Withering Hope

by Hagen, Layla

  Tristan keeps talking while I sink one of my T-shirts in water and put it on his forehead as a compress. Since the water is not cold, it doesn't help bring the fever down, but it seems to make it more bearable for him. His words come out weaker, until they are almost whispers, and I have to strain my ears to understand him.

  "Help me back to the cockpit," he whispers.

  "Are you insane? I'm not moving you anywhere. You're staying right here. I'll keep putting water on your forehead."

  "No… I"

  "Shh. Don't argue. You'll sleep here."

  I soak the T-shirt in water and also run it on his arms and chest this time, because his whole body is burning. He insists on returning to the cockpit, but the fever takes the better of him and he falls asleep, with his head in my lap. A terrible thought wedges its way into my mind. What if he won't wake up? What then? I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. I look around, searching for something else to think about. My calves provide a welcome, if superficial distraction. Since our daily tasks are a constant workout, my body has changed a bit. The fact that our food is very protein-heavy also contributes. My calves and arms are stronger than they used to be, though I can't say I like them. They look bulky. Tristan's body has also undergone similar changes, but the muscles look good on him. They make him look strong, unbeatable. Yet as he lies here with his eyes closed, all his energy stripped away, he looks defeated. His body succumbed so easily to illness. When I see him like this, it's hard to believe he's the same man who ventures in the forest every day with nothing but a knife—who doesn't seem to know fear. Now he’s weak. Vulnerable.

  It feels weird—almost like an intrusion—having him in the cabin with me. I was used to it being my place. Unfairly so, since the cockpit is so small.

  I shift in my seat, dipping the cloth in water, when Tristan starts mumbling. I think he's trying to tell me something at first, but then I realize he's still asleep. His mumbling gets louder, and he begins to twist around, his fingers groping and scratching at the seat. Out of his incoherent gasps, I make out the words run, and I'm sorry. I try to shake him awake from his nightmare, and when my hand touches his chest his eyes flutter open. They are unfocused, but deep behind their confusion lies something that bewilders me. Terror. Like the gaze of a hunted animal. I want to comfort him somehow, to tell him it's just a nightmare; he's all right and I'll take care of him. I wish I could find a way to make him feel safe, like he does when we're out in the wild. But before I can do anything, he grabs my hand.

  "Don't let go," he mumbles, his eyes closed again.

  "I won't," I answer, petrified. He relaxes, still mumbling gibberish. At least he doesn't twist anymore. Every time I try to move my hand to shake the numbness away, spasm wrack him, and his mumbling intensifies, so I try not to take it away. Even though it feels SO numb, I'm afraid it might fall off. Doesn’t matter. I’d do anything to ease his despair. Realizing how important his well-being and happiness is to me stuns me. I have never felt so desperately needed, or seen anyone so terrorized by a nightmare.

  The fever must be giving him nightmares.

  Or is it?

  I remember how he wanted me to take him back to the cockpit. How he insisted on sleeping there since we've crashed, even though there's enough space for him to sleep here. How he closed the door to the cockpit every night. Does he go through this every night? Is this why he seeks solitude? Whatever is behind his eyelids frightens him, that's for sure. I shiver.

  What can frighten this man who isn’t even scared in the rainforest?

  Despite getting no more than two hours of sleep, I feel energetic in the morning. Tristan's fever subsides. Doubtful that my compresses were of any help, I check the leaves while he’s still sleeping. No idea if they worked, but his back looks far better than yesterday. I put fresh leaves on the stings and let him sleep while I leave the plane and start the daily routine with the signal fire and looking for eggs.

  I wake up briefly. At first I think the pain in my back might have woken me, but that’s not it. Then I understand what did. Her absence. Before I fall back asleep, I acknowledge that last night, for the first time in years, I found peace in my sleep. I know what brought it. Or rather, who brought it.

  My peace carries her smell and sounds like her voice.

  It feels like her touch.

  But I have to give up that peace.

