When the Fairytale Ends

by Dwan Abrams

He inhaled deeply, knowing it was now or never. Finally, he refocused on his wife and said, “I went to sign the papers to finalize a loan yesterday.”

  Her face pulled into a frown. “A loan? A loan for what?”

  He inhaled even deeper. This time, he couldn’t look at her when he spoke, so he settled on a spot just above her right shoulder. “A business start-up loan.”

  She threw her hands in the air and walked out the kitchen. Greg followed after her, trying to get her to understand. He reached for her hands, but she slapped his hands away.

  “Greg, just give me a moment.”

  She tried to press the bedroom door closed, but he jammed his foot between the crack and spoke through the slit in the door. “A moment for what?”

  “To think things over,” she yelled at him, pressing with all her might to shut the door.

  His toes screamed for mercy, but he refused to move his foot. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he said, “Babe, you’re scaring me. You make it sound like you’re second-guessing your decision to marry me.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe I am, Greg.”

  Her words seemed to knock the fight out of both of them. She stopped pushing the door, and he stopped trying to force himself in. If her words had felt like stakes before, they felt like rusted nails now—rusted nails with serrated edges being hammered into his heart.

  “You don’t mean that, do you?” His words could hardly be considered a whisper. He wasn’t sure if she’d heard him until she shrugged her shoulders.

  She plopped down on the bed and covered her face with her hands. “What happened to us, Greg?”

  His heart ached, seeing her in such pain and knowing full well that he was the cause of it. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, then settled on his knees, between her legs.

  Her eyes were watery mirrors as she stared at him and repeated her earlier question.“What happened to us? Why did our fairytale end?”

  He took her trembling fingers and pressed them against either side of his face and held them in place. “Life isn’t a fairytale.”

  She let out a strained laugh that sounded like a gargle. “God, don’t I know it.”

  “It’ll get better for us,” he promised her and took her hands from his face and kissed both her palms. “Things will work out for us. I swear it to you.”

  “Don’t swear anything else to me.” She cut him off, then shook her head, biting her bottom lip to dam her tears. “Don’t make me another vow until you can keep the vows that you promised me before man and God. To love, honor, and respect your wife.”

  Greg pressed his face into her belly, inhaling her sweet fragrance mixed with the savory scent of the broth she was making. “I do love you, Shania.”

  Shania struggled out of his touch, and before walking out of the bedroom, she looked over her shoulder at him and said, “Love is an action word.”

  How was he ever going to prove to her that she was still the love of his life?

  Nineteen

  Shania and Greg arrived at Montego Bay airport Thursday morning. They waited in the exclusive “Couples Resort” airport lounge and sipped on refreshing drinks of chilled water and pineapple slices until their ride showed up. Greg tried to make small talk, but she ignored him and pretended to be absorbed by a soccer game that was playing on one of the TVs.

  Once their van arrived to transport them to their hotel, Shania settled in a seat near the front and took in the scenic view. For some reason, Shania expected the drive to their resort to take no longer than ten to fifteen minutes. After an entire hour of having her organs jiggled loose on the bumpy ride, having her elbows and knees aching from the constant knocking against Greg’s knees and elbows, and having sweat burn her eyes and puddle at her spine—because even though the air conditioner was on, it obviously wasn’t working—she finally said to the driver, whose skin was as black as an onyx gem, “Are we almost there yet?”

  Greg glared at her for her impatience, and she glared right back at him. The driver looked in the rearview mirror, winked at her, and said in his Jamaican accent, “About t’irty more minutes, Miss Lady.”

  She tried to give him a smile, but she was sure it looked more like a grimace. Once again, she settled in her seat to sulk at the bumpy ride and stared out at the dark shades of different natives as they passed by, walking with baskets on their heads, or walking along with two or three shaggy goats following close behind, or bicycling by and waving at their van.

  Greg tried to point out different things, but he might as well have been Charlie Brown’s teacher saying, “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah.”

  The only reason why she went along with their plans for this trip was because they had already purchased the tickets and the tickets were nonrefundable. However, she was determined to let Greg know that she was here to have a good time—by herself, and he could continue to be the self-absorbed, selfish so-called husband that he was.

  Thirty minutes seemed to drag by, but Sans Souci emerged majestically from the cliffs of Jamaica’s emerald islands. From the distance, the mountains seemed purple with pink tips. Eventually, the bumpy ride came to a stop.

  They checked into the resort, and when Shania saw the hibiscus cottage where they were staying, she fell in love with the tropical elegance and breathtaking ambiance. Decorated in ocean blue and white, the cottage exuded peacefulness. Shania immediately noticed the steps to the private Jacuzzi and knew that she’d be spending a lot of time there.

  Greg offered the bellman a tip for carrying in their luggage, but the bellman refused. “This is an all-inclusive resort,” the bellman explained in a Jamaican accent. “No tips allowed.”

  “Habit,” Greg explained as he stuffed his money back into his wallet and showed the bellman out. “This place is nice,” Greg said, and walked up behind Shania before placing a kiss behind her ear. “Is this how we’re going to spend our entire vacation? With you mad at me, treating me like an unwanted stepchild?”

