I climb back in to the bed with her and cry into the sheets until they’re soaked.
“Shh,” Mom whispers in my ear, rocking me gently. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I just want to sleep, Cat. I don’t want to suffer anymore.”
To die, to sleep—No more; and by a sleep, to say we end the Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to. Again, I recall Hamlet’s words. I want peace for my mother, and the thousand natural shocks that pain her. When Mom finally closes her eyes for the last time, there is no end to the heartache. The heartache is all mine.
Chapter 26
After
He knows right away, from the look on my face. I haven’t even opened my mouth when his shoulders slump. “You’re leaving,” he says quietly.
“Not yet,” I say, surprising myself with my own words. “I want to stay out my term, help Anna and Valentina. But eventually, yes.”
“You don’t want to stay with me?” His expression is that of a wounded puppy, a mutt who’s been kicked by his owner. “I love you, Cat.”
“Rafael.” I sigh, and settle down next to him. The cot creaks, sagging precariously. I rest my hand on top of his, and as our skin touches I feel a strange mix of anger, desire, and despair, like a recipe with too many competing ingredients. I try to speak, but the words don’t come, and my breathing is erratic with the effort not to cry.
“Catalina,” he says softly, brushing his lips against my ear. “Please. Stay. Help me and Calantes.”
I shake my head furiously, blinking away my tears. “Don’t call me that,” I gasp.
“Cat.” He tries again, wrapping an arm around me. “Please.”
“Rafael,” I say again. “I don’t belong here, the way you do. And I definitely don’t belong with the terrorists who shot Melody.”
Rafael bristles. “They are not terrorists,” he says, defensive. “They have the same goals as us. They—”
I cut him off gently. “They shot her,” I say again. “She’s dead, Rafael. She came here to help, too, and she’s gone.”
Rafael tightens his grip on my shoulder. “Melody, that was an accident, that was—”
“But she’s dead because you invited the narcos,” I interrupt him softly. “Think, Rafael. Is this the change you want? Is this your big dream?”
He looks uncertain, confused.
“I just want to do some good for my country.” He looks away. “Look at history, Cat. When is there ever change, without revolution? Without violence? This is the path I have to take.”
I struggle to find the right words. “That may be,” I say carefully. “But it’s not my path.”
“But my parents!” He pulls away from me picks up an empty glass jar from a bedside crate and heaves it across the tent. It strikes the canvas and slithers to the ground, where it breaks into three neat pieces. I wince at the sound and at the sudden display of rage. “You of all people, Cat. You should understand. I did it for them. For my mama, in prison, and papa, who’s dead.”
“I’m sorry about your parents,” I say, reaching for him again. “I truly am. But, Rafael—is this what they would want? Are you doing this for them? Or for you?”
He doesn’t turn towards me again. For a long time, we sit there, in silence. I stare at the pieces of broken glass and wonder if they could be glued back together, if it would be possible with the right supplies. I put my arm out for Rafael, but he once again pulls away, and this time I sense a difference in his body language.
“I think you should go,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it is firm.
I nod. “Yes,” I say. I rise, pausing to wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.
“Good-bye, Catalina.” His eyes meet mine.
“Good-bye, Rafael.”
I’m tempted to turn around again, to rush back into his arms, but I don’t. As I leave the village, I hear Anna Catalina crying in the distance, and I feel a rush of hope that makes me feel I have made the right choice.
...
I don’t see Rafael again. When I return to the village the following day, he is gone. Eduardo breaks the news to me, his expression sad.
“He left,” he says. His voice is regretful. “We are not sure where he has gone.”
He’s lying, trying to spare me. I think about asking more questions, seeing if he knows anything further, but instead I nod and turn away. With a deep breath, I walk toward the infirmary. I haven’t been since Melody’s death, sticking to Valentina’s tent and the base.
“Cat!” says Anna, her face full of surprise. “I did not think you would come back.”
“I just needed some time,” I say. I reach for my apron, still in its usual spot. It’s been laundered, but there are still bloodstains across the front. Some things you can’t erase, even with soap and boiling water.
“I am very glad you are here,” she says sincerely. She wraps me in a hug, and I press my cheek against hers.
“Me, too,” I say honestly. “I want to help.”
Epilogue
It took me a moment to spot my father at the Cleveland airport. Hands in his pockets, Gatsby notably absent, he stared at me for a moment and then broke into a run.
This was so unlike Dad that my first thought was, who is this lunatic running in my direction? But I didn’t have time to dwell on it as he enveloped me in a tight bear hug.
“Cat,” he whispered, cradling my head. “We’re going to be okay.”
We, not you. The significance of the words was not lost on me. “I love you, Dad.” I wound my arms around his neck the way I used to when I was a little girl.
“I’m so sorry, Caitlin.” His voice warbled with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said firmly, recalling my friends’ words about Melody and Calantes and saving the world. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
...
We’re living in California now. Dad got a new job at a little liberal-arts college less than a two-hour drive from Stanford. Once I start school, he says, I can visit as little or as often as I want, but at least he’ll be close by. It’s a comforting thought.