  With a bit of luck, she’ll think that last night’s nightmares were caused by the fever. Tonight I will return to sleep in the cockpit, though I never wished for anything as intensely as I wish now to be by her side. If I stay, she’ll realize the fever isn’t at fault for my nightmares.

  Before she can give me peace, I will take hers away.

  And she will hate me for it.

  I boil three of the six eggs I collected and eat them quickly. I wonder if Tristan is still sleeping. I'm about to boil the others for Tristan when I have an idea. I retrieve a flat piece of metal from the wing wreckage and place it over the fire, heating it up. In the meantime I crack the eggs in the fruit shell bowl and stir them with a wooden stick. On a whim, I slice the fruit that resembles grapefruit and add it to the mix, pouring everything on the piece of metal. I end up with a burnt omelette, but an omelette nonetheless.

  Tristan is still asleep. I sit on the edge of the seat, holding up the omelette right under his nose. He wakes up with a start.

  "What the—” he stops when he sees the omelette. "What's this?"

  "Ha, ha. It's an omelette. A burned one, I admit."

  His eyes widen as he takes a bite, then smiles. "You put grapefruit in it?"

  I shrug. "Since we're in the rainforest, why not add some local flavor to it?"

  "Thanks. This is good. Do you want a bite?"

  "I'll stick to boiled eggs. I hate omelettes."

  He jerks his head back, smiling. "You prepared this just for me?"

  "Thought you deserved to be spoiled a bit after what you went through last night. It is your favorite course after all." I like doing something that puts a smile on his face, seeing him happy. It fills me with relief and something else I can’t identify. Surely, if he smiles, he can’t be too sick. The panic from the night when we were bitten hits me in a whipping flash, the terrible fear that something could happen to him or that I could lose him wedging inside my mind. I shake the thought out, concentrating on his smile.

  "Wow. You remembered that."

  "Of course. Why did you think I was asking?"

  "To make conversation," he says through a mouthful.

  "Do you mean you don't remember anything I've told you?" I ask with fake horror.

  Tristan lowers his gaze to the omelette.

  "What's my favorite color?"

  His blank expression tells me he was indeed just making conversation. I sigh, shaking my head.

  "How are you feeling? Your back looked better."

  "It’s still uncomfortable, but nothing like yesterday."

  "Do you think those leaves worked?"

  "No idea, but it's possible. The seeds’ oil is used in creams, but maybe the leaves are useful too. I feel much better. And I've slept better than I have in a long time."

  If his voice didn't have this strained edge to it, I'd guess his comment was coincidental. But I don't believe it is. I steal a glance at him. His fingers clasp the edges of the metal makeshift plate. His features reflect the strain of his voice. He's testing the waters, though I'm not sure what he's testing them for. Does he remember he asked me to stay with him last night and is ashamed? Or perhaps he wants to explain his nightmares. Since he doesn't offer more information, I just say, "I'm happy to hear that."

  He steers the conversation in a different direction. "You were very brave yesterday, to go after the leaves," he says, taking another bite.

  "I'll go back and get more today, before nightfall. I lost some on the way back, and you might need more leaves."

  He frowns. "That's not a great idea. I don't feel well enough to come with you, a
nd I don't want you to venture so far again by yourself."

  "But what if you need more?"

  "We have enough for today and tomorrow. I might feel better then and come with you."

  "Okay…"

  He runs a hand through his hair. "I should show you how to handle the weapons."

  "That'd be good, yeah." I shudder, remembering the growl last night. If anything had attacked me… well, I'm not sure how helpful a weapon would have been. I had enough trouble just holding the torch and the leaves.

  I remember something and burst out laughing, but there's no humor in it.

  "Aimee?" Tristan asks, uncertain.

  "I was supposed to find out today if my boss had assigned me to one of our biggest cases. And now I'm contemplating learning how to shoot with a bow. A bit ironic.”

  Tristan lifts himself up from his seat, motioning me to help him out of the plane. I put one of his arms around my shoulders, and we stagger out of the plane.

