The Sunflower: A Novel (22 page)

A door was slightly opened in Christine’s soul…

PAUL COOK’S DIARY

The jungle was black except where the moonlight pierced the canopy and glistened from the moist surface of vegetation. It was possible to believe that there were spectators just beyond the cleared ground of the compound, hidden but watching, like a theater audience after the lights are dimmed.

It was half past three in the morning and the group had stumbled to the
comedor.
They dropped their bags and sat on the floor against the wall, the teenagers sleeping against each other while others yawned and grumbled about the insanity of a 3
A
.
M
. wake-up. It was the only way they could get out of the jungle and back to Puerto Maldonado in time to make the flight out.

Paul had slept in the room with Christine while Joan had moved to the Vampiro bungalow so she could dress and pack without waking her. When the group had assembled, Jaime woke Paul, and he pulled on his clothes from the day before, slipped on sandals and followed him back to the
comedor.
Paul looked over the group. He thought they resembled a scene from
Dawn of the Dead.

“I know you’re tired, but once you’re back on the river, you can sleep. I won’t be going back with you. Christine is too sick to travel, so I’ll be staying here to take care of her. You’re in good hands. Jaime, Marcos and Gilberto will be taking you back. Thanks again for all you’ve done to help the people down here. I hope to see you all again. Travel well.”

With that the group rose to their feet. Paul shook a few hands and everyone gathered their bags and followed Jaime to the boats. Paul followed them down to the dock and saw them off, then returned alone to the bungalow.

He put his hand on Christine’s forehead. She was warm, but not enough to warrant concern, so he crawled back under his mosquito netting and fell asleep. He woke two hours later to Christine mumbling. The sun had barely begun to soften the darkness and he could see her moving uncomfortably under the net, her head turning from side to side.

“I need to call.” She said. “I’ve got to call them.”

Paul rolled from his bed and went to her side. “Who do you need to call?”

“The caterer.”

“It’s okay,” he said.

“It’s
not
okay,” she protested, “There won’t be enough éclairs.”

“I’ll call the caterer,” Paul said.

“Okay. Okay. You call.” She calmed and her breathing slowed. A minute or two later she said, “Martin?”

Paul took her hand.

“Martin. What’s wrong with me?”

Paul rubbed his hand along her face. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Why don’t you want me?” She began softly whimpering, and though her eyes were closed, tears seeped up through her eyelids and ran down her face. “Where are you going, Daddy? When are you coming back? Why don’t you want me?”

Paul took her hand and held it tightly, and she gripped his with equal force, as if she were falling. Her rambling degenerated into incoherent babble as she fell back asleep. The last words Paul understood were, “Don’t leave me.”

Each moment with her has carried her deeper into my heart.

She is afraid I’ll leave her. How could she know that I cannot bear the thought of being without her.

PAUL COOK’S DIARY

Late afternoon of the second day a storm moved in. The monkeys’ chatter grew louder under the burgeoning clouds and the jungle fell into shadow. The rain pounded on the bungalow’s roof, and water fell from the thatch eaves to the dark red dirt below, running in a million small veins back to the lake. It is the way of the jungle—all water seeks larger water.

Paul never left Christine’s side. He watched the storm come and was glad the group had gotten out before it hit. He lit a candle inside the bungalow. The generator had been shut off, as they couldn’t risk running out of gas.

He had placed a chair next to Christine’s bed and checked her temperature every four hours. It kept steady at around 102 degrees, spiking at times as the acetaminophen wore off. Paul had treated dengue before. Several years earlier, on a humanitarian expedition in the jungle, a child and an old man were brought to him infected with the disease. The child lived; the old man didn’t.

Though he worried about Christine, he held himself apart from his fears with a clinical distance. It wouldn’t help her to see him afraid.

Rosana brought food for them and cold packs from the refrigerator. She made strong tea from the bark of the cinchona tree.

Christine ate little but Paul made her drink. Dehydration was his greatest fear. As twilight fell on the second day, she spoke his name. For the first time in hours she was coherent.

“How long has it been raining?” she asked.

“A few hours. Do your eyes still hurt?”

She lightly nodded. “And my back hurts. It feels like something is poking in my bones.”

Paul was relieved: It confirmed that she had dengue fever. The mortality rate of dengue was considerably lower than that of yellow fever or malaria. “It’s the fever. It will go away.”

“It hurts.”

He gently rubbed her arm. “I know. But it will go away.”

It wasn’t until the next evening that Christine fully realized that the group had left the lodge. She asked about Jessica.

“She’s in Cuzco,” Paul said.

“When did she leave?”

“She never came. She stayed with Jim.” Paul looked at her sympathetically. “Do you remember?”

