Without Borders (9 page)

“What is this?” Annie rubbed her fingers along the hard piece of fruit. A few rough brown lines cut though its apple green skin.

“Coconut.” Felipe held out his hands. She stood and dropped it in his palm. With a small pocket knife, he bore an oblong hole in the top. “Drink the milk,” he said. She started to protest, but he cut her off. “It will help your stomach. I promise.”

Annie nodded and turned to the opposite bench. Phillip stretched across her former spot, inching closer to Marisol. “Remember that band Good Charlotte?” he asked.

Marisol shook her head.

“No? Well, the lead singer is married to…”

It’s like he’s reading from the pages of an
Us Magazine
. From 2002.

“Sit here.” Felipe scooted toward the wall.

She squeezed onto the bench beside him. “Thanks.” She brought the coconut to her lips and took a small pull. The milk had a sweet, tangy flavor, but it wasn’t horrible. She took another swallow and another. By the time she sucked it dry, her stomach felt nearly normal—except the butterflies going mad inside every time Felipe looked at her.

“Better, yes?”

“Thank you.” Annie’s eyes locked on his before she dragged them to the empty fruit in her hand.

Doña
Lynda appeared, a full plate in one hand and a black pot in the other. With ballerina grace, the woman took the dry coconut and replaced it with Annie’s dinner. She plopped another ladle of rice onto Felipe’s empty plate and scurried away.

Annie’s mouth watered. It was rice and beans—the same thing she’d eaten for every meal since the night with the soup and the monkey and the drunk man who loved white women. But a small hunk of meat in a red sauce sat in the center of the plate. The smoky, spicy smell reminded Annie of her father’s brisket. She dug in, using the sauce to add flavor to her mushy pile of gray rice.

After dinner, they set up for the night, scrunching into every corner of the room. A host of nails were forced into the bones of the house, and the others strung their hammocks from one end to the other. She unrolled her bedding in a small nook between Marisol’s hammock and the wall.

“Are you sure you do not want the hammock?” Felipe asked.

“Yep,” she lied. “It’s your turn.” She sat on the yoga mat and tried not to let her thoughts of climbing in next to him show.

Doña
Lynda and her kids clucked around the room, chatting with the other Nicaraguans in quick Spanish Annie couldn’t follow. Her best guess was a village dispute over the color of chickens.

“
Doña
Lynda asked if you enjoyed dinner,” Felipe said.

“Oh!” She stopped fussing with her sheets and turned toward their host. “
Sí. Muy bueno
.”

The woman asked another question.

“She wants to know if you have ever had this meat before.” Marisol sat next to Annie, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Beef?” Annie cocked her head. “
¿Vaca?
”

“No, no.” The woman went outside, and the group was silent as she rustled in the backyard cooking space. A moment later, she returned, carrying an oblong, dappled shell in one hand and a long scaly, gray tail in the other.

Annie’s hands flew to her mouth as a gasp escaped her lips.

“I think you also call this armadillo, no?” Marisol asked.

Felipe ducked into the house in search of Chowmey. He was tempted to stay outside with the others, relaxing and watching the chaos unfold as Annie and Phillip tried to ask
Doña
Lynda about the best way to hunt armadillo, but the way the girl had favored her leg as she tore away from Annie the day before sparked his concern.

Inside, the scent of baby powder and lavender overpowered his senses, and it took Felipe a moment to realize the smell came from a line of crumpled baby wipes littering the floor. The trail started at Annie’s backpack and led to his hammock, where Chowmey lay. She hummed to herself, one scrawny leg dangling over the edge of the rough fabric and an empty, clear bag between her fingers. The sheen on her face and arms told him exactly what had happened to the wipes.

“Chowmey?”

The hammock froze. The girl scrambled down, stuffing wipes, even the smudged, ripped ones, into the bag. Around her, the rest of Annie’s things lay strewn haphazardly on the floor.

“What’s going on?” Annie appeared at his side.

His shoulders tensed. On the last brigade, one of the children pulled a jar of peanut butter out of an American’s bag and ate half of it before smearing the rest on the walls. Felipe had clutched an EpiPen for half an hour as he tried to convince the middle-aged man he could actually survive on rice and beans. “Chowmey was curious about your things.”

