Wish You Were Here(81)

I pull up the search engine, Rodney shrinking to a little green dot in the background. I type Beatriz Fernandez.

There are results, but none of them are her.

The same happens when I type in Gabriel’s name.

“Well?” Rodney asks.

“Nothing.” But that’s not surprising, given the fact that the internet there was so bad that social media profiles would be useless.

Unless the internet isn’t bad there, and I just created that obstacle in my dream.

My head starts to hurt.

“Let me try something,” I murmur.

I type in Casa del Cielo Isabela Galápagos.

Immediately, a picture loads of the hotel I had booked—it looks nothing like the one I visited in my imagination. But … ?it exists.

My thumbs fly over my phone again. G2 TOURS.

Tours/Outfitter, I read. And in red: CLOSED.

I suck in my breath. “He’s real, Rodney. Or at least his company is.”

“And you don’t remember ever coming in contact with them before you went, like when you were planning the trip?”

I don’t. But maybe my brain did.

“Hang on, Rod.” I put my phone down, hoist myself up on Alice, and use the walker to make my way to the nightstand. There, I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the guidebook I was reading the night before. Thumbing through the pages, I find the ones about Isabela Island.

I skim the categories: Arrival and Getting Around.

Accommodation.

Eating and drinking.

Tour operators.

The third one down: G2 TOURS. Open M–Sun 10–4. Private land/water excursions, SCUBA certified.

I did not highlight it. But I must have skimmed over it. My imagination clearly was working overtime to create a whole backstory and family around one tiny line item in a guidebook.

I shuffle back to the chair and pick up my phone again. “Gabriel’s tour company is listed in the guidebook I read.”

“He’s mentioned by name?”

“Well … ?no,” I say. “But why else would I have invented a place called G2 unless I’d seen something about it?”

“True,” Rodney points out. “That’s pretty basic. You’d probably have called it something like Happy Holidays or Galápagoing.”

“Do you think that’s all it was?” I ask him. “Do you think I unconsciously memorized all this while I was planning our vacation and somehow imagined it when I was on the vent?”

“I think there’s a lot of stuff we don’t know about the way the brain works,” Rodney says carefully. “But I also think there’s a lot of stuff we don’t know about how the world works.” He raises his brows. “Oh,” he adds. “And get yourself a shrink.”

Since the days in rehab bleed into each other, I mark time by progress. I stop using a death grip on the bars and instead graze my palm over them while I take steps. I graduate to using Alice the Walker, keeping my own balance and pushing it forward. Maggie helps by giving me verbal progress reports: “Yesterday I had to help you and you lost your balance three times, but today you’re doing it all by yourself. Yesterday I was right next to you, today I’m within shouting distance.” Vee brings me puzzles, word searches, and a deck of cards. I start by sorting cards by suit and color and number, and then move on to playing solitaire. She has me tie my own sneakers and braid my own hair. She makes me pull beads out of putty to finesse my fine motor skills, and by the next afternoon, when I text on my phone my fingers are flying the way they used to. She brings me to a fake kitchen, where I use my walker to move from dishwasher to cabinet, putting away plastic glasses and dishes.

On the twelfth day of rehab, I maneuver Alice into the bathroom, assess my balance, tug down my sweatpants, and pee on an actual toilet. I get to my feet, straighten my clothing, wash my hands.

When I step out into my room, Maggie and Vee are cheering.

There is a checklist of things I must be able to accomplish before I can leave rehab. Can I brush my hair? Can I walk with a device? Can I dial my phone? Can I go to the bathroom? Can I shower? Can I balance? Can I do light meal prep? Can I walk up and down steps?

On the day I’m discharged, Finn comes to take me home. “How did you get the day off?” I ask.

He shrugs. “What were they gonna do? Fire me?”

It’s true, they need him too much right now to risk him leaving for good. Which reminds me I will be alone in the apartment when he goes back. Which makes me terrified.

Even though I’ve been able to walk for a few days—even trading up from Alice for a quad cane—the protocol for rehab is that I be wheeled out. I’ve packed my limited stash of clothing and toiletries and the travel guides in a small duffel. “Your chariot,” Finn says, with a flourish, and I gently lower myself into the sling seat. I put on the blue surgical mask I’ve been given, and Finn sets the duffel on my lap.

Maggie comes rushing into the room. “I’d hug you if I could do it from six feet away,” she says.

“You’ve been up in my face for weeks,” I point out.

“But that was when you were a patient,” she says. “I brought you a gift.” She pulls out what she’s hidden behind her back—a shiny new quad cane for me to take home. “Candis,” she says, and I burst out laughing. Candis Cayne.