The Summer We Came to Life (24 page)

KENDRA WAKES ME EARLIER THAN MY TEQUILA-laden brain would have preferred.

“What exactly is it that you have in mind?” I grumble.

“A hike. Sightseeing. You tell me. My plane doesn't leave till afternoon.”

That is how I find myself hiking through a cloud forest.

Kendra is a bundle of glee. She hikes ahead of me, briskly, in awe of the landscape. “It is so green. It's like the world is trying to make up, in one day, for eight years of New York's infinity of concrete.”

She stops to caress a tree trunk completely covered in green moss, decorated with twisting vines sprouting big, fat, moist leaves of green.

She's right. It's greener than pea soup, greener than Ireland. Actually, green is the
only
color. There isn't even much brown to speak of. The whole forest is like a unicorn fantasy movie, done up to perfection by a Hollywood set designer with a bucket of glittery green paint.

Kendra spins around. “God, I've really been missing the point, haven't I?”

I rub my throbbing head. At least there's no sun. The tops of the trees disappear into mist. “Of what?”

Kendra laughs. “Of everything!” From the ground, she picks up a palm frond larger than my head. “Maybe I should just quit my job and live your life.”

I groan, remembering Isabel's similar statement. But the groan is a reflex. I'm swelling with some other feeling at Kendra's words. What is it? Pride? Trust is the closest thing I can think of. The feeling of calm that comes from simple trust in oneself. It feels like making the right decision, choosing the right path, returning to a remote location without a map. I take a deep breath, my headache burning off like fog at the beach.

Kendra tickles me with the palm frond. “You're fearless, girl. Teach me.”

Poof, the calm is gone. “I'm not fearless.”

Kendra drops the frond but continues to smile. “Oh yeah? What are
you
afraid of, Sam?”

 

We pushed it with the hike. I made the cab wait out front while we dashed inside to grab Kendra's suitcases and pack her muddy sneakers into plastic bags.

Now I'm watching her pay her exit taxes at the airport. It's hard to see Kendra go—disappear into customs with one last wave—forcing me into alone time with my thoughts.

Kendra was a perfect sieve, helping me filter and sort through my decision. But now—whew!—thoughts bounce around in my head like roiling soup molecules. It's like I spilled a puzzle on the floor, some pieces joined, some aching to combine, but my eyes can only flit over them, no clue where to start. And there's a timer ticking away. I'm sure I'll speak to Remy soon, presumably eager to spend the rest of my life with him.

Now my stomach's the one that's churning. What did Lynette tell me once? The right decision makes your heart race, but leaves your stomach out of it. Whatever. It's probably the hangover. And my heart
is
racing.

I turn finally to exit the airport, leaving the cool, clean building for the muck and the heat. I start sweating immediately but with the crawling sensation of a cold sweat, a fever.

In the cab I take out Mina's journal, tucked securely into my backpack. I flip through the pages, desperate for solace. At the end I notice all the blank pages. I can't help but find this sad—the missing pages of Mina's life with us—as I run my fingers over her final entries.

 

…a long and happy life, Samantha Wheland…if it's the last thing I do.

 

I put my fingers to my lips, chew on a fingernail, then sigh and fish a pen out of my backpack.
“Forced me to see my choices as my own,”
Kendra said.
“Apart from anyone else in the world.”

I make a list.

 

Pros

Successful

Wealthy

Handsome

Instant life

 

Cons

Controlling

Arrogant

Flirt

Makes me insecure

 

I bite my lip until it stings, considering the list. Every positive has its negative counterpart. A flip side of every coin. It's
true of all people, I suppose. Boyfriends have always admired my conviction and bemoaned my stubbornness. “You don't get one without the other, m'dear,” I've always told them. With passion comes rage; with intensity comes anxiety; with fire comes chaos. One particularly fiery relationship ended with me laundry-listing my complaints: his infidelity, gambling, temper. He looked up at me and grinned. “You're no walk in the park, baby.”

I look at the list again. Do these sound like good husband qualities to you? Isabel's voice rings out, the sound of the ocean behind it. I remember something else Kendra said. Lazy and in a hurry. A dangerous combination.

