Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord (5 page)

             
Don’t look down. Don’t look
behind
.

             
Just one more step, Payton.

             
One more step. One more step. One … more …
motherfucking step
!

    
             
At night, the temperature in the mountain plummets and I’m freezing my ass off. I wrap my arms tightly around my wiry body and curse myself for venturing into
Mexico
. Why didn’t I go somewhere safe for a holiday?
Like
Iraq
.
Why didn’t I just stay in the warm, comfortable tepee with Juan and Enfermera and their pickled animal parts? Why didn’t I just
stay and
become a witchdoctor myself?
That way I’d be the one dispensing opium. The thought of that makes gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling.  

             
So what if they had sex (at their age) while I slept a few feet away? Why
the fuck
didn’t I steal a stash of opium for the
trip
?

             
Well, i
n spite of the precarious climb, I’m still alive. Maybe, it’s because I’m young
,
strong
,
an athlete
.
I can outrun and outswim just about everybody I know and I have medals to prove it.

             
Did my father nurture those talents in me? No
pe
. He was too busy diapering and burping the former soap actress he married. 

It’s light, so I resume climbing and
after a couple of hours
I see the top of the mountain.
Tears spring to my eyes.
If only I had a flag.

             
Now, all I gotta make sure is that I don’t run into Diablo or his hombres. I hide in the bushes and peer across the fields. When I see no signs of them, I venture out. 

             
I limp all the way to the village and finally, I arrive emotional and exhausted, but extremely happy.

             
At first, the village kids scream in terror at the sight of me
and back away.

             
‘Jesus Christ!’ one of the older kids say as they back away.

             
‘No! No!’ I cry.
Damn! I shouldn’t have worn this long white dress.

             
‘
Es un fantasma
!’

    
             
‘
No, I’m not a ghost. Please!’
I hadn’t anticipated this.
Now I worry they
will drive a stake or something through my
heart
.
‘
It’s really me
,’ I explain
.
‘
I didn’t die.’

             
A
g
host
that talks – that ought to reassure them.

             
‘Where’s
Austin
?’ I ask. They stare with eyes popping out of their skulls. ‘
Austin
, tall …um … henpecked …
?
’

     
             
‘
Payton
?’
A
familiar voice whisper
s
my name.

 
             
I spin around and look into
Austin
’s beautiful face. ‘
Austin
! Oh
migod
Austin!’ He’s alive. My love is alive and
living
here. I fling myself into his arms.

             
‘
Payton … a
m I dreaming?’ he whispers
and hugs me
to him.

   
             
‘No,’ I blubber, ‘it’s me Austin, I’m alive. I made it.
I made it.
’

   
             
‘I can’t believe it,’ he chants softly
as he squeezes me
to him. His arms
around me
feel wonderful and familiar
and I want to stay in them forever. He holds me away to look at me, then hugs me, then holds me away and finally, he just holds me
to him
while the villagers
clutch their children and
stare
.

             
I briefly tell him about how I survived my murder.

             
‘My family …?’

             
‘They’re here
,
’
he says as if in a trance.

             
‘Oh thank God!’

             
‘Come, let me take you to them.’

             
I see my dad first.
‘Payton?’
He
dad
slowly removes his glasses. ‘Can’t be,’ he mutters as he rubs his eyes.

             
‘
Dad …Dad …
It’s me
D
ad,’ I whisper and
throw my arms around me.

             
Elaine and Paris are
tearing. So is
Austin
. My dad isn’t crying and that bothers me. Maybe he’s in shock. I am so happy to see them all. I
laugh and cry all at once. 

 
             
‘God, you’re stick
-
insect thin,’
Paris
says, her lips curling with an admixture of
envy and admiration.

 
             
‘Vegetable
gruel
for t
hree
months,’ I say
, clutching the front of my dress and shaking it
. ‘Try it. You’ll puke, but you’ll be stick
-
insect too. Hey, that reminds me – got any steak?’

 
             
Jack,
Austin
’s good friend and business partner,
a former native of
Siempre
,
divides his time between
Los Angeles
and
Mexico
these days. He immediately arranges a steak the size of Siempre for me.

             
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Do you have any butter? I really need grease now.’

             
The steak drenched with homemade butter is
delicious but almost immediately, it makes me gag. Disappointing. 

 
             
With an enigmatic smile,
Paris
w
alks over and takes my hand. ‘Got
something to show you,’ she says, her eyes
gleaming
.

             
‘What?
My steak …
’ 

             
She
ignores my protests and
leads me to
what appears to be a
grave site.

             
‘This is a cemetery
Paris
. What the fuck?’

             
‘Look,’ she says and points to a wooden cross.

             
I
peer at
the name on the cross
and balk.

Payton Wagner

197
7
-1999

RIP

             
‘Omigod!
T
hat’s …that’s
me
!’

             
She nods slowly, wriggling both eyebrows. ‘
It sure is.
’

             
‘Fuck
Paris
! You look so goddamn happy showing me this. And you call
me
psycho?’

             
‘
Schizo
,’ she corrects
.
‘
B
ut sometimes,
psycho
too.’ 

             
‘Mmm.
’ Same ol’ Paris. ‘My birth date is incorrect, you know. I was born in 1978.’

             
Paris
squints at the cross. ‘Really? That’s funny, cos your dad wrote it.’

             
‘Did he?’

             
‘Yep. What a loser. You’d think he will remember the birth date of their only child, huh?’

             
I stare at her as her words sink in. She’s right. What can I say?

             
Time to change the subject. ‘
So
Diablo,
he’s
like,
taken over the village then?’

             
‘Yep. We expected him to kill us too, but he didn’t. Says he’ll kill us all if we
ever
harbour a spy again.’