“I know it’s small, but—”
The house was completely empty, save for yellowed, stained formica kitchen counters and a tiny white stove. Rectangular and narrow, it stretched from side to side—the kitchen on one corner and a white door on the other. Slowly, I made my way around the house, touching the counter, running my fingers along the window ledge. I pushed the door open to find an empty room illuminated by a green metal lantern with two sleeping bags neatly laid out on the floor.
“You found our bedroom.” You ran your hand through your hair before fidgeting with your chin. I supposed it was because I had yet to say a word. You cleared your throat. “As I said, I know it’s small—only seven-hundred square feet, but I can build an addition here.” You stretched your arms across from one corner of the room to the other and walked around the sleeping bags. “Tear down the wall to use up some of the porch space. We can also extend the kitchen.”
I stepped in front of you, took your hands in mine and held them to my lips. “No. It’s perfect. I love it, Matias.”
“You do?”
“I do.” I answered. “It’s big enough to hold our dreams.”
“I love you, Carin.”
“I love you,” I whispered, softly pushing you down toward the floor until you were seated on one of the sleeping bags. You pulled me down with you, guiding me while I spread my legs and straddled you. Your kisses were wanton, your touch fierce. You lifted me up, your eyes instructing me, telling me exactly what you wanted without saying a single word. So I settled myself on you, filled myself up with you, surrounded you, swallowed you, and made you a part of me.
When kerosene runs out, there is a flickering of light and a dim haze. We stayed wrapped around each other, whispering softly, as if the whole world was listening in on us. There was no one there, of course. Our world as we knew it had dissolved, down to just you and me in a strange land, in a house filled with everything despite having nothing.
We floated in and out of sleep, intermingling the conscious with the subconscious. Dreams with reality.
“Carin?” You breathed into my ear. “You awake?”
“Hmm.” I stretched my arms up over my head before looking up to face you. “What time is it?”
You smiled at me, trailed your finger in a straight line from the tip of my nose down to my neck. “Only four. I should let you sleep.”
“I’m not that young anymore. You tired me out.” My tone was playful, but I had to admit, I was exhausted.
“You are perfect. This”—you cupped my breast—”is perfect.”
“Hmm,” I said again, holding your face with my hands. Our noses touched. I felt your breath on me and it gave me life.
“‘Did my heart love ‘til now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.’”
“Shakespeare.” I kissed you. “Is that us, Matias? Are we the star-crossed lovers?”
“On the contrary,” you answered. “We are rewriting the story. Right place, wrong time doesn’t have to end in heartbreak.”
“I like that,” I said.
“Rest well, my Juliet.”
“And you, my Romeo.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Woodpecker
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The knocking on the window had a tempo of its own. I opened my eyes and strained to listen, its rhythmic beat lulling me back to sleep. The sunlight was blinding. It burned through the sheet that you had hung as a temporary curtain. You were fast asleep, your chest rising and falling deeply, your arm draped over my chest. With eyes half-closed, I felt for my watch on the floor next to me, trying to see what time it was.
The woodpecker disappeared. In its place was another bird, bigger probably, because it kept crashing against the door.
Bump! Bump! Was it a cat, maybe?
Bang!
You sprang up, whipping the blanket to the side, covering me completely. “What’s that?”
I shot up too, crawled across the floor to grab my underwear.
“Stay here,” you instructed.
You shut the bedroom door behind you, pulling it twice because the wood was warped and disfigured. I heard voices through the wall. Low, mumbling. A woman and a man. Quickly, I pulled on the first pair of shorts I found, grabbed the shirt I’d worn the night before and tied my hair up in a bun. It was the very first time I thought that maybe they’d found us. I wasn’t going to let you out there all alone.
You were all startled by the creaking sound of the door, turning toward me in unison.
There was an older man, half your height, wearing khaki pants and a white embroidered long-sleeved shirt. I had seen it before—the men at the sale closing all wore the same thing. The woman next to him was petite with ebony-dark hair. She looked at me and smiled.
“Hi,” I said, waving at the woman. She waved back hesitantly. Hand halfway up, fingers folded.
You ran over to me and took my hand.
“We are so sorry to have bothered you,” said the man. “My name is Ariel, and this is my wife, Diana. We were sent here by the owner of this house, who is traveling abroad, to collect the payment and sign the papers.”
“The papers,” you said to me with smiling eyes. I nodded and smiled back. We stood in silence, allowed a few seconds to pass, waiting for Ariel and Diana to make a move. Ariel pulled a white envelope from his briefcase.
“I think I have a pen,” you said, dashing in and out of the bedroom quickly.
“Thank you,” Diana said, shaking her head. “Sorry, we did not get your names.”
Names. Right. I offered her my hand. “My husband’s name is Roman. And I’m Julia.”
