Withering Hope (11 page)

He steers the conversation in a different direction. "You were very brave yesterday, to go after the leaves," he says, taking another bite.

"I'll go back and get more today, before nightfall. I lost some on the way back, and you might need more leaves."

He frowns. "That's not a great idea. I don't feel well enough to come with you, and I don't want you to venture so far again by yourself."

"But what if you need more?"

"We have enough for today and tomorrow. I might feel better then and come with you."

"Okay…"

He runs a hand through his hair. "I should show you how to handle the weapons."

"That'd be good, yeah." I shudder, remembering the growl last night. If anything had attacked me… well, I'm not sure how helpful a weapon would have been. I had enough trouble just holding the torch and the leaves.

I remember something and burst out laughing, but there's no humor in it.

"Aimee?" Tristan asks, uncertain.

"I was supposed to find out today if my boss had assigned me to one of our biggest cases. And now I'm contemplating learning how to shoot with a bow. A bit ironic.”

Tristan lifts himself up from his seat, motioning me to help him out of the plane. I put one of his arms around my shoulders, and we stagger out of the plane.

"You need a shower," I say to him, half-jokingly.

"Trust me, I’m aware. Help me get in the shower. My back still feels like it’s paralyzed."

I lead him inside the wood cubicle and wait for him on the airstairs. He takes longer than usual in the shower, but given he can barely move, it's not surprising. I help him when he comes out, holding him up as best as I can.

"Some nerves in my back," he says through gritted teeth, "if I move a certain way, they hurt. Otherwise I just can’t feel my back."

I sit him on the airstairs and bring him some water to drink. He drinks with large gulps, the hush of the water pouring down his throat filling me with anxiety.

"Better?" I ask.

"Nope. Distract me."

"Hey, I already cooked an omelette. I've run out of ideas for the day. Scratch that, for the week." I've never been good at this. Distracting and entertaining people has always been Chris's territory.

Tristan frowns, as if he's considering something. "You're a corporate lawyer, right?"

"Yes," I say, swaying from one foot to the other. "Do you want me to talk about my job? It won’t distract you. More like bore you to tears."

"No, it's just that… Maggie said you wanted to be a human rights lawyer until you started college."

Ah, the household rumor mill again. It doesn't upset me, though. I could never be upset with Maggie. She's like a second mother to me. I'm glad Chris's parents kept her as their housekeeper after we grew up.

"I changed my mind," I say, my tone clipped.

"How so? It's a big step from human rights lawyers to corporate lawyer."

Though his tone is not in the slightest judging, or accusing, I feel defensive.

"Just because," I snap, but then soften at his stricken expression. "I'm sorry. This is a very sensitive area for me."

"Your career choice?"

I sigh, sitting on the airstairs, one step beneath him. No one asked me why I decided to change my career, though everyone knew I was dreaming of being a human rights lawyer. After my parents' death, it was sort of implied why I changed my mind. Or, well… not why. People never understood why. They just assumed that the traumatic event had something to do with my decision. But that didn't keep people—my closest friends, even Chris—from judging my choice.

"Do you know how my parents died?" I ask.

Tristan inhales. "No."

"Umm…" I pick a spot on the airstairs and gawk at it, fiddling with my hands in my lap. "My parents dedicated their life to charitable causes. This meant more than donations or charity parties. They'd often fly to underprivileged countries to give out food and medicine, and oversee infrastructural projects. They were my heroes when I was little and into my teenage years, even though they were gone for long periods at a time. I rarely saw them." Warmth feathers me on the inside, as I remember checking the mailbox, and later my email, waiting to hear from my heroes—to learn when they'd be home to spend time with me and tell me about their latest achievements.

"Before long, they also got involved in the politics of countries that were… politically unstable. Wherever the danger was greater, there they were, both of them. Wanting to bring hope to places where there was no hope. They were fighters. They believed they could make a difference. The week after I turned eighteen they went to one such country that was on the brink of a revolution. The revolution started a few days after they arrived there, and they were killed." The warmth inside me turns to an engulfing flame—the flame that turned all the memories and thoughts of my parents into a source of misery and anger instead of the happy place they used to be before their deaths. "The world isn't a better place. And they are still dead. What was the point?"

