Switched (4 page)

“Do you need help?” he asked me in perfect English. “Do you need a car?”

It was the first time a man had ever asked me what I needed. Men often told me what they could give me, but they never wondered if I wanted it. My hero who cared about my needs came in the form of a seventyish, rail-thin Spaniard with a thick head of gray hair, dressed in an orange tank top and cutoffs and who drove an ancient, white Renault mini-truck that was dented along its right side.

My needs. I needed so much. The list was miles long. But help and a car were a good start.

“Yes!” I yelled. “I need help and a car!”

I handed him the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it. He nodded. “Far away,” he said, pointing away from the airport as if the house was flying somewhere east of the island over the Mediterranean.

I took out my two twenties and waved them at him. He cocked his head to the side like he was weighing the forty dollars against the pain in the ass it was to be a Good Samaritan. He finally nodded, coming out on the side of cash.

He pointed at the trunk, and I hauled my luggage into the back. I took a seat next to my hero in the front, handing over the last of my money. My stomach growled, and I hoped the home exchange people had left me something in their kitchen.

We drove off into the pitch-black night. We were quickly out in the middle of nowhere, no city lights and no moon to guide us, just the single working headlight of the truck. The two-lane highway to the home exchange house was punctuated with a series of roundabouts. Five, six, seven, I lost count. It was like a maze that I would never have worked out on my own, and I realized with halfhearted fear, would never find my way back on my own.

After an hour, a light appeared ahead on a hill, illuminating castle walls. It was just like the pictures from the home exchange site. The house had a view of the castle walls and the ocean. We were nearly there, I figured. Finally, my journey was almost over, and I could enjoy my destination.

The truck stopped at a roundabout. “Up there,” my hero said. “Capdepera.” I looked up the hill. Situated in the shadow of the castle, Capdepera was a village with rows of medieval houses attached to each other. If Mallorca was a maze, Capdepera was the center of a web. Impossibly narrow streets wound against each other in no particular order up and down the steep hill on which the town was built.

“Which way is the house?” I asked the truck driver. He handed me back the scrap of paper with the address on it.

“Over there.” He pointed up the hill. “I live in Cala Ratjada. My wife is waiting for me.”

He didn’t exactly push me out, but he did open my door for me and nudge my shoulder. I climbed out, lugged my bags out of the truck, stood on the tiny sidewalk, and watched my hero drive off into the night.

It was deathly quiet on the street in the middle of the night. The only sound was my whimpering.

“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I’m going. I can’t carry all of my suitcases. I don’t speak Spanish. I have no money. I’m hungry,” I whined into the night. It was a long list of troubles.

I thought of Jackson in his five-star resort, sipping fruity drinks while getting a Shiatsu massage, and I felt a kernel of something I had lacked up until that point. Anger. For the first time, I was mad at Jackson. The love of my life had left me high and dry, and now I was stranded. With the anger came something more useful: resolve.

“I’m a successful businesswoman—at least I used to be—and I can manage being lost,” I said, only slightly concerned about my new habit of talking to myself.

I decided to leave the big suitcases behind and walked up the hill with my two carry-ons. I could just make out the street names, marked on small tiles on homes at each corner. After wandering for an hour, I was no closer to finding the house. The streets were completely abandoned. Everyone was at home in their beds, and I would have to knock on one of the doors for help if I didn’t find the house soon.

At least it was a safe place, I thought. No muggers or murderers. But, as if to prove me wrong at that thought, the shadows grew longer, and the night took on a more sinister vibe.
A woman alone at night in a strange, dark place.
It was the introduction to a lot of horror movies where the woman gets chopped up in a really painful way. I didn’t want to die like that, mutilated by Spanish mutants armed with chain saws. I wanted to die in my sleep at the age of one hundred and five on my private yacht.

I silently chastised myself. It was highly doubtful that there were chain saw–bearing Spanish mutants wandering the tiny streets of Capdepera. I swallowed my fear and continued walking up one street and down the next.

But my bravery was short-lived. My fear returned and with twice the strength when I heard sinister footsteps coming my way.

