Blue Sun, Yellow Sky

by Hoang, Jamie

  “Thanks,” I said, genuinely touched. I didn’t need his approval, but the authority in his words was encouraging and I was grateful for the positive reinforcement. “I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for too.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Fear

  GETTING from Cuzco to Rio de Janeiro took an entire day because we had a layover in Lima as well as São Paulo, but I didn’t mind. Anything to postpone the eventual plane ride home was fine with me.

  On the three-hour layover in Lima we scarfed down Bembos’s Peruvian-style burgers, loaded with a fried egg, plantains, and white onions, while scrolling through the 1000+ photos from Jeff’s camera as he imported them onto his laptop.

  “Oh, that one was my favorite!” I exclaimed at the sight of my red, prickly flower.

  “I stuck a leaf in it thinking the flower would devour it,” Jeff said.

  “And?”

  “It didn’t,” he replied.

  “Why would you expect it to?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” he countered. He had a point.

  “Why do you have so many of this one?” I asked, stopping at a red trumpet-looking flower.

  “Did you not listen to anything Cayo said? That’s the national flower, a kantu.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did not,” I replied. “I was a little distracted by my altitude sickness.” Jeff looked at me with concern. “I’m going to be fine. You have like a million photos—are they all for your app?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It’ll probably take another six weeks to sort through them, but I’ll definitely show you it when it’s done…” he said, letting his words trail off. By the time he sorted them, I wouldn’t be able to see anymore. I didn’t say anything.

  I spent the short plane ride to São Paulo flipping through moments that seemed both recent and distant at the same time. We’d only been traveling for a little over five weeks, but the Great Wall and the night market in China seemed like ages ago. My peripherals had definitely been impacted, but not nearly to the extent I had thought they would, given Dr. Rostin’s estimated timeline. Things were blurry in the corners of my eyes, but my depth of field and central vision were not significantly impaired yet. I was grateful for Retinitis Pigmentosa’s unexpectedly slow progression but resentful about the hope it gave me for a miracle recovery.

  In São Paulo, Jeff and I had a seven-hour layover. We ate dinner and quickly ran out of souvenir shops and duty free stores to entertain us, so we rented a computer station to help pass the time and reconnect with the outside world. There was only one available so I stood next to him as he checked his e-mails, and my heart nearly skipped a beat when I saw an unopened message with a cryptic “Hey there ;)” subject line.

  I shouldn’t have been looking but a couple of words caught my eye: “Italian Spaghetti”…“great to see you”…“back in America”. My mind was reeling and I told myself to look away but I couldn’t.

  The e-mail was signed:

  Ciao bello,

  Veronica

  He closed it without replying and said, “All yours. I’m going to get something to read, you want anything?”

  “No, I’m good,” I said, knowing I’d have enough to think about without any extra reading material. Pushing the many questions I knew he wouldn’t answer out of my mind, I told myself I needed to focus on me. I had no control over his feelings but I did have control over my life, and I needed to steer the wheel back onto the main road.

  Checking my own e-mails, I found one from Michael. He was ecstatic about receiving the first three paintings I had shipped to the gallery. I sent them back as I finished them because I didn’t want to risk ruining or losing any, yet somehow they all arrived at the same time. I braced myself for Michael’s favorite question: “Is that really the deepest you could go with that?” It never came. He was wholly encouraging and positive about the direction of my new work.

  I wrote him back saying another two were in the mail and my most recent one would be coming back with me. He wanted to have a gala in my honor when I returned to showcase this body of work, but I was hesitant. These last six were a departure from my other work. They were personal; they didn’t have the humor or candor of juxtapositions I had become known for. I wasn’t sure if people would understand how these paintings emerged. Moreover, I wasn’t sure I could handle the criticism if they were poorly received.

  I also had several e-mails from my friends, all asking when I would be back and if they could help in any way. Rusty sent me a photo of the Griffith Observatory with two red cups Photoshopped into the foreground and a note saying a “vent session” was in order immediately upon my return.

