by Rissa Brahm
“And I’ll bring the sunscreen.”
She laughed out loud. “Yes, sunscreen is important, Doctor.”
He blushed. “God, I do sound like a doctor. The funny thing is, I was only regurgitating what my mother hen of a sister said a few minutes ago.” He blushed more.
“What’s funnier is that, if you hadn’t noticed,” she said and smiled while striking a pose, “I’m ‘dark mocha’ as it is—I don’t really worry about burning.”
“Okay, okay, hold it. Now I need to play doctor. No matter how dark your natural skin tone, your skin still needs protection. And…we’re only, like, twenty degrees from the earth’s equator here. I’ve seen some of the worst cases of melanoma in darker-skinned people and—”
She leaned into Ben and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll wear it for you, Dr. Ben.” Then she turned to walk up the house steps toward where the cab would pick her up.
“Have a good night. See you tomorrow at eight.”
“I’m at the Airington!” she called over her shoulder, getting her final fill of his bright sunset eyes before he was out of her view for the evening.
“Hey, text me when you’re safe at the hotel.”
“Will do.” He was too damn sweet for words.
CHAPTER 17
She slid into the cab and sank into the seat, exhaustion hitting her all at once.
The cabbie stopped singing some happy tune, an English pop hit—Radio Inglés, who knew?—and shared a wide smile as he lowered the volume. “A dónde vas, senorita? Where to?”
“Oh, yes, um, to the Airington, por favor?”
“Si, si, senorita.” He put the cab into Reverse to get right with the incredibly steep hill that led down to the main town road, and turned up the volume of the radio again.
Your sun, my moon, entwined in the guest room.
Violet orbs, absorbed in my love,
See no one but me, my angel from above.
In Mexico? Jesus Christ, you’re kidding me. She wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at the same time. “Oh, please, sir…”
He couldn’t hear her—he was singing too loudly with Josh Bolte’s cheesy-ass words. Please, God. “Senor! Would you mind turning the station? Um, cambio, por favor?”
He still couldn’t hear her, not over the belted chorus of ridiculous bullshit.
She tapped his shoulder. He looked at her in the rearview and lowered the volume—thank you!—and just as she opened her mouth to ask him to please, for the love of Mother Mary, change the radio station, well, just then, the song, Josh’s song with his pseudo-deep lyrics, ended.
“Yes, senorita, did you need something?”
She shook her head and smiled, holding back a strange urge to laugh hysterically. “No, sorry, nothing. I’m fine.”
She shifted in the seat to look out the open window. Yes, she did feel fine. Really good, in fact.
She relished the sea air rushing in at her face as Josh Bolte’s stupid lyrics left her mind—scattered to the wind. She felt good and free and calm, and thought to text Gigi to tell her so. She turned on her phone, but her finger hit the power button again the very next second. Just be here, Preeya. Just be.
She took in a big breath and blew it out in what turned into a half laugh. On her own and relaxed? Preeya Patel? Yes. She was alone and happy as she watched the Vallarta landscape zoom by as the star-filled sky illuminated the coastal town. She loved this, the scent of night jasmine and sea salt. And the feel of the bay’s trade winds blowing in through the window. She laughed as her long hair whipped up and into her face. Her fingers raked her silky strands back, but more of her hair would come lashing, in her eyes and mouth and tickling her neck.
The sound of her laughter filled the backseat of the cab; even the cabbie looked up at her in the rearview, obviously intrigued by her hysterical commotion. And the onslaught of her hair and her continued giggling made her laugh harder—she hadn’t laughed like that, all alone, to herself, and so wholly, for ages.
God…not since she was a little girl.
An image of rainbow pajamas came to mind. Sick, home from school, her mother only one room away, Preeya had been watching television. Yes, I Love Lucy, the chocolate factory episode. Lucy and the relentless conveyor belt of chocolates. Preeya had laughed so hard her stomach ached. A deep-in-the-belly, tears-falling kind of laugh. In that room, like in the cab’s backseat now, it was just her and her deep, resonating, wholehearted happiness.