  "You need a shower," I say to him, half-jokingly.

  "Trust me, I’m aware. Help me get in the shower. My back still feels like it’s paralyzed."

  I lead him inside the wood cubicle and wait for him on the airstairs. He takes longer than usual in the shower, but given he can barely move, it's not surprising. I help him when he comes out, holding him up as best as I can.

  "Some nerves in my back," he says through gritted teeth, "if I move a certain way, they hurt. Otherwise I just can’t feel my back."

  I sit him on the airstairs and bring him some water to drink. He drinks with large gulps, the hush of the water pouring down his throat filling me with anxiety.

  "Better?" I ask.

  "Nope. Distract me."

  "Hey, I already cooked an omelette. I've run out of ideas for the day. Scratch that, for the week." I've never been good at this. Distracting and entertaining people has always been Chris's territory.

  Tristan frowns, as if he's considering something. "You're a corporate lawyer, right?"

  "Yes," I say, swaying from one foot to the other. "Do you want me to talk about my job? It won’t distract you. More like bore you to tears."

  "No, it's just that… Maggie said you wanted to be a human rights lawyer until you started college."

  Ah, the household rumor mill again. It doesn't upset me, though. I could never be upset with Maggie. She's like a second mother to me. I'm glad Chris's parents kept her as their housekeeper after we grew up.

  "I changed my mind," I say, my tone clipped.

  "How so? It's a big step from human rights lawyers to corporate lawyer."

  Though his tone is not in the slightest judging, or accusing, I feel defensive.

  "Just because," I snap, but then soften at his stricken expression. "I'm sorry. This is a very sensitive area for me."

  "Your career choice?"

  I sigh, sitting on the airstairs, one step beneath him. No one asked me why I decided to change my career, though everyone knew I was dreaming of being a human rights lawyer. After my parents' death, it was sort of implied why I changed my mind. Or, well… not why. People never understood why. They just assumed that the traumatic event had something to do with my decision. But that didn't keep people—my closest friends, even Chris—from judging my choice.

  "Do you know how my parents died?" I ask.

  Tristan inhales. "No."

  "Umm…" I pick a spot on the airstairs and gawk at it, fiddling with my hands in my lap. "My parents dedicated their life to charitable causes. This meant more than donations or charity parties. They'd often fly to underprivileged countries to give out food and medicine, and oversee infrastructural projects. They were my heroes when I was little and into my teenage years, even though they were gone for long periods at a time. I rarely saw them." Warmth feathers me on the inside, as I remember checking the mailbox, and later my email, waiting to hear from my heroes—to learn when they'd be home to spend time with me and tell me about their latest achievements.

  "Before long, they also got involved in the politics of countries that were… politically unstable. Wherever the danger was greater, there they were, both of them. Wanting to bring hope to places where there was no hope. They were fighters. They believed they could make a difference. The week after I turned eighteen they went to one such country that was on the brink of a revolution. The revolution started a few days after they arrived there, and they were killed." The warmth inside me turns to an engulfing flame—the flame that turned all the memories and thoughts of my parents into a source of misery and anger instead of the happy place they used to be before their deaths. "The world isn't a better place. And they are still dead. What was the point?"

  Pain pierces my palms, and I look in my lap, discovering I've dug my nails very deep in my skin.

  "The point is, it's people like your parents who help this world become better every day, even if you can't see it right away. They did a lot of good. I read an article about them once. They were good people. Fighters." His voice is gentle, but every word feels like the lash of a whip.

  "Oh yes, they were fighters. They fought with everything they had to bring good to the world. They sacrificed anything for that. They gave everything to the world. And what did the world give them back? Nothing," I spit. I don't dare meet his eyes, for fear I'll find the same accusatory look that Chris had when I spoke like this in front of him. But I can't stop myself from spitting out more words. Wrong words. "The world took everything from them. And it took them away from me. You’re right, they were fighters. But I wish they hadn't been, so they'd still be alive. When I was little, I dreamed of my father walking me down the aisle to give me away. Chris's father was going to do it, because my dad isn't here to do it."