Annie’s upper body slumped, and she lowered herself to the floor, picking up the rest of her belongings.

“Sorry.” He squatted beside her.

“It’s not your fault.” She stood, her hands full of stray toiletries and half-used wipes. “Here.” She motioned for him to stand, and when he did, she rubbed a spot on his neck, right below his ear, with one of the wipes. “That’s been bugging me since yesterday.”

“
Gracias
.” His feet stayed rooted to the dirt floor. “Annie, I—”

Chowmey put two small hands on his hip and pushed. The force sent him stumbling. She ducked behind his legs, and he caught a flash of purple in the front pocket of her dress.

“What is this?” He pointed. Chowmey’s eyes lowered to the floor, and she took out a small photo album. “Yours?” he asked Annie.

She nodded. “
¿Quieres…
How do I ask if she wants to see?”

“
¿Quieres ver?
” He asked Chowmey.

The girl nodded, her eyes wide. Annie sat and patted the floor next to her, but Chowmey didn’t move. Felipe stretched out beside Annie instead, letting his arm rest behind her back. The girl followed, gingerly crossing her legs without looking the American in the face.

The first picture was of Annie and an older, round gentleman. They stood in front of a looming brick house, and a layer of thick white snow covered the ground behind them.

“My father and my house
.
” Annie pointed at the figures, her mouth working deliberately over the basic Spanish words.

“
¿Qué es?
” Chowmey whispered, lifting a finger to the snow.

He started to tell Annie the word for snow, but she tugged in her bottom lip, and Felipe’s mind flashed to the airport bar. To the way he’d wanted to pull that lip between his while her hands trailed up his thighs.

“
Nieve
.” She turned the page in slow motion. The next picture was a close up of a black and white cat licking its salmon pink nose.

“
¡Gato!
”

“
Sí
.” Annie smiled as the girl slunk closer.

Felipe found himself grinning too. “What is your cat’s name?”

She glanced at him, and this time it was the curve of her top lip that sent his pulse careening into breakneck territory. “
Hombre
Flowers,” she said.

Chowmey threw her fingers to her mouth and laughed. She scooted closer.

So did he.

Annie turned the page again. In this photo, she wore a tight black dress with a deep V in the front. His mouth fell open. Her shoulders were bare, and her hair hung loose and shiny, the out of control curls tamed into submission. And her smile was bursting, as if she were on the verge of laughter. He could almost hear it just by looking at the image.

“
Púchica
,” he muttered. “I mean, you look very pretty.”

Annie smiled and glanced at him. “Thanks.”

“You are a princess?” Chowmey asked, her Spanish slow with awe. The girl was practically in Annie’s lap now, any trace of suspicion long gone.

“No.” She laughed and shook her head.

The other half of the picture held a tall, broad-shouldered college boy, outfitted in a tailored suit that matched the pitch black of Annie’s dress. He stood with his arm looped around her waist, a smug, lazy smile on his face. Other well-dressed couples mingled in the background, and sparkling bottles of wine lined a bar behind them.

“Can I turn it?” Annie asked.

“
Sí, sí
.” He pulled away from her and turned to Chowmey. A stony lump of disappointment and indignation grew in his stomach as he examined the girl’s damaged leg.
Of course she has a boyfriend.

Chowmey and Annie went through the rest of the book. Each time they turned a page, he fought to keep his focus on the atrophied muscles along the girl’s calf. He stayed silent, swallowing the bitterness that threatened to come out with his words.

“What are you doing?” Annie tucked the album into her bag and replaced it with her notebook.

“You can keep going with the pictures. It is not a problem.”

“She’s seen them all.”

“I am checking her muscle strength.”

“Why?” There was the scratch of her pen on the paper.

“She contracted dengue,” he said. “It is a mosquito-borne illness. Very common here.” More scratching. “She had a high fever and could not walk for many days.”

“But she can walk now.”

“
Sí.
But this one is still weak.” He pushed the girl’s legs side by side, to demonstrate the difference in muscle mass.