“When he fell,” she said. It seemed to her like such a long time ago. She breathed in deeply.

“Did Joan leave?”

“She left two days ago with the group.”

“Who’s still here?”

“Me,” Paul said. “And Rosana and Leonidas.”

“My mother will be worried.”

“Jessica will call your mother.”

“She’ll be so worried.” She closed her eyes again. After a few more minutes she asked, “When can I go home?”

“When you’re well enough to make the trip. After the fever breaks.”

“Will you be leaving too?”

“Not without you.”

“Do you promise?”

“I won’t leave you, Christine. I promise.”

She squeezed his hand tightly and closed her eyes again.

It rained all that night and the next day. Christine’s condition was stable, though a few times her temperature rose higher than 104. Paul would damp her forehead and neck with cool water until her temperature fell. On the fifth day of her illness the rain stopped. Gilberto and Marcos returned with the canoes and the report that the group had made the flight out of Puerto.

Paul ate and slept in the room, reading from a stack of books Rosana had brought him from the
comedor.

It was the middle of the sixth night when Christine’s fever broke. Her teeth chattered and she moaned loud enough to wake Paul; he climbed out of bed and went to her side, laying his hand across her forehead. It was wet and her hair was damp at the roots. Her nightshirt was soaked through.

Paul took a towel from the bathroom and softly patted her face and forehead; then he lifted her nightshirt up over her head and gently dried her body. Her skin pebbled with goosebumps in the cool air. When he finished, he pulled one of his own shirts over her and lifted the blanket to her chest. Then he sat back on the stool next to her bed.

The moon peered through a flat ceiling of clouds and lit the bungalow, illuminating Christine’s face in a pale glow. In medical school he had been taught the importance of remaining emotionally detached from a patient, and in this case he had failed utterly. He had been at her side for nearly a week, and the longer he was with her, the closer he felt to her. He looked at her now as if she were a sleeping Juliet laid on her bier.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispered, “or what you’re doing to my heart.”

She didn’t move and he leaned over her and softly kissed her lips. She showed no reaction but turned her face slightly toward him and sighed. He lay his head next to her body and fell asleep with exhaustion.

Sleeping Beauty has woken.

PAUL COOK’S DIARY

A sharp ray of light broke through the eastern window and fell across Christine’s bed. She raised a hand to cover her face, then her eyelids fluttered and opened. At first she wasn’t sure where she was, but the neatly woven lines of thatch above her brought her back.

Paul was asleep, slumped over her bed, the crown of his head pressed against her waist. He was unshaven, his eyes dark-ringed from exhaustion.

Through it all he had never left her side. It was like waking from the murky depths of a bad dream to light and air and next to her was the man who had pulled her up. She had been drawn to Paul the first time she saw him, but now she was overwhelmed by the strength of her feelings.

She was glad that he was so close to her and wished that he were closer. She wanted to feel all of him next to her.

She slowly reached down and touched his hair, gently crushing it between her fingers. Then she touched his stubbled face.

He groaned softly, then raised his head, looking at her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied. He could see that her eyes were bright again. “You had me worried.”

“I’m sorry.”

He reached up and felt her forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Better.” The sweet, pungent smell of the wood mixed with that of her body.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“How many days have I been here?”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” she said aloud as if she had to hear herself say it. “Is it over?”

“Mostly. Your fever broke around three in the morning. But it’s still going to be a while before you feel like yourself again.”

She looked down at the clothes she wore. She had a slight recollection of Paul undressing her, but she felt no embarrassment, only that she had been cared for. “Where are my clothes?”

“They’re over there. They were wet.”

She glanced over to the pile of towels and clothing, then back at him. She took his hand. “You never left me, did you?”

“No.”

She gripped his hand tighter, lifting it to her cheek. “You never left me.”

We carry around in our heads these pictures of what our lives are supposed to look like, painted by the brush of our intentions. It’s the great, deep secret of humanity that in the end none of our lives look the way we thought they would.

As much as we wish to believe otherwise, most of life is a reaction to circumstances.

PAUL COOK’S DIARY

By evening Christine felt strong enough to stand on her own. Rosana brought soup and bread to them and she smiled when she saw Christine sitting up.

“La señorita está mejor ahora.” The señorita is better now.

“Sí,”
Paul said.
“Mucho mejor.” Much better.

Paul was glad to see that Christine’s appetite had returned. They ate dinner together, then Rosana brought in clean towels. Paul left so she could bathe. Christine showered and washed her hair, then sprinkled talc on her body. It was good to feel human again, she thought, or better, feminine. She cinched the belt of her shorts around her waist and realized that she had lost even more weight.

Paul picked up some playing cards from the
comedor,
and two packages of cookies from his own stash and brought them back to her bungalow. When he returned, she was on her bed, sitting on top of the covers. She eyed the packages he carried with interest. “You have cookies?”