Pain pierces my palms, and I look in my lap, discovering I've dug my nails very deep in my skin.

"The point is, it's people like your parents who help this world become better every day, even if you can't see it right away. They did a lot of good. I read an article about them once. They were good people. Fighters." His voice is gentle, but every word feels like the lash of a whip.

"Oh yes, they were fighters. They fought with everything they had to bring good to the world. They sacrificed anything for that. They gave everything to the world. And what did the world give them back? Nothing," I spit. I don't dare meet his eyes, for fear I'll find the same accusatory look that Chris had when I spoke like this in front of him. But I can't stop myself from spitting out more words. Wrong words. "The world took everything from them. And it took them away from me. You’re right, they were fighters. But I wish they hadn't been, so they'd still be alive. When I was little, I dreamed of my father walking me down the aisle to give me away. Chris's father was going to do it, because my dad isn't here to do it."

"You are bitter." Tristan slides down the steps until he's on the same level. I still avoid looking at him.

"Yes. And selfish. Lamenting that my father isn't here to walk me down the aisle. What a tragedy, right? When there are real tragedies going on around the word. Tragedies they were trying to prevent. I used to want to be a human rights lawyer because I wanted to follow in my parents' footsteps. But after they died, I became a different person. I didn't want anything to do with
anything
they did. So yes… that's how I went to the other extreme and became a corporate lawyer. I bet my soppy story wasn't what you wanted to hear." I try to sound humorous, like the whole thing is a joke.

"There's no shame in what you did, Aimee. It's a natural reaction to want to distance yourself from your parents' world and ideals. You associate that with pain. You don't have to feel ashamed. I'm not judging you, Aimee."

His words—so simple, so serene—have a calming effect on me. Like sprinkling honey on a burn, they rein in the fire that scorches me, soothing the cracks that the contained pain and shame have cut inside me.

He tilts my head until I meet his gaze, as if to make sure I got his point. But neither his words nor his gaze manage to silence the raucous thoughts tormenting me.

"I am not a fighter, like them," I whisper. "If I were, I wouldn't have given up so easily. I'm a selfish person." Tristan opens his mouth, then closes it again without uttering a sound. I pull away from him. "Go ahead, say it. Everyone else had no qualms with letting me know how they feel about it."

"You're not selfish. If you were, you wouldn't have gone for those leaves last night. The forest terrifies you when it’s dark."

"That's not tipping the scale in my favor. But then again, compared to all the things my parents did, nothing I do will tip it in my favor.”

"I'm sure they would be proud of you anyway."

This has haunted me since my first workday. "No, they wouldn't. Not at all." I rise to my feet, walking to the signal fire, putting more branches on it. My confession to him drained me of energy. But it also drained something else… a rotting negativity I have accumulated over the years. I feel more at peace than I’ve felt in a long time.

Tristan takes the cue and doesn't pursue the topic. "Ready for some shooting training?"

"I guess."

"We need a target."

Tristan's back cracks when he attempts to stand, and I push him back on the steps, assuring him I'm capable of doing this on my own. I build a makeshift target by curling a few branches and putting leaves inside them. I get the bows, arrows, and spears from the wood shelter and drop them at Tristan's feet. Then I realize…

"Can you shoot with your back?"

"No. Arching my back hurts. But I'll explain it to you the best I can."

Turns out no matter how much Tristan explains what I have to do, I can't shoot straight to save my life. The arrows don't touch the target, instead flying below, above, or to its sides and into the bushes. The process becomes cumbersome, because I have to retrieve all the arrows. Eventually, Tristan stands up. He does it slowly and doesn’t seem in pain—just uncomfortable. He presses his hand on my stomach, explaining that I have to center my weight there.

When his hand touches my stomach his breath catches, and he bites his lip. I pretend not to notice, though my own breathing intensifies with shame, my stomach jolting. I try to concentrate on shooting, but I find myself peering at him often to see if he continues to bite his lip.