  It must’ve been the ambiance of their cottage that caused her to relax in his arms and allow some of the stiffness in her spine to dissolve. She leaned her head against his chest and exhaled deeply, but said no words.

  Still holding her, he shuffled them forward until they were standing on the balcony with the thin, billowy yellow and white curtains waving around them as the breezes blew off the ocean. Shania stared outside at the turquoise water that seemed to go on forever until it finally blended in with the sky. She counted the sailboats and canoes drifting across the surface, then looked up at the seagulls soaring above the water, most likely in search for dinner. She then turned her attention to the gigantic banana trees, displaying tight bundles of green bananas, and palm trees whose barks seemed to be splitting and peeling as the trees unraveled. The sound of the ocean lapping at the virginal white shore mixed with the sound of her husband’s heartbeat nearly put her to sleep in his arms.

  “Tired?” he asked, and she nodded.

  Before she could protest, he scooped her up and placed her in the bed. She yawned, and then jet lag and weariness took their toll.

  When she awoke, she glanced out the open balcony and realized that the sun had already set in the sky. It wasn’t dark out yet but it was quickly heading that way. Greg was sitting at the small, circular table with his Bible and a notepad. When he heard her movement in the bed, he looked her way and smiled. “So you finally decided to join the land of the living?”

  “Sorry about that,” Shania apologized, covering her yawn with her hand. She stretched, listening to her joints crack and pop; then she pushed off the bed to her feet. “How long was I asleep?”

  Greg twisted his lip and glanced at his wristwatch. “About two hours.”

  She nodded. “Not too bad.” She stood in front of the balcony, stared out at the water and stretched again. The catnap had helped bring clarity to her situation. There was no point in coming to such an exotic island and stubbornly remaining in such an ugly mood. So she turned to face her husband
and said in a tone much more polite than the one she had previously been using, “What do you want to do first?”

  He closed his Bible and hooked his pen to his notepad. “What do you want to do first?”

  Yawning, Shania said, “There’s so much to see. I think we should take a tour of the resort.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  They finished unpacking, changed clothes, and went straight to the beach. The sun smiled down on them as their feet left footprints in the gritty grains of sand.

  “This is heaven,” Shania said as her sarong blew gently with the breeze.

  Greg reached for her hand and clasped his hand in hers. Everything in her screamed to yank her hand back. Just because she was playing nice didn’t mean she had to be all lovey-dovey with him. He was still in the doghouse for telling her that bald-faced lie and then having the nerve to start his own business without even including her in his plans. But, she forced a smile on her face and let him continue to hold her hand as they made their way across the shore.

  A woman wearing an orange bikini, who had to have been a Jamaican native, walked by with her curvaceous figure and her flat belly. Even though she smiled in acknowledgement to both of them, Shania felt self-conscious. No, she wasn’t showing yet, but she felt bloated. And she certainly didn’t think she looked good enough to wear a two-piece. She eyed the shapely woman and noticed that Greg was eyeing her too. She released his hand and stopped walking.

  “I know you weren’t just looking at that woman.” She felt her cheeks getting hot and an overwhelming urge to punch Greg in the chest.

  He started to stutter. “What are you talking about?” He threw his hands in the air.

  Shania put her hand on her hip. “Don’t try to play me, Gregory. I saw you looking at that woman.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Greg sighed. “For crying out loud, Shania, you’re being ridiculous. All I did was glance at the woman. It’s not that serious.” He took a couple of steps and stopped when he noticed that Shania hadn’t moved. “What?” He sounded irritated.

  Shania threw her hands in the air. “I’m going back to the room.”

  “Seriously, babe.”

  She trekked through the sand.

  “This is what I have to look forward to for the rest of the week?” he called after her.

  She could hear Greg calling her name, but she didn’t stop or turn around. The thought of Greg ogling another woman made the tears flow. She felt fat and undesirable.

  When she came to a walking path, she dusted off her feet and put on the sandals she had been holding in her hand. By then, she had calmed down some and almost felt like returning to the shore to find Greg and apologize for being so sensitive.

  “Shania?” she heard a male voice call out to her. She immediately turned around, wondering who it could possibly be. Nobody on this island knew her except for Greg, yet someone had just called her name, and it didn’t sound like her husband. Through blurry eyes, she tried to make out who it was, but saw nothing more than the leaves in the bushes and the hibiscus flowers fluttering in the breeze.

  Figuring it had to be her imagination, she whipped her head around to continue walking, but no sooner had she turned than she heard the leaves beside her rustle, and then something hard clanged against the side of her head and her world went black.

  Twenty

  When Shania awoke, she heard God himself whisper for her not to move and not to open her eyes. So she did exactly what He said. She kept still and she didn’t open her eyes. Yet and still, the back of her head throbbed something awful, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought someone took out her heart and sewed it into her skull. Three thoughts ran simultaneously through her mind: What had happened? Where was she? And where was Greg?

  As far as the first question went, all she could remember was heading toward her hotel and then hearing some man call her name. She knew she had been hit with something, but what, she had no idea. As far as where she was, she thought about peeking her eyes open to see what she could see, but reasoned against doing so. If God had told her to keep her eyes closed, then by golly, she would keep her eyes closed.

