By evening, the jelly-baby stings were out-pained by a flaming-hot sunburn. It was so bad that my only relief was soaking in a bath filled with baking soda—at the hostel. Considering that hostel “bathtubs” are primarily used for feet and pets, I was lucky I didn’t walk away with fleas and a staph infection.
By the end of the week, I had two additional problems: little blisters had formed on my back, which the Fijian pharmacist identified as a heat rash, and my big toe was infected from the dampness and dirt that had collected in my closed-toe sandals. Closed-toe sandals made perfect sense in Calgary, but not so much in a place where you’d actually need sandals. I was given medicated white powder to sprinkle on my back, and iodine to treat my infection, which was a perfectly legitimate disinfectant, but it stained my toes a rust color. I struck quite the image: cherry red from head to toe, with a dusting of white on my shoulders, like sugar. I felt like a Willy Wonka reject.
Obviously, I needed new shoes, so I stopped by one of the sidewalk vendors and picked out a pair that looked like a trellis of black leather straps woven together. I put them on. Hm. Pretty stylish, pretty comfortable. They’d do. When I returned to the hostel, the girl at the front desk looked me up and down and asked, “Why are you wearing men’s shoes?”
All of a sudden, it made sense why the vendor had a hard time finding my size. I looked down at them in a new light. Oh man, they did look like men’s sandals. The kind an old Greek man would wear to fetch his morning paper. I was embarrassed by how much of a dumb tourist I was. My face would have turned red if it wasn’t already.
Then there was my expensive spiral-permed hair. It was an increasing burden, knotting and wrapping itself into dreadlocks because of the dense humidity. A haircut would make me feel better. I thought of Zoe, a modern ballet dancer that Michael had told me he found really attractive. She sported a short, elegant, bi-level bob. That’s it! I thought. I would be free of my wasp nest, and Michael would find me irresistible. Done.
Word to the wise: Never get your hair cut out of desperation, especially in a foreign country.
I went into town, which consisted of one dusty street, and walked into the first beauty parlor I saw. Three lovely women welcomed me, but we suffered a language barrier, and they tilted their heads in confusion at the word bob. They handed me a stack of outdated hairstyling magazines and told me to point. I found a couple of photos that were close to what I was after, especially if you employed a bit of imagination. They smiled and nodded enthusiastically in response, so it seemed we were good to cut.
I got my hair cut all right. They chopped it right off, leaving just a few inches, each strand cut a little differently. I didn’t recognize my own reflection. I looked like a young boy who’d been mistaken for a garden hedge. At least it went with my mandals.
Next stop: a Fijian wig store.
As I shuffled back toward the hostel, where I could lose it in the privacy of my bunk bed, I contemplated whether I should just surrender and hightail it back to Calgary and Michael’s arms. I was no Zoe, but I was confident he’d lovingly stick by my side as my hair grew out and my sunburn faded.
Then I heard an all-too-familiar voice. “Hey! Hey! Ophira! Ophira!”
Great. Nothing like adding insult to hair injury.
Tommy appeared in front of me like a shitty magic trick. I let out another big sigh as he slowly took me in: All in all, I looked like I’d barely survived first day on deck as an entry-level pirate.
He, on the other hand, was sun kissed rather than scorched and looked better than ever.
“Oh my god, Ophira,” he said. “I barely recognize you. You’ve totally changed!”
I know he didn’t mean it as a compliment, but I chose to hear it that way. For better or worse, I couldn’t deny that things were changing. If I returned to Calgary now, my life would go back to what it was. The fatalist in me mused that all the crap Tommy and I had gone through was preparing us for this moment, so he could say that to me. You’ve totally changed. Yes, I had. It wasn’t how I thought I would, but everything was certainly different.
I brightened up and asked him how he was doing. He was fine, hanging out with more models, drinking more mai tais, being surprisingly good at more things. Whatever—it didn’t matter anymore. Our lives were on different trajectories. We had crossed that point where we could move on without petty resentments, or even longing. Our hug good-bye was friendly and light, and I somehow knew I wouldn’t see him again during the trip. I think he did too. We both had new lives to get back to, and I felt reinvigorated to continue with my life-altering trip that would surely make Michael proud of me.
