Without Borders (4 page)

Annie started with her rolling carry-on bag, grouping the items together by function and placing each set in its own pile. She moved on to her suitcase, propping the lid against the bed as she pulled out armfuls of shirts, skirts, shorts, and underwear. Finally, she emptied her cross-shoulder bag, making a careful spread of her smallest but most valuable items. Money. Her passport. Medications. Baby wipes. Chapstick. The small photo album she put together before she left. When she finished, her belongings formed a twisted obstacle course. She stared at it, shifting a present from Mike between her palms.

The Pink Stringer—a stun gun, disguised as two flamingo-pink tampons and held together in the center by a mish-mash of buttons and wires. Just over two weeks ago, Mike had shown up at her apartment, presented her with this monstrosity of a going away present, and dumped her without explanation. As soon as the door slammed shut behind him, Annie threw the tampon gun in the garbage, but the next morning she fished it out and added it to her growing packing list.
It
is
the jungle. Safety first and all that.

“I really think I need all of this, Mari.” She stared at the piles and lines. A month was a long time, and she couldn’t understand how she was supposed to fit everything into a single bag. “And my itinerary. Your mom said I would get an itinerary for the trip before we leave.”

Trapped on the bed, Marisol shook her head. “You have a copy of your passport, yes?”

Annie nodded.

“Take the copy. Your real passport stays here.” She gestured toward the dark blue booklet, and Annie handed it over. Marisol dangled over the edge of the mattress and pointed toward Annie’s supply of sunscreen and bug spray. “You can share these things with me. And you do not need this.” She grabbed Annie’s homemade first aid kit—a mix of ibuprofen, neon Band-Aids, a thermometer, and alcohol wipes. “I am a nurse. Felipe is a doctor. We have many medical supplies.”

Annie’s hands clenched at her sides, but the oblong box took up a lot of space, so she nodded and handed it over. This went on, Marisol dictating what Annie should keep and what she should leave behind. In the end, she found room for four shirts, a pair of pants, two pairs of shorts, and a handful of underwear. She was allowed to take her own shampoo and body wash, but Marisol insisted she put some in travel-sized bottles and leave the rest behind.

“But this won’t last a month,” Annie insisted.

Marisol pried a king-sized bottle of shampoo from her hands. “You do not want to carry this many heavy things.”

Annie squeezed her photo album, journal, and the electrified tampons into the front pocket of the pack, not giving Marisol time to object. “And this stuff? I really need it for my class.” She held up a drawstring bag. Inside was a model of the female reproductive system, complete with removable ovaries. She’d begged it off of a doctor in her dad’s building. The bag also held the flashcards she’d made to help her learn the proper Spanish terms for the body parts inside.

Marisol pulled the model out and stared, her mouth falling open.

“What?” Annie stuffed it into the bag. “You’re a nurse. You’ve seen vaginas before!”

Marisol laughed. “
Mi Anita
. You are thinking too advanced for this class. You need to explain the birds and the bears to them. That you get a baby from sex, not from
Dios
.”

A prickle of anxiety rose in Annie’s throat. She pushed it down, reminding herself of the hours she had spent preparing for the sex ed class. “Birds and the
bees
,” she corrected.

“Birds, bears, bees, vaginas, condoms. All of it. But we will put your plastic woman in the medical supplies, okay?”

Annie shook her head, anxiety still swarming. “I have to practice my lecture. I need it.” She filled the last of her space with the model and a swimsuit. Everything else, more than half of what she originally packed, would stay in Marisol’s room.

“And the itinerary?”

“What is that?”

“A schedule.”

Marisol shook her head, her hair rippling around her shoulders. “Here.” She pointed to her temple.

“Really? Don’t you think you need—”

“It will be like this: clinic, boat, clinic, boat. Then a rest in the middle, where we will drink lots of
cervezas
and get new supplies. Then boat, clinic, boat, clinic. Until we are home.”

“A rest in the middle?” This was news to Annie. “Where? For how long?” She couldn’t imagine where or how they would find a place to relax in the middle of the rainforest.

“Sahsa,” Marisol said. “I am so excited for you to see.” She grinned and stretched across the bed, her brown legs crossed at the ankles. “It is where Felipe and I were born.”