The cab screeches to a stop, knocking the journal to the dirty floor. I pay the cabbie three times what he asks for, and rescue the journal. I tuck it in my backpack and drag my other suitcase out the door as the guard opens the gate.

Oh my God!

Remy steps out from the shadows of my doorway. Remy in the middle of dusty hot Honduran concrete, in a tailored linen suit and shiny shoes.

“Finally,” he says.

My suitcase smacks the concrete. It isn't a daydream. He's real! The list evaporates from my mind. I run and tackle him, jump into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist.

“How did you—” I want to ask, but he buries me in a hot scratchy kiss.

“I get what I want,” he says, and squeezes my waist. He sets me down and puts a hand on my lower back to steer me toward the door.

I open the door with trembling fingers and Remy follows with my suitcase. The instant the door closes, he peels off my shirt. He takes my face in both his hands and brings my eyes to his. “You are impossible, Samantha Wheland. Making me follow you to this ridiculous place.” He kisses me angrily. “I love you.”

I inhale sharply.

Remy falls to his knees and buries his face in my navel. He kisses my belly button and either side of my hips. He runs his tongue down the middle of my stomach. He unzips my jeans and plants a kiss just above the rim of my panties. I'm melting to the floor as Remy undoes my bra. He positions me on his lap and I squeeze my legs around his hips again as Remy stands up and carries me into the bedroom. He flings me onto the bed, rips off my jeans and panties in one fell swoop, then steps back to study me.

“God, look at you, how you turn me on. You make me feel young.”

And then he pounces on me, working his tongue over every inch of my skin, sucking in some places so hard there will be marks. The linen suit is sweaty and rough against my inflamed skin. I almost squeal when he bites down on my nipple, but in the same instant he cups his hand between my legs. He lowers his head to kiss each of my hipbones. And then my inner thighs. As his hot breath and soft lips take the place of his fingers on my pulsing skin, I hug my thighs around his head and hear myself groan, “I love you, I love you, I love you….”

IT'S DARK, AND REMY'S NOT IN BED. THERE'S A TV on in the living room. I don't have a TV. I sit up and grab a robe.

Remy is sitting in a plastic chair with his laptop, sipping ice water and watching some old French movie. When I tiptoe over and kiss the top of his head, he reaches around and squeezes my ass. Then he points at the screen and laughs. No subtitles.

“I'm starving!” I say. “Should we go have a nice dinner to celebrate?”

Remy doesn't look up. He shakes his head and waves a hand at me. “Where would we have a nice dinner in this country, ma chérie? Can you cook something? I saw there is chicken in the congélateur.” He puts a finger to his lips as if I were about to speak. He points at the movie again and laughs. “Hilare! And there is some, eh, garlic and pasta. You could cook this.”

Yeah, or you could. Sigh. He did come to see me, after
all. He came all this way, as a surprise. It's so romantic. Or arrogant, Isabel would say.

On my way to the kitchen, I see a bottle of vodka on the counter. I take a closer look at Remy's glass of water. Remy always orders vodka on the rocks. He will fill your life's bowl, a voice says in my head.

Seemingly sensing what is about to come out of my mouth, Remy says, “Come here, baby,” and pats his lap. He sets down his drink so I can sit. Then he reaches into my robe and fondles my breast. I feel him get hard beneath my legs.

“Mmm,” Remy growls, and finally he takes his eyes off the movie.

 

After another round of melting, pounding sex, I curl up next to him in bed. He shifts away.

“It's too hot, baby.”

I forgot that he always says that.

“So, how long can you stay?” My head is piling up with activities we can do together. We can go hiking in the cloud forest, horseback ride on the beaches near La Ceiba. Maybe we can take a canoe into La Mosquitia. I still have a few days until the residency. Maybe I could even start a few days late.

“Just tonight, chérie. My work. I cannot be away from Paris now. We leave in the morning.”

“You came all this way to woo me for one night?” Did he just say we?

“To woo you? You are too adorable, chérie. I came to rescue you, princesse. To take you back with me. I thought about it—you don't have to do this residency thing now. We'll get your work into all the galleries in France. My friends own them. And you'll have plenty of time to paint, or whatever you call it, at my house. It's not like you'll have to worry about money anymore, angel.” He tweaks my chin.
“You can have everything you want.” He kisses my forehead and then my nose. I turn my head before he reaches my lips.

