by Audrey Braun
I force my arms and neck into a stretch, though neither gives much. I drink water and think in a thickheaded, nonsensical way of how so many years of my life have passed and yet very few memories can be retrieved. How have I filled the hours? I don’t know. How you fill your days is how you live your life goes the adage.
Coming here has changed everything. If I live through this I’ll always be able to recount nearly every second of what’s happened since I got off the plane. Much like my days with Seth. For all the years I had stopped thinking about our time together, I can still reach in and pull up moments, days as clear and easy as plucking shiny apples from a bowl. I can recall the smell of his dish soap (lemon), the color of his bath mat (aqua marine), and dozens of conversations we had about life, about books—I would not, could not, become a fan of Vonnegut, I told him, which sounded so much like Dr. Seuss that he replied—Would you, could you, on a train? I recall the timbre of his voice, the soft lilt of his accent, especially when close to my ear. I recall the first time I heard him say, “Dude’s paralytic” (drunk) as he looked down from his kitchen window at a man on the sidewalk doing a slow search for his balance between the street sign and the bike rack. I recall a particular shirt Seth wore (coffee-colored, short-sleeved with bone-white buttons) in the bookstore on a day when he told a group of twelve-year-old boys to quit acting the maggot (fooling around), and I could recall, too, that it was raining outside, a light Portland mist, the daylight already vanished by four o’clock in the afternoon when Seth smiled his lopsided smile near the paperback stand as he turned to put another log on the fire. Ironically, I could recall the many times he’d said, “Your only man,” as in the thing one can most rely on, the thing most appropriate to one’s need. “If you want to get around town, a bike’s your only man,” he’d said, unloading his panniers of the chocolate chip cookies he gave away on a white saucer near the register. “If you’re looking for melancholy,” he’d told me, rolling a mint inside his cheek as he rested in the faded purple armchair near the Mystery aisle, “then What We Talk about When We Talk about Love is your only man.”
“I love you,” he’d said, breathless in my ear.
Goose bumps rise on my skin as if I’m hearing it still.
The woman who took over the old house that used to be Reilly’s Books—where wedding cakes now bake on one side and wedding dresses are sold on the other—told me that Seth married a woman named Julia in Minneapolis, where they had two daughters and together opened another Reilly’s Books. Reilly’s II. I recall the exact moment I heard this, the crisp sunny morning, the dry sidewalk, the cold feeling in my chest as I wandered away.
By contrast, my years with Jonathon have been like one long predictable day of breakfast (cereal and yogurt and one-and-a-half cups of coffee), followed by work (mine—primal, sultry, hot, moist. His—well, who knew a thing about that?) followed by dinner (pasta or chicken, a burger every now and again) followed by the weekend when the lawn needs mowing (summer) or the gutters need cleaning (fall), and then maybe there’s something good on TV.
And yet, I can’t forget the months after my mother died when Jonathon couldn’t have been more caring, more sympathetic to my constant tears and distraction. And the way he cried the moment he laid eyes on Oliver. He used to race me to the crib when Oliver woke, never hesitating to change a diaper or give him his bath. When Oliver was four, he had a series of imaginary friends, including a white dog named Poopsie. Oliver had insisted that Jonathon put him in the back of the car when he drove him to preschool. Once there, Jonathon had to open the hatchback, take the dog out, and leave him tied up outside the door where he waited all morning for Oliver. When Jonathon arrived at noon he had to untie Poopsie and let him back into the car. The pediatrician had told us that imaginary friends were a sign of intelligence and imagination, and Jonathon was happy to play along. When he once forgot to put Poopsie in the car, he didn’t hesitate to turn the car around in the midst of Oliver’s screams and kicks against the back of the seat, and return to the preschool, jump out, untie the invisible dog, open the hatchback, and coax him in. The dog needed convincing, Oliver had told Jonathon in so many words, because he was sad and mad that they’d left him behind.