He set the cookies down on the bed and held the deck of cards in one hand, fanning them.
“American
cookies. And cards. Want to play?” Paul asked.

“Sure. What are we going to play?”

“I’ll teach you a game called Texas Hold’em.”

“Poker?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Sounds fun. What should we bet?”

He smiled at her eagerness. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. You should learn how to play first.”

“Are you chicken?”

“What do you want to bet?”

“How about your cookies?”

“My cookies?”

“Well, if they’re already yours, you won’t feel so bad taking them from me.”

“Good point.”

Paul opened the packages. “Oreos are worth one and ginger snaps worth five.”

By nightfall Christine had won the last of the cookies.

“So you’re a cardsharp,” Paul said.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Granted, not as much as last week, but I still have a few secrets.” She lifted an Oreo, breaking it apart and holding it in front of him. “Want one of
my
cookies?”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to cost you.”

“How much?”

She looked at him coyly. “It’s a pretty good cookie. And I doubt you’ll find any more this far from civilization.”

“What do you want?”

“A date.”

“Where would I take you on this date?”

“On a boat ride.”

He looked at her with surprise. “You want to go back out on the lake?”

“Just the two of us this time.”

He thought about it for a moment. “You feel up to it?”

“I’ve got to get out of here.” She held up the cookie. “Want it?”

“Let’s go.”

He retrieved his flashlight from the floor, and, taking her arm, they walked across the camp. She was weaker than she realized and the short walk to the incline had winded her. She looked over the steep, uneven steps cut into the dirt and frowned. “I don’t think I can walk down that.”

Paul stepped down on the earthen ledge below her. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“You’re going to carry me down?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m heavier than I look.”

“I’ve hiked the Inca trail with packs heavier than you. But you’ll have to hold the light for me.”

“I can do that.” She took the flashlight from him then draped her arms around his neck laying her head against his shoulder. He put his arms under her legs and lifted her, then cautiously started down while she pointed the light at the ground ahead of his feet. At the bottom of the hill he let her down. He was breathing heavily.

“See, I’m heavier than I look.”

“No, you’re a lightweight.”

“We’ll see after you carry me back up,” she said.

Gilberto had tied the canoes side by side. Paul held Christine’s hand as she stepped into the first canoe to get to the outer boat. He untied the rope from the bow, brought the rope inside the canoe and stepped in behind her. Lifting an oar, he began to paddle backward. The canoe slipped quietly from the dock into the black of the lake. The only sound was the continual fall from the waterwheel and the occasional splash of the oar as the jungle shore faded into a black tangle behind her. The water did not frighten her tonight.

When they were halfway across the lake, Paul pulled the oar inside, placing the dripping blade toward the back of the boat. Then he slid the wood back from Christine’s seat, laying the plank next to the oar on the seat behind him.

“Lie back,” he said.

She laid her head back in his lap, looking up into the clear, starlit sky. The boat rocked gently and the humid, tropical breath of the jungle warmed them.

“It’s hard to believe it’s almost Christmas,” she said. “I don’t even know what day it is.”

“It’s the fifteenth.”

“Just ten more shopping days,” she said. “What do you do for Christmas?”

“If it wasn’t for the children, I’d just skip it.”

“Scrooge,” she said.

“I have my reasons.” He ran his fingers up the side of her jaw, then through her hair, raking it back across her head. She closed her eyes and exhaled with pleasure.

“Out here it’s possible to believe that we’re the only two people in this world.”

“We are.” He was suddenly quiet and for the next few moments he just stroked her hair.

“Why did you come to Peru?” she asked.

Her eyes were still closed and he looked at her for a long time without answering. “For some of the same reasons you did.”

“Martin bailed on you too, huh?”

They both laughed.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“I must be. I’m in the middle of a piranha-and-crocodile-infested lake in a leaky canoe and I wouldn’t be anyplace else.”

He pulled her into his chest, and for a moment she was happy with his silence. Then he took a deep breath.

“It started on Christmas Day. I was working as an emergency room doctor. The E.R. was crazy. There were only two doctors on call, and the other doc was trying to save a woman who had a heart attack during labor.

“A child was brought in. He had swallowed something.” Paul took the soldier out from his shirt. “This.”

Even though she had seen the soldier before, Christine raised her head to look at it. Then she looked up into Paul’s face. She noticed that his voice had changed, but as she looked into his eyes, she saw just how much the incident still affected him. She guessed that he was opening a part of himself that few had ever seen.

“I had just started on the boy when a man was brought in. He had just had a heart attack. I did everything I could to save them. But I lost them both.” His words slowed. “The boy was only five. The man was in his early forties. He left behind a wife and five children.”

