After Elias

by Eddy Boudel Tan

  “Calm down!” Clark shouts. With a jerk of his arm, he veers to the side of the road and brings the car to a halt. “I’ll be back.”

  We watch him climb out and remove the fronds from the wipers with little grace. The headlights illuminate the agitated look on his face as he’s pelted with rain. Once the windshield is cleared, he clambers back inside and dampens everything that touches his rain-soaked body.

  “Bloody hell,” he mutters. “I left Vancouver to get away from the rain.” He turns a knob and looks at the windshield. Nothing happens. He turns the knob again before shouting an incomprehensible string of curses.

  “What’s wrong?” Vivi asks from the back seat, poking her head forward.

  He opens the door and climbs out again without answering. We watch as he fiddles with the wipers before returning even wetter than before. He turns the same knob with a hopeful look on his face. Then he closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, defeated. “The wipers are broken.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say helplessly. Even Clark wouldn’t conceive of such an ill-timed joke.

  “Those stupid branches must have done something when they got tangled in the wipers.”

  “Or maybe you broke them when you ripped out the fronds,” Vivi shoots back. “You were too rough!”

  “Vivian Lo, don’t you dare try to blame this on me,” he says.

  “Be quiet, both of you!” I shout. They go silent. “None of this matters. We just need to figure out what to do.”

  “How?” Vivi asks, distressed. “We can’t drive in this rain without wipers.”

  “Look up ahead.” I point through the windshield at a colourful blur in the distance. “Those lights don’t seem too far. It could be a gas station. The road is quiet. I think we can make it.”

  “I’m not going to drive blind and risk our lives,” Clark says.

  A few minutes later, we are slowly cruising down the highway with our hazard lights blinking behind us. All of the windows are rolled down, and the seats are instantly soaked. Vivi and I act as Clark’s eyes. The upper half of my body leans out of my passenger-side window while Vivi surveys her side of the road from behind.

  “A little to the right, Clark!” Vivi screams over the noise of the storm. “You’re almost crossing into the opposite lane!”

  My hand shields my eyes as the rain stings the rest of my face. We are close enough to the lights to see they belong to a gargantuan sign mounted to the side of a building. I can almost hear the buzz of the neon lights that sear through the darkness, blinding with colour. They outline a green palm tree sprouting from perfectly scalloped blue waves. The name of this place burns brightly in the night, bold and pink: Casa Paraíso.

  “I think it’s a hotel,” I say excitedly, pulling myself back into the car. “Turn right toward the lights, carefully.”

  Clark drives slowly into the lot and brings the car to a park almost directly beneath the lights. “It’s a sign,” he says, looking up at the neon above. “We were meant to stay here tonight.” He flashes us an idiotic grin.

  Vivi and I exchange glances. Neither of us can think of a reason to object.

  We jump out of the car and run toward the front doors. The hotel’s sign casts an electric glow on the wet concrete below, and I notice only a handful of other vehicles parked in the lot.

  A bell announces our arrival as we emerge through the doors and into the lobby. We’re instantly transported to a Palm Springs motel circa 1962. The faded wallpaper that covers the room is a pale shade of blue with an undulating pattern of white starbursts. The midcentury furniture is upholstered in avocado-green fabric and teal vinyl with cracks along the edges, foam spilling out from within. Puddles of rainwater begin to form on the pastel pink carpet underneath our feet.

  A middle-aged woman with a kind face stands behind the front desk. There are circular stains on the Formica surface left by years of morning coffees. The wall behind her features a painted mural of a beach scene complete with swaying palms and glistening surf. A copper clock in the shape of the sun hangs in the mural’s sky directly above the woman’s head.

  “Buenas noches,” she says with a smile.

  Vivi’s Spanish sounds more confident now. Clark and I stand in the middle of the lobby to avoid making the room any damper than necessary. I look around and see a knee-high statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe standing modestly in a corner. She is surrounded by flowers.

  Vivi returns with two keys, each attached by a metal ring to an acrylic diamond with the hotel’s name inscribed in pink letters.

