After my shower I get dressed in the black lace lingerie I brought for the diver’s birthday. I think I am strong for doing this. Later I will understand I am not strong. I am turned off, a switch cutting the connection between my own wires. The diver cries on the bed, and outside a sea wind howls onto shore. I sit next to him, pretty in lace, and force him to open his birthday presents a week early. It is not the time for this, but I will leave tomorrow and I’m determined to make this night meaningful with the diver. He turns the book of emails I made for him page by page. He cries, but I do not. The part of me that feels is hiding with the frogs, or she’s trapped, or, God only knows, still caught by her hair in a tree. The diver holds my hand, but his kindness cannot reach me. I tell him not to worry about me; I’ll be fine. I tie this lie into a knot that moors me, and it will be a long time before the fibers of the rope wear thin.
THIRTEEN
My eyes are open all night. I stare at the ceiling. I stare at the wall. I lay in the dark feeling sick. I haven’t eaten, I can’t sleep, my heart is breaking, and I’m in shock. The night is long. The diver wakes up several times and puts his hands on my face, whispers for me to sleep. He tells me in his deep voice he loves me. I say I love him, too. We say it over and over. I close my eyes and open them again. The jaguar man is inside my closed eyes.
I drift through the night, time is vague, the darkness is a vacuum sucking the dust mites of my thoughts. I lay on my side facing the diver. I barely move. If I’m hot or cold I don’t notice. Hour by hour I float, puffs of wind shooing her in one direction, me in the other.
Then it’s morning. I need to go home but I don’t want to leave the diver. He says go, he’ll see me soon, don’t worry. He’ll apply again for a United States visa, it’s sure to be accepted this time. There’s no reason to deny the visa, but these are days of terrorists and closed borders, and even though he’s a gentle man of the sea, he’s still considered other. He promises to find a way to see me again, we’ll meet in a neutral country, but I need to go home.
My stomach aches as I drop things in my suitcase. Not everything, though. I leave my hat with the leather string cut off. I leave the flip-flops I was wearing. I leave incidental clothes and toiletries I’m too tired to pack. I close my suitcase and wait for the diver to return with a taxi. I ask him to please double check it’s a real taxi, get one with a driver he knows. He says don’t worry, he’ll ride with me, he has to go to work and he’ll drop me off at the airstrip on his way. This was supposed to be our day to go to his private caye, where he would fix moorings while I relaxed and swam. He’s still going to work. I don’t understand this choice. Isn’t what happened important enough to call off work?
My plane ticket says I’m leaving in eleven days. I can get a flight to Belize City from the tiny village but I don’t know if I can get a flight out of Belize City to Los Angeles today. I’d rather not be alone, but I don’t ask him to come with me. I don’t ask him for what I need. I don’t want to impose, and he didn’t offer. Plus, I don’t get the sense he’ll say yes and I can’t bear to hear no. I tell him I’ll be fine.
It’s 7:10 A.M. He puts my suitcase in the taxi and sits with me in the back. It takes three minutes to get to the airstrip, and there’s a twelve-passenger plane about to depart to the international airport in Belize City. The diver speaks in Creole to the person at the counter who rolls my suitcase across the airstrip to the plane. I pay my money for a ticket. It all happens fast. The plane is preparing to leave. I have to say goodbye to the diver. I don’t want to go. He hugs me.
I look at the clock. It’s 7:15 A.M. I have to get on the plane. I walk across the airstrip and turn to look at the diver who has turned to look at me. We both turn back our separate ways. I get on the plane. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. I haven’t slept. I’m on a little plane with three other people heading away from this place I thought would change my life for the better. It’s hot in the plane. I rest my head against the window and tell myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. I concentrate on the basics. Breathe.
The plane arrives in Belize City at 8:00 A.M. before the ticket counters open. I have to wait until 8:30 A.M. for check-in. Thirty minutes. I stare at the clock. I sit on a hard bench facing the counter and stare at the stanchions that mark short aisles. I stare at the counter. I picture the diver on a boat heading to his island. Tears collect in my eyes. Time passes in slow motion.