“You want me to leave with you tomorrow? To Paris? Have the wedding there and stay there?”

I try to imagine a fancy wedding in Paris, the girls in French couture, holding lilies. But for some reason, all I can think about is Cesar Guerra. Of course that makes me think about Jesse and now the image of Arshan's naked butt pops into my mind.

“Oh my God, I have to tell you,” I say suddenly. I can't help myself, I have to share it. “This morning we caught Arshan and Jesse having sex!”

“Which one is Jesse?”

“Isabel's mom. Isn't that awesome? Gross, but awesome, right?”

Remy groans. “I think I would have to agree with gross.”

I laugh and throw my arm across his chest. He nudges me away again. “It's five hundred degrees in this room without air-conditioning, baby.”

For some reason, now his first comment annoys me more. “Wait? Don't you think that will be us in twenty years? Still madly in love and doing it in the afternoon?”

Remy laughs again and plants a soggy kiss on my cheek. “Your idealism is adorable.”

Uh-oh, I'm hearing voices again. You will give him your youth, your idealism, and your capacity for hope.

Remy is looking at me, studying me like a Sunday buffet. He touches my hair, traces my freckles. He glides a finger between my breasts. He grabs my hair, pulls my head back and digs his teeth into my neck.

Electricity courses the length of my body, and I automatically give into the heat that threatens to burn me up. I try to imagine a happy life wrapped in that embrace. Instead, I feel a surge of panic and a premonition of regret.

“Remy.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Remy says, biting my shoulder.

“No, Remy, stop.”

“Mmm, you don't tell me to stop.” He growls and thrusts his fingers between my legs. The sensation is overpowering. Delicious and searing. Dangerous. Everything you could ever want. In a lover.

“Remy, stop!” I pull away, panting, and scoot to the corner of the bed.

Remy looks shocked. Then he smiles. The smile that melts me like Hershey's Kisses in the summer sun. The danger is gone, and there is safety enveloped in that smile and in those eyes. Eyes that have seen it all, seen a decade and a half more than mine.

I feel I'm going to scream. Shriek.

“I need—” I put my hands out instinctively, defending the buffer of space between us. “I need a minute. I don't feel well. I'm going to get some air. Just—” I inch away from him like a scuttling crab, claws hovering ridiculously between us “—stay.”

 

The steamy air outside is flirting with cold. It feels heavenly. The chill scrubs my skin of the itchy heat from the bedroom. My heart stops thundering against my rib cage, and settles into a distant drumming. Just a second. I need a second to think. My brain's doing that spinning thing and there is the definite impression of bathwater being sucked down a drain. I wish I could roller-skate.

What is my problem? Just say yes. To all of it.

“Yes.” I whisper it, trying it out on the city. She blinks, streetlights flickering, but doesn't answer.

Just say yes, Samantha, and everything will click into motion. There will be a wedding. And children. Every burden will be shared, some will simply vanish. There will be money and plans and routine. I will be legitimized. I will
be successful. I will be loved. There will be sex and kissing and a succession of “good morning, honey” and “good night, baby.” No more worrying or wondering if you'll find the one, because you'll be one of the ones that chose. Done. Just like that. Just accept and it will be done—the deciding—done and over.

So why am I crying?

The balcony railing heats up under the death grip of my fingers. I hang on tight but drop to my knees. I peer through the balcony bars, a comforting prison for my rushing thoughts. Mina left me. My mother left me. I have the vacation club, sure. But really, I take care of myself. It's a fact I've always prided myself on, but now the thought is exhausting. All these years, all these adventures. All the new decisions to be made, the arrangements, new people, new places—all of it alone. The weight of it—the weight of being responsible for my life story, my make or break success as an artist, my aging eggs, society's expectations—makes me feel like ostrich-ing out. Head in the sand. What if I can't do it? What if I end up a failure? What if I end up old, unsuccessful and unlovable?

I let go of the railing and lean my forehead against the bars, my eyes squeezed shut. Like Kendra said, we were going to have to start making decisions like this—all alone. This thought makes the air temperature feel another ten degrees colder. A breeze kicks up on the balcony and spits dirt across my bare legs, scratchy leaves scurrying across my thighs like mice, catching under my knees.

