by Aaron Dries
The sign for “lost”.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the bookshelves in Amity’s room, where titles like Living in Silence, Hearing for All, and The Quiet Place were on display. There were work concept sketches on butcher paper (Amity was best when using charcoal and ink; paints could be so messy), a corkboard pinned with photographs from her years at Saint Catherine’s School For Hearing Impaired Children.
A car drove by outside, sending the room into swirls of light.
Amity couldn’t remember what vehicles sounded like, but she knew she missed it. She sensed this absence every day, and that loss had a color.
BLUE.
She pulled her cell phone out from under her pillow and scanned her e-mail account, making sure there weren’t any work offers. There weren’t any, just a winding ream of spam that made her feel inadequate about her penis size—and she didn’t even have one! Discovering nothing of worth in her account was okay—she had enough jobs lined up to carry her through the four weeks before leaving—so she logged onto Facebook instead and swiped through her news feed. She had 1,251 friends, and only half as many followers on Twitter, but she didn’t mind. It felt good to be liked, even by strangers. The important thing for her was that she didn’t know any of these people.
Amity was very careful to never add schoolmates, coworkers or relatives, and it also helped that the majority of them had jumped the Facebook ship and now bled their hearts out on Kik. All good with her. Minimize the risk. It was important that none of her “friends” or “followers” knew that she was deaf. Online, she was no different from anyone else. Only once had she ever disclosed the truth to someone in that murky cyber swamp, someone whom she went on to meet in person, which was an indulgence she’d never allow herself again.
The family photograph was gathering dust on her bedside table. Her father, his face bathed in red light from the clock display, looked happy. Amity was sitting on his shoulders, the sun in her eyes. This photograph was always the last thing she saw at night, except for the dark, and the things it sometimes brought.
Eyes peering from a dream. Moonlight glimmering against sharp, wet fangs.
4
Their travel backpacks were open on the floor, the contents strewn like innards. Music bopped from the small radio on the windowsill, but the song was lost on Amity, who only knew that the radio was on because its little red light was watching them pack.
Amity and Caleb’s matching blond hair was highlighted in the dusty beams of afternoon light stabbing through the back room windows. They were of similar build, lithe and athletic, but Amity lacked the sculpture her brother had accumulated after years of track and field events. Caleb moved like a dancer, with a grace Amity couldn’t match, but on that day, the Thursday before flying out for Thailand, they both carried themselves with a degree of confidence that seemed almost rehearsed.
The packing of those two overpriced backpacks was one of many rites of passage they would indulge in before leaving Evans Head.
Amity’s fluoro rubber wristband shone bright in the light as she tapped the spread laid out before her. A silent checklist.
Assorted clothing in plastic and drawstring bags, including a rain jacket and bandannas. Fully stocked toiletries in a rubber case. Three tubes of Chap Stick. A portable hard drive to download movies off hostel Wi-Fi networks. Her Kindle. Her camera and its spare batteries. A first aid box full of bandages, Band-Aids, antifungal cream, DEET mosquito repellant, painkillers, constipation and diarrhea pills. She kept her tampons in a waterproof carrier inside her makeup case. Water bottle. Bottle opener. Locks. Passports. Credit cards. Money belts. Just-in-case Ziploc baggies. A pocketknife. A universal sink plug and portable clothesline with detachable pegs. A travel adapter. Umbrella. Earplugs. Eye mask. A small box of laundry powder. One by one, Amity packed it all away. She slipped her drawing journal into her shoulder bag.
The light had drained from the day, the autumn heat subsiding.
Caleb straightened up and the bones in his back cracked; it felt good. The concept of cheap Thai massages sounded mighty appealing right now, but of course, all good things come to those who wait. He stretched his arms over his head, exposing a tattoo on his right forearm. The elegantly rendered script ran from a few inches above the wrist to a few inches short of his elbow crux. Printed there for the world to see were two words. They were simple. They were stark.
Family love.