Finally, a woman in a uniform emerges from behind the counter and motions to me. My voice cracks that I need to get on the first plane to Los Angeles. The tears I’ve been holding back stream down my cheeks at the mention of home. I cry but all I feel is exhaustion. I wonder if she senses X. She doesn’t ask why I’m crying or if I need help, but she can change my ticket for $100. Credit card. One suitcase. Pay exit fee at the security counter. Here’s the boarding pass. The plane leaves at 3:55 P.M. It arrives in Houston at 7:30 P.M., where there’s a three-hour layover. The flight to Los Angeles lands at midnight.
I look at the clock. 8:35 A.M. Through the fog in my mind I count. Seven hours until I leave Belize. Sixteen hours until I’m home, plus the time difference, seventeen hours. I look at the clock. 8:36 A.M.
I picture the diver on a boat heading toward the caye without me. I wonder what he’s thinking. I want to hear his voice. I have enough money on an old calling card to call the diver, but his cell phone doesn’t have reception on the boat so I leave a message saying I arrived at the airport safely, I miss him, and I hope he has a beautiful day.
My responsible mind tells me to eat. I walk upstairs to the café and order the American breakfast without bacon or sausage, just two eggs and two pieces of toast, water, and orange juice. The waitress says the American breakfast comes with meat. I don’t want sausage or bacon; the thought of meat makes me queasy. I repeat I’d like the American breakfast without the meat and don’t mind if it’s still the same price. I sit alone at a small, brown, tiled table that faces the runway. The waitress yells my order across the kitchen. “No meat! No meat!” There are other people in the restaurant, but I barely see them.
I stare at the sign that advertises xocóatl, traditional hot chocolate. On the table is a drink menu in a plastic stand. Virgin fun drinks. Local brews and sodas. Fun drinks with alcohol. On the back of the menu are instructions to pray before I eat. It suggests a prayer in case I don’t know how to pray or if I don’t want to think of my own. “We give thee thanks, Almighty God, for these and all the blessings which we receive from thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.” It’s written in English and Spanish. I stare at it, words on a page.
I want a banana from the big basket, a yellow one, not brown, but the waitress won’t sell bananas, they’re for fruit shakes. Thoughts cross my mind without catching, and the bananas are forgotten. I stare out the window, tears in my eyes, until the waitress brings my food and a plastic fork and knife. I stand up, walk to the trashcan and throw away the knife.
I walk back across the café, return to my seat, and spread grape jelly on the burnt toast with a fork. I eat one bite of egg—it’s heavy, mud, muck from the earth—I eat another bite, force myself to swallow. The juice burns my throat. My stomach aches. I don’t know what time it is when I finish eating. Let’s say 8:55 A.M.
I move outside to a wooden bench, using my backpack as a pillow. The bench is hard, tears in my eyes. I watch men walk by my bench. Has he X? Has he? Has he? The man holding his son’s hand. Has he? The man in the hat? The one leaning against the rail? My mind plays this guessing game until I notice and force myself to stop.
RIDDLE. If one in six women experiences X, how many men does it take to X one in six women?
My friend. I need to call my friend. I practice in my mind telling her what happened, the words are jumbled, the words don’t make sense, I feel nauseous from exhaustion, and I want to be home. It’s 9:15 A.M., 8:15 A.M. in Los Angeles where my friend teaches summer school; the day already started, she’ll be hard to reach. I walk across the street to t
he office that sells phone cards, ten minutes for BZ$20.
Has he X?
Has he?
I walk back across the street to the pay phones and dial. It doesn’t work, no international signal. I carefully read the directions on the card and try again. It rings. Her cell phone is off, voice mail. She’s with her class and won’t turn her phone back on until this afternoon, but I can’t wait that long. I have to talk to her right now. Now. I work at the same school. I know everybody there, I know the schedule, I call the main office, tell my coworker who answers that I’m in Belize, it’s an emergency, I ask him to cover her class, tell her to take her cell phone to a place on campus where she can have a private conversation, to do this right now, I can’t wait. I have five minutes left on the calling card. I need more time. I go across the street to the office, buy another card, ten minutes for BZ$20. Cross back to the phones. It’s 9:30 A.M. I dial my friend’s number, and she answers.
What’s wrong? What’s going on?
