Love Drugged (14 page)

sixteen

So we went to Mexico.

We flew from Chicago to Houston and Houston to Mérida, a city on the Yucatán Peninsula. Two different airplanes. Despite Celia’s claims, the experience was ten times more terrifying than I had predicted. When the wheels were stowed after take-off, it sounded like a small missile had struck us from below. Each time the captain changed the seat-belt sign, making that loud ring, I worried it was an emergency warning. My hand reached discreetly for Celia’s.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “your palms are so clammy it’s freaky.”

“I am experiencing an unusual level of anxiety.”

“No reason to,” she promised.

No reason? We were 35,000 feet in the air, I was facing seven days alone with Celia, and I had zero doses of the Rehomoline. On top of all that, my biggest concern was that Celia and I were going to share a room, and maybe even a bed. Dr. Gamez might have thought that she and I were just friends, but was he so trusting that he’d allow us to sleep in the same hotel room? As generous as Dr. Gamez seemed, I could not imagine that he’d pay for a separate room for a kid he barely knew. In my mind, I kept replaying the scene when Celia and I would climb into bed and lie next to each other in the dark, each waiting for the other to make a move. Two faces, staring at the ceiling with opposite expressions: one eager, one paralyzed with fear.

When the plane landed in Mexico, I gasped, thinking we’d hit the ground much too hard, and then clutched Celia’s hand again as the plane struggled to slow down.

Do planes ever crash into airports? We’re going to cra—

The plane stopped. We gathered our things and stepped into the terminal. The airport was small and hot and very crowded. There seemed to be just as many Americans as Mexicans. Because I was fifteen, I had to show my birth certificate along with a notarized letter from my parents that allowed me to cross the border with Dr. Gamez.

We took our bags outside. The evening air was humid and thick with flying bugs. Dr. Gamez said a car would be waiting for us. The one that met us was surprisingly shabby. Dr. Gamez shook hands with the driver, and then all three of us climbed into the back seat, Celia in the middle.

The car sped along a country road, and the headlights revealed, in thin clusters, a thousand tall skinny trees that we whizzed past in the dark. The terrain was woodsy and weedy, with few signs of human life—here a car abandoned at the side of the road, there a rusted-out piece of farm machinery. We drove farther and farther from the airport, into the dark landscape. Something about the route didn’t seem right. Ten minutes turned into forty, forty-five, an hour.

This driver is taking us deep into the country to kill us.

Celia must have noticed my concern. She patted my knee. “It’s always a long drive, just when you want to eat or climb into bed.”

We came to a small town, not much more than the intersection of two roads, where a church stood. The church looked like it could hold fifty people max. Its rounded stucco exterior was painted beige and brown. The houses that surrounded it were one- or two-room structures built of cinder block. The roofs were made of tin or tile, and some out of grass. Several of the houses were painted brightly—light blue, yellow, red—and some were decorated with Christmas lights that outlined their windows or drew attention to a statue of the Virgin Mary.

“These houses,” I whispered to Celia. “So tiny.”

Dr. Gamez leaned toward us. “One room serves as the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. No beds, usually. They pull hammocks across the room for sleeping. One hammock for mother and dad, one for the kids.”

For once, my grandparents’ apartment in Chicago didn’t seem so small.

We passed the town and drove for another mile, and then the car slowed and turned off the road. We cruised through a large gate with two tall stucco columns, then drove down a long gravel driveway flanked by palm trees. I thought I saw a house, but we passed it.

“That’s not it?” I said to Celia.

She smiled. “That’s a chapel. If you want to sleep there, we’ll have to clear it with the
padre
.”

The car pulled to a stop in a graveled circular clearing, and we got out. We were at the base of a terraced garden. I could hear the steady splashing of fountains.

The massive rustic house, looming above us, looked incongruously like something you’d see in a TV ad for spaghetti sauce. There was a central structure, plus two wings connected by elaborate arched colonnades. Everything was covered in stucco, which was painted dark red and mustard yellow, and dramatically lit with spotlights. I didn’t see anybody except for a few members of the smiling resort staff, dressed in white jackets and black pants.

“The pool is in the back,” Celia said, as if to reassure me. But it wasn’t necessary.

“This is amazing,” I said. “Already I want to live here.”

“It’s almost two hundred years old,” Dr. Gamez explained as we climbed the steps toward the main entrance. “The man who built this would have owned much of the surrounding land. They grew
henequen
, or sisal, which they used to make rope. This is the Mexican equivalent of the plantations in the southern United States.”

“Do they grow anything now?” I asked.

“Not here, not for many years,” he said. “In fact, this whole estate, like many others, had fallen into terrible disrepair. Deep neglect. It was a ruin for many decades, until a wealthy American corporation came in and restored it. So often in these matters, progress is about transformation.” He’d emphasized the last word—
transformation
—and I wondered if it meant the same to him as it did to me.

“They rent the resort for weddings and conferences,” Celia added. “But we’ve got the whole place to ourselves this week.”

I stood with her on the terrace while Dr. Gamez checked in at the front desk. Crickets filled the night air with a rhythmic beat. The resort property was thick with trees—palms and scrub—but lighted paths made their way through the branches. Despite my fatigue, I was eager to explore. For the first time in ages, I was sad that my parents weren’t with me. They’d never seen anything like this.

Dr. Gamez returned with three keys, and relief flooded me.
Separate rooms!
I wanted to leap into the air with joy. He handed two to Celia. “The keys are rather a formality,” he told me. “Your belongings will be safe whether you lock your door or not. As Celia said, we are the only guests here this week.”

“The rooms are close together,” Celia said, looking at the numbers.

“Are either of you hungry?” Dr. Gamez asked. “We can ask Fabian to send something to your rooms.”

