Maldeamores (Lovesick) (Heightsbound #0.5)

by Mara White

  If I’m in shock, then it’s lasting longer than I expected. If I’m in denial, it’s a great coping mechanism, because I barely feel anything. No nerves, some apprehension, maybe anger under the surface. I’m not in touch with the pain yet. Maybe my body knows it couldn’t handle it. Whatever it is that’s sheltering me, I’m so grateful for it. I’m in some kind of cocoon and everything has been suspended. I rest my chin on my hand as I stare out at the night sky. The stars are brilliant and plentiful, not at all like the sky we grew up under in Manhattan.

  Lucky

  I made it through the night, because the sun is making its appearance. It didn’t fuck me up enough yesterday so it’s back with a vengeance.

  I can move my arm so I reach for my canteen. I get water to my mouth and even though I know I shouldn’t prolong it, I can’t stop instinct—my thirst at this point is way stronger than me. I pull the rock down to my face. It’s my touchstone, my weapon, a precious jewel in the desert—it’s the last fucking thing I’ll touch before I go meet my maker.

  I jerk my hand down and use my chest to help pry open my own dirty fingers. I look at it and moan out loud. It’s a goddamned piece of beach glass. I groan and curse and blow air through my lips. What a fucking cruel joke. I can’t even take it.

  “Belén!” I scream out her name. Fucking screaming it into the wind and totally in vain. Screaming into nothing and using up my last breath to do it.

  A picture show runs through my head. Belén in the kitchen. The sound of her laugh. Skinned knee on the playground, crying, calling my name and limping. Sharing treats, licking our fingers. Sharing secrets, whispering in each other’s ears. The sound of her breath, the smell of her hair. The curve of her hip right before it meets her ass. The feel of her lips opening up to my tongue. The taste of her kiss. The sweet, intoxicating drug that her love was.

  I think I scream her name a lot, until my throat runs dry. It hurts to open my eyes because of the sand and because there’s not a drop of water left in my body. If there was, I’d use it to cry tears for Belén.

  I lose consciousness, but I don’t let go of my desert rock.

  Belén

  They tell me it’s unorthodox. They tell me I have to wait for the VP. They make me sign ten pounds of paperwork and get a hospital-issued picture ID.

  I have to wait for a special military command official who takes me into a room and explains that the soldiers were badly burned and that many visual IDs weren’t possible. I sign all the waivers, including a non-disclosure and confidentiality agreement.

  It takes nearly all day to prove my next-of-kin status, maybe the only moment in my life that I’m thrilled to be related, flesh and blood, to my cousin.

  “Right this way, ma’am,” says a nurse with a slight German accent. A lot of the staff is local, but even more it seems are Americans.

  I follow her down a long hall. I hear every single footstep.

  “Is it a morgue?”

  “It’s more like an examination table that they use to match records for identification.”

  “Are they recognizable?”

  “Some of them. Your cousin is, otherwise they wouldn’t have granted your clearance.”

  Everything looks blurry as she guides me into a bright room. There are numerous bodies in here and various personnel at work. Everyone goes silent as I enter.

  “Ms. Heredia is here to identify a next-of-kin.”

  A man in a lab coat wearing wire-rimmed glasses nods his head and he points at a cadaver. The body is covered with a sheet.

  The nurse nods. The paper at the base of the table reads: “Cabrera.”

  He pulls the sheet back and I think in that moment the blossoming happens, the one my mom told me about. Because my chest opens up. I feel all sorts of miraculous changes taking place on a cellular level. All of the times Lucky ever touched me affect my body simultaneously, like the sound of individual instruments merging together in symphony, like converging voices rising into a harmonic chorus. I hear his laugh, I see his smile almost like I can reach out and touch it. I see the beauty in his face when he was breaking inside for me—when our love completely undid him and brought him to his knees. I can taste that love and it tastes only of purity. The sunlight is shining on his skin, lighting up his hair, I feel the softness of his kiss, the all-encompassing warmth of the true love we shared. Maybe Lucky is gone, maybe what I’m feeling is an angel, but even if he isn’t here with me, I know that no matter what happens it will be okay.

  Luciano takes up all of my heart and is forever a part of me.

  “It’s not him,” I say definitively. I am sorry that it’s someone else. I’m sorry that anyone lost their life and I know that all of these men probably meant so much to my cousin.

  “Show her the other three, there could have been an accidental switch.”

  “It’s not him,” I say three times in a row.

  I believe in miracles and I believe in true love.

  “Thank you, Ms. Heredia. He could be among any one of the others; the problem is that those bodies are in advanced stages of decomposition or else completely unrecognizable. We’re working by process of elimination. Your work gave us a jump, but I’m afraid that does not mean, by any stretch, that your cousin isn’t one of the deceased here. He was confirmed with the battalion.”

  I nod my head.

  “Thank you all for allowing me to look.” I say a prayer for these men and the people who love them.

  I walk out of the hospital in a dream state. I don’t know how I was so sure that Lucky wasn’t among them. Somehow I knew, deep down in my heart. His body still speaks to mine even when we’re thousands of miles, maybe even worlds apart.