I sped up, walking quickly away from the sound of footsteps. But as I walked faster, so did whoever was pursuing me.

I broke into a trot, a bag slung over my shoulder and wheeling two carry-ons behind me, stumbling up and down the narrow sidewalks. Thank God I was wearing flats, I thought, as I ran for my life.

“Miss Gregory! Debra Gregory!” he called, running after me, quickly making up the distance between us. I threw down my carry-ons and ran full-out, resolute not to let him catch me.

Geez, he was determined. I guessed single girls wandering aimlessly at night in the tiny town were slim pickings. Maybe he thought he needed to get killin’ while the killin’ was good. I choked back panic, urging my legs to keep moving. I ducked into a side street and then into another.

“Debra Gregory!” he called again.

I had a
duh
moment. The kind of moment where you realize the sunglasses you’ve been searching for are on top of your head. The kind of moment where you realize you’ve driven three blocks with your coffee cup perched on top of your car. The kind of moment where you realize that the maniacal killer knows who you are and might not be a maniacal killer.

I stopped and turned around to face the dark figure. “Debra Gregory’s my name,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” he said, not huffing and puffing nearly as much as I was. “You are the American exchanging the house here, correct?”

“Um, yes,” I said.

He put his hand out. “I am Nataniel, your neighbor.” His smile was warm and genuine. He was honestly delighted to meet me. Brown eyes were framed by a kind face. Handsome. I took his hand and shook it.

“I’m lost.”

“I will help you,” he said. It was my second miracle of the day, the second man to offer me help.  He fetched my carry-ons and motioned for me to follow him. We didn’t walk far. It turned out the house was only half a block away. I must have passed it three times in my wanderings.

The keys were under a plant by the front door as promised. I unlocked the door, and Nataniel went in first to show me the way.

“I live next door,” he explained. “I have been here many times for dinner.”

I took stock of my surroundings. The house was dark.  It looked smaller than in the photos. Nataniel flipped a switch above the stove to illuminate the kitchen. Dim light threw shadows on a greasy countertop.

“This is my phone number,” he said, writing a number on a piece of paper. “If you need any more help.”

He smiled and handed me the paper. It was time to say goodbye, but he hovered like he was unsure if he should leave me alone. I was unsure, too. In the dark little house so late at night, I felt a rush of loneliness. What had I been thinking, going around the world to be alone? How would being alone in a strange place make me feel better about not being loved?

I felt a tear threatening to pop out of my eye. I didn’t want my new neighbor to see me crying. I didn’t want him to think I was a coward. “Thank you for helping me, Nataniel,” I said, shaking his hand.

I escorted him to the door and locked it behind him.

I shuddered.

Being brave sucks. Being adventurous sucks. As far as I was concerned, Lewis and Clark could go straight to hell.

I listened for the sound of Nataniel’s footsteps returning, but the night was silent, and he had obviously gone home to bed. I was alone in a strange place, and the only light was the dim bulb over the stove in the kitchen.

“So first thing, Debra, you should turn on the lights,” my voice told me, booming in the stone house. I immediately found three switches and breathed a slight sigh of relief as the dining room was bathed in light. I couldn’t figure out how to turn on the overhead light in the kitchen, and for such a small house there was an overabundance of dark corners, but I threw caution to the wind in order to find something to eat and drink.

I was starving. I was thirsty. I hoped they had margarita mix.

I opened the refrigerator and jumped back as the stink of rotting food hit my nostrils. My gag reflex reared its ugly head, and I pushed it down with every bit of my physical powers. Blech. Up until that point, I didn’t know chicken could turn green. Fruit had deflated, sticking to the fridge’s shelves in moldy lumps. I shook a milk carton and it clonked with the sound of chunks within.

I couldn’t believe they had left old, disgusting food in the refrigerator. Not only would I not be able to eat, but I would have to clean out the fridge with bleach. These people needed a Vacation 101 class. My only happy thought was that they were probably trashing Jackson’s condo, which was sweet karma.