  “They only have two rooms,” she says.

  “That can’t be right,” Clark says. “There are hardly any cars out front.”

  She shrugs. “Coen and I can share a room. We wouldn’t want to impede on your privacy, Clark.”

  “No,” he says. “I’ll bunk up with Coen. You’re the lady. You should have your own room.”

  “Save your patronizing macho bullshit for another lady.” Vivi glares at him with a face full of contempt.

  “I’m just trying to be a gentleman.” Clark throws his hands in the air with an incredulous laugh. The woman shoots us a curious glance from the front desk.

  “You two need to simmer down,” I say. “Vivi, you take the private room. Clark and I will be fine.”

  We run out to the car to retrieve our bags. Unbelievably, the rain is coming down even more heavily than before. The thunder rumbles more frequently. Once we’re back inside the dry lobby, the receptionist points down a hall that leads to a glass door.

  The two-level hotel consists of three long wings that wrap around an oblong swimming pool. The outdoor pool is enclosed on all sides but one, which opens out to the darkness beyond. There’s probably a beach in the distance, but tonight there is nothing but wind and rain.

  The corridors along the wings of the hotel are exposed to the elements. They face the pool on one side and are lined with doors and windows on the other. We climb the stairs to the second level and find our rooms.

  “We’ll come get you in thirty minutes,” I say to Vivi. “Then we can grab something to eat downstairs in the restaurant.”

  “Sounds good,” she says as she pushes her door open. “I’m starving.”

  After a bit of fiddling to unlock our door, we step into our room. Clark switches on the lights, and we’re greeted by a similar midcentury motel motif as in the lobby. Two single beds lie side by side with a wicker nightstand between them. The blankets on the bed are intensely floral, depicting tropical flowers of all colours. Most of the furniture appears to be made of wicker. The large vanity mirror above the dresser is lined with round, bare light bulbs. I flick the switch beside it, and the bulbs burst alive.

  “Ugh, turn that off,” Clark says, shielding his eyes.

  “What do you think?” I swing my arms open as though revealing the grand prize on a game show.

  “It’s no Ōmeyōcān, but it has its charm,” he says, setting his bags on a chair beside the closet. He pokes his head into the bathroom. “I don’t see any roaches, so it gets bonus points for that.”

  We hang our wet clothes in the closet and take turns showering. For a minute, I worry the cold water won’t heat up, but soon the bathroom is filled with steam. I wash the storm off me.

  It feels good to pull on dry clothes, especially as the thunder rumbles outside.

  “Remember that family trip when we drove to Jasper?” Clark asks, carefully styling his hair in front of the mirror.

  “You mean when our car broke down and we had to spend the night in the Little Hunting Lodge of Horrors?” I smile at the memory.

  Clark laughs, and it doesn’t sound quite as ugly as usual. “I thought Mom was going to have a conniption.”

  “Can you blame her? Every piece of furniture was made from an animal. There was a stuffed beaver in our room.”

  “And an elk’s head over Mom and Dad’s bed!”

  “They’re the ones who wanted the premium suite.”

  “T
hat was a fun trip.” His voice softens as he turns to face me. “I think that might have been the last road trip we took together.”

  “I think you’re right,” I say, slipping on my shoes. “That is, until today.”

  A clap of thunder resounds so loudly throughout the room that it seems to come from directly above us. The lights flicker rapidly, bringing me back to the courtyard of the Ōmeyōcān five days earlier, before shutting off completely.

  We stand there in the darkness, unsure of what to do. “The gods must be playing a joke on us,” Clark says. Looking out the window, I see that everything has been cast into darkness. The hallway lamps are out. The swimming pool is no longer lit up like a giant blue amoeba.

  “It’s a blackout,” I say, expecting Clark to point out the uselessness of stating the obvious. He remains quiet.

  My words are punctuated a few seconds later by three loud thumps on our door. Someone bursts into the room. I can’t see who it is, but I know the voice. “The power is out,” Vivi says.