I have a new therapist out here. Strangely, I was sad to say good-bye to Dr. Shapiro, even with all his beard-stroking and drug-pushing. He wasn’t all bad, though I never admitted flushing the Abilify. I have confessed it all, however, to Dr. Elizabeth J. Lancaster, or Liz, as she insists I call her. Liz wears thick-framed plastic purple glasses and has long bangs that she’s always brushing out of her eyes. She’s in her early thirties and swears a lot during sessions. At first I thought this was a ploy to seem young and cool and gain my trust, but the more I get to know her, the more I think she just likes to use the F word a lot. She dismissed the bipolar diagnosis as a load of shit—her words, not mine—and put me on a basic antidepressant and an indefinite course of something called cognitive-behavioral therapy. I can’t tell if it’s helping with the post-traumatic stress yet, but it’s done wonders for my IBS.
I’m in regular touch with Margo and Taylor. We weathered the initial media storm together—everyone wanted to hear the exiting and tragic story of noble and altruistic North American teenagers whose comrade was shot in cold blood. No one, of course, wanted to hear the reality—to discuss Rafael or the villagers, the violence and the poverty, or Melody’s own dark past. It was bitterly frustrating, but I try to tell myself that before Melody, no one had even heard of Calantes, and now, at least, it’s had its fifteen minutes: it’s on the map in all its glory. We’ve got a Kickstarter campaign going, and it’s doing surprisingly well. We plan to send all the money to Anna, at the infirmary.
Margo and Taylor are doing well. After a breakthrough in family therapy, Margo has her sights on a Master’s degree in medical illustration. Her parents aren’t entirely thrilled, but she sprung it upon them shortly after
her early return from Calantes, and they were too grateful that she was alive to put up a fuss. Taylor was permitted re-entry to his program, and has been working hard to keep his grades up. He’s seeing someone seriously named David, who looks an awful lot like Eduardo, a fact Margo and I remain silent about. We’re all planning to meet up next summer. Margo said she’s never leaving Canada again, but then Taylor suggested San Francisco, and Margo said that was probably safe, being somewhat Canada-like in its politics, so we’ll see. I’ve suggested having a private memorial service for Melody, just the three of us. I tried to track down her family once I was settled here in California, but when I called the number I wheedled out of SWB administration, the man on the other end slammed the phone down without a word. I wonder if he blames me for Melody’s death. I also wonder if he is the man who haunted her nightmares. I settled on sending a letter to Melody’s sister to SWB, with the instructions that it be forwarded. I don’t know if she ever got it. As Liz tells me, not all stories can have a happy ending.
A couple of weeks ago, I got a message from Emerson, my old mentor from SWB. His term had ended around the time Melody died, and we’d never really said good-bye. He tracked me down on Facebook and suggested we meet for coffee—he lives within an hour’s drive of here. I’m starting to think he might want more than just coffee, and I can’t decide how I feel about that. Still, it was cathartic to spend time with someone who gets it, who understands. We spent hours just talking about the jungle, dissecting the flora and fauna, the sights and sounds. It’s funny; when I was in Calantes, the macaws, mosquitoes, and monkeys felt so foreign. I always felt like I stuck out, didn’t quite fit. But now that I’m back, there’s a part of me that knows the jungle, that lives and breathes the birdcalls and insect hums. It’s a part that will forever exist in the heart of the rainforest.
I miss my mom. Liz beams when I say this, because apparently it takes some people years and years of therapy to admit basic feelings toward their parents, but I don’t see what the big deal is. She was my best friend, and she’s gone. I compare it to losing an arm—eventually, you adapt and learn to live without it, and over time the pain subsides, but you’re never truly whole again, not really. You’re constantly reminded when you try to lift things or write or type or brush your teeth. That’s what it’s like without my mom. Yesterday, I went to the mall for some new sneakers, and I watched all the moms and daughters: fighting over hem lengths, laughing over ice cream, arguing about jean prices. The longing was so great, so suffocating, that I had to step outside, gasping for air. Liz says the pain is still raw, like a tooth that needs filling. She promises that she’s like a dentist, and things will get better over time. I told her I appreciate the metaphor, but I really hate the dentist, so could we skip the cavity references.
Liz says that I shouldn’t feel responsible for what happened with Mom, at the end. That I was brave, and free from blame of any kind. She convinced me to tell Dad, and I did, one night, on our new front porch. We sat on the two-seater swing together, and I told him everything. He cried a lot, but he wasn’t angry. I think he was ashamed that Mom had to come to me. Dad is full of guilt over his handling of my mom’s illness, as well as at his own romance with the Frito-Lay corporation and the impact it had on me. He has finally agreed to try therapy again, this time with an earnest-but-annoying little man named Brian, who wears the same long-sleeved plaid shirt every time I’ve seen him (does he have multiple shirts, or is he a laundry freak?). I’m still angry with Dad at times, but I’m working through it, with forgiveness and understanding on the horizon. As Liz reminds me, depression is an illness, and my father wasn’t trying to fail me. He was sick, too, and battling his own army of demons.