My eyes fly open. Caught under my left knee is a maple leaf. An orange and red and yellow maple leaf, a sunrise in the middle of the night. When I make to grab it, a breeze snatches it up and sends it over the edge of the balcony. No! I shoot my hand out between the metal and glue my forehead to the bars, watching it flutter away.

A rustling tugs at my back. I turn to see the wind whipping up a minicyclone on the balcony. I gasp. A small tornado
of maple leaves dances beside me. I watch them—yellow and orange and dazzling red—as they spin round and round together, seemingly laughing. Around they go, shifting with the breeze, colliding and rising. As I watch it my tears turn to laughter. The breeze is warm now and it encircles my shoulders like the familiar hug of a childhood best friend. The twister moves closer, a spinning top that pauses next to my knees. With a jitter, the leaves drop into my lap. I laugh aloud and shake my head. Then I look up at the stars above the city.

“Thanks, Em.”

I pick out a red leaf and twirl it between my fingers, smiling.

The balcony door opens, making me jump.

Remy steps onto the patio with one hand behind his back. Without a word, he kneels down beside me. He holds out a green velvet box. I am transfixed. Remy seems to notice for the first time I'm not wearing the cheap ring he gave me. His confidence wobbles, but then he smiles. Still holding the leaf between my fingers, I watch him open the box to reveal an obscene yellow diamond glinting in the streetlight.

I'm an idiot. I'm a complete and utter idiot. But here it goes—“Remy, I want to marry you—”

Remy beams, slips the ring from its perch.

“For all the wrong reasons,” I continue.

He frowns. I inhale. Steady does it.

“What you're offering me—” I can't look him in the eyes “—what an offer.” I focus on the leaf, rubbing the smooth stem between my thumb and forefinger. “It's everything anybody should want. Security. A family. Fame and fortune.” Tears. No. “And a lifetime of getting to say ‘I'm married, I was chosen, I'm not alone.'”

Remy doesn't say anything right away. He watches the leaf, too. When he finally speaks, his voice is sad and hag
gard. “Those are very good reasons, Samantha. What other reasons are there?”

“Fear. If I married you, it would be because I'm afraid I'm running out of time. Because I'm afraid that I'm not enough on my own or that I can't achieve my dreams for myself.”

Remy inches closer to me. “I have worked hard for many years for everything I have. Why not let me pull you up to that level?”

“It's not the same level without the work.”

Remy smiles, but now his smile is cold. “You are too smart for your own good, you know that, princesse? Come here.” He grabs me before I see it coming. He wraps me up in his arms and they are so warm. He whispers into my ear, “I love you, Samantha Wheland. I swear that I will do right by you and your dreams.”

I freeze at those words, and feel the weight of sixty years bear down on me. I see Jesse's gray eyes meet Cesar Guerra's in a crowded nightclub, Lynette's red dress moving through a sea of screams. I see Arshan throw a rose on Maliheh's grave.

Now the tears come, hot and wet on my cheeks and spilling over onto Remy's shoulder. I know how cold it will feel outside his embrace. But for once I have clarity.

Kendra was wrong. I was wrong. We don't make decisions alone and apart from the world. I am more than my name and my individual lifetime. I am the daughter of a mother who left and a father who never forgave me for it. But I am a product of Jesse's laughter in the face of sorrow, of Lynette and Cornell's struggle to love against all odds. I will affect Arshan's battle with fate. I am indebted to the esteem Kendra holds me in. To the time that Isabel has invested in me. To the vows that Mina made me take.

We are all entangled like a field of grass, like water molecules in a cresting wave, like lines in a poem.

I am indebted to myself, to the gift of life that I won back.
I will have to look at myself in the mirror of this world I chose. I am responsible now for the outcome. I will be worth only as much I believe I am.

“I'm so sorry, Remy.” I kiss his forearm even as he stiffens and starts to edge away. “But I have to do right by myself.” Remy drops his arms. I straighten up to face the chill.

Now it's time to stand up and walk to the door. Come on, Samantha. Get up. Get. Up.

I slide open the balcony door and see my cell phone inside on the chair. “And besides, after the residency, I'm moving to New York. Kendra, Isabel and I are going to have a baby.”