I tell her I’m coming home. My voice is steady now. I tell her my time with the diver was fine, he’s not the problem. Yesterday a man pretending to be a cab driver drove me to the jungle and X. I tell her he had a knife. I don’t hear her reaction. I listen to myself talk as though I’m someone else, someone outside me. Everything is disconnected. I ask her if she will pick me up at the airport and take me to the hospital for treatment. I think that’s what I should do. Will she call the hospital and find out if there’s anything else, anything that I should do right now, before I get home? I took a shower, washed away the evidence but what about HIV, I want to take care of business, will she meet me at the airport, will she take tomorrow off and stay with me, I might not want to be alone. The time on the calling card is running out. Yes, yes, she’ll do everything I asked. She’ll stay with me as long as I need. I hang up the phone, take a deep breath, walk inside, and look at the clock. It’s 9:39 A.M.
I go to the restroom, stand in front of the mirror. I don’t look like I should. I should have bruises and cuts on my arms and legs and stomach and back and feet and genitals. I should be bloody and broken. There should be a knife sticking out of my stomach. My hair should be seaweed, and my teeth should be dirt. There should be gashes that will one day be scars. It’s strange there’s no injury that will scar. There’s not a mark on me. The branches and thorns didn’t scratch, the mosquitoes and sand flies didn’t bite.
How is that possible?
I splash my face with water, put my hair in a ponytail, and walk back to the wooden bench. I sit and stare at the runway. A plane is leaving or coming. It doesn’t matter; it’s not my plane. I stare at it, but nothing registers. I watch people move around the plane. Has he X? I check the clock and tell myself not to, it doesn’t help, it won’t make time go faster.
The book about the boy and the tiger is in my backpack. I take it out and read a sentence, but the words scratch my eyes. I put the book away, walk around the tiny airport, inside, outside, inside, outside, return to the office that sells phone cards, and buy another ten minutes for BZ$20 so I can call my friend again later.
I try to remember what happened, but my mind shuts down. It should hurt to remember, hurt like jagged glass pushed through my veins or lungs collapsing in salt, but I don’t feel a thing. The part of me that feels is abandoned by the sea. I left her there to deal with her pain alone. She’s probably hiding under leaves and sand, terrified of every sound, screaming for someone to help. I don’t like her and I flick her away.
I walk through the airport, move my arms and legs by habit, past the pay phones, past the wooden benches, past the café, past the ticket counter, upstairs, downstairs. It’s 9:58 A.M. Inside, outside, inside, outside. I buy a bottle of water then browse the T-shirts and shot glasses and key chains and wood carvings of jaguars in the store. It’s 10:03 A.M. I walk slowly, go through this door, past that door, back in, out, a guard watches. I nod as I walk by, he nods back, he stands near the phones, maybe he heard my conversation, maybe he saw me cry. How am I going to get through this day, how am I going to make it to 3:55 P.M.? I’m flushed, maybe I have a fever. I walk into the air-conditioned lobby and sit on a chair. I tell myself I’m okay. The worst is over. Nothing else is going to happen to me.
My mind flashes micro-thoughts. The man’s dark hair. His red bandana. I shift in the wooden chair, and my thoughts shutter. Where is he right now? Is he thinking about me? What did he do this morning? Did he wake up early or late? Did he eat tortillas and eggs for breakfast? Linger over a cup of hot coffee? Is he in the jungle or the city? Is he on the run? Does he have an image of me locked in his mind? What does he remember? The length of my hair? My blue eyes? My name? Where is the van? Where is the knife? Did he spend my money?
I close my eyes and see the snarled patch of trees and vines where pieces of me were left to take root. I see the red polish partially scraped off his left thumb. Click. I hear him lock the passenger door. My mind blurs the sharp edge of the knife. I wonder if I’m abstract parts, a broken shadow to him like he is to me. I concentrate but I can’t picture him in specifics. His face is gone, his height vanished, his weight evaporated. I can’t even recall the exact color of the van. His distinguishing features are already barred and banned behind my mind’s steel doors, the doors padlocked, chained, and guarded with snarling dogs ready to attack.
I spend the day minute by minute. Read a sentence in my book and stop.
Flash. Red polish, straw hat.
I sip on water and replace the cap.
Flash. Knife, bandana, diver, sky.
