie on either side of me as they recount the events of the previous night. I was conscious but despondent as I
lay on the beach. Maria called the hotel’s doctor, and they brought me back to my room. The doctor’s opinion was that I needed sleep. I was unconscious as soon as my head hit the pillow. Everyone left except for Vivi and Decker, who insisted on spending the night with me. They undressed me and dried me off. Vivi cried when she saw my chest.

  “What about Clark?” I ask, fearing the answer.

  “He’s fine,” Decker says. “I mean, you messed up his face. He’s not so pretty anymore, but you don’t have to worry about him.” He forces a strained smile.

  The only visitors I allow that day are my parents. They are also the only people who attempt to visit. They cringe when they see what I’ve become — a ghost. They’ve seen this before, but they were fooled just like I was. They thought this was behind us all, that it could be buried in the past and forgotten.

  They ask questions I can’t answer. They tell me I must come home with them. I sit in my bed and watch as they demand and then plead. Unlike Vivi and Decker, they haven’t learned that it’s useless. They think they can still help me.

  “I’m not stepping foot on a plane,” I say calmly.

  “We’ll send a boat then,” says my mother.

  I laugh. “You’re going to whisk me away on a grand voyage? Will I be sailing through the Arctic or the Straits of Magellan? Because I don’t think they’re going to let me through the Panama Canal.”

  “We’ll go over land then. We’ll hire a car. We just want to bring you home. It doesn’t matter how. Just tell us what you want, and we will arrange it.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry. I’m not ready to leave.”

  This is my home now.

  The next two days stretch out in slow motion like time is taffy being pulled. I don’t leave my room. As always, the curtains remain closed. Slivers of light escape from the edges during the day, illuminating the dust that floats through the air.

  Vivi and Decker spend most of their time alongside me. At least one of them is present in my room at all times. A few days ago, I would have been offended by the notion that I couldn’t be trusted to be alone. Today, I understand this is true. I can’t be trusted.

  Sometimes we talk; other times we stay silent. I welcome their company. It doesn’t really matter when I’m in the chamber. They may be by my side, but I’m alone on a different plane. We leave the television on during the silent times. I think the constant noise brings them comfort. The steady stream of voices, so mundane and ordinary.

  The television plays on in the background as something catches our attention. Somehow it always finds its way back to the same dreaded news station, as though it follows me.

  “News Cloud has uncovered disturbing details about Elias Santos, the Mexican-born pilot of flight XI260.” The face of the unholy messenger can switch from grim to gleeful in as little time as it takes to transition from one story to the next. The softness of her blush-coloured blouse hides the hardness underneath.

  “The investigation remains ongoing with little new evidence for what might have caused this tragic event. Days ago, authorities released a cryptic radio transmission that was delivered from the flight deck of the doomed jetliner. The voice heard in the recording is believed to belong to First Officer Elias Santos, stating ‘pronto dios,’ the Spanish words for ‘soon god,’ mere seconds before impact.”

  Her voice is both serious and upbeat with just a hint of salaciousness, as though she derives pleasure from sharing such scandal. The authoritative English accent lends her unearned credibility.

  “There has been much speculation about whether Elias Santos might have orchestrated the crash deliberately, killing all three hundred and fourteen passengers on board, including himself. We do know that he had been living in Canada for the past thirteen years. He was granted his commercial pilot licence four years ago and had maintained a spotless record, including the routine medical and psychological examinations that all pilots undergo.

  “Although much of his early life remains a mystery, News Cloud has uncovered new details that place Elias Santos in Mexico City prior to relocating to Canada. Sources tell us he was employed at the Black Box, a former bar in the district of Condesa. The Black Box closed fourteen years ago shortly after the death of its owner, Jonathan Wagner, a fifty-four-year-old Canadian expatriate living in Mexico City. Wagner previously resided in Vancouver, working as a commercial airline pilot.”

  An image of a cheerful-looking man appears on the screen. He is smiling broadly, and his cheeks are rosy. Tufts of white hair poke out from underneath the cap on his head.

  “Elias Santos was the sole witness to Jonathan Wagner’s death fourteen years ago. According to his statement to the police, the two men were in the process of closing one night when two masked intruders entered the bar carrying handguns. Wagner was killed by a single gunshot to the chest. The bar’s safe was emptied of the cash that was stored inside.”