  “Really? We hadn’t noticed.” Clark’s sarcasm was just delayed.

  “You’re lucky I can’t see you or the stupid look on your face right now,” she says. “You guys don’t have a flashlight, do you?”

  I think of something. “Give me a second,” I say, feeling around for my backpack in the dark. Once I find it, my hands rummage through the contents until they wrap around a familiar cylinder, cold and firm. I locate the book of matches buried at the bottom of the bag. A single flame bursts to life a second later, the light casting an ominous red glow on the skeletal face of Santa Muerte. I place the candle on the dresser in front of the mirror. It’s the candle of love given to me by Gabriel.

  “Do you always carry around creepy-ass candles?” Clark asks. The light illuminates the contours of his face except for his one bruised eye. It looks like a shining emerald floating in a pool of black tar.

  “You’d be surprised about some of the things I find myself doing these days.”

  “What are we going to do for food?” Vivi asks. “I guess it’s safe to say the kitchen will be closed.”

  Clark’s eyes light up. “I have something you may be interested in,” he says in a mysterious voice. He places his overstuffed duffel bag on the bed before unzipping it slowly for dramatic effect. He then pulls out a plastic sack with theatrical flair and empties the contents onto the floral bedspread. There are several different boxes of crackers and prepackaged pastries, as well as three sandwiches in plastic containers.

  Vivi squeals with glee. “Clark, you are my hero.”

  “I never hit the road without the proper provisions,” he says, beaming. “Buon appetito!”

  “You mean ‘buen provecho,’” Vivi corrects him. “You just spoke Italian, not Spanish.”

  “Whatever.”

  We crowd onto the bed and tear into the food, sampling a bit of everything. The candlelight flickers nearby while the storm rages on outside. I eat ravenously, my appetite returning slightly to what it used to be.

  “These crackers are basically bread and sugar,” Vivi says in between chews. “Ingenious.”

  Before long, our stash of food is reduced to a heap of plastic containers and paper wrappers. The bedspread is covered in crumbs.

  “I’ve got one more surprise in store for you two,” Clark says with a devilish grin. He reaches into his duffel bag and pulls out a large bottle of tequila the colour of gasoline.

  “No, you did not!” Vivi says, laughing. “I admire how prepared you are, but did you think this trip was going to be a Contiki tour?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “But we are stranded in this so-called paradise motel while caught in the middle of a storm that may very well drown us all. Plus, we’ve known each other most of our lives, and I can’t think of any other instance when we spent this much time together, just the three of us. We are on an epic mission together. If that is not cause for tequila, I don’t know what is.”

  Vivi looks at me. “The man has a point.”

  “I can’t dispute that logic,” I say.

  There are two ceramic mugs beside the coffee maker and one glass by the bathroom sink. Clark pours generously, and we hold up our cups ceremoniously.

  “To Elias,” he says.

  “To Elias,” Vivi and I echo as we clink our cups together. I wince as the liquid burns its way down my throat before warming me from the inside.

  “That is potent,” Vivi says, exhaling dramatically. “I approve.”

  “Only the best for the two of you,” Clark says.

  “Remember when we used to hang out in your parents’ basement together?” Vivi asks with a nostalgic look on her face. “We would watch cheesy horror movies and play Truth or Dare.”

  “We were such ambitious teenagers,” I say with a laugh.

  “I thought the two of you had a thing going on back then,” Clark says, his eyes darting between me and Vivi.

  “You were dating that awful girl,” Vivi says to him. “What was her name?”

  “Becca,” I answer instantly with more disdain than I intend.

  “What was wrong with Becca?” Clark asks in disbelief. “She was super sweet.”

  “She was a nasty cow,” Vivi says. “As much as I hate using terms like that to describe my fellow women, I’ll make an exception for her. She was horrible to everyone, except perhaps to you.”

  Clark looks pensive for a moment before responding. “No, you’re right. She was pretty awful to me too.” We laugh and take another sip of tequila.