*
Preeya’s airline cohorts were all at the Tara Lux, but since Amy had already booked and paid for a room for Preeya at the elegant Airington where Amy’s wedding had been held, Preeya had to stay there. The beach access and pool alone were too much to turn down, even though she’d know no one.
Yes, really all alone.
Her breathing hitched and her mouth went dry as the cab pulled under the portico.
Relax. Ben’s coming for you in the morning.
Yes, that’s right. She’d hit the bed now, and 8:00 a.m. would come in a blink.
Or she could just call Bobby or Jan for a bit of company. No, they’d be out and about by this time.
She could shout to Geej. Her rock. Again—no, Pree. What if Gigi was busy with Rod or, God forbid, she didn’t have Gigi at all anymore.
Her heart rammed her ribs and pulsed up her neck. And the next image in her head—Ben.
Widowed. So young. She saw in his eyes how lonesome he was, by no choice of his own. Waking up next to someone every day, planning for forever with someone, then poof. All gone. She wouldn’t be able to bear it. Her heart ached for him.
No, you know what? She’d go straight to her room and try to get through without a crutch, without distraction. Like Ben was forced to do now. She’s a grown woman, for God’s sake. She could damn well do this.
And as soon as it was decided, she noticed how horribly empty the luxurious lobby was. No line at the registration desk, not even a person behind the counter to greet her. It was slow season in Vallarta, but this was eerie.
She dinged the little bell at the barren counter and out came a nice-enough clerk. Preeya got checked in, got her key, and made her way to the elevator. Still no sight nor sound of another soul, just deafening silence. Even with the humidity thick in the air, all the way up to her room, icy chills swept up her neck.
She unlocked her sixth-floor room door and rolled her bag across the threshold into the darkness. The stark quiet of her large suite, alarming.
“So, this is it.” She could swear her voice echoed.
Lights. Her hands hunted for the light switch. Ahh. Modern, gleaming emptiness stared her in the face. Ultra contemporary design: decor, furniture, carpet, and duvet. Clean, fresh smelling, a step up from the Boise Inn, for sure—and a mountain up from Josh’s bandmate’s guest room. This is a good start.
She dropped her purse on the front counter, dug out her phone and charger to juice it up—ready to call Geej if she absolutely needed to—and then, so she wouldn’t trip, she rolled her bag across the room to the large standing closet. The wheels made a cushy scrolling sound through the plush carpet. The carpet caught her eye; its swirls and dots of soft tropical hues soothed her, in contrast to the hard, stylized angles of the modern desk, headboard, closet, dresser, TV stand. Everything, really, had sharp, crisp edges. Even the lamp shades. But the soft, cushy, swirly carpet, she couldn’t wait to walk barefoot.
And no puke puddles. She laughed out loud, then swallowed back hard—something was different here than in the cab when she relished the feel and sound of her laughter, when the wind kissed her face. This no-distraction thing in this static and now almost too-clean room was going to pose a challenge.
Breathe and get busy with something, Preeya.
TV? No, too easy an escape.
She could get undressed, unpack, hang up her civilian clothes, prep her uniforms for dry cleaning. Yes, good idea.
She kicked off her heels and wiggled, stretched and cracked her toes against the soft, th
ick carpet. Freeing her feet from her heels after a long flight was equal to taking off her bra before bed. Heaven. She took a breath—this wouldn’t be so bad—laid her carry-on flat on the floor, and unzipped it.
She breathed evenly, felt good so far. Keep going then.
Okay, unpacking. She pulled out The Giving Tree, her sandals, and her toiletry pouch. What remained? A bag of dirty and a balled-up and assuredly wrinkled mess of clean. Wow, she really needed to start folding her things. She sighed. Hanging the stuff might help, but doubtful. She stood up, faced the closet doors, then paused.
Froze, really.
Her reflection in the gleaming white laminate, her image muted but clear, halted her breath. She tilted her head. Her eyes, masked by the usual and required FA-thick makeup, stared back at her like a stupid puppy. A bizarre feeling—déjà vu?—filled her chest. Her eyes in the reflection looked familiar—of course they were familiar—but from a long-ago time. And unlike her exhausted body—her back, her neck and shoulders, her knees and feet—her eyes were wide open, wide awake, wide with…fear.