CHAPTER 7
THE WHORE OF FRASER ISLAND
If there were a travel brochure for my year abroad, it would read “Australia: A Series of Distractions in between Calling Michael.” I really was living the trip through his eyes, seeking out experiences for the sole purpose of relaying them back to him later. I had cinched myself so tightly in a corset designed to win his approval, sooner or later a ribbon was bound to snap.
The trip itself wasn’t as exotic as I’d imagined. Being a seventeen-year-old tourist in Australia was more Miami Beach than Madagascar. As the months passed, it became clear that I wouldn’t be dancing with the Aborigines or walking the Songlines. My road to cultural enlightenment and spiritual fulfillment was paved with poorly rolled spliffs and limbo contests.
Two months before I was due to return home, I saw a flyer on the hostel’s bulletin board advertising a trip to Fraser Island. “Camp in the rainforest! Drive in Land Rovers on the beach! Enjoy an off-the-beaten-path adventure in paradise!” This was the piece of the puzzle I’d been searching for, so I signed up.
The next day, I found myself in a Land Rover wedged between a Kiwi, a Brit, and eight other backpackers, driving on the as-advertised white sandy beaches. But my heart sank when the guitar came out for the mandatory sing-along of “American Pie” around the campfire. There was no escaping spring break. The guys—most of them bona fide men, ranging from twenty-five to thirty-five—were making overt advances on all the girls, including me, even with my altar boy–chic hair.
As the Southern Cross illuminated the sky, cases of beer and pints of gin magically appeared, signaling the opening ceremony of the drinking Olympics. We were all expected to go for the gold.
I wasn’t going to leave the group, wander into the forest, and write in my journal like an antisocial shut-in, so I figured, if you can’t beat ’em, drink their booze. Five plastic water bottles of gin and Orange Crush later, I guzzled a Lite beer and smoked a joint in preparation for the drinking game, an athletic event where we put our hands on a beach ball, spun around three times, and ran as fast as we could toward the headlights of the Land Rover. The car radio was blaring pop music, and everyone was hooting and staggering in the sand. It was like a frat party without being in college, and I was having a blast.
The next thing I knew, the sun was peeking out from the horizon, and people began to crash on the beach. Still fully awake, walking the fine line between drunk and distilled, I decided to go for a stumble near the ocean. Trying to keep my balance while sinking in the sand, I heard a male voice call, “Hi!” It was one of the Brits from the group. We stood quietly near the lapping waves, the first rays of sun warming our feet, and he leaned in to kiss me. I pulled away ever so slightly, but quickly submitted to how good it felt, sloppily kissing back. For months, I’d been skirting real abandon on this trip, so I welcomed the opportunity to give in and let go. What’s a little make-out session between strangers, right? Isn’t that on the subitinerary of every backpacker’s trip abroad? But the next thing I knew, we were lying down on the sand, naked. Then we were having sex on the beach. It felt like grinding pepper.
I woke inside the oven of burning nylon that was his tent. My head throbbed, my throat was parched from my lips to my stomach, and the scent of fermented liquor oozed from my pores. Peeling my eyes open, I shuddered as the memories slowly crept in.
Had I really cheated on Michael? With this guy? Some snoring, Beatle-loving, slightly pudgy, ginger-haired Brit? It wasn’t a nightmare. Fuck. Fuck! Shame washed over my soul. I’d ruined everything. Ruined my perfect relationship. Become the stereotype of a stupid seventeen-year-old girl who drank too much and screwed some guy. I didn’t even know his name! This wasn’t a rehearsal. I wasn’t in boyfriend previews anymore. Michael was the real thing, and I’d destroyed it in one dumb night.
But in reality, I had no idea what it really meant to ruin something. Not yet.
Plucking the Brit’s sweaty arm off my naked body, I shimmied into my shorts and went for another walk to figure things out. Along the forest path, I spotted an iconic red pay phone nestled between a palm tree and a giant fern. It must be a sign. I collect-called Michael.