  “Let’s play,” Vivi says, looking at us eagerly. She reads the confusion on our faces. “Truth or Dare. Let’s play for old times’ sake.”

  I shake my head. “We’re not sixteen anymore.”

  “What else are we going to do?”

  “I’m in,” Clark says. “Come on, Coen. Let loose a little. Let’s get crazy.”

  I watch the candlelight flicker across their faces. “Fine. I’ll play, but only if I get to go first.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Vivi says with a triumphant smile.

  I take another draw from my glass as I consider my options. “I choose Vivi.”

  “What a surprise,” she responds. “Dare me.”

  “Ooh,” Clark says in a low voice. “We’re off to an intense start.”

  “I dare you to strip down to your underwear and run around the pool, not once, not twice, but three times.”

  “Piece of cake,” she says, standing up. “Clark, will you be able to handle such indecency?”

  “First of all, you’re pretty much my sister,” he says. “Second, contrary to popular belief, I have in fact seen women in their skivvies before. I think I’ll be okay.”

  Vivi wastes no time disrobing until she’s standing in the middle of the room in nothing but strips of black satin.

  “Can I wear a hat?” she asks.

  “Sorry. That was not stipulated in the terms of the dare.”

  She flashes me a vicious look before taking a deep breath and darting out the door. Clark and I huddle by the window. We watch as she gingerly descends the staircase and begins her first lap around the pool. The only light comes from candles that can be seen through the windows that line the halls, as well as a few electric lanterns the hotel staff must have placed throughout the grounds. We can barely see her except for the occasional flash of movement as the light reflects off her slick skin.

  Her footsteps are heavy against the hallway floor when she returns a few minutes later. We applaud as she slams the door shut behind her. Her skin is red and raw from the rain. Clark gathers the spare towels from the bathroom and wraps them around her shivering body.

  “Holy shit!” she says. “It is a dark, cold, wet, scary mess out there.”

  “Well done,” I say. “I’m impressed you didn’t bail down the stairs.”

  She takes a minute to dry off, then pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt that Clark offers. She returns to her position on the bed and
instantly resumes the game. “I choose Clark.”

  “Well, I’m going to look pathetic if I don’t choose dare after that spectacle,” he says, “so give it to me, Lo.”

  “Clark Caraway, I dare you to summon Bloody Mary in that mirror over there.”

  “Wow,” he says. “We are really getting juvenile now. How do I do that again?”

  “If you say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times in front of a dark mirror, she appears to you. It’s terrifying.”

  “Bring her on.” He downs a shot of tequila before walking over to the mirror. His reflection looks sinister above the flicker of the flame.

  “I’ll take that,” Vivi says, grabbing the candle. We stand on either side of him. He begins.

  “Bloody Mary.”

  He whispers the name slowly, then pauses. His reflection stares into his eyes from the other side of the mirror.

  “Bloody Mary.”

  His voice is louder as he draws out the sound. The corners of his lips curl up wickedly before they open to say the name one final time.

  “Bloody Mary.”

  The room is plunged into darkness as the flame disappears. I hear Clark scream beside me. I imagine his reflection transforming into Bloody Mary. She looks exactly like Santa Muerte. Her hands reach through the glass and grab Clark by the arms, her bony fingers like talons piercing his skin. Clark screams as he’s pulled through the mirror and into the other side — her realm of the underworld, what the Aztecs called Mictlan.

  I fall onto the bed, my hands held protectively in front of me, when an evil cackle resounds around the room.

  “What is wrong with you?” Clark’s voice is unsteady. “Let go of me.”

  “Admit it,” Vivi says between fits of giggles. “I got you.”

  “Just light the candle again, please.”

  “Follow my voice,” I say, breathing heavily. “I have matches.”

  A moment later the room is bathed in the warm glow of the candle’s flame. “Here’s your Bloody Mary,” Vivi says, holding the candle in front of Clark’s face. Santa Muerte smiles at him with her bleached-white bones.

  “You are twisted,” he says, looking unamused as he takes a gulp from his mug.