A twinge of excitement settled in Annie’s stomach as she stuffed her “extra” belongings into her suitcase. Marisol’s past had always fascinated her—so much drama, travel, and upheaval in such a short span of time.

Footsteps came from the hallway, the wood floor groaning with each step. Felipe ambled by the open door and down the stairs. Even though she’d been deep in a drunken haze at El Bar, Annie remembered exactly what he smelled like. The sweet citrus of the shots lingering with a hint of something spicy.

“…I think so, yes? Annie?” Marisol’s voice brought Annie back to herself.

“Sure,” she answered, not knowing what she was agreeing to. “Hey, why didn’t you come get me at the airport?” She forced her voice into a calm, everything-is-perfectly-fine nonchalance.

Marisol sat up tall. “Felipe said he would do it. I think—”

“Mari, I was expecting
you
.” Annie blinked and looked at her friend. Anger and shame burned in her voice, cutting through her detached ruse.

“I gave Felipe my phone. You made it to the hotel safely. What is wrong,
mi Anita
?” Marisol twisted the bracelet dangling from her right wrist. From a distance, it looked like an assortment of shiny red and purple beads. Up close, the diabetes alert tag was obvious.

“He really didn’t tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“Never mind.” Annie stood and pulled the zipper closed on her suitcase, sealing off the belongings that would stay behind.

Marisol caught her arm. Her eyes narrowed to slits, but mischief oozed from her features. “Sit. Tell.” She pointed at the bed.

Annie flopped onto the mattress. Her face scorched as she spilled the entire story.

It was three minutes before Marisol stopped giggling long enough to get out a response. “He probably liked it.”

“He didn’t. Trust me.”

“He had a big crush on you before, when we lived in Missouri.” Marisol bit down on the “ss” sound, making Annie’s home state sound far more exotic than it was. Of course, it had been Marisol’s home state too, once upon a time. During that year she had been in and out of the hospital, being trained and retrained on the use of her shiny, new insulin pump. “He probably thought his dreams were coming true.”

“It was horrible. I can’t even look at him.”

“It is fine.” Marisol patted her arm. “He has had much worse from the Americans.”

“Really?” Annie stared at the ceiling. “Worse than getting drunk and mauling him in public?”

“
Sí
. In the last group, one of the American doctors told him he is not a real doctor because he did not go to medical school for enough years. The time before that, someone refused to eat anything but peanut butter.”

“So?”

“Felipe is allergic to peanuts.” She shook her head. “He is always trying to tell our mother she should stop with the poverty tours. But she says we need the donations.”

“We’re here to help. Why wouldn’t he want help?”

Marisol shrugged and picked at an invisible thread on her plain green bedspread. “I thought you were here for a letter of recommendation?”

Annie looked at her hands and guilt sneaked its way up her chest. “It’s complicated.”

• • •

The door stood open, but Felipe knocked on the frame anyway. Annie lay sprawled across the bed, open mouthed and unmoving on top of the covers. “
Buenas
,” he tried before raising his voice. “Annie? Are you awake?” He took a step into the room and called her name again.

She shot up, blinking and rubbing her eyes. “I’m awake. I’m awake.” She whipped her head around the room.

“Do you know where you are?”

A fleeting moment of silence passed, and she frowned before answering. “Nicaragua?”

“
Sí.
Is everything okay? You have been asleep for a long time.”

A tangled knot of curls sat on top of her head, twisting in every direction around her face. Her t-shirt rumpled up, exposing her stomach. He knew he should look away, but his eyes wouldn’t budge.

“Did I miss something important?” she asked.

“Lunch. And dinner.”

“Oh.” Her brown eyes were still foggy with sleep. “I have some granola bars. I’ll be okay.”

Marisol’s voice trickled in from the hallway. “’Lipe, take her to Alma’s with you. She needs real food.”

He rubbed his temple. “Come.” He gestured toward the stairs. “There is no arguing with my sister.” And even if there were, Felipe wasn’t sure he could bring himself to try. Not with that sliver of Annie’s skin staring back at him.