  The footage cuts to a crime scene. Police cars are parked outside a brick building, their flashing lights illuminating the street as they spin like a carousel. Patio chairs sit empty on the sidewalk along a wall that’s painted black. The second-floor windows are dark except for one, which appears to be lit by a single light bulb.

  “Initially considered a suspect in the shooting death, Elias Santos was released due to lack of evidence. The shooter was never found. Gloria Hernandez was also a bartender at the Black Box during this time. Here is what she had to say.”

  The screen reveals a woman who appears tough, her skin creased like aged leather. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled into an untidy bun, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She sits inside a barren room with nothing on the walls except for a single wooden cross. She speaks emphatically in Spanish, but her frenzied speech is dubbed over by a translator’s calm and emotionless voice.

  “I don’t remember how long we worked together. It was many years ago. I do remember Elias though. I will never forget that boy. He was a strange one, very quiet, very serious. He was always trying to gain favour with John. I saw through his lies. I never trusted him. He had the blackest eyes. Elias killed John and took the money. I know he did. It doesn’t surprise me that he also crashed that plane with all those poor people.” She performs the sign of the cross, hands darting across her thin frame, before the camera returns to the messenger.

  “As previously reported, Elias Santos was supposed to be married two days ago to his fiancé, Coen Caraway, the son of —”

  The screen goes dark. Decker has the remote control in his hand. “I think we’ve had enough,” he says solemnly.

  Later that night, I know what to name the pain in my chest. Eight years ago it was shame. Nine days ago I called it guilt. Now I understand what it is — doubt. The chamber might have revealed the truth about many things, but it hasn’t taught me what happened to Elias.

  I quietly creep toward the windowsill while Vivi and Decker sleep. With stealthy, measured movements, I retrieve the tall candle in its glass pillar and return to my bed. The relief is immediate. It floods my body, numbing me inside.

  I almost died on the day I met Elias eight years ago. His face was the last thing I saw before I fell backward into the courtyard, arms spread outward like wings. As I lay at the bottom seconds later, near death, his face was the first thing I saw when I regained consciousness. He looked like an angel despite the panic on his face. The light that filtered through the tree branches created a halo around him. Above him hovered a cloud of pink. I watched as little pieces broke away and floated around us. Beyond that was the sky, endless and blue.

  He spoke to me as I lay there. I didn’t want that moment to end.

  The following few months were spent in the sterile confines of the hospital. I had broken several bones. My pelvis was smashed to pieces. The doctors didn’t know if I would ever walk again. They told me to be thankful. I should have been dead. They said the magnolia trees must have broken the fall.

  I was thankful. I did as they told me. Whenever it became
difficult, I would close my eyes and transport myself back to that magnolia-covered courtyard. I would gaze at the shining satellites in his eyes as the petals rained down on us. I forgot about everything else. I forgot about the past. Nothing else existed but his eyes and the magnolias and the endless sky.

  On that very first day, he had insisted on staying in the hospital’s waiting room until the doctors confirmed I would survive. My parents had to grant him permission since he wasn’t family. The first thing I asked when I woke up was “Where is he?”

  He looked uncertain when he stepped into the room. I learned that his name was Elias. I made him promise that he would visit soon.

  He kept his promise.

  Now, as I lie here in this foreign bed, chest burning with doubt, I close my eyes and remember his face looking down on me in that courtyard. I remember his voice as he read to me beside the hospital bed. I’m ready to give up on myself, but I’m not ready to give up on Elias. Still, the dull pain in my chest throbs worse than ever.

  Morning comes and sleep has been elusive. Decker heads out for a swim while Vivi and I order room service. I’m not hungry, but she insists that I eat.

  There’s a knock on the door, and I can tell by its rhythm that it’s not the hotel’s staff. Vivi disappears around the corner to answer it. I hear her step into the corridor, closing the door partially behind her. There are hushed voices, but I can’t make out the words.

  Two minutes pass before she returns.

  “It’s Clark. He wants to speak to you, alone. Can I let him in?”

  My body stiffens. After a moment’s hesitation, my head nods.

  She leaves the room and closes the door behind her. A few seconds later, Clark appears from the hall.

  “Good morning,” he says. He walks tentatively across the room before taking a seat in the armchair nearest the bed.