Liz and I talk a lot about grief, about its intersection with madness, and the many forms it may take. When you try to visualize the concept of grief before you’ve truly experienced it, you get the movie version. Black-clothed, somber-faced people crowded under black umbrellas at a graveside. In reality, grief is much more complicated. My dad’s grief sent him on a Gatsby-clutching downward spiral. Mine sent me to Calantes. Melody’s led her to Jesus, and, ultimately, to oblivion. And Rafael’s grief propelled him to betray not only the people he cared about but the very principles that made him who he was. Liz says I don’t have to forgive Rafael, but I do. When I talked to Tess about all this, she dug out an old book of poetry and introduced me to a beautiful poem by Emily Dickinson. In my darker moments, I turn to its words for comfort:
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes—
I wonder if It weighs like Mine—
Or has an Easier size.
Liz also supports my decision not to undergo genetic testing—for now. But we both agree, it’s something that I might consider later down the road. She hooked me up with a support group for potential BRCA carriers, and I actually go. It’s a relief to speak to people who really get it, and don’t just give you the Cancer Face. There’s no bullshit: all of us have moms who’ve gone through it.
“Cat?” My dad pokes his head into my room, and I look up from my laptop, blinking. I’m writing in an e-journal, one of the therapeutic exercises recommended by Liz that I was skeptical about initially, but ultimately find surprisingly cathartic.
I snap the screen shut. “What’s up?” I swivel my chair and face him, expectant.
“This came.” He waves an envelope, and I see the pink ribbon symbol on it. Involuntarily, I recoil.
“What is it?” I ask warily. He places it on the desk next to me, and I nudge it gingerly, as if it might detonate.
“It’s one of those fundraising things. You run to raise money, for breast cancer.”
“You’re going to run?” I look up him, amused. I rarely ever see my father walk, let alone run. He’s the sort who will circle a parking lot for the closest possible spot to the door.
“I thought maybe we could run. Together.”
I blink, surprised. I don’t run, either. But I can see he’s making an effort. We’ve made progress, these past months, but at times things are still strained. As Liz says, forgiveness is a journey.
“It’s not for months, so there would be lots of time to train,” he says tentatively. I can hear the hope in his voice, and I pick the envelope up, nodding. It is an olive branch, and I am a pacifist.
“Okay,” I say. “Yes. We’ll do it for Mom.”
Dad’s eyes are teary. “We’ll do it for all of us,” he says.
...
For months, I couldn’t bring myself to open my mother’s letter, the one she gave me before she died. I would pick it up, stare at my name in her neat cursive on the front, and place it back, unopened, on my bedside table. Some part of me intended to wait until the anniversary of her death, or her birthday, or else mine, but today, after running a mile with Dad, I just felt ready and I leaned over and tore into it.
There was a lot in there, a lot of love and sorrow and insight. “I know I’m supposed to think, oh, I wish I had traveled to Australia, or that I should have climbed Mount Everest,” she wrote. “But I don’t, because I’m not that person. Cancer doesn’t change who you are. I could only ever be the person I was, and I’m not a mountain climber. I was your Mom, and that was enough for me.”
Part of me wishes I’d read the letter before Calantes, Rafael, and Melody, all the rest of it, because maybe I would have thought twice about going. But it’s part of who I am, now, and perhaps that’s the person I really have always been. Maybe I am a mountain climber.
“Be happy, Caitlin,” my mom wrote at the end of the letter. “I don’t know what I believe, if anything, about what happens when we die. But I need to know, wherever I am, that you are happy. I need to know you’ll at least try.”
And so I’m trying. I cannot save the world, maybe, but I can try to save myself, to master my own grief. Each day, it gets a little easier. It’s a beautiful evening, here in su
nny California, all pink and golden skies and songbirds. I stand at the porch window and close my eyes, humming softly to myself.
Goodnight, Mom.
From Mrs. Marks’s Letter to Cat: Lessons for Life from
a Mother to Daughter
Always have dessert. A time may come when you are too sick to eat and enjoy that slice of chocolate mousse cake. Think of all the poor souls on the Titanic who declined their gâteau, only to drown in the freezing cold.
Don’t worry so much what other people are thinking. Most of the time, they’re so busy worrying about themselves that they don’t even notice you.
Try to do something you love. I know it sounds cliché, but all the money in the world won’t make you happy as an investment banker if what you really want to do is breed show cats.
Don’t spend too much time making the bed. I spent years fussing over throw pillows, and no one ever really saw them except for me and Dad, and I’m not sure he ever even noticed they were there.
If you get married, wear a really big wedding dress. It’s your one chance to wear a huge dress. There is a lifetime to wear those little slip dresses or whatever. Don’t blow your one night to be a princess.
Turn off your phone at dinner. I didn’t do this enough, and I regret it. Life is about the people you’re with at the moment, not about inane text messages or emails from the office.
Don’t be afraid to change your hair. I was too scared to ever change mine much, and then it all fell out. Go blonde, red, long, short. It’s just hair.
Appreciate how thin and beautiful you are now—don’t waste time moaning over five pounds or minor facial flaws. When you look back at pictures of yourself young, you won’t believe how lovely you were. Trust me.
Read a lot. It will make you a more interesting person, and it will take you places you may never get to (or want to) go.
Have children. They are the true love of your life.
Undiscovered Country Page 24