Christine reached up and touched his face. “I’m sorry.”

“It was the worst day of my life. But it didn’t end there.”

She looked at him for explanation.

“In most cultures there’s a certain acceptance that bad things happen. But in America if something bad happens, then people think that someone’s got to pay. The child’s mother was convinced that I had killed her son. I wasn’t the one who had left my child alone in a room with small ornaments. The man’s wife didn’t think I had done enough to save her husband. He was forty pounds overweight, had high blood pressure and hadn’t seen a doctor in six years. But both blamed me for their tragedies and both families sued me.”

“They sued
you?”

“This kind of thing happens every day. My second year in residency a woman broke into the E.R. and stole several vials of morphine. She gave it to her boyfriend, who overdosed on it. The woman sued the hospital and won.

“It seems that juries are always looking for some scapegoat. And there’s always some doctor willing to take payment to tell a jury what you did wrong. In many cases there’s not a clear choice. Sometimes you have just seconds to make a decision. You pick right you’re a saint; pick wrong you’re the devil. And in the end it really comes down to a throw of the dice.

“I knew that no matter how good a doctor I was that the odds would eventually catch up to me. I thought I would be able to handle it. It should have been easy. I’d done everything by the book. The hospital supported me. The E.R. staff stood by me. I won both cases.

“During all this I saw a psychiatrist friend. He told me that, statistically speaking, a doctor going through a malpractice suit has a far greater chance of dying than an inmate on death row.”

“From suicide?” Christine asked.

“Suicide, the immune system breaks down or maybe they just don’t turn fast enough out of the way of an oncoming semi. The will to live, or lack of, is a powerful thing.

“I had gotten engaged that Thanksgiving. We planned to get married the next June. But things got pretty strained between us. At first we delayed our wedding, hoping things would get back to normal. But there was no normal. I tried to go back to my practice, but I was just going through the motions. I stopped trusting my instincts. It was like being a professional snake handler. It didn’t matter how careful you were, you knew that someday you’d be bitten.

“After a while I just couldn’t do it anymore. I told my fiancée that I was giving up medicine. I had this naïve assumption that it wouldn’t matter, that love would see us through.” Paul shook his head. “It didn’t. She wanted the doctor and the life of the doctor’s wife.”

He looked into her eyes. “I guess it’s true what they say, ‘Men marry women, women marry situations.’ ”

Christine didn’t respond.

“That was pretty much my lowest point. I thought of ending it. You know, those midnight moments when insanity starts making sense. I knew just how to do it, the right cocktail of medications. I wouldn’t feel a thing. I’d just disappear. But in the end I couldn’t do it.

“Instead I bought a backpack and a one-way ticket to Brazil. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going because I didn’t know myself. I hiked throughout South America; Ecuador, Paraguay, Columbia. I stayed in hostels or under the stars. I grew my hair long. Somewhere along the road Dr. Cook ceased to exist.

“I hadn’t been to Peru yet when someone told me about Machu Picchu. I think I had some desperate, New Age notion that I might find enlightenment in the sacred city. I asked God to show me a path—any path. I took the next train to Peru. I hiked the Chocaqui, the Incan Trail. I meditated in the Temple of the Moon. But there was no inspiration, no divine guidance. Then, on the train back from Machu Picchu I sat next to a group of teenagers from Houston. They were in Peru for the summer on a Baptist mission. They were talking about this orphanage they’d worked in. I asked them about it. For some reason I couldn’t get it off my mind.

“So after we arrived in Cuzco I hitchhiked to Lucre and found El Girasol. I originally intended to stay for just a few days. But working with these children did something to me. I kept telling myself that I would leave next week. I think I did that for about six months. Then one day the police officer running El Girasol received notice that he was being transferred to Lima. There was no one to take his place. It was either take over or send the children back out to the streets.

“That’s where I am today. And after all this time I found what I was looking for.”

“What’s that?”

“Peace.” For a moment he was silent. “Or at least I had.”

She looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember when you asked me what was the scariest thing I’d encountered since I came to the jungle?”

“As if I could ever forget…”

“Well, I was wrong.”

“You thought of something more frightening?”

“You.”

She sat up and looked at him indignantly. “I’m scarier than a
snake?”

“The most the snake can do is kill you. And it’s a fairly quick thing at that. In less than a week you’ll be back in Dayton and I’ll be here, unable to forget you for the rest of my life.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she leaned forward into him, pressing her mouth onto his and they lay back together. When they finally parted, she put her head on his chest. She could hear the pounding of his heart.

“Come home with me,” she said.

For a long time he didn’t answer. “And the children?”

She cuddled into him. The boat gently rocked as they held each other beneath the stars.