The Paper Swan(60)

A drop of water trickled from my hair to the shadow between my breasts. There was nothing separating me from Damian, except my towel. My heart was open—my lips, my skin, my eyes—all bare and naked. And in the end, that was my undoing, his undoing, because Damian could take my finger, but not my heart.

So, he let go of my hand and left the room.





I HAD FORGOTTEN THE TASTE of plump, juicy mangoes eaten right off the tree. The mangoes on the island were small, but remarkably sweet. I could fit three in the palm of my hand and when I peeled off the soft, thick skin, the juice dripped down my arms and turned into a sticky mess. I had to watch for ants as I ate them, especially if any got on my legs. Those suckers loved mango nectar and there were times when they went places I did not appreciate. It was a price I was willing to pay, for the pleasure of sitting in the shade of a mango tree, and sinking my teeth into the soft, orange flesh. The best was when I could fit a whole mango in my mouth and suck on it until all that remained was the dry, bearded pit.

The ripest, heaviest fruit fell off the tree on its own, so there was always some on the ground, but it was bruised or picked over by bugs and animals. Damian climbed the tree and shook the branches while I stood beneath, trying to catch them in a wicker basket.

“Ouch,” I said for the fifth time when one bounced off my head. “Not yet! On five, okay?”

It was one of those things that we fell into so automatically that even Damian didn’t notice. And it worked perfectly. I was still admiring our little haul when the sky broke loose. It wasn’t a nice, gentle drizzle; it was like being splashed with a big wave at the end of a water ride. The tropical shower unleashed more mangoes on my head. I turned the wicker basket upside down over me to shield myself. All the mangoes we’d picked ricocheted off my head. I started running for cover, but the ground was quickly turning to mud and I had to dislodge one foot before pulling out the other. Damian jumped from the tree and was a few feet ahead of me, caught in the same predicament, except he was heavier so he sank lower with each step. We looked like two wet zombies, limbs stiff and awkward, making a run from the crypt.

Damian turned around when I started laughing. He took one look at me, with the upside basket perched on my head, ankle-deep in mud and guck, and started laughing too.

“This way.” He grabbed my hand and steered me to a small wooden shack in the jungle.

The palapa-thatched roof protected us from the passing squall. I dropped to the ground, soaked to the bone, trying to catch my breath, but failing miserably because I couldn’t stop laughing at Damian’s muddy, hobbit feet.

“Dude, for someone who is so compulsive about moisturizing his feet, you need a pedicure. Bad,” I said, sobering up when I realized he wasn’t laughing anymore. “What?” I asked. He was looking at me with an intensity that was making me squirm.

“You still laugh the same,” he said.

I froze and dropped my gaze to the wicker basket on my lap. I didn’t want him to see how these brief, small bursts of familiarity made me want to throw my arms around him and tear down the walls that kept us from the easiness we’d once shared.

“Same laugh, except for that gap between your teeth,” he continued, stretching out beside me.

“I’m still the same girl, Damian.” I put my head down and we lay on the floor, wishing for the simplicity of childhood, the wholeness of hearts, the sweetness of pure, unadulterated life. Muddy puddles and chocolate faces and skinned knees and skipping rope; me hiding behind MaMaLu’s skirts after painting his face ballerina pink as he slept under the tree.

“The day you visit MaMaLu’s grave—is it the same every year?” I asked.

He nodded, staring at the dried up palm fronds that lined the roof. “I used to wait outside the prison. One day I heard her singing. It was the last time she sang for me. It was so clear I could hear it over all the noise and chaos, like she was right there, singing in my ear. I think that was her way of saying goodbye. I go every year on that day.”

I wanted to reach for Damian’s hand, clasp his fingers in mine. I wanted to tell him he’d been a good son and how much MaMaLu had loved him, but I couldn’t get past the lump lodged in my throat.

We listened to the rain subside as the mud dried on our feet.

“What is this place?” I asked, looking around.

The shack was sparse, but with remnants of use: a lantern hung from one of the posts and there was a makeshift bench with tools and rusty screws and nails on it.