  On Facebook, I read the seventy-two comments people had left beneath a few photos I had uploaded from the Great Wall, Taj Mahal, and Petra. People I hadn’t spoken to in years resurfaced, leaving comments about how jealous they were of my globetrotting. I wanted to reply, “It’s easy. Have your doctor diagnose you with RP and then all of a sudden hopping on a plane seems like the least of your worries.” Instead, I closed the window and signed out of the computer.

  Back at the gate, I found Jeff sitting off to the side alone; behind him were large, paneled windows and beyond that, the runway. A plane sped down the tarmac and lifted off the ground. All these people constantly moving and shifting about the terminal was fascinating. I wasn’t a jetsetter, but something about being a passenger headed towards possibility felt great.

  “I got you a National Geographic,” Jeff said, handing it to me as we moved over to the boarding area to get in line.

  “Thanks.”

  On the plane, I sat in the window seat with my knees up to my chest so Jeff could stretch his legs into my area if he needed to. Once we reached 10,000 feet, he lifted the armrest and looked at my feet, waiting for me to stuff them beneath his thighs. I smiled and obliged.

  The pilot’s voice announcing our descent into Rio woke me. I yawned as I lifted the window shade to find that from above, Rio de Janeiro looked like the very definition of the word ‘vacation.’ Situated on the southeast coast of Brazil, its inhabitants built the city on a lustrous landscape. The mountain ranges were a rich green, with a shoreline that faded from deep blue to a light aquamarine like the center of a geode.

  On foot, the city was as busy as any other metropolitan area. It was known as the ‘party capital of the world,’ and the people were like walking advertisements for ‘fun.’ Women were voluptuous, tall, tan, and confident. Less was more in terms of clothing, with bikinis, short shorts, and sundresses dominating the fashion trends. Vibrant colors filled the city, making it feel lively and full of energy. And laughter was so common that I wondered if it wasn’t automated.

  It was paradise. A place where happiness was priority and problems were waved off as trivial chores to be taken care of at a later date. At least it seemed that way to me. It should’ve been so easy for me to immerse myself in the welcoming atmosphere, but it was the complete opposite of how I was feeling. There was nothing for me to celebrate because I’d spent six weeks traveling around the world hoping for some kind of revelation, and all I had was a vague notion that, blind or not, somehow I would still create art.

  We checked into our hotel, the famous Copacabana Palace known for its close proximity to the beach and top-notch spa amenities. In our room, I immediately walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, filled the tub with bubbles using the free shampoo, and took a bath. Everything about the atmosphere was wrong so I basically hid out in the tub until my fingers and toes became raw and pruney.

  When I emerged from the bathroom an hour later, there was a note from Jeff saying he was hungry and had gone to look for food. I didn’t know why, but I was relieved he was gone. I looked at the clock—it was nearly 4:00 p.m. Flipping the paper over, I left him a reply saying I would be on the beach directly in front of our hotel. Look for the only fully clothed person on the sand, I wrote.

  The beach felt like home. “You are a true Pieces, always wanting t
o be near water,” I remembered my mom say when at the age of ten I suggested we install a pond in our front lawn. Just past the gate of our backyard was a huge, man-made pond, around which the houses in the neighborhood were built. But a Vietnamese couple who lived three doors down had one with koi fish in their front yard, so I was obsessed with having one too. My mom suggested I take care of the fish in the giant pond, and I argued that they weren’t mine. I came home from school the next day to find a fish bowl on my desk.

  Digging my toes into the sand, I felt the wind whoosh across my body. I closed my eyes and listened to the waves crashing into the shore before receding back into the sea. Crashing and receding. The repetition was both numbing and soothing.

  When I opened my eyes I looked to the west, where the sun hung low in the sky. I had always been told not to look directly at the sun, but I did it anyway. Part of me hoped that the sun would have remarkable healing properties—that it might infuse light into my eyes and reverse or at least stop the damage. In any case, it couldn’t do any harm.

