I cringe when I see him. The skin around his right eye is various shades of purple and yellow, radiating outward as though his eye were diseased. His lower lip is swollen twice its normal size. Even from here, I can see the stitches.
“Good morning,” I respond, not knowing what else to say.
“You’ve become nocturnal,” he says with a nervous laugh, looking around the dark room. He hesitates. “How are you feeling?”
“Never better.”
“Seriously. I want to know how you feel.”
I consider my answer and decide there is no longer use in pretending, to him or myself. “It hurts.”
He nods, breathing heavily.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Your face …”
“No, Coen.” His voice is forceful as it interrupts me. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” He takes a few seconds to compose himself before going on. “I failed you. I am your brother, and I did nothing. Just like you said the other night, I stood and watched and did nothing our entire lives. You were right. I will never forgive myself for that.”
I study his battered face as he speaks. He is far from his usual cool and collected self. The protective facade has cracked to reveal he is as confused and vulnerable as the rest of us.
“Why did you never try to help me?” I ask. The words come out so effortlessly, even though I’ve never before had the courage to say them.
He pauses. “Because I was stubborn. I was ignorant. I used to think you were weak. I couldn’t understand why you weren’t able to just face it, to overcome it. Then I realized I was the weak one. I couldn’t handle having a brother who was in so much pain, knowing there was nothing I could do to help him.”
“Sometimes I forget that people can’t relate to what it’s like to be me.”
“I hated myself for not being able to understand what you were going through. You scared me, and I hated myself for that too. It was easier for me to just believe you whenever you told me you were fine.”
“I can be pretty convincing.”
“And I can be pretty stupid,” he says.
We both laugh. It hurts my chest.
Clark’s face becomes serious again. He leans forward, gripping the arms of the chair so hard it looks like his fingers will pierce the fabric. “I need you to know that I tried this time. It wasn’t enough. I know that. But I came to this island determined to be there for you. I wanted to understand what you were going through. I tried my best to help you, to talk to you, to be honest with you. I failed.”
“I don’t think there’s anything anyone could do to help me.”
His swollen lips press together in defiance. “I refuse to believe that. I am here for you. Vivi and Decker, Mom and Dad — they’re all here too. Together, we’ll get through this. You are not alone.”
I try to force a smile, but I know Clark won’t believe it anymore.
“Remember how you felt eight years ago?” he asks, choosing his words more carefully now. “There were days when I could barely recognize you. It was bad, but you survived it. You were stronger than I could ever be. Elias didn’t save you. You saved yourself.”
Clark’s face lights up as he speaks, and his voice is fortified by a note of intensity. The sound of it clears the smoke ever so slightly.
“But Elias was the catalyst. He gave you strength when the rest of us failed you. We weren’t exactly close, but I’ll always be grateful for him. He was there for you when I couldn’t be.” His eyes dart away from mine as he exhales a silent whistle, as though ashamed for what he’s admitting.
“Elias wouldn’t want to see you like this,” he continues. “He may be gone, but this isn’t over. There’s still something you need to do, for Elias and for yourself.”
Clark pulls the chair closer to me and retrieves something from his pocket. He holds it in front of my face.
It is an old photograph of a boy. He wears tattered brown shorts and a wrinkled green shirt. No shoes. His hair is thick and wild. He looks at the camera with a curious expression, his arms hanging at his sides.
“Vivi showed this to me the other day. She said you asked her to bring it to you.” He looks at me with such power in his eyes and something stirs inside me. “Coen, you are going to find his family — and I am coming with you.”
CUEVA DE LA SANTA MUERTE
Eleven days after the crash
The smoke doesn’t seem quite as heavy the following morning. I wake up in the same bed with the same pain inside, but something is different today. I don’t feel quite as sedated. I’m not completely untethered.
Vivi once asked how it felt inside the chamber. I told her to imagine a thousand alarm clocks ringing at once, but they’re covered by a heavy blanket to dull the sound. The blanket helps quiet the noise to a bearable level, but it also blocks you from being able to turn the alarms off. It’s like feeling everything and nothing at all, just a steady pain that’s both piercing and numb.
Today, the alarms are quieter.
Clark was right. The story of Elias can’t end here. There is more to tell. I just have to find the beginning.
I climb out of bed and sneak past Decker, an unconscious heap of muscle on his makeshift mattress. The shower washes over me, and I can feel every drop as it collides with my skin. The smoke transforms to steam. I can breathe again for the first time in days.
After getting dressed, I look at myself in the mirror and the man staring back at me is not yet a complete stranger. There is still time.
Inhaling deeply, I open the door. I have a journey to begin, and it starts here. But first there is someone I need to see.
• • • • •
The Terrace Bar is almost empty when I step inside. The sunlight filters through the curtained windows, and it reminds me of my room.
I expect to see my black-clad friend behind the bar, arms flexing as he wipes the counter or mixes a cocktail. A ripple of concern passes through me when I see that Franco, another one of the hotel’s bartenders, is there instead.
“Señor,” he says. “Would you like a drink? Or do you seek Gabriel?” He flashes me a knowing look.
