“The people on the news doubt that the plane crash was an accident,” she goes on. “My son had a gentle soul. When he was a young boy, he found a little bird who had been hit by a passing car. Elias nursed this bird back to health until it could fly again. The people on the news do not see this. If they knew my son like I did, they would never believe he would cause such harm to so many people.”
She turns to look into my eyes, and I know these next words are for me. “Guilt might have followed Elias, but it would not have driven him to hurt people. It would have compelled him to save them.”
My breath lingers in my throat. I hear my own mother’s voice drift through the room. Because he saved you.
“What happened next?” I whisper.
“A few days later, Elias was gone. He left a note on this table. He told us he could no longer face us. He chose to flee. I blamed myself for a long time,” she continues. “His father and I made terrible mistakes. Because of this, we lost everything.
“I turned to god during this time, but he brought me little comfort. The priest told me Elias was an abomination, that this was his punishment. I could not accept that. I loved my son. I wanted him to love whomever he chose. I realized, too late, that he deserved that right. So I chose a different god, one that would accept Elias and me for all our flaws.”
She turns to face the altar, and I notice for the first time that the images wrapped around the flickering candles are not of virgins and saints. They are skeletons.
“Where is Elias’s father now?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“He is no longer with us,” she says. “His heart stopped one day.”
“You live here on your own?” Vivi asks. “Who runs the repair shop?”
“I do,” she says with a satisfied smile. “I learned many things from my husband. I considered closing the shop after he died, but then I realized a woman could repair cars just as well as any man. I decided to keep it open. Now I have two men from town who work for me.”
Vivi beams at her, impressed.
“Losing everything gave me a new life,” she says. “I was once only a mother and a wife. My purpose for living was to serve my sons, my husband, and my god. There was no time left for myself. Even though I would do anything to have them back, their deaths allowed me to live again.”
“How did you get through it?” I ask, almost pleading. I need to know how she survived.
“I suffered for a long time. The guilt and the regret haunted me.” She takes a deep breath, reliving the pain she describes. “At one point, it became too much. I knew I would have to make a decision. I could be held prisoner by the pain of the past, or I could move forward. I chose to persist.” She reaches across the table and takes me by the hand. “You too must choose.”
We sit at that table for hours as the candles burn nearby. She shares tales of Elias as a boy, while we share tales of Elias as a man. Together, we laugh and cry at these memories that we bring to life through the stories we tell.
“Would you like to see Elias’s bedroom?” Señora Santos asks once the sunlight has become fainter.
The invitation catches me off guard, and I don’t know how to respond. Vivi and Clark give me silent looks of encouragement. I nod.
“Elias and Pedro shared everything, including a room,” she says as I follow her to a wooden door on the far wall. “I have learned how to live in the present, but that does not mean I must erase the past.”
She opens the door. I look at her, unsure. “Go be with him,” she says, her hand ushering me inside.
The door is closed quietly behind me. The room is plain. One wall displays pictures of cars that have been snipped neatly from magazines. They’re arranged in straight rows, and the colours have faded over time. In a less tidy fashion, another wall is covered in pictures of wildlife. Alligators yawn, grizzly bears swat at red-cheeked salmon leaping over rapids, antelope sprint across the savannah.
Against the wall of beasts is a little wooden bed. The carved headboard is smooth and weathered from time. There’s a splash of colour in the centre, oddly vibrant given its age. The strokes of paint depict a figure with a brown face, white eyes, a green suit, and a pointed hat sitting crookedly on his head. His arms and legs extend in whimsical angles around him. The identity of the figure is undeniable. Peter Pan.
The other bed is no larger, its frame constructed with the same smooth, knotted wood. Above this bed is a window with no glass. I open the shutters. The pale red boxes of the power plant sit lifelessly in the distance, casting long shadows across the bottom of the hill. I imagine Elias waking up to this daily reminder of how trapped he was between the beautiful and the ugly. I feel now what he felt then — an aching need to be free.
His bed is covered in a knitted blanket that’s soft and orange. I lie on top of it, my stomach against the sheets and my face buried in the pillow, hoping to detect his scent. It smells like nothing but dust.
“I needed to do this,” I whisper. “I needed to find your beginning.” My eyes close, and I feel the softness of the pillow against my face.
I hear no answer except for my heart beating like a gavel in my chest. I feel no pain. The throbbing inside has left me for now. There’s only my heart, its forceful rhythm evidence that I am not broken. It’s the only evidence I need.
“You could have told me everything,” I say, my face deeper in the pillow, “about Pedro, about the guilt. I wouldn’t have blamed you.” My breath escapes like ripples in a stream until my lungs feel hollow. I stay there for a moment, breathless and still, before my chest expands. “I understand though. Speaking it makes it real again. It’s easier to pretend to be strong. But I wish you’d let me help you.”
I picture Clark sitting beside me in our candlelit fort. I see Vivi’s face struggling to make sense of the bruises on my chest. It’s not too late to let them help me.
I turn onto my back and stars look down on me from the ceiling. Their paper edges are wilted and their points are no longer sharp, but the constellations hover over the room like a private sky.
I can almost hear Pedro’s laughter from across the room, filling the air with innocent music. Elias is laughing as well. Two brothers in their beds, staring at a sky of paper stars, taunting god.
Hurry up, god.
Grant us a miracle.
Pronto dios.
The sunlight is a fiery shade of orange when we decide to depart. Señora Santos offers her home to us for the night, but we decline. I got what I came here for. Now it is time to go.
