The Espionage Effect(3)
“Very good. Right this way.” The hostess’s polished English, tinged with only a hint of an accent, bore testament to either a selective hiring process at the five-star resort or a dedication on their staff members’ parts to blend with the guests.
After we were seated on the lower terrace of the patio, I settled onto the chair cushion and inhaled deeply, doing my best to “blend with the natives” in a very foreign world.
The locale had a certain undeniable atmosphere: ocean mist the perfect temperature of cool; gentle waves rolling between a stretch of tempting white sand and an expansive cobalt-blue sky; sumptuous food meant to seduce the palate brought by serving staff who had impeccable manners, yet attended to the table with warm graciousness.
Earlier assumptions about the staff and guests twisted into more complex facets. In every corner of the multi-terraced patio, near the thatched roof bar, and down onto the wide beach spanning to the shoreline, the cultural diversity broadened into a rich international tapestry. Tables within earshot spoke not only English and Spanish, but also what sounded like French, Japanese, Arabic, and…Dutch? Among those who spoke English, myriad accents danced into my ears, teasing my brain: Scottish, Australian…South African.
A father and son spiraled a football back and forth on the sand near the shoreline. Two teenaged girls perched on the edges of their barstools, trying to capture the attention of an attractive man in sunglasses at the end of the bar. He was surrounded by a half dozen men and women in T-shirts and board shorts, many holding professional cameras with long zoom lenses slung over their shoulders.
Daring seagulls fought for scraps of food, swooping down the moment a table was abandoned, fighting for hierarchal rights to a toasted piece of bread or the remains of a basket of fries. In the center of our table, dainty black-and-silver striped bees hovered over a square glass dish made of translucent green bubble glass, each choosing one of the four sectioned-off flavors of tropical jams. They took turns landing gingerly on the sloping glass perimeter, then edged toward their chosen spread until they extended their proboscis into the inventive substitute nectar.
How quaint. Yet all of them? Oblivious.
Man and beast alike played in the sun-drenched vivid colors of the world, recklessly disregarding the dangerous reality lurking in the shadows just beyond sight, as if they were ignorant of it—or impervious to it.
I was neither. Even though, at times, I wished fervently I was both.
The vantage point from the cold, monochrome shadows had proved my wisest course—observing, going through the motions only when necessary, but never fully participating.
Yet cocooned as I’d been for so long, I’d reached a crisis of destiny.
In the last year, I’d swung one-hundred-eighty degrees from all-encompassing astrophysics to the painstaking minutiae of nuclear physics, incessantly nudged by my parents and counselors, yet I’d still found the stagnant air to be stifling. I’d never fully invested in the path most fitting for my intelligence level. In fact, I’d only ever halfheartedly participated from the start.
Aptitude did not equate desire. Not even close.
I needed more.
Needed to venture out into the real world.
That was the reason for the whole spontaneous vacation: to reassess my skills and desires. I desperately needed to find a balance of the unexpected amid the landslide toward the mundane. And I had cast aside every ingrained rule to do it, decided to finally live for once.
Seven days of so-called blissful paradise held only one purpose: Be wild.
“…Mayan ruins. Oh, snorkeling,” Anna droned on, assuming I’d been fully engaged. “The world’s second largest coral reef is only five minutes away by boat.” She’d been tossing out activity suggestions from the moment we’d sat down.
“Sure. That sounds…sanitary.” Sucking on stale rubber after a thousand other mouths had slobbered over it.
“You can buy a new snorkel,” she countered, shaking her head with a dismissing expression that I’d grown accustomed to.
Yet instead of entering into a subject ripe for debate, my gaze landed on a family of four who gathered at a table alongside the sand. Two little girls who’d just run up from the beach vied for their parents’ attention. The older one held up a carved wooden boat with a linen sail. The younger thrust a red-and-blue monster truck in front of it. “Look, Mama. The man on the beach gave us these.” The smaller girl turned and pointed southward. The parents both looked over their shoulders, expressions bearing only passive interest.
With sudden alarm, I snapped my head around to identify the potential child predator. I exhaled a relieved sigh when a hotel staff member smiled broadly and waved to the vacationing family.
My gaze drifted back to the little girls, hair light brown with shimmering gold highlights, just like mine…just like ours…had been. Long-buried memories attempted to surface. I fought them, trying to tear my gaze away, but the strength of the dark undertow was too powerful, and it pulled me down anyway.
Staring at the youngest girl, a burning pain grew in my chest as two realities juxtaposed. Would she kiss a boy without a care in the world? Will she dream of a big wedding with a white dress? The older girl placed her boat onto the table for her father to examine, and my attention shifted to her. When faced with a multitude of paths in life, will her parents let her choose? Would they both grow up the way little girls should: nurtured, adored…safe?