I didn’t know what I was going to say, but before I could sputter a desperate hello, he said, “I have a big surprise for you!”
That made two of us.
“I’m going to come meet you in Los Angeles on your way back. I’ll drive down, pick you up at the airport, and then we can make our way back home together up the coast.”
He also mentioned that this was an extra big deal because it would be his first trip with a girlfriend. Ever.
I was stunned that the universe would actually reward me after what I’d done.
I replied, “I can’t wait!”
AS THEY SAY, there are no atheists in foxholes, and for the next two months I made promises to God, the universe, dead relatives, and the laws of science that I wouldn’t screw up again. If I could get through this, I pledged to become the archetype of the ideal, faithful, doting girlfriend.
At a hostel in Auckland, two days before my flight to LA, I woke up startled by a creeping thought. I did some mental menstrual math, only to confirm my worst fear: Holy shit. I might be pregnant.
Okay, Ophira, don’t freak out. I steeled myself against panic and went into troubleshooting mode. I could figure this out. I was plucky and self-reliant, right? And I was still off the grid for the next forty-eight hours. God and my dead relatives wouldn’t let me down. They couldn’t. Michael and I were meant to be.
With the kind of conviction a better person would reserve for something really important, like peace in the Middle East, I ran down to the front desk of the hostel and asked to borrow their equivalent of the Yellow Pages. I flipped to the “Family Planning” section and let my fingers do the walking. In bold, a clinic advertised free pregnancy tests for all New Zealand citizens. Free to citizens . . . Hmmm. Inspiration struck, and I hatched a plan.
I’d learn the accent.
I’d master the northern–New Zealand accent, pose as a local, and get a free exam. Simple! I didn’t bother to consider yet what I would do if the results of the exam were positive. I just focused on the first step, which consisted of spending the day milking as much conversation as I could from cashiers and traffic cops, then imitating their lilt.
Word to the wise: The New Zealander accent is subtle.
The next morning, I put on my cleanest clothes and marched into the clinic.
“G’day,” I said. “Oi was theenking oi might need a teest to see if oi’m pregguhs.”
The nurse smiled and invited me into her office. She closed the door behind us, whipped around, and in a perfect New Zealand accent that sounded nothing like mine, said, “I know you’re not from around here, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
The sheepskin rug had been pulled out from under me. I broke down and told her everything—about Michael, the bead store, and Penguins on Broadway, building to the moment at Fraser Island and the nameless Brit who got me here; but most important, I told her I couldn’t lose the love of my life. “I never thought I’d let this happen!” I wailed. The nurse handed me a tissue, patted me on the back, and gave me the free test.
Fifteen minutes later, which is four years in pregnancy-scare time, she announced, “Congratulations. You’re not pregnant. Just a bit overstressed.”
“But promise me that when you get home, you’ll tell your boyfriend everything.” She gave me a meaningful, motherly look.
What?! Oh no. I wasn’t doing that. The problem was over. My pleas to the universe had been answered—or I’d somehow willed myself to not be pregnant. Whatever the case, it was over. No one would ever know. But I nodded yes and she said, “Good luck,” and probably shook her head as she tossed my paperwork in the garbage.
The next day, I boarded a plane to Los Angeles. I was ecstatic. Wanting to look nice for Michael, I bought a cheap summer dress and a new pair of underwear at the airport. I’d read in a fashion magazine that if you wanted to be “fresh” for your companion, you should change your underwear right before landing.
My first whiff of LA smelled like cheap floral perfume, as opposed to the fragrant smell of the tropics I’d become accustomed to. My backpack, on the other hand, stank of body odor and was overflowing with dirty T-shirts, snow globes, and a six-foot didgeridoo I’d brought back for Michael. After customs and immigration, I wheeled my baggage cart to the sliding doors leading to the main terminal. I was seconds away from seeing the man I’d spent an entire year pining over.
The doors swooshed open to a long ramp flanked with hundreds of people, all eagerly awaiting their friends and loved ones. As I walked up the slope in a parade of other arrivals, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to spot him. It’d been a year—what if I couldn’t recognize him? What if he was late? What if he’d decided not to come?
