Withering Hope (10 page)

It feels like I've walked forever when I reach the place where we saw the andiroba tree. I try to remember what its leaves looked like. Long and oval, perhaps. I spin around, looking for one with oval leaves. I see trees with round leaves, star-shaped leaves, spines, and no leaves at all. But no oval ones. I go in circles until I notice one with leaves that come closer to oval than anything else. I cut a few handfuls of leaves then realize I didn't bring anything to carry them in. Brilliant, Aimee. Just brilliant. I pull at the hem of my T-shirt and put the leaves in it. Keeping my eyes firmly on the leaves, trying not to drop any, I walk back to the plane. I'm halfway to the plane when I hear a growl. Animals are afraid of fire, I remind myself. I'll be all right. But the light from my torch is significantly weaker. I raise my gaze from the leaves to the torch and stumble in my steps.

The flame.

It's almost gone. I remember Tristan telling me such a torch would last ten or fifteen minutes. I've been gone longer than that. My feet shoot forward at the same time panic sets in. I run, faster than I ever have, terrified I will lose the leaves, but more terrified that the flame will vanish, and I won't find my way back. Pain slices my calves from the effort, branches scratch my cheeks, as I move faster. The light goes out before the plane comes into view, but I'm almost there, so I keep running, tripping, falling, rising, and then running again, until I find the entrance in our makeshift fence. I don't stop until I reach the airstairs. I drop the useless torch, grabbing the airstairs to steady myself. I'm shaking like a leaf, fighting hard the urge to collapse. I don't look at the T-shirt I'm clutching, for fear I might have indeed lost all the leaves. When I can't postpone the truth any longer, I look down and breathe with relief. I've lost a lot of the leaves, but there are enough left to hopefully help. I grab one of the water baskets. If his fever doesn't subside, he'll need to keep hydrated.

Tristan is worse. Much worse. He's pale and soaked in sweat. Despite that, he smiles when he sees me. "I was worried something happened to you."

"How did you find any energy to worry about me?" I say, filling our soda can with water and helping him drink. My fingers touch his cheek. He's burning up.

After drinking the entire cup he says, "You're not the only one who isn't overjoyed with the idea of being alone in this place." I flush, remembering my insensitive comment from earlier, dread overwhelming me as he grins again. The fact that he forces humor in his voice means he's not just looking, but also feeling, worse. I show him the leaves. "These are the ones I meant, yeah," he says.

"Let me put them on the stings."

It's all I can do not to vomit as I take off his shirt, apply more of the insect cream, and then cover his back with leaves. I'm not very optimistic, but I try not to show it.

Tristan keeps talking while I sink one of my T-shirts in water and put it on his forehead as a compress. Since the water is not cold, it doesn't help bring the fever down, but it seems to make it more bearable for him. His words come out weaker, until they are almost whispers, and I have to strain my ears to understand him.

"Help me back to the cockpit," he whispers.

"Are you insane? I'm not moving you anywhere. You're staying right here. I'll keep putting water on your forehead."

"No… I"

"Shh. Don't argue. You'll sleep here."

I soak the T-shirt in water and also run it on his arms and chest this time, because his whole body is burning. He insists on returning to the cockpit, but the fever takes the better of him and he falls asleep, with his head in my lap. A terrible thought wedges its way into my mind. What if he won't wake up? What then? I shake my head, trying to dispel the thought. I look around, searching for something else to think about. My calves provide a welcome, if superficial distraction. Since our daily tasks are a constant workout, my body has changed a bit. The fact that our food is very protein-heavy also contributes. My calves and arms are stronger than they used to be, though I can't say I like them. They look bulky. Tristan's body has also undergone similar changes, but the muscles look good on him. They make him look strong, unbeatable. Yet as he lies here with his eyes closed, all his energy stripped away, he looks defeated. His body succumbed so easily to illness. When I see him like this, it's hard to believe he's the same man who ventures in the forest every day with nothing but a knife—who doesn't seem to know fear. Now he’s weak. Vulnerable.

It feels weird—almost like an intrusion—having him in the cabin with me. I was used to it being my place. Unfairly so, since the cockpit is so small.

I shift in my seat, dipping the cloth in water, when Tristan starts mumbling. I think he's trying to tell me something at first, but then I realize he's still asleep. His mumbling gets louder, and he begins to twist around, his fingers groping and scratching at the seat. Out of his incoherent gasps, I make out the words
run
, and
I'm sorry
. I try to shake him awake from his nightmare, and when my hand touches his chest his eyes flutter open. They are unfocused, but deep behind their confusion lies something that bewilders me. Terror. Like the gaze of a hunted animal. I want to comfort him somehow, to tell him it's just a nightmare; he's all right and I'll take care of him. I wish I could find a way to make him feel safe, like he does when we're out in the wild. But before I can do anything, he grabs my hand.