Raw, childlike fear.
And she thought she’d been doing so well. But the stark dread gazing back at her now was someone else’s.
Someone else’s.
Her heart racked her rib cage, her lungs screamed shut.
In a flash of moving memory, she was seven again.
Seven-year-old Preeya. When she’d…she’d run to her mother’s closet.
That one morning…
Preeya jumped back, a full length away now from the glossy white doors and her carry-on bag and from her surreal, long-ago reflection.
The same doors. Fuck. The same exact reflective laminate. In her parents’ bedroom. Not white, but light gray. Storm-cloud gray.
And like a crashing wave dragging her down—and back—her baby sister’s wailing filled her being. Prana, only weeks old, on the other side of the house. Why so far from Mom and Dad’s room? Preeya had woken up to the tiny screams, and after some minutes, she wondered why her sister wasn’t being lulled or fed or rocked, burped, changed, something? Her dad had left for surgery—before dawn as usual. She’d seen his headlights hours before through a sleepy haze.
What day was it? No school…Sunday. Right. A snuggle-up and sleep-in day.
But no, not while the baby kept on. Sometimes they’d let Prana cry…to teach independence, she’d overheard them say. But this crying spell was longer, louder.
Preeya ran to the baby’s room. No Mom asleep in the rocking chair, or anywhere in the pink plaid nursery. Preeya reached over the side of the basinet to give her sister the pacifier—quiet came instantly. A moment’s peace. She knew Prana would spit out the milkless plug in a minute’s time.
Was her mom still asleep in bed? She had been super tired since coming home from the hospital. Preeya tiptoed to her parents’ room. No one in bed. The bathroom? Empty. Her mother’s bathrobe hung on the wall hook.
Huffing from her nostrils as the crying began again like she’d predicted, Preeya ran to the spare room, the playroom, then darted barefoot down to the kitchen, sure Mom would be on the phone and cooking with that loud overhead fan whirling, sucking away the Indian spices, and Prana’s baby cries with them.
But no. No Mom.
In the office paying bills? No. Dining or living room? No one. Powder room? Empty. Preeya checked every room and space and nook in between. The house was too huge—Daddy had bought them a mansion, which she’d thought she’d loved. But no more. Now she hated it.
Preeya began calling, then screaming, “Mommy! Where are you?” over Prana’s baby howls, which had by that time filled every part of the house and Preeya’s head and heart.
Preeya’s hand clutched the knob to the mudroom out to the garage. Okay, if Mommy’s car is there…she stepped out. Her car’s here! So Mom’s home. But where?
Trembling, she peered inside the car’s tinted windows in case. No Mom. No relief.
In fact, just the opposite.
Her first squeezing heart-pain episode. The first of a billion.
Her airways closed in the dank garage of that humongous house, with its walls shrinking around her and her baby sister who lay screaming upstairs in the frilly, lacy pale-pink basinet. Crying her little baby lungs out.
Preeya’s chest-tightening escalated from there. With every passing second, with every magnified baby-scream, each one like a pair of scissors stabbing Preeya’s seven-year-old ears, Preeya’s chest constricted. Her thoughts were clobbered by possibilities: Had Mommy been taken by a bad guy? Or by aliens like in the shows her babysitter hadn’t stopped her from watching?
Preeya wanted to crawl up in a ball and hide.
Hide!
The bedroom closet. A few times since Prana was born, Preeya had found Mommy sitting at the bottom of the huge bedroom closet, humming, rocking, and counting her silken scarves.
Mommy had explained she was just hiding.
“Like, hide and seek?”
“Yes, love. I’m playing hide and seek.”
Well, it was the perfect hiding place.
A game of hide and seek, then.
She sprinted up to her parents’ sunlit bedroom again, straight for her mom’s glorious clothes closet. Doorknobs in hand, little lungs filled, Preeya shut her eyes tight and pulled open the gray and glossy doors. Her mom’s flowy dresses, skirts and jumpers, shirts and scarves and hats, shoes and belts, were all there.
But no Mom.
Maybe she was taken.