I call my friend at lunchtime, 12:05 P.M. She confirms the nurse said come straight to the hospital tonight; don’t wait until tomorrow. I hang up the phone. Sit on the bench. Nod to the guard. Has he X? Buy plantain chips and eat them slowly. Rearrange magnets and mugs in the store. Wait. Breathe. Check the clock. I put my head on my backpack and sleep for ten minutes. People walk up the ramp onto their planes, happy and rested after their vacations. People walk down the ramp and wave to family and friends. I put on a sweater when I’m inside the air conditioning and take it off when I’m outside in the heat. Drink water. Stretch legs and gently massage neck. Wait. I get used to the fog in my mind and how I can’t feel any emotion. I get used to the clock moving slowly. I get used to the guard who watches me. I get used to the idea that this same backpack was with me yesterday in the van.
Finally, finally I board my plane. When I arrive in Houston, I exit the plane, follow the lines, follow the rules of customs, show my passport, thank the customs officer who welcomes me back, collect my suitcase at carousel twelve, hand in my declaration form, and drop the suitcase off at the conveyor belt for connecting flights. I take the escalator upstairs, follow the line through the maze for the security check, take off my shoes, remove my sweater, keep moving, follow the line, put shoes back on, wrap sweater around my waist, check for the correct gate, step on the moving sidewalk, go to the other end of the terminal, keep moving, follow the signs, stop in the bathroom, look in the mirror and pale tired tears well up in my eyes but I hold them back. I arrive at the gate then wait, two hours until I board the flight and four hours in the air to Los Angeles. I’m almost home.
My friend is at the airport in Los Angeles. I smile. She inhales relief. She spent the day imagining I was beaten and bruised, but I’m unmarked. She gives me a big hug, and I tell her a trivial story about the plane. I offer to pay for parking and ask her about her day, but, no, she’s not going to talk. She needs to hear what happened.
I tell her the details of the jaguar man as she drives east on the 105 freeway, which takes us to the 110 North, then the 101 North to the exit nearest my house so I can wash my face, brush my teeth, and get my HMO card before I go to the hospital. I highlight the good parts of X: how I didn’t get stabbed, how my mind was clear, how I responded with compassion, how compassion seemed appropriate, how I think compassion saved my life, how I prayed and two lights appeared out of the sea just in time, a bus with no sound
and no form. I’m not even sure it was a bus, now that I think of it, how could it be a bus? The compassion and the lights and the man with the knife didn’t confuse me until now.
I notice faint screams from the part of me still in Belize, the part wildly trying to escape the thin stretch of beach I left her on, but I tune her out, don’t mention her to my friend. Instead, I focus on describing how I got away unharmed.
The emergency room is full but not crowded. I tell the nurse about X and after I settle the $35 copayment with my remaining traveler’s cheque, she escorts me quickly to the examining room. I tell her I took a shower and I know I ruined the evidence, but I’m worried about HIV and other STDs. A male doctor comes in, the female nurse stays, and my friend stays.
I put my feet in the stirrups, legs spread apart, knees fall to both sides. The examining room is cold, and the metal speculum he uses to examine my vaginal canal is cold, but my body has not registered pain since the moment the jaguar man pointed his knife into my skin, so I don’t feel any physical sensations other than cold when he inserts the long nose of the speculum or widens it to check the vaginal walls and swab my cervix. No internal injuries. No external injuries. No visible signs of violence.
The doctor and nurse move aside to have a hushed conversation. When they return, we decide not to call the police because X occurred in another country. The doctor and nurse both scurry around the emergency room trying to find an informative brochure of helpful agencies. The doctor flips through the hefty Yellow Pages phone book but doesn’t find a number he thinks could be useful. My friend looks at me and rolls her eyes. I wonder why they’re not trained in available resources.
I don’t know it yet, but this is just the beginning of a frustrating experience with a dysfunctional social service network. They suggest I call my primary care physician in the morning for follow up tests and referrals. The nurse prepares samples and draws blood for base tests that will indicate if I already have gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, hepatitis A or B, or HIV. I know I’m clean; I’m not worried about these results. I’m worried about the results in three months. The nurse asks questions about X in order to determine if she should administer a highly toxic HIV cocktail as preventive medicine. She decides not to. It’s rare to contract the virus that way, extremely remote, because there was no exchange of blood. I repeat back to her: extremely remote. She gives me large doses of antibiotics for gonorrhea, syphilis, and chlamydia, a vaccination against hepatitis B, and emergency contraception.
The Jaguar Man Page 7