Ten minutes later, they walked along the red dirt road in silence. The thin, finger-like leaves of mango trees stirred around them, tossed by the wind wafting in from the ocean. The town was quiet at this time of day—too late for dinner, too early for parties. But Felipe knew soon it would bustle with activity as the locals and a handful of tourists took to the bars lining the main street.

Within a few minutes, he and Annie arrived at a small restaurant down the block. Felipe took a deep breath as he pulled out her chair, hoping to relax into the smell of garlic and searing hot cooking oil. It seeped from every corner of the narrow dining room. Always had.

He’d been coming here since he first moved to Puerto as a gangly ten-year-old, still acclimating to his recent adoption, still mourning his biological mother. Even then, Alma always found an extra bottle of Coca-Cola to spare, placing it in front of her sullen young neighbor in exchange for a smile. After the first year or two, the smiles came without prompting, and for a short stint as a teenager he had worked in the back of the restaurant, washing dishes and plucking the feathers from recently decapitated chickens.

Felipe stared at the painting jutting from the wall above Annie’s head, a formal portrait of Daniel Ortega raising a fist in front of a fading red star. It was the first new painting to dot the walls in years. Across the table, Annie confronted the tattered paper menu, and her forehead creased as if the restaurant had fifty gourmet items instead of three semi-palatable options.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No, I can read Spanish better than I can speak it.” Her face reddened when she finally looked at him. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about the other night. I drank too much.” Her voice faded out as she stared at her hands. “I didn’t recognize you. Obviously.”

Felipe released a deep, unsteady breath. His eyes moved between the menu in his hands and the bow of Annie’s lips. His mind jumped to that moment he’d nearly let his mouth sink into hers. “We will forget it.”

She nodded.

Silence.

“What’s this?” Annie pointed at a line on the menu.

“You do not want that.”

“But what does it say?”

“I think you call it a guinea pork.” His muscles tensed in anticipation of a tantrum. He’d been down this road with a few Americans before.

Her eyes narrowed. “Guinea pig?”

His embarrassment flared again, but he pushed it away. “Guinea pig.” He watched her from the corner of his eye. Waiting.

“You’re right. I don’t want that.” Her words lifted at the ends with muffled laughter.

He let out a breath, eager to change the subject. “Where did you learn Spanish?”

“High school. I took three classes, but I guess they weren’t great. I can’t understand anything.” Her voice held a tinge of desperation, and Felipe understood. Even after living in a bilingual household and spending an entire year in the States, English escaped him now and again.

“By the end of the trip, you will understand more.” He almost believed the words as they left his lips. Most of the Americans gave up after their first couple of days. Instead, they spoke slower and louder to the people who didn’t understand.

Alma interrupted with a nod and a smile that left crinkles in every nook of her weather-worn face. He stood and hugged her.

“Who is the pretty
Americana
?” the old woman whispered against his cheek.

Felipe shook his head, suddenly aware that he’d never brought anyone but family on a visit to this place. “She is here for the brigade,” he said. He kissed Alma’s cheeks and placed his usual order, ignoring the questions in the woman’s raised eyebrows.

They both turned to Annie, and she made an earnest attempt to order, rubbing her forehead between words. It wasn’t perfect, but she managed to ask for the chicken soup.

“Good choice,” he said as Alma shuffled into the kitchen.

Annie covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe how horrible I sound.”

Felipe chuckled, and she slouched further in her chair. “You are trying.” He reached across the table and pulled her hands away. His voice softened as his fingers tangled with hers. “That is better than most.”

Her eyes darted away from him, and Felipe dropped her hands, his throat dry. He stood and scrambled behind the counter, desperate for something to soothe his nerves. He poked his head into the dim hallway. “
Doña, dos Modelos
,” he called out as he shoved aside the smudged glass doors of the refrigerator and plucked two amber beers from inside.

Annie’s eyes were wide. “Is it okay? I mean, I don’t want to end up in Nicaraguan jail. Especially if it’s anything like Mexican jail.” She didn’t touch the beer he sat in front of her.

Felipe took several long swigs of the fizzy liquid. “You have been in Mexican jail?”

Annie’s cheeks pinked. “No, but you hear stuff sometimes.”

“You know someone who has been in Mexican jail?”