  First, she focused on what she could feel. There was something hard and coarse digging into her wrists, which were tied in front of her. That same coarse feeling was around her ankles. That alone made her aware that she was someone’s prisoner, and the thought sent her heart into overdrive. Tendrils of fear slid in and out of her pores, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from trembling.

  Then she focused on what she could hear. There were footsteps close by, back and forth. There must have been a wooden floor. A door was somewhere, opening and closing. The sound of waves lapping at the sea. So she knew she was somewhere close to the ocean.

  Next she focused on what she could smell. Careful not to allow her nostrils to flare too much, she sniffed the air. There was incense, the faint tinge of cigarette smoke and sandalwood.

  And then a voice. A male voice. Not the male voice that had called her name earlier, but a different male voice. It sounded younger, softer. Not quite a boy’s voice, but not quite a full-grown man’s, either.

  “Ya awake?”

  His voice was close to her ear, but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. She could smell cigarette smoke and a trace of alcohol on his breath. She wondered why she was his prisoner and what was he going to do to her—or what had he already done?

  “Ya awake?” he asked again in his thick Jamaican accent. Then she felt his hand on her ankle, shaking her lightly. She almost recoiled from his touch, but because she was still supposed to be “asleep,” she remained as still as possible and willed herself not to tense up.

  The sound of hinges squeaking and then heavy footsteps stomped across the floor. Along with the new individual in the room came a horrible stench that nearly turned her stomach. It smelled like a pot of roasted onions that were left out in the sun for a few days and had spoiled and started to rot. Finally, there was a voice to go along with the horrible smell and heavy footsteps.

  “She still not awake?” His voice was much thicker and heavily accented than the younger man’s. And furthermore, whenever he talked, it sounded like he had a huge loogie stuck somewhere in his throat and he needed to hawk it out.

  As soon as he opened his mouth, Shania immediately recognized the voice and knew that this was the man who had hit her even before the younger guy said, “I t’ink ya hit her too hard, mon. Now what we gon’ do? Crazy Lady said not ta kill her.”

  Crazy Lady? Shania almost frowned, then remembered that she was supposed to be asleep, so she forced her face to remain relaxed.

  But when she felt two greasy fingers press against the side of her neck and smelled that up close and personal whiff of this man’s funk, her stomach threatened an upheaval, and it took nothing less than the strength and mercy of God to keep her from upchucking on this man.

  “No, she not dead yet,” he said, “but dat a mean bump on da back of her head.”

  The younger guy said, “Is Crazy Lady finished wit da man yet?”

  “No,” he said, and she heard his footsteps carry him and his odor further away from the bed. She sent a silent thanks up to God. “No, she not finish yet. He still alive.”

  Shania listened attentively to their words, figuring that “he” must be Greg. Instantly, she regretted treating him as harsh as she had and wished that she could rewind time back to that moment at the seashore when she had left him standing there. In this moment, she realized that all the arguments they’d had up to now seemed so trivial in the face of grave danger. All the silent treatment and cold shoulders she’d given her husband were lost moments, lost time that she could never make up.

  It truly pained her to even think that her husband’s last memory of her could be watching her storm down the shore, and her last memory of him could be his utter exasperation with her sour attitude.

  Shania hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until
the man had spoken those last words. She cracked her lips and inhaled as deep as she could without being conspicuous, and willed the tears of pure relief to remain in her eyes. As long as her husband was still alive, there was hope.

  “But da Crazy Lady needs ta hurry up ’cause me got t’ings to do,” the stinky man said and let out a grunt.

  “She gon’ pay us da rest tonight, yes?”

  The stinky man grunted and Shania assumed that meant yes. The two men were quiet and Shania found herself wondering, where was she, where was Greg, and who in God’s name was the Crazy Lady? If she could figure out some answers to these questions, she was sure that she could start piecing a way out of this mess.

  The stench of the stinky man had her stomach doing flip-flops, and she could count on her fingers how long she’d be able to hold it in before she emptied the contents of her stomach on the floor.

  The stinky man said, “I will go check wit’ Crazy Lady again. Keep an eye on her.”

  His footsteps moved across the room. She heard the hinges creak as the door opened. As soon as she heard the door slam closed, Shania leaned over the side of the bed and retched until the only thing left in her stomach to throw up was bile and hydrochloric acid. So she threw that up too.

  There was no way that she could throw up and still pretend like she was asleep, so the young man ran to her bedside. She opened her eyes and stared at him. He was not a bad-looking individual. He had to be about Jonathan’s age and actually favored him a bit. The only difference was that he was as black as a midnight sky and had teeth as white as the sand on the Jamaican shore. Plus, he was much, much taller than Jonathan. There was a softness to his brown eyes that fanned Shania’s flame of hope.

  “Ya okay?” he asked and seemed genuinely concerned.

  Shania shook her head and asked for a sip of water. When he left to get the water, she took this moment to take in her surroundings. She still had no idea where she was at, but it seemed like she was in some little hut with a wooden floor and a thatched roof. This must’ve been someone’s house, but whose house, she had no idea.