"Don't let go," he mumbles, his eyes closed again.

"I won't," I answer, petrified. He relaxes, still mumbling gibberish. At least he doesn't twist anymore. Every time I try to move my hand to shake the numbness away, spasm wrack him, and his mumbling intensifies, so I try not to take it away. Even though it feels SO numb, I'm afraid it might fall off. Doesn’t matter. I’d do anything to ease his despair. Realizing how important his well-being and happiness is to me stuns me. I have never felt so desperately needed, or seen anyone so terrorized by a nightmare.

The fever must be giving him nightmares.

Or is it?

I remember how he wanted me to take him back to the cockpit. How he insisted on sleeping there since we've crashed, even though there's enough space for him to sleep here. How he closed the door to the cockpit every night. Does he go through this every night? Is this why he seeks solitude? Whatever is behind his eyelids frightens him, that's for sure. I shiver.

What can frighten this man who isn’t even scared in the rainforest?

Despite getting no more than two hours of sleep, I feel energetic in the morning. Tristan's fever subsides. Doubtful that my compresses were of any help, I check the leaves while he’s still sleeping. No idea if they worked, but his back looks far better than yesterday. I put fresh leaves on the stings and let him sleep while I leave the plane and start the daily routine with the signal fire and looking for eggs.

I
wake up briefly. At first I think the pain in my back might have woken me, but that’s not it. Then I understand what did. Her absence. Before I fall back asleep, I acknowledge that last night, for the first time in years, I found peace in my sleep. I know what brought it. Or rather, who brought it.

My peace carries her smell and sounds like her voice.

It feels like her touch.

But I have to give up that peace.

With a bit of luck, she’ll think that last night’s nightmares were caused by the fever. Tonight I will return to sleep in the cockpit, though I never wished for anything as intensely as I wish now to be by her side. If I stay, she’ll realize the fever isn’t at fault for my nightmares.

Before she can give me peace, I will take hers away.

And she will hate me for it.

I
boil three of the six eggs I collected and eat them quickly. I wonder if Tristan is still sleeping. I'm about to boil the others for Tristan when I have an idea. I retrieve a flat piece of metal from the wing wreckage and place it over the fire, heating it up. In the meantime I crack the eggs in the fruit shell bowl and stir them with a wooden stick. On a whim, I slice the fruit that resembles grapefruit and add it to the mix, pouring everything on the piece of metal. I end up with a burnt omelette, but an omelette nonetheless.

Tristan is still asleep. I sit on the edge of the seat, holding up the omelette right under his nose. He wakes up with a start.

"What the—” he stops when he sees the omelette. "What's this?"

"Ha, ha. It's an omelette. A burned one, I admit."

His eyes widen as he takes a bite, then smiles. "You put grapefruit in it?"

I shrug. "Since we're in the rainforest, why not add some local flavor to it?"

"Thanks. This is good. Do you want a bite?"

"I'll stick to boiled eggs. I hate omelettes."

He jerks his head back, smiling. "You prepared this just for me?"

"Thought you deserved to be spoiled a bit after what you went through last night. It is your favorite course after all." I like doing something that puts a smile on his face, seeing him happy. It fills me with relief and something else I can’t identify. Surely, if he smiles, he can’t be too sick. The panic from the night when we were bitten hits me in a whipping flash, the terrible fear that something could happen to him or that I could lose him wedging inside my mind. I shake the thought out, concentrating on his smile.

"Wow. You remembered that."

"Of course. Why did you think I was asking?"

"To make conversation," he says through a mouthful.

"Do you mean you don't remember anything I've told you?" I ask with fake horror.

Tristan lowers his gaze to the omelette.

"What's my favorite color?"

His blank expression tells me he was indeed just making conversation. I sigh, shaking my head.

"How are you feeling? Your back looked better."

"It’s still uncomfortable, but nothing like yesterday."

"Do you think those leaves worked?"

"No idea, but it's possible. The seeds’ oil is used in creams, but maybe the leaves are useful too. I feel much better. And I've slept better than I have in a long time."

If his voice didn't have this strained edge to it, I'd guess his comment was coincidental. But I don't believe it is. I steal a glance at him. His fingers clasp the edges of the metal makeshift plate. His features reflect the strain of his voice. He's testing the waters, though I'm not sure what he's testing them for. Does he remember he asked me to stay with him last night and is ashamed? Or perhaps he wants to explain his nightmares. Since he doesn't offer more information, I just say, "I'm happy to hear that."