The front door opened. Caleb dropped his arms and listened to the signature noises of their mother’s arrival home from work.
Slam. The tinkle of car keys being set upon the hallway armoire. Feet shuffling over floorboards, drawing nearer and nearer.
Caleb tapped his sister on the shoulder and gestured toward the kitchen. They watched their mother step into the dimming light. And stop.
“Hi, Ma,” Caleb said. “How was your day?”
“What’s all this, then?” Janine asked without signing, but Amity understood. As with the night they told her they were leaving, neither son nor daughter had expected their mother to deal well with this confirmation, which would only confirm that yes, they hadn’t been lying; they were leaving. For real.
“This is all our stuff, Ma. We’ve got everything organized from top to bottom. Visas, clothes, electronics—the lot.”
“And you two didn’t want any help from me, then? Is that it?”
“Well, we didn’t think you’d want to, is all.”
Janine Collins’s expression turned cold. She stepped back into the kitchen and flicked on the ceiling light, the bulb flinging a slash of white across her children’s matching sea-green eyes.
Caleb listened to his mother at the sink, thumping dishes and clanging unwashed knives and forks. Each sound was a slap to the face, a misfired discipline.
“I’m so sick of this place,” Caleb whispered, clutching his clammy arms. He felt Amity’s look burrowing into him, but no translation was required. The shaking head, the quivering of her lower lip…his sister heard things best when nothing was said at all.
“Fucking joke,” he spat.
“What was that?” came the shrill voice from the kitchen, followed by the dramatic thump of footsteps. His mother reappeared in the doorway, her purple gloves dripping suds onto the floor.
“Nothing.”
“I’m not the deaf one around here, Caleb.”
“Whatever.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Jesus, Ma. Chill out. It’s just not worth it.”
“Not worth it? Oh, ‘not worth it’, he says.”
Amity watched their volleying mouths. All she wanted to do was get up, walk away and lock herself in her room. There she would throw some butcher paper across her bed and scratch away with sticks of charcoal. There wouldn’t be beauty in whatever she poured out, but at least it would be raw. Emotion bled onto white.
“This doesn’t need to be so hard, Ma. It isn’t hard for other people, other families.”
“If you like other families so much, well, go have dinner over there. Sleep in their beds.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
His mother retreated to the sink again, and Caleb took this as his cue to leave.
Amity sat on the bulge of her backpack and rested her chin in her hands, chewed on a fingernail and toyed with her wristband. She turned her head toward the darkening windows, toward huge clouds painted in evening colors, and saw the portable radio on the sill. The pinpoint of red light winked at her like a distant, mocking star. A song that couldn’t be heard continued to play.
We’re doing the right thing, Amity told herself. Going away will be the best thing that has ever happened to us. To us all.
5
Amity often visited him, more out of habit than anything else. There was something soothing in bending down to yank the weeds from her father’s plot, knowing that they would only grow back, scrambling like buried hands seeking freedom.
Caleb was with her. Their lo
ss was something they both could share, though they had to admit that time was taking its toll. Amity hardly remembered her father anymore, even though he made appearances in her dreams, brief nightmare cameos.
Heat sucked the moisture from her skin and Amity could feel herself beginning to burn. They wouldn’t stay for much longer, just long enough to say good-bye.
A plastic bag floated through the air and snagged on the corner of the headstone. Amity leaned forward to remove it, only to have the wind do the job for her. She watched it bob away on its inelegant journey through the cemetery.
Bye-bye, Pa, she wanted to say. But didn’t. Not yet.
Her mother had stopped coming to visit the grave years ago. Amity wondered what state it would be in six months from now, without Dean Collins’s children there to tend to it. The weeds were merciless.
Don’t think about it. Just pick up your shit and don’t look back.
Chapter Three
Sycamore
1
The two middle-aged women exchanged a US dollar for a handful of grimy córdobas from an old man with a lesion on his face. Lynn knew the conversion rate was way off but didn’t care; it was an act of kindness from a stranger, soothing the burn of their evening. Their flight had been delayed for eleven hours, but they had finally arrived in Managua, the Nicaraguan capital.