Despite fighting off dry heaves, my stomach growled in protest. I found a sealed jar of green olives and a can of Coke in the refrigerator and grabbed them.

“Soup’s on,” I said to the empty kitchen. I found a glass on a shelf, but when I went to pick it up; I discovered that it was stuck in a gelatinous puddle. “Oh, come on!” I shouted. “Nobody is this gross!”

I took a closer look at my surroundings. The butcher-block counters were streaked in grease and mold. The stove was filthy with crusted-on food. I opened a drawer and discovered scraped-up pans and mountains of crumbs in the corners.

The place was a dump. A dump in paradise.

I clutched on to the jar of olives and the Coke, and I left the kitchen before I could catch a wicked case of dysentery. Because most predicaments can be cured with food and television, I sat on the couch and tried to figure out the remote control. Twenty minutes later I was sitting back, halfway through the olives and watching
Full House
in German.

Whether it was the infusion of John Stamos in my life or the sugar from the Coke, I was feeling better. By the time the show ended and an Italian game show began (they had some funky international dish service); I had relaxed slightly and was ready for a shower and bed. Besides, I reminded myself, I hadn’t seen the whole house. Maybe the upstairs was gorgeous. Maybe the upstairs had the view of the castle and the sea like they promised.

I pressed my purse to my chest and dragged the carry-ons behind me. I slowly climbed the narrow stone steps to the second floor. Upstairs I found three small bedrooms and two bathrooms. The beds were stripped down to the mattresses and no matter how much I searched, I couldn’t find sheets or blankets.

In times like these, completely alone in a strange place in the middle of an island in the middle of the sea in a foreign land, with filth all around me, no English-language television, no wireless connection, and no sheets, there was only one thing to do.

Ambien.

I took a shower with my sandals on, careful not to touch the shower curtain, which had more mold than plastic. The handheld shower wand was clogged, squirting out water from only a couple little holes, but I managed to wash my hair and clean my body. I felt a million times better.

I emptied a carry-on and laid out my clothes over the mattress to act as a buffer between me and it. I lay down on top of the clothes and covered myself with two sweaters. I realized most of my luggage was sitting on the side of the road somewhere just asking to be stolen, but I couldn’t help that now. The best thing for me was unconsciousness.

The Ambien was a miracle worker. Within fifteen minutes, I was practically comatose, sleeping the sleep of the dead. No dreams. No stress. No dwelling over poor choices.

***

I woke like an angel, serene and bathed in heavenly sunlight, which streamed in through the windows. Everything looks better in the daytime, even when you’re on a sheet-less mattress in a filthy medieval house.

And so what if it was dirty? Who cared if I didn’t have English-language television? I was in paradise! I was a lady adventurer with most likely a view of a castle and the sea, if I could ever find which window I could see that view from. From the bedroom window, from my vantage point in bed, I could only see the street. No matter. All was possible in the morning after a good night’s sleep. All was clean and new.

That is until a mouse scampered across my face.

I heard it before I saw it, its little mice feet struggling to run over my thick sweaters. And then there was the
eep eep
sounds it made. At first, I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was the rustle of the clothes under me. Then I came nose to nose with it.

It stopped halfway across my face and inspected me. I started to scream, silently at first, and then my vocal cords kicked into high gear and I let out a long scream like an air raid siren, which got louder and louder as the reality of having vermin squatting on my left cheek hit me.

They say that bad things come in three’s. Maybe so. In my case, I had lost count.

I screamed a long time, but the mouse didn’t move. It was as if it was attracted to the sound I was making, like I was the Pied Piper or something. Finally out of breath, with the mouse firmly planted on my face, I bolted upright in bed with a violent burst of freak-out. I flung my arms wildly and closed my eyes.

The arm waving did the trick. Finally, thankfully, the mouse scattered, jumping off my face, the bed, and running out of the room and into the hallway.

I held my breath. I had mouse cooties on me, and those were some of the worst cooties to have. I tried to remember what diseases mice carried. I didn’t know the names, but they were bad diseases. Bad mice-cootie diseases.