by Hagen, Layla
For now.
I open my eyes, and force them to stay open for a few seconds, but I get dizzy fast, and my eyes start watering. I push myself up my elbows, but my fever-fried brain perceives this as a disruption equal to an earthquake, and I become nauseous. I can't make sense of much other than there are many people milling around in the plane. People I don't know.
Two of them crouch in front of me, and one of them shouts something over his shoulder. It might have been, She woke up.
I look down at my hands, and I see needles in my veins, and an infusion bag next to me. The rescue team must have arrived. I don't have time to rejoice, because I collapse on my back, my eyes sewing themselves together so tightly I can't open them again, hard as I try. I cling to my senses with my last ounce of energy: to the smell of the forest present in the plane, to the sound of voices calling to me, some with desperation, some hopeless. One with quiet urgency. Tristan's. I can't make out his whispered words, but when he interlaces his fingers with mine, I cling to him.
The last words I hear before I slide into a coma are, "She won't make it."
They belong to Chris.
The rescue team tells me how they learned we were still alive. A few weeks ago a new flight destination was added to the Manaus airport, which passed just outside the prohibition area. Aimee and I were in the visual range of that flight's route. A plane flying on the route noticed the black smoke from the fire Aimee insisted on lighting regularly. The airport instructed the planes flying that route to monitor the area, fearing that it might be a forest fire, doubting the smoke came from a signal fire. After a few more planes reported that the fire hadn't extended, they didn't doubt that it was a signal fire anymore. No plane except ours had crashed in the Amazon in the last five years. They knew it must be us.
The rescue team takes out the jaguars easily with a few shots. They can’t take care of Aimee as easily. She is half dead. There is a doctor on the team, but he doesn’t have the necessary equipment and medicine with him to save her. We set out on foot almost immediately after they arrive, but the place the helicopter is allowed to land is still days away. Chris tells me he tried to obtain a permit to bring the helicopter inside the prohibition area, but failed, despite bribing and calling in favors from everyone. Coming with a car was also impossible, because the trees are too close to each other. Chris and I carry her on a stretcher. He learned about us the minute he entered the plane—his eyes fell on her name scribbled on my shoulder, and my name on hers. He acknowledged it with a stunned expression but didn’t speak about it. Now it’s all about saving her. I hold on to the hope that we’ll reach the hospital in time. But as I watch the woman who means the world to me become weaker by the second, that hope turns to ash.
Life scorches away from her with every step.
Light blinds me when I open my eyes. It's so bright I cross both my arms over my eyes. The darkness calms me. I inhale deeply, but the smell travelling down my throat, filling my lungs, alarms me. It's not the heavy and moist smell of the forest. It's light, tinted with the aroma of alcohol. I search for a strand of familiar. Something to indicate that Tristan is nearby. The smell of his skin. The heat of his body. No trace of either. He's not nearby. Where is he, then? The way to find out is to put my arms down and face whatever is in front of me. It can't be worse than what I left behind—the forest. My leg doesn't hurt anymore. In fact, no part of my body aches. If I'm all right, then Tristan must be as well.
I lower my arms slowly, allowing my eyes to get accustomed to the bright white surrounding me. The ceiling. The walls. The bed sheet and my hospital gown. My heart rate intensifies by the second, the more I take in my surroundings, familiar and strange at the same time. I graze the bed sheet with my fingernails. The softness of the fabric and the smell of fresh and clean almost bring tears to my eyes.
One of the few spots of color comes from the screen of the vital signs monitor next to my bed. On the tray under the screen are at least five different types of pills. I don't remember taking any.
I turn my head in the other direction, to the window. The sight outside would have kept my attention for longer than a few seconds, if not for the sight beneath the window. An orange couch is there. And on that couch is someone who can bring me both relief and dread. Chris. I draw in a sharp breath. He's sleeping sitting up, his head bent slightly backward, a few curls of his light blond hair falling over his eyes and cheekbones. I frown as I inspect the dark circles under his eyes; his overall gaunt appearance. Even in sleep—a time when I always thought he looked no more than twenty—he looks years older than when I left him, though just four months have passed. He's wearing a simple blue polo shirt and jeans. I try hard to recall the speech I prepared when I was in the forest, but before I can, he wakes up, his blue eyes focusing on me.
"Hi," he says. For one brief moment I think he will rise and hug me. But he stays put. So do I, though there is nothing restraining me to the bed. Except my conscience.
"Hi."
"You took a long nap."
"How long?"
"Almost a week. You were in the intensive care unit for a few days, then they brought you here. You kept sleeping. The nurses woke you up several times a day so you could take your pills, but you weren't coherent."
"Where are we?"
"Home. We’re in L.A. We took you to the nearest hospital in Brazil, in Manaus. As soon as you were stable I had you flown here. This is the best equipped hospital in L.A. for these kind of cases."
Of course, always the best for me. Shame crashes over me in waves.
"Thank you," I say weakly, and then I say nothing more. All the explanations—excuses—seem too lame now to utter. Too hurtful. I don't want to open my mouth at all, because I'm afraid my most ardent question will slip out: where is Tristan?