I had stood in the kitchen while Jonathon told me this story, my eyes welling with tears of love and gratitude. In that moment I was so thankful I’d cut things off with Seth. I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.
“I love you,” Jonathon had said the night before we left for Mexico, and I’m beginning to think, even now, even after knowing what I know of Benny and Isabel, even when it doesn’t make a bit of sense, that some part of him actually meant it.
Above me, long-legged monkeys croak and bark in the trees as if signaling one another that I’m still there on the ground. The jungle is beginning to take on new sounds as if preparing for nightfall. Clicking, squawking, and every now and then a long, haunting squall like a peacock. Benicio never mentioned peacocks.
The wait drags on as the heat blossoms. How much longer can I stay awake? I’m worn to the point of delirium. How much codeine is too much? I’ve taken plenty, and it seems to be toying with my mind and my emotions. I’m high, though not so high that I’m unaware of it. Still, with every passing minute it becomes easier to convince myself that Benicio has no intention of coming back. He’s kind enough to care what happens to me but realistic enough to think of me as the thing I truly am. Dead weight. A thorn in his side. An albatross around his neck. Too many adages to count. I’m all those and a murderer, too.
I flip the phone open and check for coverage. None. The battery is dangerously low. I turn it off. I need to get out of here and call Oliver. Maybe even Jonathon. What would he say to me? I love you? It sounded like the truth. Doubt creeps like vines, twisting, strangling the thoughts I want to have, giving voice to the ones I try pushing away. What if he’s actually a victim in all of this just like me? What if Benny is the result of a one-night stand? A mistake he was trying to fix. I should have run back to the condo first thing. He’s probably pacing the floor with Oliver, the two of them worried sick, police searching for me everywhere. For all I know the State Department is involved. The cable news networks have been running my story for days. People all over the world are going to let out a sigh of relief when I stumble out of the jungle alive. It’ll be the miracle they’re all praying for. Why have I so easily put my trust in Benicio?
“Once we get into town we’ll get a room at a villa called Casa Romero on the edge of Mismaloya,” Benicio had said just before he left. “You’ll be wearing Isabel’s jeans to cover your leg, I’ll wear sunglasses and a hat. We pay cash upfront. Believe me, they won’t ask any questions.”
“I hear hiding in plain sight didn’t work out so well.” The words had slipped through my lips before I could stop them.
“Live and learn,” he said, and jetted across to the water’s edge where he tied a large white garbage bag with a red tie onto a branch sticking out across the water. It’s still there, flopping in the breeze, signaling him that I’m waiting.
Before he ran off he knelt down close and said, “You’ll be fine. But just in case, I mean, it’s not going to happen, but if we somehow get separated…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the lump of cash he’d taken from the drawer. The hundred dollar bills. He handed me what looked like half. Then he told me he’d take care of everything. “I’ll be back,” he said, in a way that mocked the mocking of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I had smiled but nothing seemed funny. By the time he was walking away, even as he turned and waved, my mind was already filling with the possibility that he had no intention of ever seeing me again.
If I have a shred of sense I’ll get up right now and follow the river back down the way I came. But I’m high on painkillers. Is this really the time to be making that kind of decision?
Yes. Maybe. Doing something seems better than doing nothing. I stand, light-headed in the heat, dizzy in my codeine haze. White sparkles at the corners of
my eyes take a moment to clear. I hobble back to the river and soak my leg in the space Benicio fixed for me. Small lizards dart in and out of the large rocks on the bank. I close my eyes and listen to the rushing water, feeling the jungle as if it’s a living, breathing thing, something that could choose to leave me alone or eat me alive.
My eyes are still closed when I feel the prickly sensation of being watched. At first I refuse to give into it. But the tingling grows into a burn. Where’s my gun? In my daze I left both guns by the tree.
My eyes spring open to find a four-foot iguana staring at me from a rock a few feet away.
