Withering Hope (13 page)

"Did you go to counselling?"

"I did. I remember my counselor warning me that a lot of marriages like mine break up. He suggested we do couple's therapy. It took me forever to gather the courage to ask Celia to go to counselling with me. By the time I did, she was barely coming home at all. I guess it was already over for her, but I refused to see it. I had prepared this very elaborate speech, and took her to the restaurant where we'd been on our first date years before. That night she broke the news to me that she wanted a divorce."

"That's… I'm sorry… that's very sad."

"It is. It's unbelievable how fast things can go wrong. She told me she'd fallen out of love with me. And, as you correctly assumed, in love with someone else."

"Ah… "

The next few minutes pass in silence as we position the bird on the skewer, along with a few grayish, paper-tasting roots I dug up early this morning. My stomach churns at the sight of the roasting bird. It's been so long since I've eaten a proper meal. Tristan's stomach growls, too. To stave our hunger until the bird is ready, we each gulp down a few cans of water. It's lukewarm, as usual, and I'd give anything for a gulp of ice-cold water. My throat aches just at the thought of it.

Since he didn't show any signs of wanting to continue the conversation, I'm surprised when he brings up his wife again.

"They got married right after our divorce, and welcomed a child a few months later."

"Conceived while the two of you were still married?"

"Simple math would indicate that to be correct."

"How did you deal with it?"

"Badly," he says, staring at the roasting bird, his chin resting on his knees. "I sort of became a recluse for a while."

"Why didn't you return to the Army?"

"I couldn't. Despite everything, I was recovering from the trauma and didn't want to go back to square one. And I resented the Army. In a way, I felt it was responsible for everything that happened—my nightmares, losing Celia."

"Well, it was," I say.

"I don't know. I used to believe that the experiences life throws at us shape us. Now I think that it's the way we cope with what life throws our way that shapes us."

"That's an interesting way to look at things," I murmur. My mind slips back to my own dark days, after my parents passed away. Saying I didn't cope well is an understatement. But I don’t want to think about my parents. I trained myself for years not to let my thoughts fly to them—to deflect my thoughts to something else when they threatened to recall something I wanted to forget. Perhaps this is why I managed so quickly to train myself not to think of Chris ever since we crashed in this forsaken place.

"So if you don't hold the Army responsible, why didn't you reenlist?"

He shrugs. "I didn't want that life anymore. When I met Celia, I was young and full of dreams, willing to sacrifice myself for the greater good. It's easy to be generous when you are happy. I'd lost both happiness and my ability to dream. And to be honest, the Army wasn't the place to do good like I once thought it was."

"Did you always want to be in the Army?"

"I thought of becoming a doctor, too. It was either that or the military. I chose the military on my seventeenth birthday." I admired him before, for his kindness and lack of fear. Now, I admire him even more. It takes immense inner strength to make such a decision. Especially at such a young age. "When I returned from the Army, I thought about enrolling at college, then trying for med school, but I felt too old for that."

"Do you still love Celia?"

"Nah. At some point I had fallen out of love with her as well, without realizing it. I clung to her because she embodied the hope for a normal life, and then I found out that hope didn't exist anymore."

Something crosses his features… like a shadow… so thick, it's almost like a veil. I realize I've seen this expression on him before. When he shot those arrows. When he tells me good night and retreats to the cockpit. The deep frown and the pained gaze were not as pronounced, but they were there. The signs of a man retreating into his shell. No, not his shell.

His hell.

I have the inexplicable urge to say something comforting to him, to put a smile on his face, because his torment bites at me as if it were my own. Before I have the chance to give it much thought, he forces the corners of his lips into a smile and says, "So I did pilot training and started working for Chris."

"Well, good for me. Who knows how long I would have survived if someone less trained for survival had been piloting."

"I say we should go scouting for something to poison the arrow tips right after we eat," Tristan says, and I nod in agreement. But when the bird and the roots are ready, we eat so quickly our stomachs hurt worse than they did from hunger, forcing us to rest for a few hours.

"Let's get going," Tristan says. "We won't get very far today because it'll get dark in about an hour, but any progress is better than none."

I nod. "Should we take a torch with us?"

"Yes."

I go inside the plane and rip another length from my wedding dress. Its designated role is providing fabric for torches now. The first few times, it felt like ripping my skin away. Like robbing myself of the thing that preserved my hope. But now I recognize the dress still embodies hope, albeit a different hope than before. Before, it meant fulfilling my dream of getting married. Now it fulfils my hope of staying alive and keeping beasts away.

Tristan dips the strip of fabric in our last drops of liquid animal fat and then wraps it around a branch, lighting it over the fire. Then we head into the forest. It's the first time in two weeks that Tristan goes farther than just past the first few trees. It's such a relief not having to go alone again. Just seeing him in front of me, with his strong arms and confident walk, makes me feel safer than a thousand torches or weapons would.

"What are we looking for?"

Tristan purses his lips. "Not sure. There are plenty of plants here that are poisonous, but there is no way we can tell if they are poisonous enough for what we need. Let's look for plants around which there are no other plants or many insects. That's a clear sign of strong poison."