And then . . . there he was. The crowd around him fell away, and all I could see was Michael, waving and smiling at me. The Bunsen burners sparked to life, and I abandoned my baggage cart, which rolled back down the ramp, and ran shrieking like a lovestruck lunatic toward him.
The crowd around us went wild, clapping and cheering, as I flew into his arms, shaking and crying. I kept repeating, “Oh my god! Oh my god!” And Michael kept repeating, “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
He kept anticipating that our elongated hug was over and would let go, but when I wouldn’t, he’d rewrap his arms around me. Slowly I calmed myself down and gathered my abandoned bags and didgeridoo. We immediately went out for my favorite meal: grilled cheese sandwiches at Denny’s.
It was difficult to know where to pick back up as a couple after so much time apart, so three hours later we were still laughing and replaying the scene I caused at the airport. The mixture of jet lag and the culture shock was jarring, and I didn’t know where I was, who I was, or what anything meant. It was like I washed down a few Oxycodone with a Jolt Cola. It was one in the morning in Anaheim, which meant noon the day before last month to me, and Michael suggested we scale the fence and hang out in our motel’s now-closed pool. While treading water, he asked, “So, start from the beginning, and tell me about your trip.”
I’d been living with him in my head for a year, but now that he was in front of me, we were strangers. We’d been apart from each other longer than we’d been together—by ten times. I suggested we get out of the pool and go back to our room. We had a lifetime of talking ahead of us.
We had sex on the stiff king-size motel bed, and I felt a stronger connection to him and my life, but we didn’t exactly click like I remembered and romanticized. As I fell asleep, I tried to talk myself out of the profound loneliness that consumed my body. Surely, it must be just a side-effect of the time change.
The next morning we started our drive up the West Coast. For a week, we behaved like any new couple would on a road trip: holding hands, arguing over directions, and making up for lost time by having lots of sex. Somewhere outside of San Francisco, Michael turned to me and said, “It really hurts when I pee.”
I didn’t know exactly what that meant, and this was before Google, but I figured it might be STD-related. I started praying again, pleading with the higher powers to tell me why the hell they were doing this to me.
As the days passed, Michael complained that the
pain was getting worse. As for me, I didn’t have any symptoms, unless you count still not getting my period!
My prayers turned to whisper-yelling.
Just past Santa Rosa, we stopped at a Walgreen’s to see if they had a knowledgeable pharmacist who could prescribe a cream, a Magic 8 Ball—anything.
Back in the parking lot, we sat silently in the beige bucket seats of Michael’s beat-up Volkswagen Jetta. He had some ointment in a bag, and I had a pack of gum and a pregnancy test stashed in my purse.
At last, he popped the question.
“I need to know. Were you with anyone else while in Australia?”
I wanted to pass out. The truth would not set me free. The truth would mean I’d lose him forever, and I couldn’t let that happen. Why does he have to know about a useless one-night stand that even I don’t remember? It had zero bearing on our future.
“No,” I responded confidently.
“Good, good. Then it’s just some naturally occurring bacteria or something, and we’ll get it worked out.”
But I wasn’t really good with “good.” What if he were seriously ill? What if he died or went blind because I withheld the truth?
I knew I couldn’t say no and move on. I loved him. I didn’t want to hurt him. But there was no way I was telling him that I cheated. Anything but that. How could I protect him AND our relationship? How could I tell him that I didn’t mean it, that my decision maker was beyond drunk that night? That I was a dumb seventeen-year-old for a night? There had to be some way out of this.
You may not agree with what I did next, and I don’t blame you, but it was the only thing I could come up with.
“Wait,” I started, too feverish to continue.
“What?” he asked impatiently.
“I was raped.”
As I said it, I looked down, not for effect, but because I couldn’t look in his eyes.
I’m not proud of what I said, but I remember my twisted rationale: It absolved me of all responsibility. Plus, I figured he’d feel sorry for me.
Screw Everyone Page 6