  "You are bitter." Tristan slides down the steps until he's on the same level. I still avoid looking at him.

  "Yes. And selfish. Lamenting that my father isn't here to walk me down the aisle. What a tragedy, right? When there are real tragedies going on around the word. Tragedies they were trying to prevent. I used to want to be a human rights lawyer because I wanted to follow in my parents' footsteps. But after they died, I became a different person. I didn't want anything to do with anything they did. So yes… that's how I went to the other extreme and became a corporate lawyer. I bet my soppy story wasn't what you wanted to hear." I try to sound humorous, like the whole thing is a joke.

  "There's no shame in what you did, Aimee. It's a natural reaction to want to distance yourself from your parents' world and ideals. You associate that with pain. You don't have to feel ashamed. I'm not judging you, Aimee."

  His words—so simple, so serene—have a calming effect on me. Like sprinkling honey on a burn, they rein in the fire that scorches me, soothing the cracks that the contained pain and shame have cut inside me.

  He tilts my head until I meet his gaze, as if to make sure I got his point. But neither his words nor his gaze manage to silence the raucous thoughts tormenting me.

  "I am not a fighter, like them," I whisper. "If I were, I wouldn't have given up so easily. I'm a selfish person." Tristan opens his mouth, then closes it again without uttering a sound. I pull away from him. "Go ahead, say it. Everyone else had no qualms with letting me know how they feel about it."

  "You're not selfish. If you were, you wouldn't have gone for those leaves last night. The forest terrifies you when it’s dark."

  "That's not tipping the scale in my favor. But then again, compared to all the things my parents did, nothing I do will tip it in my favor.”

  "I'm sure they would be proud of you anyway."

  This has haunted me since my first workday. "No, they wouldn't. Not at all." I rise to my feet, walking to the signal fire, putting more branches on it. My confession to him drained me of energy. But it also drained something else… a rotting negativity I have accumulated over the years. I feel more at peace than I’ve felt in a long time.

  Tristan takes the cue and doesn't pursue the topic. "Ready for some shooting training?"

  "
I guess."

  "We need a target."

  Tristan's back cracks when he attempts to stand, and I push him back on the steps, assuring him I'm capable of doing this on my own. I build a makeshift target by curling a few branches and putting leaves inside them. I get the bows, arrows, and spears from the wood shelter and drop them at Tristan's feet. Then I realize…

  "Can you shoot with your back?"

  "No. Arching my back hurts. But I'll explain it to you the best I can."

  Turns out no matter how much Tristan explains what I have to do, I can't shoot straight to save my life. The arrows don't touch the target, instead flying below, above, or to its sides and into the bushes. The process becomes cumbersome, because I have to retrieve all the arrows. Eventually, Tristan stands up. He does it slowly and doesn’t seem in pain—just uncomfortable. He presses his hand on my stomach, explaining that I have to center my weight there.

  When his hand touches my stomach his breath catches, and he bites his lip. I pretend not to notice, though my own breathing intensifies with shame, my stomach jolting. I try to concentrate on shooting, but I find myself peering at him often to see if he continues to bite his lip.

  He does. His reaction makes me uneasy, and I have no idea what to do about it, but something stirs inside me. With bewildering confusion, I realize what that is: guilt.

  No amount of instruction helps. I give up after about three hours, dropping the bow. "I suck. There's no other way to put it."

  Tristan, who's once again resting on the airstairs, shakes his head, saying, "You'll get better with practice."

  "I'll go cut fresh leaves to replace the ones in the shower. They're decaying already."

  I spend an inordinate amount of time cutting the leaves, using the alone time to put my thoughts in order after the events of the last hours. I trudge back, my arms full of leaves, and start patching the shower. Tristan is nowhere in sight, so I assume he managed to drag himself inside the plane to rest. I fiddle with the leaves before I weave them into a curtain. I replace the old curtain, my heart swivelling inside me with ridiculous pride, as if I've just built something very complex.