There was more scratching and a few quick strokes of her hand. Next to him, Chowmey squirmed, and he made a series of ridiculous faces at her, keeping the girl still long enough to complete the exam. When he finished, he sent her off with a pat on the head, and she scurried outside with the smell of lavender wafting behind her.

“So, what’s wrong with her? Does she still have dengue fever?”

“I am not sure what is wrong with her.” He took a deep breath, defeat filling his lungs. He had no way to see what was going on—no X-ray machines, no way to test her blood, nothing. It was a guessing game, and he was certain someone whose everyday life was as bright and shiny as Annie’s could never understand.

“What about—”

He stood and brushed off his pants. “The clinic will be at noon, outside in the open area. You will do the nets again.” He didn’t look at her as he slipped out the door.

• • •

Annie sat alone under the thick layer of dried banana leaves protruding from the roof. The bit of shade they created let her hold on to the last breaths of cool morning air.

What day is this again
? She looked at the journal in her hands.
Eight. Two days since I’ve bathed.
She would have to figure something out soon. Chowmey’s foray into the world of wet wipes left Annie defenseless against her own body odor.

She flipped through the morning’s entry, thinking about the girl’s symptoms—her too-small leg and the way her hip joint seemed locked into place. Annie wished she could scoop her up, take her to St. Louis, and have the best doctors run a battery of all the best tests on her.

She does have a pretty good doctor here
. She smiled, thinking of the way Felipe hunched next to the girl, making the exam a game instead of something to be feared. She scribbled this down. On the next line she jotted his words.
You look very pretty
.

Four minutes later, she’d filled an entire page with observations about him. The way he transformed from good-looking to gorgeous when he smiled. The cowlick behind his ear that grew a little more prominent every day. How he went cold and distant as she went through her photo album.

Insignificant.
The word had hovered close to Annie’s heart ever since she let herself say it aloud to Marisol. And the way Felipe grew bored and disinterested in the details of her life made the word pound louder in her chest—everything she’d accomplished in the last twenty-one years was small and stupid in comparison to Felipe’s life here. Helping people. Preventing disease. Saving beautiful, mischievous little girls from dengue fever.

A pair of shadows blocked the slanted rays of the sun, and Annie tore herself from her thoughts. One shadow belonged to Chowmey. The other to a tall, lanky man with a hint of a mustache and small, shifting eyes. He carried a yellow backpack over his left shoulder and began talking in a clipped mix of English and Spanish. It was neither English nor Spanish enough for her to follow.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Annie held her palms out to the man. “I mean,
no entiendo
.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and stood to find someone to translate.

His hand jerked forward, and he grabbed her forearm. “
Mira, mira
,” he said, letting go before she could pull away. He pried open the zipper of the backpack and held the open bag out to her.

A black blob shuffled inside.

Annie leapt back, her breath stalling in her chest.

“Fruit loops. Fruit loops.”

She squinted into the bag again, and at last his words made sense. Nestled inside was a tiny toucan, the mascot of her favorite childhood breakfast cereal—still her favorite really. But she always forced herself to buy the high fiber, fifty grain, cardboard stuff instead. Less sugar. More adult. No taste.

“Fruity loops is nice,” said the man.

Annie knew squat about birds, but this one had to be miserable. Its frayed feathers piled at the bottom of the bag. “Is sick?” She tried to remember the word for sick but fell short.
I really should have made more flash cards
.

“Is nice. Very nice.”

Maybe he wants to see a doctor. I doubt there are any vets all the way out here.
“Doctor?
¿Medico?
” She nodded at Chowmey, who stared silently.

“
Usted
.” He nudged the bird toward her.

Looking at the animal nearly cracked Annie’s heart. She lowered a finger into the bag, stroking the feathers on top of the toucan’s head. They were greasier than she expected. The thing was all crumpled and sad, and she reached in further to pet the patch of lighter feathers on its chest.

A barb of white-hot pain hit her index finger, and she yanked her hand from the bag. Both a squeal and a squawk competed for airspace, and Annie realized the former must have come from her mouth. Brick-red blood streaked her hand and pooled in her palm as the skinny man zipped the bird away and slipped into the thick layer of trees behind the house.