You caught up to me, placed your arm around my shoulder, squeezed, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Ah, here,” Ariel said, pointing to the kitchen counter where he laid out the contract. You handed him the cash in a worn brown envelope and proceeded to sign the papers. I wondered what you were doing when you paused to glance at the floor and tugged on the hem of your shorts. You slid the document toward Ariel who folded it up and placed it back into his briefcase.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. O’Neill. I have a truck parked at my home. I would be happy to take you to town to buy some necessities when you’re dressed and ready,” he said. “You can text me; I can write down my cell number.”
“We don’t have cellphones.”
“Oh,” said Diana. “I own a beauty shop in town and we also sell cellphones.”
“And movies,” Ariel added.
“It’s all right,” you answered. “Why waste all this peace and quiet by having phones? I can just walk into town in about an hour. Would you be free at that time? I would like to get some hardware supplies and maybe a bed.”
“A bed is important,” Diana giggled.
You led Ariel toward the front door. Diana and I followed.
“Congratulations, again.”
“Thank you both, I will see you in an hour,” you said, practically pushing them out the door. And when they were gone, you swept me off the floor and lifted me up by my backside. I wrapped my legs around you, giggling as you danced around the barren house.
“Seriously?” I laughed. “You took the brand off your shorts?”
“Fuck. I hadn’t thought of a last name! It caught me by surprise!”
“A Spaniard with an Irish name,” I said, kissing the side of your face, my legs still tight around you. “Sexy.”
“Carin.” Your look changed from playful to wistful. You leaned me against the wall and brought both hands to my face. “We have to sit down and map this all out.”
“I know,” I answered.
“Don’t regret anything. I promise to make you happy.”
“I don’t.”
“Want to know what’s really sexy?” you growled.
“What?”
“Julia,” you breathed into my ear. “Julia O’Neill. That name just turns me on.”
“Oh yeah?” I licked the outline of your li
ps, searched for you with my hand and guided you inside me. You gasped as I placed all my weight on you. “Tell me—who’s more turned on, Roman O’Neill?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Rules
April 2016
There were rules, and there were guidelines. The rules were quite simple: no phones, no computers, no contact with anyone outside of this island. Obviously, there were technical reasons behind the rules—no computers because IP addresses can be traced, no phones because signals can bounce off cell sites.
Now, on the other hand, the guidelines were flexible. In my head they were allowed to be broken—these were more personal things you and I discussed but really didn’t place parameters around. Don’t watch the news, use your new name, don’t get too close to people, talk it out.
You made me promise to speak to you about anything I felt, telling me that you expected this displacement to take its toll on us one day.
I had one more that I didn’t mention—kept it to myself but made every effort to comply.
Stop thinking.
There’s nothing to think about.
He will know. Trish will know. I’ll find a way to let them know.
All I ever wanted is right here with you.
So many times while we were together, I decided you were perfect. I watched you build our house, make it a home, forage things together and link them to our history. That time, you were placing the finishing touches on our bed frame. You returned from a trip to the local mattress maker, vexed by the fact that these beds were made to rest firmly on the floor.
“What about the bugs and dirt?” I’d asked.
You nodded, deep in thought. There you were hours later, hammering away on uneven pieces of wood, positioning them together, determined to allay my concerns.
“So your dad was a craftsman?”
“Yup,” you answered, looking cute in your eye goggles, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a power drill, a long saw, and some guiders.
“What was his favorite thing to make?”
“Who?” you asked.
“Your father.”
“He was a sculptor. Later on, he worked for a furniture maker, carving out designs. He’s retired now.”
“Your home must have been so beautiful.”
“It was. My mother loved nice things.”
“Well ...” I laughed. “Our mothers would have gotten along great.”
Significant progress had been made in the two weeks we’d been in our home. It had taken two days for you to paint the walls white and four for you to build us some chairs. Everything else, we found at the roadside furniture store recommended by Ariel and endorsed fully by Diana. Our glass kitchen table had bamboo legs that matched the chairs you’d built. We upholstered the sofa in green floral print and found a Spanish chandelier abandoned on the side of the road. We kept the same oven, purchased a new fridge. Of course, new is used and used is new in this place. Our money went a long way.
While you created things, I polished them, made them shine like new. Those chandeliers looked like they were fresh out of the store, the yellowed formica countertops were bleached to an immaculate white. Ariel had a friend who had helped us install some electric wires to power up the lights and support our large central air conditioner. You wanted one for the bedroom and one for the living area—we compromised on a heavy duty one in the living room, thought to leave the bedroom door open so the cool air could permeate throughout the house.
It was the middle of summer. Blistering hot, bustling with life, kids out of school, many working either in the fields or on the beach selling seashells. Summer in this country was not the summer in our country; tourists were scarce and limited to mostly locals.
For days I watched as you cut the boards to size, taught me all about pocket screws, asked me to help you with the glue, sanded, stained and applied multiple coats of varnish. You slid the scraper evenly along the length of the wood, making it look easier than it was.
“You’re so dexterous,” I teased. “You do good things with your hands.”
You slipped your goggles up your forehead. “I do, do I?”