He does. His reaction makes me uneasy, and I have no idea what to do about it, but something stirs inside me. With bewildering confusion, I realize what that is: guilt.

No amount of instruction helps. I give up after about three hours, dropping the bow. "I suck. There's no other way to put it."

Tristan, who's once again resting on the airstairs, shakes his head, saying, "You'll get better with practice."

"I'll go cut fresh leaves to replace the ones in the shower. They're decaying already."

I spend an inordinate amount of time cutting the leaves, using the alone time to put my thoughts in order after the events of the last hours. I trudge back, my arms full of leaves, and start patching the shower. Tristan is nowhere in sight, so I assume he managed to drag himself inside the plane to rest. I fiddle with the leaves before I weave them into a curtain. I replace the old curtain, my heart swivelling inside me with ridiculous pride, as if I've just built something very complex.

I jump when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Sorry, I didn't—” I stop, seeing Tristan carrying white flowers. "What are these?"

"White flowers. White is your favorite color."

I slit my eyes. "You were pretending not to remember, then."

This wins me a boyish grin from him. "Gardenias are your favorite flowers, and I would've gotten you gardenias, but the rainforest is out of them. Or at least not anywhere near the fence. I couldn't go searching very far because of my back."

"Oh! Your back. You shouldn't have gone—" I don't finish my sentence because Tristan places the flowers in my arms, and his gesture renders me speechless. He remembered my favorite color is white, and he went to search for flowers despite his back. He leans against the shower cabin, massaging his back, breathing hard through gritted teeth.

Such a normal act… receiving flowers. It unsettles me. I try hard not to think about my normal life at home on any day. Most of the time I succeed, when I lose myself in tasks such as fence building or food searching. But this is a drop of normalcy in the vertigo of madness. A reminder that there’s more to life than survival. Even here.

In a move that surprises me just as much as it surprises him, I fling my arms around his neck, pulling him into an embrace. "Thank you, Tristan," I whisper.

"I'll slice some of the grapefruit you brought in this morning," he says when we pull apart.

"All right. I'll see if the signal fire needs more wood."

The fire looks just fine, so I end up sitting next to our wood supply, hugging my knees. I hold a thin branch in one hand, absent-mindedly scratching the mud.

"What are you doing?"

I flinch, startled, then rise to my feet. "Wasting time. Sorry."

Tristan frowns, pointing at the mud. "Is that part of a poem?"

"Is it?" I look over the scratches I painted in the mud and see, with surprise, what I thought were scratches are indeed words.

The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

What is all this juice and all this joy?

"It's from ‘Spring’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins. I didn't realize I still knew these lyrics. I haven't read poetry since high school."

"You miss reading, don't you? I saw you already read the magazines."

"Several times. I'd love to read something new. Anything."

He squints his eyes. "I have an idea." Picking up another branch, he starts drawing shapes in the mud. Letters. I drink each one in as soon as he draws it.

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

"Do you recognize it?" Tristan asks.

"No. Who wrote it?"

"Edgar Allan Poe. It's from ‘A Dream Within a Dream.’ I like his work."

"It's kind of a pessimistic poem."

"That's not the point. You said you wanted to read something new, so…"

"Thanks. Do you remember more of the poem?"

Tristan grins. "Right now, I'm too hungry to remember anything other than how to eat this." He glances sideways at the slices of grapefruit.

It takes almost two weeks for Tristan's back to heal completely. During that time he moves carefully, helping me wash clothes, and occasionally bringing me flowers, but unable to do much more. We eat meat once, when a bird lands on Tristan's shoulder. We live off the eggs and fruit I collect, and we both drop weight. After testing a few roots that fail the edibility test, we find an assortment of four carrot-looking roots we can eat. They taste like nothing, but they fill our stomach. He insists I train with the bow, but I'm not making much progress. It doesn't help that he can’t show me how to shoot. He does try to show me once, but the simple movement of arching his back must strain some nerves, because it has him stuttering with pain and has him unable to move for the rest of the day. Still, I'm not bad with a spear, and that gives me some confidence.