“As a matter of fact, I am looking for Gabriel. Do you know where I could find him?”
“He is on a pilgrimage.” He chuckles as though sharing an inside joke with himself. Seeing the confused look on my face, he says, “You might still catch up with him if you hurry. He heads west along the beach.”
I thank Franco as I push open the heavy doors that lead to the terrace. The brightness of the sun is blinding. Once my eyes adjust, I see that the courtyard below has returned to its peaceful state. There are no overturned chairs. No flickering lights. No pyramid of white. No shattered glass. It’s as if the other night were only a dream.
The only thing that has changed since the first time I stepped onto this terrace is the sight of the magnolia trees. What were once gloriously alive are now succumbing to the cold embrace of death, their petals wilted away to reveal the bones underneath.
I pull myself away from the view and run down the stairs, across the mosaic of the moon, beneath the trees, and through the far gate toward the sea. I pull off my shoes, and the hot sand sears the skin on my feet as I veer westward. The wind whips my hair about my face. I breathe in the salt in the air. My lungs heave as I run, and the pain in my chest becomes fainter.
I sprint along the beach past lounge chairs and umbrellas, sunbathers and servers carrying trays of elaborate beverages. The farther I go, the emptier the beach becomes until it is just me and the wind and the salty air.
My legs are beginning to ache when I see a figure cloaked in black in the distance.
“Gabriel!” I shout, panting.
The figure turns around and walks toward me. Every contour of his face is illuminated. This is my first time seeing him in the sunlight.
“Coen, what are you doing here?”
“I came to find you. Franco told me which direction you went.”
“Well, you have found me.�
�� He smiles as he squints from the brightness of the sun. Even so, I detect what might be one of his subtle winks.
“I want to thank you for what you did the other night. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I haven’t been myself.”
He looks at me for a moment without saying a word as the wind streams through our hair. “You do not need to thank me. You certainly do not need to apologize.” He pauses. “Walk with me. I want to show you something.”
We continue along the beach. The waves wash up against our feet, spraying salt water onto our clothes. There is something calming about the rhythm of the ocean.
“You are in pain,” Gabriel goes on. “What happened that night was an expression of your pain. It was necessary. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but I am ashamed.” I want to say more, but I can’t find the words.
“Sometimes we try to control so much of ourselves that we are bound to become undone. Our emotions and instincts are not designed to be controlled. It is okay to not hold on so tightly.”
I sink into his words, and I know he is right.
“How did you come to be so wise?” I ask.
He laughs. “I am not wise.”
“I haven’t seen you be anything but steady and strong. You are a rock.”
“I am a man,” he says, looking at me through the corners of his eyes. “Like all men, I am flawed. Trust me when I tell you that I am no stronger than you.”
“I can’t do that,” I say. “I just don’t believe it.”
“I have made many mistakes in my life, Coen. I have many regrets. I have suffered, and it has always been by my own hand. When you endure as much loss as I have, you learn much about yourself.” His face clouds over despite the sunshine that makes his eyes shimmer like carbon.
“Tell me,” I say. “What happened to you?”
He pauses before turning to me. “I will tell you my story, one day.”
I understand, but I look away. The wind becomes stronger as we resume our journey across the sand.
“Have you ever been to Mexico City?” I ask. “I guess you would probably call it DF.”
Gabriel nods and flashes me a curious glance.
“Elias lived there before he left Mexico,” I go on. “That was many years ago. He worked at a bar where a man was killed. Now the reporters are trying to pin the blame on him. As though the crash weren’t enough, they want him to be guilty for that man’s death. Where does it end?”
“What you believe matters more than what they say.”
“That’s the thing,” I confess. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
Something not too far in the distance catches my eye. As we get closer, I see it’s a little wooden house tucked into the trees overlooking the beach. The house is square with a triangular roof. Several wooden stilts keep it from being flooded when the tide comes in. A ramp leads from the beach to the front balcony, which spans the facade with a single door and window. It’s the colour of this quaint discovery that sparks my memory. The entire house is painted bright yellow, like the sun.
“The English prince and princess,” I say. “That must be the house they lived in when they first came to the island, before their estate was built.”
Gabriel lets out a laugh. “You have been listening to the mythology of the island.”
“Maria told me the story a long time ago. It was only a few days ago in actuality, but it feels much longer.”
“You are right. That is the house.”
“It looks so new.”
“It is much loved by the islanders. They give it a fresh coat of paint at least once a year. It has looked the same since the day I arrived. I suspect it will look the same generations from now. They let the garden die as a reminder of love’s fragility, but they keep this house alive as a reminder of love’s strength.”
“What do you think happened to the prince and princess?”
A thoughtful look passes through his eyes, then he shrugs. “Everyone has their own theory. For me, I think the same thing happened to them as happens to the rest of us. They grew old. They fell out of love. They came to this island to escape their demons. They wanted to begin again. Then they realized there is no escape. Your demons follow you.”
I stare at the little yellow house as we walk by, imagining the prince and princess standing on the balcony so many years ago, holding each other closely as they gazed out to sea.