I yank my leg from the water and scoot sideways into the dirt. It’s like staring into the face of a dinosaur. Scales and spikes, long, ancient-looking claws. The creature flicks his tongue as if tasting me on the air. Is this one of the poisonous iguanas Benicio told me about? After all this I’m going to be eaten alive.
I’m too vulnerable down on the ground like that. I look for a stick, anything to hold in my hand, but there’s nothing but dirt and boulders the size of chairs. He flicks his tongue, takes a step forward, and then freezes.
Am I supposed to make myself look large the way one does with cougars and bears? Or stay small and nonthreatening? I rise, slowly, preparing to run. I step backwards to see what it will do. Nothing happens. I step once, then again, taming the jerky movements caused by codeine, fear, and pain.
I can’t even stand the sight of a spider on the ceiling. A raccoon once burrowed its way into the attic and I nearly jumped out of my skin when it scratched the insulation.
“Nice iguana,” I whisper, now slightly farther away. “Good boy.”
I continue to slog backward, the iguana to the right of me, a dead man’s grave to the left. I finally reach the safety of the tree, and it appears that the creature has no other intention than to sun itself on a rock.
I sit down near my gun and let go of the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I remove the sloppy bandage on my leg and without hesitating pour the rubbing alcohol onto the wound. It sizzles like white fish on a grill. The pain is losing its hold on me. I think again of giving birth to Oliver, how badly it hurt, the shock causing me to scream with every contraction, and yet by the end when it should have been worse, when I was so exhausted I could no longer speak, I’d come to accept it for what it was. Another wave of pain, another push, and it would soon be over.
One way or another, this will soon be over, too. I rewrap the wound, using the last of the gauze. I tie the final knot, and that’s when I look up to see the iguana hissing in my face.
I knock the safety off the gun, cock the hammer, and pull the trigger.
The next thing I know it’s raining sticky rags of green and red and brown. Chunks land in my hair and on my face, across my arms and legs. A smell quickly follows, vinegary, sickening. I have no idea if it’s coming from the strewn iguana or the bad taste in the back of my throat.
I scream. Loud and for as long as I can. When I run out of air, I do it again. Scream until my lungs burn. I pass over into a place without reason. I don’t care about my leg. I don’t care about the gunshot ringing in the jungle. I don’t care if someone hears it and comes to find me. I don’t give a goddamn if Benicio hears the gun, hears my screams, and thinks someone shot me. I’m getting the hell out of this jungle before I pull the trigger on myself.
19
I can’t remember the last time I felt this kind of fatigue. There’s a physical weight to it, a cloak made of iron around my shoulders, and I can’t shake it off. Still, I trudge down the path along the river, eyelids bobbing, my mind caught in a state between slumber and daydream. My feet continue to move as though I’m on a death march. Move or be shot.
It isn’t until I’m well underway that I remember Benicio has my passport in his pocket. I stop in my tracks. My eyes fling open. This is turning out to be a big mistake. I haven’t quite thought the whole thing through, and now I’m already too far down the mountain to turn around and find our spot before dark, if I can find it at all.
It took us nearly two hours, maybe a little more, to reach the place where we stopped. That’s going uphill, which is harder, especially with my leg. Going downhill should take no more than an hour. That’s the good news. The bad news is it’ll be dark by the time I reach the house on a desolate road, and I have no idea which way to go from there. How am I supposed to get past the house and down the rest of the mountain without being seen? How far down the mountain is it past the house before I reach the city? It’s looking increasingly like I’ll spend the night in the jungle after all.
I keep to the river, hoping to find the path to Mismaloya. My neck is sore from turning to search for Benicio. I can’t rid myself of the foul smell from the iguana. I’d jumped in the river and rinsed the creature’s flesh from my skin and hair, and then changed into Isabel’s jeans and shirt, and yet the odor persists. It coats the lining of my nose. I can feel pieces of iguana in my hair, but when I reach up I can’t find them in the mass of tangles.