We don't come across any plants that fulfil Tristan's criteria. I doubt there is an inch of this forest that isn't covered in insects. I do point out several plants with shiny leaves and one with spines where I stung myself on the cheek a few days ago. It gave me pain that rivalled a horror trip to the dentist. Tristan isn't satisfied with any of them. Eventually I stop pointing out things and leave him to inspect the plants on his own.

W
e return to the plane empty-handed, and when we're about to go to sleep, Tristan heads to the cockpit.

"What are you doing? I thought we agreed that you will sleep here."

Sighing, he says, "I hoped you'd forgotten about that."

"No chance. Get whatever you need from the cockpit and come here."

I put a pillow on the seat across the aisle in the same row as mine. "There," I tell Tristan when I hear him approach. It's very dark in the plane except for the few beams of moonlight streaming through the small windows, but I’ve gotten so used to the darkness I can tell where everything is without a doubt. "You'll rest much better here; you'll see."

"You're the one who won't rest, Aimee. Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

After Tristan leans his seat back to a lying position, I move to the back of the plane and change into the dress I use as a nightgown. Though he can't see me, I still blush when I take off my clothes. I make a mental note to go in the cockpit to change tomorrow.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. It'll take hours before I fall asleep, the way it always does. "I wish I had a book or something. I used to read a novel every night until I fell asleep."

"We can tell each other stories—things that happened to us," Tristan suggests. "I mean, that's what's in a book, right, stories? You go first. I’m sure you have funnier stories than I do."

I have the feeling Tristan's suggestion has to do with his fear of falling asleep and facing his nightmares. Maybe this will help ease him to sleep.

"Okay. But I suck, I'm warning you. I once had to babysit a friend's four-year-old sister. I told her some convoluted story about how monsters were hiding under her bed and she ended up throwing a fit. Her mom couldn't calm her for hours."

"You told a four-year-old a story about monsters under the bed?" Tristan asks, bursting in a guffaw.

"Yeah. I thought it would be more interesting for her if it had a creepy aspect to it. It was a fail. So, anything you're afraid of that I should steer clear of?"

"Hmm, let's see, except my own nightmares? No, I'm good. Nothing you say can top that, I guarantee."

"What kind of story would you like to hear?"

"When did you get your favorite present?"

I smile. I thought it would be hard finding a story, but I vividly remember the details around this event. "I got it for Christmas from my parents when I was seven. Or, well, from the postman to be exact. My parents had promised me they'd be home for Christmas, but a few days before, they called to tell me they wouldn't make it. I was upset for days and refused to talk to them when they called. They were supposed to buy me the porcelain doll I had wanted for ages, and I was mad because I was sure it would take forever for them to come home and give it to me. But it arrived on Christmas day. I was so, so happy. I remember sitting in front of the TV, drinking hot chocolate while clutching the doll. It was the best Christmas ever, except I didn't have my parents. But that wasn't unusual. The holidays were a busy time for them."

"You were alone a lot when you were a kid, right?"

"Yeah. I got used to it after a while, but I still wished my parents would be around more. Especially on days like Christmas. I remember watching Christmas movies and wishing I could have a family like that. I promised myself that when I had a family, I'd spend as much time as possible with them."

"And you thought of becoming a lawyer because the working hours are so short?"

"Hey, I have excellent time management skills."

Tristan snickers. "I bet. Just like Chris. How did you two meet?"

"We've known each other forever. I don't remember a time when I didn't know him. Our parents were friends, and we lived close to each other. Chris and I were best friends long before we became lovers. Sometimes I think we were more best friends than lovers."

"We should go to sleep," Tristan says with an uncharacteristic edge in his voice.

"You’re nervous, aren't you?" I ask.

He answers after a short pause. "Yes."

"Don't be." A rush of warmth fills me. I extend my arm, and the aisle between the seats is so narrow, I can touch his shoulder. He jerks away as if I've burned him. "Sorry. You don't have to be ashamed, Tristan. Or to continue to punish yourself for your bravery." He doesn't answer, but when I touch his shoulder again, he puts his own hand over mine, and for a while neither of us moves. I can tell he’s more relaxed. An incomprehensible sense of fulfilment spreads through me at the thought that I contributed toward that, and that I can make his hell a bit more bearable.

Then he falls asleep. I ponder why I want so much to help him. Or do I want to help him? Maybe the answer is much simpler. Maybe I'm just starved for human touch, and I'm not doing this for his benefit at all but for my own. No, I know it’s not that. His happiness simply makes me happy.

Unable to sleep, I start with a technique I often use to fall asleep: imagining a waterfall. It’s supposed to relax me. I spend what feels like an hour doing that with no improvement. I give up when Tristan starts moving, mumbling in his sleep. His mumbles turn to full out screams. Ragged and desperate. They make my skin crawl. I remain on my seat at first, covering my ears. But the terror that plagues him creeps into me until my heart hammers with nauseating speed and I can no longer stand to be across the aisle. I walk over to him, wedging myself in his seat. The seats are extravagantly wide, but I realize how much weight we’ve both lost if we can fit in it.