Until the Day I Die(47)

Lach glances at me.

“My husband liked poetry, but he was a computer engineer, so he had a very particular way of enjoying it. He followed this French group that wrote using mathematical principles or constraints, like palindromes or lipograms or the knight’s tour of a chessboard to play with the form.”

Lach laughs. “I have no idea what you just said.”

“They’re just algorithm-based experiments, setting parameters on the writing. He said we all work within constraints to create anything, so we should embrace them. He said we’re all just rats, building labyrinths that we plan to find our way out of.”

“Huh.”

I watch him. “I mean, that’s what you and I and Deirdre and Jess are doing here, aren’t we? We pay you to put us through a miserable five days that I will feel accomplished to have worked my way through.”

“I guess so.”

We walk in silence for a couple of moments before I speak again.

“The only poet he never rewrote was E. E. Cummings. He liked the way Cummings used experimental punctuation and syntax. The arrangement of the letters on the page. He said it reminded him of lines of code.”

“Interesting.”

I hear a hissing sound. It grows louder and louder until we crest the top of the trail, and a roaring column of rushing water comes into view. The four of us stop in respectful silence. The wall of water sheets from a high cliff of lichen-covered rock, white and foamy, into a crystal-blue pool below, and even as far back as we are, a cooling spray mists us.

I close my eyes and shiver, my damp skin going to gooseflesh under my T-shirt. Then I hear a shriek and open my eyes to see Jessalyn and Deirdre gazelle-leaping through the underbrush toward the pool.

I charge after the other two women, galvanized by an equal mix of joy and dread. The thick grass is matted, and my feet keep getting stuck and have to tear through it. I feel a wave of fear, that feeling you get when you’re dreaming that you’re stuck in mud and can’t run from that shadowy man chasing you. Lach’s not chasing me, but he is following, and I can feel my actual blood rushing through every part of my body.

I hate this place. The whole setup feels amateurish and unsafe. And I’m completely at the mercy of these people. I’m stuck on this island run by a two-bit hustler-princess in Louboutin pumps, and my own family blithely signed off on it without a second thought.

And there’s something else. Like that old joke—“terrible food and the portions are so small.” As miserable as the hash was, as annoying as it’s been to sleep in that flimsy tent, to not get a morning cup of coffee and to hike for hours in the crushing heat, I expected more.

I expected more structure, more spiritual substance to the program. More something, to help me root out this sick, self-sabotaging thing in me that makes me do things like kiss my best friend’s husband. But there’s nothing. Well, nothing other than a day hike, activities like building the shelters, and unsupervised meditating at night. As much as I don’t want to be here, I’m still disappointed. I had hoped in some way that this L’élu would save me.

Maybe nothing will save me. Maybe Perry was the best part of me, and I just am what I am.

At the waterfall, I find Jessalyn and Deirdre stripped down to their sports bras and underwear, ducking in and out of the pool beneath it like a couple of kids. I kick off my boots and jump in the pool, clothes and all, surfacing to the sound of their laughter. Lach ambles up, pulls off his boots too, and settles on the edge of an overhanging rock.

“Get in!” Deirdre yells at Lach.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I’m the lifeguard.” He seems to be zeroed in on me, though, as I dunk all the way under the water. “Bad move, Erin,” he says when I surface. “You never want to get your clothes wet in the jungle. Never know how long it’s gonna take to dry them out.”

But I don’t want to take off my clothes in front of him. “I’ll be fine,” I say.

“Just looking out for you. Don’t want you to have to do this all over again.” He shoots me a half smile, but I avert my eyes, and through the clear water, study my hands as they sink into the black sand. Half of me—the stupid half—enjoys the attention; the other half of me thinks this is just his idea of a game of psychological chicken. Well, fine. If it is, it’s wasted on me. I’m not that into tent sex.

Deirdre paddles up to us, leaning back in the shallow water, preening for Lach. “What’s on the program today?” she asks. “Kill and roast a parrot? Make a sundial out of twigs? Scale the waterfall with our bare hands?”

“The last one,” Lach says. “You’re going to climb that waterfall.”

She turns to ogle the sheer cliff rising up beside the foaming waterfall. “Jesus. Really?”

“No, you dim bulb,” he says. “You think I’m going to haul your asses up there with no ropes or safety equipment? Not likely.” He leans back, closes his eyes, and lifts his face to the sun. “I’m gonna sit here and let you ladies entertain me.”

Deirdre giggles, but I keep my face down. It’s then that I notice, on the sandy bottom beneath the warm, clear water, a blue plastic bread tie.

Water splashes me, and my head jerks up.

“Come on!” Jessalyn shouts at Deirdre and me, and splashes us again. Deirdre paddles back to her.