Celia glanced at me. Suddenly it was true: I was
starving.

“He’s hungry, I can tell,” Celia said. “And so am I.”

“Order something then,” Dr. Gamez said. “I will leave you to enjoy it on your own. Celia, you will please remind Jamie about the importance of bottled water, yes?”

She said that she would.

He said, “Okay then. My plan is to rise early and get to work. I’ll see you two in the morning.” He kissed Celia on the forehead. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you!” I called after him. “Thank you so much.”

Celia spoke to Fabian, the porter. Her Spanish was perfect. Fabian was tall, with broad shoulders and tight black pants. Looking at him, I remembered why I needed to get my hands on some pills.

Celia told me, “I ordered two plates of fish tacos and two bottled waters. They’ll go to your room.”

“Great,” I said, looking away from Fabian and down at my key. “I can’t believe I have my own room. It’s so generous.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Knowing the correct answer, I opened my arms wide. “Devastated!”

“My dad’s not an idiot. He wasn’t going to let us sleep together.” She took my hand, and I followed happily.

My room was large, with a high, beamed ceiling and a floor covered in painted tile. The humongous bed was made of dark wood and covered with a fluffy white comforter. Everything was made of wood or stucco. On the table next to the bed was a bottle with an orange ribbon, and I tried to read the label.

Celia watched me struggling with the translation. “See those gigantic mosquito-looking things, hovering on the wall near the lamp?”

I refrained from jumping. “Holy Moses.”

“That spray will keep bugs away from your bed.”

“Good to know.” I set the bottle back on the table.

“Check out the bathroom,” she said, leading the way.

The bathroom was nearly as big as the bedroom—cavernous and cool, with a stone floor. Fresh flower petals were scattered around the marble sink, filling the room with fragrance. The open shower stall was almost as big as my bedroom at home, and the showerhead was the size of a dinner plate.

“Sweet cheeses,” I said, staring at the impressive plumbing.

“Yup, mine’s probably the same way.”

“This place is awesome,” I said. “Celia, thank you so much for bringing me here.”

“Now you may kiss me. To show your appreciation.”

I laughed and pulled her to me, and we kissed. We kissed for a full minute and I was fine with it. I really liked her. But where it mattered, I felt nothing.

I need more pills!

A knock on the door interrupted us. It was Fabian with the fish tacos, and they smelled delicious. We sat outside in the courtyard, near a small bubbling fountain, and ate under the biggest canvas of stars I’d ever seen. Periodically, from beyond the high wall that surrounded the property, came the sounds of animals fighting: chickens, dogs, a yowling cat.

“So your dad’s going to work while he’s here?”

“Oh yeah. That’s why he loves coming. No distractions, no employees to bug him. Nothing for him to do but think and work.”

“Not much of a vacation,” I said. “Do you know what he’s working on?”

“We don’t talk about it. It’s a slow, boring process. It takes a long time for a drug to get tested and approved.”

After eating, we wandered back to my room.

“Let’s call it a night,” Celia said. “I want to unpack and go to bed, so we can have a full day tomorrow.”

“What’s on the schedule?”

“Completely up to you,” she said. “Swimming, exploring the property. We can visit a Mayan ruin if you want to. Or we can chill.”

“Okay, I choose … all of the above.”

“Agreed.” Celia sat on my bed and patted the seat next to her. “Let’s be sure to save time for some lovin’.”

“Did you just say
lovin’
?” I laughed and jumped on her, and she squealed. I kissed her lips, her cheeks, her neck, my hands roaming up and down her arms, squeezing her shoulders. I buried my face in her hair, which smelled unusual—for once, more like Celia than like shampoo—and she pressed her face against my chest. I felt closer to her than ever. I’d never traveled with anyone outside my family before. I’d never been so far from home before. I’d never had a friend who’d been so generous, who’d made such a commitment to me. It felt fantastic to be part of a team that the world would approve of.

She pushed me away with a guilty smile.

“What?”

“Sweetie, don’t take this personally,” she said, “but you stink.”

I jumped up from the bed, part embarrassed, part relieved. “I told you I was nervous on the plane! And it was freaky
hot
in that taxi.”

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m dead tired. Would it hurt your feelings if I went to my room? I want to unpack my clothes before bed.”

“Go on. Like you said, the earlier we go to bed, the earlier we can get up and explore.”

“Don’t forget, bottled water only—even for brushing your teeth.”

“Got it.”

“Kiss me again,” she said, and I led her, lip to lip, to the door.

When she was gone, I unpacked and set my clothes into the wide, deep drawers of the bureau. I liked to imagine that this was my real bedroom, not the dark, cramped room back in Chicago. A ropy hammock lay curled on the floor, with one end attached to the wall. I pulled it across and hooked it to the opposite wall.

Maybe I’ll sleep like the locals.

When I tried to get in it, it spun me around and dropped me to the floor. This happened twice.

The bed was a safer alternative. I doused the sheets with the fancy bug spray. Climbing into bed, I wondered if Dr. Gamez had brought any Rehomoline samples with him on the trip. This thought had preoccupied me earlier, on the plane, when I was trying to distract myself from the vision of crashing into the Texas desert. Like a mantra, I’d repeated:
Get more pills, get more pills.
More than a week had passed since I’d taken one. The side effects had worn off. But would Dr. Gamez have brought any? Would he even be able to get drugs over the border? At first this seemed unlikely, probably even illegal, and I despaired. But then it occurred to me—maybe, as a health-care professional, Dr. Gamez had a special clearance that ordinary people didn’t have. Maybe he had a letter from the FDA that permitted him to transfer pharmaceuticals to foreign countries for the purpose of testing.