  Lucky

  There’s a half-dozen of them at most. They speak Arabic—which I don’t. They’ve got uniforms on and that isn’t the norm for insurgents in these parts.

  They open a canteen and hold it to my lips. I can’t make my mouth work, I can’t speak. One of them holds my head up and I think how fucked up it is that they want to hydrate me before they slit my throat. They lay me out on a stretcher and put me in the back of a light utility truck, the kind that are usually used for transporting soldiers. No idea how they drive that thing across the desert.

  There are four guys sitting in the back, two on each side of me. I’m completely defenseless. I wish they’d hurry up and kill me. I don’t want to get tortured or become part of some sick scare-tactic video. I’ve got no option now but to die on my own account.

  Chapter 23

  Belén

  There is nothing worse than returning home without Lucky. It’s not really home without him. Just Mami, me and Titi, but we’ve lost our bright light, the one that would guide us.

  We hear from the military from time to time. How the remains could have been overlooked due to accelerated atomization. Meaning there wasn’t enough of Lucky left to even leave a dust footprint. That once the area stabilizes they will return to the site and collect DNA samples.

  I’m the only one who won’t give up hope. Mami says I’m being delusional. She tries to keep me from ever talking to Titi about it because she thinks I’ll hurt her more with my “inability to let go and accept what has happened.” I don’t want to give anyone false hope, or believe things that aren’t true. Titi takes off for a long break in the Dominican Republic. She can’t stand the apartment anymore, she can’t stand the neighborhood. Everything she sees reminds her of him. She doesn’t even want to look at me because she knows how much I loved him.

  It’s not like I don’t mourn—that’s really all I do. My life has lost all of its color, and even though a little piece of me hangs onto some hope, the chances are one in a million that Lucky will turn up alive—let alone ever make it home for a burial.

  I pick up a research job at the hospital. It’s not my dre
am job, but it pays well, and I’m back in the lab where I feel comfortable. I’m back in the old neighborhood. I’m even back in my old bedroom.

  “Dump this,” Mami says one night as I’m walking in from work. She’s holding my love spell out to me as if it were an evil curse.

  “Why does it matter if he’s gone?” She’s got a little altar to Lucky in the living room with pictures and candles. I don’t really see the difference.

  “It’s bad luck, is what it is. It keeps you from moving on.”

  I’m hesitant to throw it out. I wonder if the sickness will return and ruin what little is left of me.

  I take the honey jar from her and walk back down all the stairs in the building. Lifting the lid of the trashcan, I toss it on top of the garbage. The honey has darkened into a thick amber, I can no longer see the bottom. I wonder if it still tastes good; if it’s held on to its sweetness.

  I don’t cry all that much. I have a lot more control than I ever imagined possible. My mourning is soft, like a slow-weeping wound that is always infected. Some things hit me hard, like places we went as children. But those places also comfort me the most and I often find myself drawn to them.

  Like today in the playground where we hung out when we were small. Where Luciano always included me and protected me from other kids. I remember that day when I watched him through the sprinkler—he was elusive even then, my infuriatingly stringent, yet generous lover.

  I walk through the park and sit on a swing. There aren’t many kids playing—it’s too close to dinner. The drug dealers are out and I see them showing off to each other, always trying to vie for who’s the most macho. I’m glad Luciano got out, even if he paid the greatest price. He wouldn’t have been happy in that role and I believe he would never have been able to get off the drugs.

  One of the guys parts from the crowd. He shoves his hands in his pockets and strides toward me, looking down at the ground.

  It’s Jaylee. The man I strangely lost my virginity to and haven’t spoken with since. He is a stunning man, even if his ambition is questionable. He was a good friend to Lucky. I love him for that. It seems like I should feel embarrassed or at least awkward about seeing him. But all I feel is peace and a churning ocean of nostalgia.

  “Hey, Belén, how you doing?” he says, kicking up some pebbles. He sits on the swing next to me and jams his hands in his pockets.

  “I’m okay, Jaylee. I’m guessing you know already?”

  “Yeah. Sucks. He was one of the best. Those are always the ones who go.”

  “It’s hard to believe. It wasn’t that long ago that we were all playing here.”

  “He loved you. I know that you know that already. But I still gotta say it. What made him so strong was how hard he would fight it. Spent his whole fucking life fighting against what his body was saying—what he felt in his heart. It was hard to hear him talk about it.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke about it.”

  “He talked about it a lot. It takes a strong man to do that, battle against love when it’s all that you want. But he was a fucking champion. A real one. Lucky.”

  I push back with my feet and let go so that the swing moves. Jaylee looks different. Somber, even. Not the lighthearted joker I remember. He looks like he’s been through the wringer.

  “I learned something from him, man. That you fucking know when it’s real love and you don’t get to choose when, or with who it happens. You got to hold onto it, because life is too short.”

  “Are you in love, Jaylee?” I ask him as I pump my legs gently. This is his predicament. He is fighting against love now just like Lucky did his whole life.