  Jeff appeared beside me. When I looked at him, I saw that he was holding a bag with what I hoped was food. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The world’s greatest beef and pork cutlets. As accredited by the handmade sign on the old man’s charcoal-burning cart,” he said, pulling out a box full of sliced meats. Without even asking for a fork, I reached in, picked up a piece of pork with my fingers, and gobbled it down. Salt, garlic, and lime were the only seasonings I detected. What made the meat delicious was not the flavoring, however, but rather how juicy each bite was.

  “Either I’m really hungry or the old man is the greatest chef du churrascaria in the world,” I praised. Jeff laughed, dropping the forks back into the bag and joining me as I savagely ate without utensils.

  “You might want to slow down,” he said. “I bought it from a street vendor, so your stomach might need some time to acclimate.”

  “Too late,” I said, my mouth still full. “If the D is coming, it’s already well on its way. Might as well enjoy the final hour.”

  “Can we at least sit?” he asked. I laughed and we plopped down onto the sand. Jeff looked out at the water.

  “It reminds me of Venice,” I said.

  “Homesick?”

  “No. If anything, I’m afraid of going home. I knew six weeks wasn’t a lot of time but I thought I’d be coming back with something—a spiritual awakening or a sign pointing me in the right direction. Instead, I feel like I’m landing in a minefield because when that plane touches ground at home, whatever changes are coming, they’re gonna come fast.”

  Jeff took a while to respond, choosing his words carefully, “You do have to face that reality, Aubs.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? I can’t tell. You don’t need to be so proud, especially not with me. You know I’ll be there for you.”

  I wanted to tell him that my mind had been a little preoccupied with other thoughts and that he was partly to blame. Instead, I said, “I doubt that would go over well with Veronica and I don’t need your pity.”

  “Why is it so hard for you to accept help?” Jeff said.

  “Because I don’t want to depend on people.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Watching public arguments was one of my favorite pastimes, but I never wanted to a part of one so I didn’t say anything until I’d had enough time to level out my tone.

  “I don’t want to become dependent on someone and then have them disappear.”

  “What are you talking about?” He didn’t shout, but anger will still permeated his words.

  I felt ashamed for resenting my parents’ deaths…but I did. I resented them for abandoning me even though logically I knew it wasn’t their fault.

  “We’re not kids anymore. Why pretend like staying friends is even possible?” I asked. Jeff didn’t say anything.

  We sat there in silence for a long while.

  Finally, he said. “You know I care about you.”

  “I know,” I said, getting up to head back to the hotel. I didn’t know what I knew, but I did know sitting there wasn’t helping either one of us.

  Our dinner consisted of salgadinhos, deep-fried snacks shaped like pointed eggs, filled with corn and cheese, and a Kuat con Laranjas, an orange soda, to go with it. Unlike most of our dinner conversations, which flowed freely, this one was stilted and full of silence. So when Jeff chose to work on his program that first night in Rio, I took a walk.

  Outside, Rio was in full-swing party mode. I found myself surrounded by beautiful women in barely-there dresses and heels with arches so high they were practically en pointe, along with suave men in fitted jeans and muscle shirts. Colorful drinks with tiny umbrellas littered surfaces like red cups at a college frat party. And less than a hundred yards from my hotel, a crowd had formed on the beach to watch three chiseled Brazilian men and their two Sports Illustrated swimsuit-model assistants perform tricks using glow sticks tied to the end of a thin rope. They performed side by side, creating bright streaks of light against the night sky in the shapes of a Venn diagram, glowing angel wings, a primrose flower, and a mesmerizing tornado that was nothing short of hypnotic.

  I stood there for an hour watching the glow sticks streak through the air and leave a momentary imprint before disappearing. The light moved and shifted, creating images in the darkness while simultaneously highlighting bodily features of the performers—a constantly shifting art installation. No two moments were exactly the same, giving the dancers’ fleeting images a sort of artistic urgency. I was entranced.

