Losing Clementine (38 page)

There were no guards, no ID checks, no sniffer dogs—nothing but a large metal revolving gate and a parade of buskers and overpriced taxi drivers on the other side.

Although Tijuana is famous for its all-access
farmacias,
which are designed less like stores than walk-up windows, suicide tourists seek out the lesser-known veterinary supply shops located well away from the touristy main drag, Avenida Revolución, and other sightseeing destinations.

Obtaining turn-by-turn directions to one of the veterinary shops, along with the going price for a lethal dose of the barbiturate, had taken less than an hour. I'd printed them out and took them with me as Eric and I set out from the infamous Avenida on foot. Leaving behind the zebra-painted donkeys, strippers, and barkers, we made our way east until one dentist became a dozen, and we found ourselves surrounded by medical offices advertising orthodontic work for bargain-basement prices—all listed in American dollars. On the edge of the dental district was the veterinary supply store, just as my directions promised.

Despite the name, the store didn't give any indication of catering to anyone with a medical degree. It was small, narrow, and dark. The only light came through the front windows that were partially covered in long-ago faded posters, and it was as hot inside as it was outside. The only people there were a young woman who ran the place and a boy in her care. Both of them watched Eric and me, but neither spoke.

The front of the shop looked like a pet store that had recently experienced a holiday rush or maybe looting. More shelves, hooks, and displays were empty than were full, and there weren't more than one or two of each item available. What was there were links of chain wrapped around spools and available by the meter, dog collars of varying sizes, one doghouse, one birdcage, and some bags of food. Toward the back, one wall was lined with a waist-high glass case like in a jewelry store. Without lighting, the interior was hard to see, which didn't matter much as it was nearly empty. Behind the counter were shallow shelves with small glass vials and pill bottles that more closely resembled the
farmacias
we'd passed earlier. Some of the vials looked like the pictures of the barbiturate's packaging I'd come across while researching suicide trips—all of it easily available.

Authorities in the news stories had promised to crack down on the purchase of these drugs for human use, which are supposed to be available only to veterinarians by prescription. Shop owners denied knowledge of buyers' intent, insisting the drug was sold exclusively for use on animals. In any case, access didn't appear impaired. Nonetheless, I let the vials on the narrow shelves behind the glass case be. I didn't purchase any, and I didn't smuggle anything across the border, leaving that instead to Clementine.

With all the information I needed in hand, Eric and I left the store, the woman, and the boy, preferring instead to spend our American dollars on
carnitas,
music, and local wine. We spent two days wandering the streets, exploring the city's restaurants, clubs, and markets. The closest we came to seeing any of the drug war was listening to the
narco
ballads sung in the bars.

When it was time to return north, we piled our bags back on our backs and headed across on foot again. This time we stood in line behind hundreds of other travelers waiting to be admitted into the United States. Vendors took advantage of those in border purgatory, whether on foot or in cars. They offered fruit, candy, drinks, and kitschy souvenirs in case you hadn't had quite enough during your stay. Travelers filed through an air-conditioned building that resembled airport security. We formed lines, answered questions, showed our papers, and walked through metal detectors. My bags and Eric's were X-rayed but not searched, although they could have been. It wouldn't have been hard for Clementine to get her vial across the border, but it would not have been without risk.

Without exception, Eric and I were treated well by everyone we met. The drop in tourism was hurting those who depended on it, and everyone was anxious for us to return as soon as possible regardless of why we'd come. Eric did return, traveling throughout northwestern Mexico the following year to research his own book on trafficking.

The phenomenon of suicide tourism continues in Tijuana and elsewhere.

Writing a book seems like a solitary pursuit, but behind me stood many people without whom it would not have been possible.

My husband, Austin Baker, and dearest friends, Janice Shiffler and Eric Stone, were my first readers and most trusted confidants.

My parents—Donna, Steve, Robin, and Joy—along with the entire “Gator in the Pool Gang” provided endless love and support.

My agent, Barbara Poelle, and editor, Katherine Nintzel, along with the entire team at William Morrow helped birth this book.

I am eternally grateful to all of you.

ASHLEY REAM
got her first job at a newspaper when she was sixteen. After working in newsrooms across Missouri, Florida, and Texas, she gave up the deadlines to pursue fiction. She lives in Los Angeles, where she works in the nonprofit sector.

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Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

Cover photograph by Sniegirova Mariia/Shutterstock

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

LOSING CLEMENTINE
. Copyright © 2012 by Ashley Ream. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ream, Ashley.

Losing Clementine : a novel / Ashley Ream.—1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: “A new writer makes her fiction debut with a tale involving a renowned artist's impending suicide”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-0-06-209363-9

EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN 9780062093646

1. Women artists—Fiction. 2. Suicide—Fiction. 3. Life change events—Fiction. 4. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3618.E2247L67 2012

813'.6—dc22

2011027305

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