Preeya’s heart cracked from the earthquake inside her chest. The fear of life without her mom…
But hope is relentless. Her mom wasn’t inside.
She must be outside. In the garden.
Mom’s watering the flowers before it gets too hot out, of course.
Preeya remembered how hard and fast and free she ran down and out to and through the vacant front yard around to the back, barefoot and uncaring of the jagged-sharp landscape rocks because—sun and stars!—she’d solved the puzzle. She’d find her mom—gorgeous, tender, and calm—in some floral flowing dress watering their garden of vibrant flowers. Whispering to them, singing to them.
Panting, she got to the garden, the lonely little flower bed…
Where a ten-ton train landed on Preeya’s heaving little chest. No Mommy.
She looked around to be sure her mom wasn’t crouching at the base of a needy morning glory or pruning the low-lying baby blue eyes she and her mom had planted together. Shallow breath led to another round of panic as Preeya spun around and around, hearing and seeing no one—not a soul at the pool, the lanai, the flower garden again. Around and around she spun. Dizzy. No one. No one.
She and Prana were officially all alone.
The memory blurred then in her head.
She gulped for air, now back in the hotel room. Alone.
She needed to call Gigi. Fast. Now.
No. No calls to anyone. Keep looking. At yourself. In the closet doors. Remember, goddamn it.
Fuck you!—she remembered. Everything. Running inside, to the kitchen, the fridge door, the emergency numbers. She’d called and paged her dad, the hospital, the office. The man had been in surgery.
She remembered not dialing 911. She’d get in trouble for dragging the police or an ambulance there. Nobody’s bleeding. Everybody’s breathing—sort of. The issue: her mommy’s gone!
“Mommmmmy!” she’d shrieked so loud. Prana’s cries became hiccups then, gasps for air. Preeya remembered taking the cordless phone and sprinting up the stairs for her sister. And on her way up, she’d hit the only labeled speed dial as she went.
Her Aunt Champa.
That’s right, yes, she’d called her aunt.
And then grabbed and comforted Prana, and wouldn’t let her go. Not for anything. Not until her dad came home so many hours later.
And God, those hours had felt like years.
*
Preeya willed her eyes to zoom out of the depths of the reflection in
the white laminate closet doors of her hotel suite. She caught a breath, then four more, chest heaving. She was back to the present, though robotic and chilled with remnants of that childhood trepidation flooding through her from top to toe and back again.
With a long, stoic sigh, she slowly reached for the door’s handles and opened the glossy white closet.
Except for hangers swaying from the doors’ movement and the one plastic laundry bag, the closet was stark empty.
Empty.
She treaded backward and hit the king size bed with a jolt, forcing her to sit.
Staring ahead, chest heaving, mouth desert-dry, mind blank, she waited.
Unsure for what.
She shut her eyes. Slow your breathing, Pree. Slow, calm…
Too calm. Her father’s long ago explanation, spoken too calmly, too accepting, too okay.
Damn her father. He’d finally come home after work that day, and after overhearing him whisper to her aunt about some voice mail, Preeya remembered him kneeling at her feet—her baby sister still clutched tight to Preeya’s chest.
“You know how big Mommy’s heart and spirit are, Preeya, bitay. And how strong she knows you are. Well, Preeya”—he’d held her shoulders tight but did not look in her eyes; she remembered that part well—“your mother left us to be a mother to many, many little girls and boys who need her more than even you and your sister do. In India. Many, many children are starving. She left everything and everyone to follow her heart. We should be very proud.”
Why would she think I don’t need her? I do need her! We need her!
Distraught fury and confusion had raged through her—she felt it now, the memory was so vivid—but Preeya nodded obediently while repeating her father’s words to herself: Be strong like Mom says you are, Preeya. Be strong, be proud.
And you still have Daddy. And Prana.
Sometime during her mental processing, her heart’s processing, her father had taken the baby out of Preeya’s grasp, and then looking through her, he’d said, “Your mom is a tremendous soul. Leaving you girls was the hardest thing she ever had to do. Remember that, Preeya. Remember how hard it was for her.”
And no words about her mother were ever spoken again.