“Yes sir, you do.” I leaned my chin on the back of the chair, wrapped my arms around it, facing you. “I will always remember this.”
“Remember what?” You paused to look at me.
“This. You making me things, creating our life.”
“Don’t worry.” You smiled. “I’ll be here to keep reminding you.”
I walked to the kitchen to lay out the table. You followed me with your eyes, shaking your head.
“My mom always said, it’s all in the presentation,” I teased. I laid out the placemats, plates, and matching napkins.
“I would’ve loved your mom,” you said, getting up to wash your hands.
I wrapped my arms around your waist and kissed your shoulder. Touching you grounded me, reminded me why I was here and why I should remain in the present. In the newness of our life together, I refused to bring the past into our home. Except that I missed them. I missed my mother and most especially my son. For weeks I’d conditioned my mind to make me believe I was merely on vacation. Or on a long business trip.
“Let’s eat.”
I hadn’t cooked in five years—but since we’d moved in, I willingly accepted the role of homemaker. That night, it was a chicken stir-fry. You scooped a large cup of rice onto your plate and topped it off with vegetables and oyster sauce.
“I’m starving.” You smiled before gobbling down a mouthful.
“Matias?”
“Mmm, baby. You are the best cook ever.”
“I’ve been thinking ...” I took a sip of my water. “What if I just wrote a le—”
“Not yet.”
“What I’ve done to him, it will scar him for life.”
You kept going, chewing, spooning, drinking your water. I tried to act as if everything was normal. Here we were, lovebirds in paradise, off to a new beginning. I couldn’t help but wish Charlie could be a part of this new life, too. You know what they say about newlyweds—there’s a honeymoon phase, a delirium that serves as an enclosure from the realities that are kept at bay. They don’t go away—they surround you until you can no longer deny their existence. I had made my choice with no regret. I deserved to be with you.
You took a deep breath and blinked twice as you exhaled. I wondered what you were thinking because you stayed silent. And then you ate your food, poured yourself a glass of wine and carried on as if the conversation were over.
Except I didn’t want it to be. I was moved with the same kind of pain—the pain of missing my mother—the tightness in my chest, the twisting in my stomach, the craving need to see my son.
“Don’t you care about me? About him?” I burst out, tears streaming down my face. I dropped my fork and ran to the bedroom.
“Carin!” You knocked on the door before pushing it open. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you.” You sat next to me and pulled me close. “Please, don’t cry. I want to explain it to you.”
I swatted my hand across my face, still distressed by your lack of empathy.
“Listen, I’m not crazy. I’m not stupid. I’m not evil, either. The pain you are feeling, I can only imagine what it may feel like. But I know that eventually, the world ...” You paused. “Real life, our old life will find us and take you away from me. All I want is a little bit more time with you. With you in this place, alone. I just want this time with you. I want you to love only me, here and now. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t bear to think of anything else.”
“I miss him so much.” I started to cry again, more out of guilt because I knew that I agreed with you. I wanted the same thing. Nothing for nothing. You give up love to get love. At least I convinced myself of this.
“I know.” You held me tighter. “If you really want to do it, just know that this will be the start of the end. What we’ve done—has set things in motion that we can’t undo.”
; “I don’t want this to end.”
You didn’t encourage or discourage me. You wanted me to decide on my own. “I love you, Carin.”
“Julia.” I smiled, pulling you down on the mattress until your weight was on me, your face aligned with mine.
“Julia,” you answered, pushing my legs apart. “I love you, Julia.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sarong
I learned how to tie a sarong around my chest, twist it in a way that it covered me up entirely. Every day, I tried a different way to do it, fold it in a triangle or twist it from a square. Most of the time I succeeded—sometimes, it just wouldn’t stay on. I also learned how to wear a bandana. It kept my hair in place, decreased the frizz that came with the humidity. Considering I hadn’t had a haircut in months, direct sunlight seemed to accelerate its growth, thickening it and lightening it at the same time.
The jeepney ride to Diana’s beauty salon took fifteen minutes. In the hot wind, that’s all the time needed to grow a rat’s nest of matted hair on my head. I consciously tried to comb it down before entering her store, using the bandana to tie it up in a bun.
Little bells on the door announced my arrival. Diana was busy sweeping up the remains of a haircut. Soft music played in the background—the Bee Gees, actually—and water ran in a pedicure tub. The walls of her salon were plastered with magazine pictures of beautiful women with beautiful hair. There were three barbers’ chairs and three pedicure chairs. The salon was sparsely decorated—a TV, a counter filled with videotapes, two bonsai trees on a makeshift desk and some silk pillows against a wooden bench.
“Hi!’ she greeted. I wanted to reach out and touch her shiny, black hair. “Are you looking for Roman? He left to go with Ariel—said he needed more materials for the outside of your house.”
“No, no,” I said. “I do know he left to go to Looc.”
She laughed.
“What?” I asked. “Did I say it wrong?”
“Well, it’s pronounced LOW–OCK,” she said. “Not look.”
The Year I Left Page 14