Until the Day I Die(45)
She adjusts her position on the log. “I used to want to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. You know, there’s only been one of us in the Fortune 500 since 1999. One woman of color to attain that title. And only fifteen black men.”
“And you never made it?”
“No. No sir, I did not.” She gives me a wry look. “Full disclosure—I drink large quantities of vodka, which may have had something to do with the disappointing career advancement.”
I eye her. Some instinct tells me she’s only revealing part of the truth. But that’s okay. I have no right to this woman’s secrets.
“Also full disclosure—I already know who you are. About your company, Jax, and your husband. I read that Business Insider article.”
I sigh. “Oh, yeah. That.”
“Is that why you’re here?” she says. “Because of what happened to him?”
I’m not the kind of person who spills her guts at the drop of a hat, but I don’t want to be rude. We’re a team, and we’re going to need each other to get through the next several days. I have to say something.
“It’s been harder than I thought it would be,” I admit. Which is a massive understatement, but true, nonetheless.
“What was he like?” she asks.
“My husband?”
“Yeah.”
He was a good man. Unafraid of failure or of looking foolish. Most importantly, he was not afraid of me. Headstrong, stubborn, always dialed up to ten . . .
“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s hard talking about someone you’ve loved then lost.” Her eyes have gone a little out of focus.
“Now that he’s gone,” I say, “I don’t know—I’m just adrift. I don’t belong at work, I don’t belong at home. I can’t seem to figure anything out.”
I go quiet and immediately regret saying as much as I have. Not because Jessalyn doesn’t seem like a perfectly reasonable person to talk to, but because this is the first time I’ve verbalized these particular feelings to a fellow adult. It makes me feel vulnerable.
“So what do you think he wanted you to do?” Jess prods. “Your husband. I mean, did y’all ever talk about it? What you’d do if something happened to one of you?”
“We have wills, of course, but we didn’t stipulate anything about Jax, other than this pact we had with our partners, a kind of Three Musketeers thing. But Perry and I never talked, not about anything specific with Jax. It just didn’t seem . . .”
. . . like death should be in the ten-year plan.
Just then, Lach appears out of the jungle and tells us it’s time to turn in. I’m glad. Jess could be 100 percent on the up-and-up, but I’ve interacted with enough people who are trying to get something for nothing—information, money, a leg up on some deal they want in on—to know I’ve said enough. For now, anyway. And, truthfully, Antonia’s pitch still has me somewhat rattled.
Later that night, I lie awake in my tent. I feel grimy all over, sweaty from the day’s hike, still wearing the same clothes, and I never got to wash my face or brush my teeth. I’ve camped before. Perry and Shorie and I used to spend a few weekends a year at Wind Creek on the lake, sleeping in tents, hiking around the lake, roasting marshmallows at night. But there was always a community bathroom with hot showers and toilet paper, and the only animal was a friendly dog from the next campsite over.
Those weekends seem like a lifetime ago. Suffused with a kind of sepia light and blurred at the edges. They were so fun, especially the hikes. We’d circle the undeveloped shores of the lake, and Shorie would belt out the entire soundtrack from Wicked. She was obsessed with that show. Perry knew every single word to every song and joined in enthusiastically. My contribution was more along the lines of humming.
On one of the trips, when Shorie was fourteen, we noticed what we thought was a mosquito bite on her calf, just below the back of the knee, but turned out to be a brown recluse bite. Within two days the spot swelled and turned purple, then blistered and scabbed black, leaving an oozing ulcer. She spent two days in the hospital, pumped so full of fluids her normally thin face looked as plump as it had when she was a toddler. She didn’t develop any particular fear of spiders. I, on the other hand, declared that to be our last camping trip ever. Obviously I was voted down on that one.
But this situation is altogether different, in more ways than one. There’s no running water, no toilets—just rolls of paper stacked on the picnic table. There are no marshmallows, no singing, and God-help-me-please, no spiders. I try to think back if I’ve ever seen a nature show on Caribbean arachnids. Maybe it’s best I can’t remember. If they’re crawling on this island, they’re probably exotic and deadly and horrifying, and it really wouldn’t do me a bit of good to know.
I tell my mind to calm, to try to focus on sleeping, but I can hear noises. Or at least I think I do. Whispering, maybe. Or an animal rooting around for scraps of food.
I pull on my boots, unzip my tent, and creep out into the clearing. The fire is smoking, the picnic table loaded with plastic tubs of more food—the next couple of days’ rations, most likely. I have no idea where they came from. I didn’t hear anyone come into camp and drop them off after we’d gone to bed, but that had to be what happened.
Towering trees form threatening silhouettes in the dark. The jungle is surprisingly loud at night. It buzzes and whistles and shrieks with the songs of insects and frogs. Over by Deirdre’s tent, there’s a different kind of rustling, which must be what I heard.