Deep down, I'm certain Chris knows everything. Otherwise he'd be next to me, hugging and kissing me. Holding me tight to him.
"Don't you want to know if you'll make a full recovery?"
"Sure," I answer, grateful for a safe topic, but I don't take in his explanation, because the movement of a crane outside the window in the distance captures my attention.
"Can you… can you open the window?" I ask.
Chris stops talking, and I realize I've interrupted him. But he opens the window. The noise outside is like a shock to my system. For a few seconds, I fear my eardrums will pop, but they adjust, and then Chris snaps the window closed.
"You should take it easy. There are lots of people here to see you. Maggie, half a dozen of our friends."
I tear my gaze from the crane outside and focus it on his shoes. I swallow hard, trying to find the courage to ask him about the person I want to see most.
He spares me the question. "Tristan is here too. Waiting anxiously for you to wake up."
Without meeting his eyes I ask, "How is he?"
"Tristan is in perfect shape. The doctors made sure of that. He's just waiting for the woman he loves to wake up."
It's here at last. The moment of truth. I raise my gaze to meet his. "How do you know?"
Chris smiles. "You have his name inked on your skin, and he has yours. The few times the nurses woke you up you did nothing but call for him. I know because I was right next to you the first few times. Until I couldn't take it anymore and left him at your side. "
"Chris…"
"Don't," he turns his back to me sharply. Hands in his pockets, he stares at the white wall. "I don't blame you and I don't resent you. But I don't want to hear all the reasons you fell in love with him." I remain silent. "You never loved me the way you love him, did you?"
I shake my head, then realize he can't see me. It takes all I have to mutter, "It's different—” He cuts me off.
"Good. That means he must make you very happy. That's what I always wanted for you."
Tears break out, running down my cheeks. I remove the cover from my feet, but find that I can't move without a sharp pain in my left ankle where the snakes bit me. I haven'
t made a full recovery yet, it seems. I remain in my bed.
"How are you, Chris?"
"Dreadful. I spent the past four months wanting to die because I thought you were dead. Then I find you, but you're not mine to love anymore." His breathy voice undoes me. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood to keep from bursting into more tears. "I lost my fiancée somewhere in the rainforest, didn't I, Aimee?" He chooses the hardest moment of all to spin around and face me. I suppose he wants to look right at me when I deliver the final blow. I can't blame him for that.
"But not your best friend, Chris. She's still here."
He nods, one single tear rolling down his cheek.
"I need time, Aimee. To adjust to all this."
"I understand. I wish I could give you the ring back, but I… I suppose you left my suitcase in the forest. I put the ring in it. I couldn't wear it anymore."
"I wouldn't have expected it any other way."
"I did wear it for a long time. It reminded me of us—"
"Until you didn't want to be reminded of us anymore." It breaks me to be reminded of how well he knows me. "I debated leaving the moment the doctors said you were out of any danger. I thought of leaving you a letter. But I needed closure before I left."
I gulp. "Where are you going?"
“New York. The subsidiary there has needed my attention for some time. Now's a good time to fly there for a prolonged stay."
"You don't have to leave because of this… I… Tristan and I can leave."
"No need. I already made arrangements."
"Chris…" I beg. The thought of losing my best friend terrifies me. But what can I ask of him? Nothing.
He comes to my bed, sitting on its edge, next to me. I search for words to console him, but none come. There is nothing I can tell the man who has been by my side since childhood and who has never been anything but kind to me. In his clear blue eyes I can see that he doesn't want my words. So I keep them to myself. I'll put them in a letter and send it to him later. In it, I will lay out all my thanks and all my sorrys. "I promise I will return when I am able to think of you as simply my best friend. Until then, my place is not here." He leans in, kissing my forehead. His lips still on my forehead he mutters, "Now, it's high time to tell Tristan you're up."
When Chris walks to the door, the anticipation of seeing Tristan is overshadowed by a deep sense of loss. Chris doesn't say it, but after walking out that door, I know I won't see him again for a long time. I look elsewhere when he exits, and I don't glance at the door again until I hear it crack open and a familiar voice whispers, "Aimee."
The sound drizzles warmth all over my skin, sprinkling beads of happiness, relief, and so much more. Though still thin, he's wearing fresh clothes, his skin boasting a healthy glow I haven't seen on him in months.
There are deep laugh lines around his eyes, because he's smiling ear to ear, his dark eyes glinting. He looks like a different person. Almost. He hasn't cut his hair; the dark waves still brush his shoulders. I take all this in no more than a fraction of a second, because then I lose myself in Tristan's kiss, and his arms as he hugs me. I can't stop my fingers from threading through his hair, nor can I get enough of his warmth and smell. They bring familiarity drop by drop into a world that now feels foreign.
"I love you so much, Aimee," he whispers between kisses, his hands caressing me. "I was so afraid I would lose you."
"I'm all right now. I'm fine," I whisper back. I push a strand of his hair behind his ear, revelling in the feeling of having him this close, unharmed. How wonderful it is not to fear that something might happen to snatch him away from me for good. "There are no more reasons to be afraid." Chuckling, I add, "Except opening windows. I thought I’d have a heart attack when I heard the noise outside."