  “First time,” he says and thumps his fist against his heart. “Wrong fucking person, who makes everything feel right. You get how that goes, Bey, huh?”

  “I hope it works out. I really mean that, Jaylee. I wish you the best,” I say as I hop off the swing.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that night. Feel like I should say something. I don’t know how he sat through that. That’s what I mean when I talk about the fight in him.”

  “I wouldn’t change a thing. He was showing me what kind of man he was.”

  Jaylee nods his head and goes silent.

  “I’ll see you around, Jaylee. Take care of yourself.”

  I leave the playground and wander back toward the apartment. There wasn’t anything we could have done differently. Lucky and I were always destined for difficulty. I remind myself that everything happens for a reason.

  Lucky

  I wake up in a hospital, IV in my arm. I’m cloudy as fuck and nobody speaks any English. I ask them questions and they nod their heads. Now I know how Tía Betty and my ma felt when they were fresh off the boat in the States. I try to focus on the writing around me, but I’m at a loss. They sure as hell aren’t speaking French and I know I ain’t in Germany. I try to remember who makes up the allied forces, but my brain just isn’t working right.

  I think I’m sedated. I still can’t move my body. If they’re planning on killing me this is a round-about way to do it. Maybe they want to get me looking healthy for the cameras so whoever watches the video can’t say, “He probably would have died regardless.” Maybe I’m in Egypt. Maybe I’ve been taken by the Saudis.

  I think a lot of time passes. I wake to an older gentleman standing over me, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose. He’s staring at a clipboard, pencil behind his ear, wearing a stethoscope.

  “Doctor?” I ask. I feel frantic. If somebody doesn’t tell me where I am or what happened, I’m going to break mentally. Forget about my body, it’s all over when your mind goes.

  “Yes,” he says, lowering the board and smiling at me.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Thank fuck! Where the hell are we?”

  “No one told you?” His accent sounds British; his forehead is wrinkled in concern.

  I get the creepy feeling that he’s about to say, “I’m God and you’re in Heaven.” Or maybe he’ll say hell, but he doesn’t look like the devil.

  “You’re in Amman, at the Queen Alia Military Hospital. You were found by our Special Forces Brigade. They brought you here for treatment.”

  “I’m in Jordan? Holy shit. I can’t believe they found me out there. Were they looking or they just stumbled across me?”

  “I don’t know all the details. I think it was accidental. I’d say you were very fortunate.”

  “How come I can’t move? What the hell is wrong with me?”

  “You’ve suffered a traumatic brain injury. It can take a while to come out of it. A full MRI should tell us if there’s been any extensive nerve damage. They’ll move you soon. It took us a while to get you to this point. Your army will come get you when it’s suitable. ”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A month, give or take few days.”

  “Christ, does my family know?”

  “We didn’t have an ID on you when they brought you in. To be honest, no one was rushing because we didn’t think you would make it. You were in an induced coma for swelling and bleeding. We brought you back as gently as possible. When you’re ready, someone will take down all of your information.”

  “Can I call them? My family, I mean.”

  “I’ll see if I can get clearance so you can do that today.”

  I can move my arms. I wiggle my toes. I never did lose the movement in my toes. I remember the beach glass and staring up at the universe. I wonder if it was real, if anything was.

  “I found a piece of beach glass in the desert,” I say, sounding crazy to myself.

  “You mean this?” the doctor responds and leans in to open the small drawer in the nightstand. He produces the transparent rock and holds it up to the light. “You had this in your hand when they picked you up. You held onto it all thr
ough the first few nights.”

  “What is it?”

  “They call it desert glass. It is rare indeed, however, not impossible.”

  “What the hell is desert glass? Where does it come from?” I ask, trying to lift my head.

  “It comes from Libya, most likely, dates back almost thirty million years. The origin is from a massive impact. Either a meteorite, or possibly even lightning. Something very spectacular. No one knows for sure, but those are the theories.”

  “No shit?”

  “The sand wears down the rough edges and polishes it with the passage of time, just like the ocean does to glass. They turn up every now and again throughout the Arabian Desert.”

  “I thought it was God talking to me. Like the universe was trying to tell me something.”

  “Perhaps it was. You’ve done so much better than we expected,” he says, pushing his thick glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Is it worth something?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m asking. I’ll hang onto that thing for the rest of my life, I know that much.

  “Perhaps, to museums, maybe collectors. I’d say it was worth whatever the universe told you when you found it.”

  “Belén.”

  “Ah, yes. I see your point. It could have been. The light that led them to Bethlehem. I am not a Christian, but I was educated at Oxford. I, too, prefer the scientific theory, that it was a meteorite or comet that they saw rather than a holy apparition. Your desert glass could have come from there—the light that they say hovered over Bethlehem.”

  I have lightning running through my body. I can feel all of it, like sensation has returned and I’m no longer hanging over the edge of the abyss. Maybe my body isn’t paralyzed. Maybe I’m not dead after all.