  The next morning a cab dropped us off at the base of Corcovado Mountain, where we hopped on a red train. Winding through the forest, both sides of the train were lined by greenery and poorly camouflaged electric poles along the railway. Jackfruit hung from treetops, butterflies were scattered about, and occasionally when the forest opened up there was a slanted view of the city below. From the train we climbed an additional 220 steps to the top—all in relative silence. After hiking in Machu Picchu, this steep incline was nothing more than a light stroll through the park, but the awkward interactions between Jeff and me made the journey anything but relaxing.

  “Sorry,” I said, running into him accidentally as he stopped to take a photo of the train from a distance.

  “Do you—”

  “I think—” I started at the same time.

  Silence.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Never mind, it was dumb. What were you going to say?” I asked. The truth was, I was so flustered by how strange it felt being around him that I had forgotten what I was going to say.

  The speaking over and bumping into each other was bad, but the absolute worst was his politeness. Jeff had never been polite on a casual level with me—our relationship was built on and sustained by his sarcasm.

  So when he said, “Do you want the last carrot?” I lost it.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, glaring at him. But I stopped short, and for some reason I didn’t know how to complete the thought. It was ridiculous—of course I didn’t want the last carrot. He looked horrified.

  “Yes,” I sighed, chomping down on the vegetable that just so happened to be my least favorite.

  When we finally reached the top, we emerged just beneath the feet of “Christ the Redeemer,” a 120-foot statue of Jesus standing with open arms. Made of stone, he seemed oddly condemning for a man standing with his arms outstretched to the world. His solemn expression was more sad than regal.

  “Are you mad at me?” Jeff asked

  “No,” I sighed. “I’m just tired.”

  He moved to put his arm around me and said, “I’ve got something that should help with that.” He produced chocolate bar from the side pouch of his backpack.

  “No thanks,” I said as I slid my shoulder out from under his grasp.

  “Aubs—” he started.

  “When we get back to the States I don’t think we should see each other anymore,�
�� I said, cutting him off and hearing the words as I said them.

  “Really?” He looked hurt.

  “Yes.” I, too, was surprised by own certainty. “It’s the best thing for both of us and you know it,” I added, trying to hide how hard it was for me to say this. “Look, I gotta do my thing. I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so.”

  I didn’t wait for a response before turning on my heel and walking away. My eyes stung, but I blinked back the tears.

  Even though I knew I was right in severing ties with Jeff, a part of me hoped he would disagree. That he might assuage my concerns and tell me I was the only one for him, and then we would ride off into the sunset toward a happily-ever-after-world where RP didn’t exist.

  I laughed at the irony: The guy who didn’t love me had converted me into a being a believer in love.

  Breathing in deeply, I calmed my rattled nerves, popped in my ear buds, and scrolled to Beyonce’s “I Was Here.” A really morbid friend of mine had mentioned that it was the song she wanted played at her funeral. Rio was the end of so many things for me, and the overall tone seemed appropriate.

  The words floated around on repeat in my ears as I circled the enclosed platform on which Christ so benevolently stood. The song had a sorrowful melody, but Beyonce’s fierce and strong vocals added a power to the ballad that made it more than just about leaving an imprint behind. She captured the universal fear we face with our own mortality and did it in a way that made me believe I had the power to shape my own destiny. It probably sounded corny, clichéd, and far-fetched, but I was relieved, albeit only for a moment.

  Twenty feet from Jesus was a gray cement wall about waist-high, which outlined the base area and covered the rest of Corcovado Mountain’s plateaued top. The area wasn’t large and I had some time, so I walked the perimeter starting from the back. My fingertips brushed against the rough, sandpaper-like surface. Slowly moving parallel to the wall, I stared up at the gargantuan figure and thought, In this moment, Christ is here, and so am I. I looked up at him I said, “Okay, now what?”