She was near the luggage turnstile, waiting, and could see a large group of people bearing signs and flowers outside the airport windows. They had broad, toothy smiles bared for their families, setting off the first ache for her own that she’d felt since leaving. It wasn’t long before children started approaching her with handmade bamboo flowers, asking for money.
It was midnight and she was drenched in sweat. Enough was enough.
Lynn felt alone, despite traveling with her best friend, Stacey. They had invested so much in this trip—that it had started off on the wrong foot brought a lump to her throat.
She wondered what Ray, her husband, was doing. Probably sitting around, letting the dishes climb to the ceiling, Lynn thought. That image would have angered her under any other circumstances, but right then, in the hot Nicaraguan air, the concept of her kitchen and a passed-out Ray on the living room La-Z-Boy sounded just fine to her. It sounded like home.
“Well, I finally found a working phone,” Stacey said, trotting toward her. Her smile was broad yet strained. “I got in contact with the guy who owns the villa. He sounds fantastic, although I think he might be a little nuts. But I’m sure he’ll be a hoot. We’ll stay there for two days and then we’re off to Granada. After that, Costa Rica, as planned.”
“Thank God. But how do we get there?”
“Tristan—that’s the ex-pat who owns the place—is picking us up. What a doll, huh? Look, we’re tired and stressed. We just got off the flight from hell. Take a big, deep breath with me, okay? No, I’m being serious… Yessum, that’s it. And another… Good. Now, look at me. Get ready to have some fun.”
2
Tristan’s pickup wove through the traffic, dodging families on motorbikes and stray oxen that had wandered onto the road. Lynn drank up the sights, her heart racing. She saw graffiti-covered buildings, power lines that sagged to eye level, knotted in some places, often dangling sneakers. Trash burned on every corner, while children ran through makeshift houses. Adults cooked on open grills, billowing acrid purple smoke.
If Tristan’s driving was anything to go by, she believed the man had well and truly shaken off the restraints of his North American conservatism to run free in a country where there was little law. This made her smile.
The moment they entered the villa, the blast of cool, conditioned air made Lynn go weak at the knees. Cheering, they stumbled over the threshold and tossed down their bags. The door swung shut behind them, blocking out the drone of crickets.
“Thanks so much,” Stacey said, hugging Tristan while reaching around to squeeze his ass. They laughed, high-pitched cackles shattering silence.
“We’re just in the door and you’re already throwing yourself at him,” Lynn said. Any other time and she would’ve been embarrassed by her friend’s behavior, but like Tristan before them, Lynn could feel the real world melting away. Revealed was an attitude that was as raw and inviting as the streets they’d sped through.
“Oh, you little devil!” Tristan said, slapping her hand away. “Well, aren’t we three just the desperate housewives of Managua!”
He was a tall, thin man, with neat hair and kind, worn features. He looked happy—something Lynn admired him for. Showing them their rooms didn’t have the air of rehearsed, tired formality that she’d expected; if anything, Tristan seemed to be enjoying it. “And there you go, girls. The villa’s empty except for us at the moment, so you’ve got free range of everything,” he said.
“You’re a life saver,” Lynn said. “The thought of being in that airport for much longer—”
“Yeah, you two did kind of stand out like a sore thumb.”
“I’ve never felt so pale. Stupid, I know.”
“Oh, pfft! I buzz back and forth between here and Minnesota. Trust me, I know what pale is. So you gals said you’re from Seattle, right?”
“Yeah, and it’s gorgeous, but we just had to get out. Live another life for a month. I still can't believe we’re here. We didn’t even have passports five months ago!”
“And Nicaragua, Jesus! Of all places. Out of the pan and into the fire. I love it here. I tell ya, it’s like having a split personality. Back home I go to church and here I go clubbing. We’re free.”