I keep on. By dusk I hear the echoes of civilization. A car horn, siren, the rumble of a large truck. Tinny, distant, perhaps miles away.
Wait by the river just after dusk, Benicio said. If he’s coming, it will be any time now.
I rest with my back to a tree, staring at the hypnotic flow of the river, its breeze a welcome relief from the heat. Exhaustion wrestles me to the ground. My eyes sting with salt and fatigue. I close them for a second, allowing myself to float beneath Benicio’s hands. Just a second. Just one more second of this.
I wake to blindness. So complete is the dark. A chorus of crickets, cicadas, and frogs pierce the night. More insects have feasted on my skin. I fight against a knot in my neck. Whatever time it is, dusk has long since come and gone.
A rustling through the trees behind me. Voices. This is what woke me. Then movement caught by a light. I feel around the ground for the gun. I click the safety off and hold it near my face. A flash of white in a cluster of leaves. A woman’s face? It’s gone before I can see.
Twigs snap. A weak moon slides from behind a cloud. In the dim light it’s impossible to see through the thicket of trees. Then comes the light again, a giant flashlight bringing a man and woman into focus as they work their way through brush. Beams of light swing like spotlights through the dark. They plod slowly, examining the ground. I can see now that they’re dressed like ancient explorers in khaki pants and vests. What are they looking for? No more than fifty feet away. A woman with a blonde ponytail. A man who doesn’t appear to have much, if any hair at all. They speak in whispers. Spanish? English?
I hold my breath and drive all my energy into my ears. The couple is headed straight for me.
The woman tilts her head back and laughs at something the man says. They seem so normal. The light swings across their white socks and hiking boots. Backpacks, thick wristwatches. The woman has what looks like a phone clipped to her belt. She can call someone. This might be my only chance.
Then the man stops, and the woman’s flashlight glints off something on his belt. A gun?
My pulse races.
The couple appears completely unaware of my presence. They edge their way along the path, combing the ground with their flashlights. I draw my body in, making myself smaller near the bottom of the tree where the trunk widens out.
The woman stops abruptly and points to the ground. The man leans over to inspect something while the woman scans the dark with her light, a hand on her hip. They crouch toward something, nodding, whispering.
I pray them into being some kind of scientists in search of rare, nocturnal animals. But I know. Blood pounds my ears. I know what it is they’ve found.
Their beams of light come to a point on the bloody gauze in the man’s hand. The piece Benicio half-buried with his shoe.
Their heads shoot up and turn side to side, clearly searching for the owner of that gauze. The woman takes several steps with a hand on her phone. The man with his hand on what I
now know for certain is a gun.
“Celia?” the woman calls out. “Where are you?” They’re Americans.
“Celia!” the man echoes. “Say something if you can hear us!”
My heart pounds blood into the sore spot I hit when I fainted. I can’t afford to make the wrong decision. What if they’re here to help? What if the police have already arrested everyone at the house and a search team has been sent to find me?
I picture Jonathon at the kitchen table with his laptop. The smile, the frown. Truth. Lies. I don’t even know who my own husband is, let alone perfect strangers. I think of Benicio taking off with my passport. Was that an oversight? How could he think to give me money and a phone but not my passport? My judgment is rubbery. I try but can’t seem to grasp it.
They call to me repeatedly. Zippers open on their backpacks. They’re just far enough away that all I can hear are the undertones of conversation.
“Celia! Can you hear us?” the woman yells.
I remain huddled behind the tree. I don’t dare make a move. I’m being held captive all over again, and it takes everything I have to keep my wits about me, to not jump up and scream and shoot and run. Wait, wait, wait becomes my mantra. My whole body is shaking again. The sting and itch of insect bites intensifies.
Backpacks rustle, a flurry of words exchange, but I still can’t make out what’s said. I may have damaged my hearing when the gun went off near my ear.