Tristan smiles. "Don't worry, I felt the same way the first two days. Everything seems alien. But it gets better. I'll be right next to you to make it better."
"You will?"
"Yes. Always. We'll face everything the way we faced the rainforest. Together."
Ten years later
The last rays of sun tap through the window, their reflections creating a rainbow in my champagne glass. Today is a day for celebrating. One way or another, we celebrate every day. But today is special. I arrived home earlier from work to prepare a fancy meal. If I was still a lawyer, that wouldn't have been possible. I never even thought of going back to my old job. Something Tristan told me in the rainforest stuck with me. I can help in my own way. One person at a time. At age twenty-six I ditched what could have been a brilliant career as a lawyer and enrolled at college again—this time to study psychology. A number of friends criticized my decision, but I've learned not to care. It's never too late for a fresh start. Tristan followed suit and enrolled to study medicine. It turns out we both made the right choice, feeling fulfilled with our careers.
The college years, and the ones after, resembled our time in the rainforest in one aspect. It felt like it was just the two of us, making our way in a place we didn't belong. I wish we could be together at all times, like in the forest. Whenever we are apart for more than a day, somewhere deep inside me the irrational fear that something happened to him roars to life. It's normal—I’ve learned that in my studies. It's a feeling I will never lose, but I can live with it. And when Tristan's arms envelop me, and his lips feather on mine, like they do right now, I forget about it.
"Happy tenth unofficial anniversary," he murmurs against my lips, clinking the champagne glass he’s holding against mine. I admire my husband's beauty before answering. His black hair is now peppered with two white streaks I adore. His dark eyes haven't lost any of their glint.
"It's the official one for me." We had an official wedding a month after our return from the rainforest. We had gold wedding rings and everything. But each year, we celebrate our anniversary on the day we exchanged the thread rings in the forest. Today is our tenth. Every year on this day we take out the glass box where we keep those thread rings. The box is our little glass bubble, preserving the purity of the forest and the strength of our love.
The thread rings have been eroded by the years; they're fragile. We never remove them from the box, afraid we might damage them. We just look at them and clink champagne glasses over the box. We save wearing them for an unknown special occasion. Neither of us knows when that occasion will be, but we are certain we'll recognize it when it arrives. The tattoos we made in the forest faded over the years, but they are still readable. We thought about getting them re-done, this time in an actual tattoo parlor, but decided against it. It just wouldn't feel the same.
"Mom, Mom." The voice resounds from the little garden outside our house. It belongs to a five-year-old girl with Tristan's black hair and my green eyes. I glance at her through the open door of the kitchen. She's running from the entrance gate on the patio, taking both steps leading to our porch in one jump. When she arrives in the kitchen, she's out of breath, clutching a rectangular box wrapped in brown paper against her chest.
"Look what the mailman brought," she says proudly. "From Uncle Chris."
"How do you know it's from him?" Tristan asks, feigning suspicion. He's suppressing a smile.
"It says right here." She places her tiny finger on the envelope where the name of the sender is written. "I can read all the letters of the alphabet."
"You can, huh?" Tristan takes her in his lap, tickling her until she roars with laughter. It's contagious, and all three of us end up laughing with guffaws.
"I think it's another porcelain doll," she says after we calm down, her eyes brimming with hope. “For my collection.”
"Well, what are you waiting for? Open it," I beckon. She rips the brown paper, revealing indeed, a porcelain doll.
"When will he visit us again?" she asks.
"Let's call and ask him, shall we?" Tristan says, lifting Lynda in his arms. On a whim, I rise on my toes and give him a kiss. A light one, the way we always exchange kisses when Lynda can see us. Tris
tan winks at me as he steps out to the porch with Lynda to call Chris.
It took a long time for Chris and I to connect again. I sent an email to him with all my thoughts and apologies the day before I married Tristan. I never got an answer, but I didn't expect one. I didn't attempt to make any contact for a few years afterward. Not until I saw a picture of him in the news—he had received an award for business innovator of the year. On his arm was a beautiful, blonde woman. I thought it might be safe to write to him again. He was still in New York. We emailed back and forth for a few months and after she became his wife they visited us for the first time. I was enchanted with her, and they were both enchanted by Lynda. Gradually, I got my best friend back, Tristan gained a friend, and Lynda had someone to call Uncle. It went smoother than I expected. Smoother than many other things we had to fight for. My health, for example. Despite the doctor's best efforts (and mine during the recovery therapy), I'm left with a slight limp in my leg and a scar where I was bitten.
Some days my leg hurts, and I can do nothing more than curl up with a book. We have a library full of books. All kind of books. Novels of romance, adventures, and horror. Poems—cheerful ones and dark ones. When Lynda grows up, she can read about anything: pain and happiness, darkness and light. She must learn of everything, though as a mother, I hope she'll encounter only happiness. As for me, I don’t resent the fear and the pain I experienced in the rainforest. If I hadn't been through it all, I might not appreciate every day, every minute, the way I do.
Those terrifying months in the rainforest were, in a way, a gift. Maybe it's true what they say, that without darkness, you can never truly appreciate the light.