We continue along the beach until the sand gives way to a stretch of boulders that wrap around a rocky promontory. The surface is slick with salt water as the waves collide around us.
“We are almost there,” Gabriel tells me as we clamber over the boulders, making our way to his secret destination. Once we turn the corner of the outcrop’s jagged edge, the beach is no longer visible. We are in a cove sheltered by the high walls of the cliffs above. The waves are more forceful here as they crash against the rocks, spraying in all directions.
Staying close to the cliff walls, I follow behind Gabriel and concentrate on my footing. My legs are soaked up to the thighs. Gabriel turns around with an excited grin as he says, “Give me your hand.” I do as he says, and he leads me around a corner.
We find ourselves in a small cave hidden within the cliff. The sounds of the ocean are muted in here, and the light is dim. I’m relieved to see that the ground is dry.
Gabriel walks farther into the darkness of the cave. I can see his silhouette crouch down before individual flames begin to appear around him. One by one they burst alive, illuminating the cave with a flickering glow.
Taking a few steps forward, I see that Gabriel is lighting candles that have been placed along the ledges of the far wall. There are dozens of them. Some are red, others are gold, and there is a lonely one in black. Many are encased in glass pillars like the candle Maria gave me, except instead of angels and virgins, there are skulls and bones.
Scattered among the candles are seemingly random artifacts. There are several flowers in varying stages of death, including the marigolds I would have expected to find in a scene such as this. I see coins, partially rotted fruit, and a few bottles of liquor that are mostly full. It seems strange to me that someone would abandon so much drinkable liquor. Several cigarettes have been placed throughout, many of which had been lit and allowed to burn, leaving telltale trails of ash.
I begin to understand as my eyes ascend. These objects serve a purpose — they are offerings, arranged around a central figure. Her flowing white robes and holy pose suggest a sacred woman, but she is no virgin. The robes part just below the collarbone to reveal the skeleton underneath. Her ribs are outlined against the cloak, and her delicate neck displays each little vertebra. Instead of the demure, angelic face I’ve become accustomed to seeing, there is a skull. Her eye sockets are empty yet strangely expressive. The curve of her jawbone forms an eerie smile. The hood of her cloak covers her skull like a mane of hair.
The candles flash around her, reminding me of the flickering lights in the courtyard the other night.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Gabriel lights one last candle before standing to face me. “You asked me once what I believe in. This is the answer. I believe in her.” He gestures to the statue of the cloaked skeleton.
“Who is she?”
“She goes by many names. La Flaca. La Huesuda. Like most, I call her Santa Muerte — the Saint of Death. She has many followers throughout Mexico and beyond, but her devotees on the island come to this cave to pray to her.”
Her bony hands hold two objects. In one hand is a long scythe, like the one belonging to the Grim Reaper. The other hand holds a globe mounted on a small pedestal.
“Nobody knows for certain where she comes from,” Gabriel continues. “The Aztecs believed in a queen who ruled the underworld. She protected the bones of the dead. For me, Santa Muerte is this queen.”
“The Aztec underworld — Mictlan,” I say, conjuring images of blood-covered jaguars.
>
“You know your mythology.” Gabriel smiles at me, looking impressed.
“It’s been on my mind.”
“The Aztecs revered death. It was the one thing connecting us all to each other and to the universe, more so than life. They understood the power of death. They respected it.”
“Death perpetuates creation,” I say. “Without death, there would be no life.”
“Precisely!” Gabriel beams at me. “Then the Spaniards arrived in Mexico, and everything changed. They brought with them war. They also brought fairy tales of virgins and angels. They promised redemption and eternal life, spitting on the sanctity of death. You could live forever, they said, as long as you sacrificed yourself to a life of confession and shame.
“As Mexico evolved, so did its spirituality. Today, you will find shrines of Our Lady of Guadalupe everywhere from bus station toilets to fast food restaurants. She may be Mexico’s Virgin, one who Mexicans can be proud of, but she is still a remnant of conquest.”
The flames cast a glow along the lines of his face, illuminating some corners while darkening others. “The past is not so easily erased, however,” he continues. “The queen of the underworld hid away, but she never abandoned us. She lives on.”
“I’m not a religious man, but I can understand why someone would want to believe in god,” I say. “It gives people hope. It gives their lives meaning. Worshipping death seems rather defeatist, doesn’t it?”
“Quite the contrary,” Gabriel responds passionately. “Santa Muerte gives hope to those who cannot find it in the judgmental god of the Catholics. Santa Muerte does not give a shit about how you live your life, or what you do to survive, or who you choose to love. She provides protection for the abandoned and the condemned.
“Santa Muerte first came to me during a dark time in my life. She accepted me when nobody else would. Life is fleeting, and she allows me to live it on my terms. After all, death is the great equalizer. Rich or poor, virgin or whore, we become the same in the end — ash and dust.”
I watch as the candlelight dances across her hollow face. Her smile seems wider than it was earlier, but she is less menacing now. Her empty eyes invite me in.
After Elias Page 20