3
The backyard perimeter fence was ten feet tall, embellished with bale wire and broken wine bottles. Palm trees swayed in the breeze as though dancing to the Latin music playing next door. The air smelled of papaya and cooked meat. Lynn and Stacey tanned in silence by the villa’s pool. They were happy.
Lynn was wearing the two-piece she’d bought for the trip. She knew she looked good for her age, even though being a mother, wife and secretary did take its toll. Her pre-vacation workout had been successful, although camping out on the sofa with Judge Judy screeching from the idiot box was far easier on her ankles.
Lying there, her thoughts turned to the two families she’d seen walking past the villa earlier that morning—a group of stocky men and women, all with bulging stomachs and thighs. “Different, isn’t it?” Tristan had said to her. “Here, if you’ve got a tummy it means you can afford food, and that’s important. It means you’re not poor.”
Lynn didn’t know how that made her feel.
When it came to her weight, her greatest hurdle was her husband, who insisted on buying every fat-inducing product at the local IGA. It also didn’t help that whenever she proposed “shopping healthy”, Ray gave her this condescending once-over that undid her every time. He didn’t like change and that made dieting almost impossible. In fact, getting anything done at home was a challenge.
But things would be different when she returned. Screw Ray. The cans of paint she’d bought a year ago would be pulled out of the garage and the contents slapped on the living room walls, all in preparation for selling. Getting their house on the market was something Lynn had wanted for years. Change was on the rise, and it’d arrive by hell or high water.
4
Fever-warm night fell, intertwining its moonlight fingers with the shadows of the trees, telephone poles and buildings. It lit upon the villa’s doors, but did not knock; touched the abandoned caipirinha cocktails on the deck, but did not bother to shoo away the mosquitos buzzing around them. But those silvery fingers were barred from Stacey, who was on her bed watching Grey’s Anatomy in her nightgown. Tristan was out of reach too, as he was in the living room sending drunken e-mails to all of his friends back home. The moon would just have to be satisfied with Lynn, who was walking between the palm trees that flanked the path leading to the pool.
The rich loam of soil, the fabric softener her towel had been washed in—it all beat at her senses, which had already b
een dulled by the alcohol she’d downed. The motion-activated toy bird on the rafter of the poolside shelter began to sing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”. It flapped its wings and shook its little robotic head, which brought a smile that wouldn’t last to her face.
“Ah, the bird. Meh, I’ve had enough of you. I’d much rather the bees,” she said, stopping at the pool’s edge. It was lit from below and cast ghostly trails over the hedges and walls. She slipped out of her blouse and tossed it over the arm of the reclining chair she’d sunbathed on earlier that day.
Lynn stepped into the warm water and dived under.
Beautiful silence. And yet it wasn’t silent at all. Every bursting bubble was like thundering footsteps drawing nearer and nearer. She arched her neck and saw the sky, wavering and uncertain through the ripples. Pressure bore down on her lungs, forcing her to surface.
Lynn waded over to an inflatable raft and pulled herself onto it. She struggled at first but found her balance. She kicked aside the beach ball floating beside her foot and stared up at the stars, trying to pinpoint the constellations.
It had been years since she’d really looked at the sky. The stars shone bright, with no detracting city glow, and their dark backdrop seemed darker, more penetrating here. As weird as it sounded, she could almost sense its depth, a universe stretching off into nothingness, farther than any man or woman could ever imagine.
Her head swam in the best possible way. The drinks Tristan had made were wonderful; she made a mental note to ask him for the recipe. Lynn liked the idea of cocktail hour once a week after work, in her clean and freshly painted house.
Images drifted through her mind. Ray in his La-Z-Boy recliner, watching television, a bowl of yogurt covered with raisins on the table next to him. Ray in the shower, staring out at her and pulling faces as she brushed her teeth. For every bad thought, there was a good one; for every ping of sadness, an opposite. No; she might not be happy, but she certainly wasn’t unhappy. In her short time at the villa, Lynn had come to realize that whatever was wrong in her life could be fixed.