There is one last thing I need to do before we leave. Reaching into my backpack, I pull out the glass pillar of the Santa Muerte candle. The red wax has burned away slowly throughout the trip. I set a match to the wick before placing it beside the photograph of Elias on the cabinet. The light flickers across his face. His eyes are alive.
Señora Santos waves at us from her doorway as we drive away from the little house. Waving back at her from the front passenger seat, I see a man standing in front of the concrete wall of the repair shop. He looks to be about Elias’s age. His hair is as black as a raven. One hand shields his eyes from the sun as he watches us drive away, while his other hand is buried in the pocket of his pants. He turns and disappears through the door of the shop, his white T-shirt streaked with black.
We don’t say much as we speed down the highway. Clark grips the wheel from his seat beside me, uncharacteristically quiet as his eyes stay fixed on the road. The sun dips behind the mountains in the distance, and the sky above us is the colour of burning sand. A song we all know plays on the radio. Clark turns up the volume and the three of us sing along as loudly as we can, the wind streaking through our hair and carrying our voices through the air.
Without warning, mid-verse, I begin to cry. I don’t feel it coming until I’m blinded by the tears. I can hear Vivi and Clark singing as my body shakes. I can’t see a thing when I feel Clark’s arm wrap around my shoulders. He pulls me toward him and holds me closely. I sob against his chest until his shir
t is wet and my eyes are dry.
DEPARTURE
It has been fifteen days since you crashed into the frigid waters of the Arctic, and the investigation is nearly complete. The likely conclusion on the cause of the crash: undetermined. There was no real evidence pointing to your guilt. The black box was never found, and neither was your body.
I suppose the world will never know what happened in that airplane. People will tell the stories they want until you’re no longer a person but a character. I suppose it’s not their fault. All they can do is try to make sense of what is in front of them. To be human is to be limited — to be hopelessly, desperately small.
What they don’t know is how alive you made me feel. You helped me save myself. You made me stronger when nobody else could. This is the Elias I will remember. The story I will tell is of your life, not your death.
What is life anyway if not merely a collection of stories we tell ourselves? The memories we embellish and the things we choose to forget. These illusions protect us. They help us survive.
A garden built by a prince for his princess.
A cloud of magnolias above a handsome stranger.
An underworld guarded by jaguars.
A gunshot in a black room.
A forgotten joke told in the cockpit of a plane.
A kiss in a candlelit cave.
A single flame in a lightning storm.
A boy who never got to grow up.
A deathly saint granting refuge to the abandoned.
The healing of a bruised eye.
The line between fantasy and reality is easily blurred, but you can’t bury the truth. It will always find a way to surface. A story has a beginning and an end. The truth goes on.
The shadow will be with me always. I accept this. Where there is a shadow, there is light. The truth can be painful, but I don’t need to face it alone.
Elias, I want you to know that I loved you. Despite your flaws. Despite your secrets. I feel closer to you than ever, now that you’re finally free.
I know you’re not going to answer. That’s okay. I will never forget you, but I won’t be held prisoner by the past. I have to move forward, one day at a time. I choose to persist.
• • • • •
“Last call for boarding,” Clark says, turning to face me. “We don’t have to do this today if you’re not ready.”
I stand motionless in the middle of the crowded terminal. My grip tightens on the handle of my suitcase as people hurry around me. Every one of them has a different story. They have their fears and their flaws, their triumphs and their tragedies.
“I can do it,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I once believed writing to be a solitary pursuit. I’m humbled by and grateful for how wrong I was. This novel was made possible by the support, enthusiasm, and expertise of the following remarkable people.
My lion-hearted agent, Jessica Faust, who believed in my story and never gave up on it.
Rachel Spence, Allison Hirst, Jenny McWha, Crissy Calhoun, Laura Boyle, Sophie Paas-Lang, Stephanie Ellis, Elham Ali, and the rest of the extended Dundurn team, who gave my debut novel a passionate and collaborative home.
Andrea Wesley and Vanessa Butler, my fabulous friends who gave me gentle yet honest feedback on early versions of the manuscript in exchange for wine.
Julio Castellanos-Lopez, Catalina Ramírez-Aponte, Pam Hernandez, and Janette Tobon, for refining my poor Spanish.
Adam Kemp, for taking the time to educate me on the intricacies of aviation despite my morbid questions.
Amanda Mandzij Li, Jamie Chapman, Patrick Tambogon, Sean Wesley, and Sara Wright, for offering their perspectives so freely on random things throughout the process.
Those who shared their struggles with mental health, who continue to shine light on the darker corners of the human experience.
My father and mother, who filled my childhood with books and acted as my very first editors when I became old enough to pick up a pencil.
Boozy, for keeping me inspired, curious, and calm during countless hours of writing. You deserve all the Timbits.
All my friends and family, who bring such colour to my world.
And above all, I am nothing without the love and support of Thomas — my biggest fan, most honest critic, and partner in this adventure called life. Anything is possible with you by my side.
Photo Credit: Amalie Tan
Eddy Boudel Tan’s second novel, The Rebellious Tide, is slated for release in 2021. His work depicts a world much like our own — the heroes are flawed, truth is distorted, and there is as much hope as there is heartbreak. Besides having professional experience in communications strategy and brand design, he serves home-cooked meals to the homeless as cofounder of a community initiative called the Sidewalk Supper Project. He lives with his husband in Vancouver.
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