Withering Hope (22 page)

He doesn't get better. First thing in the morning, he throws up. His body has a slight tremor to it as I help him sit on the steps. He's covered in cold sweat.

"Can it be from something you ate the day before yesterday? No, it can't be. We've been eating the same food."

"I don't know." He presses his palms on the sides of his head, his elbows resting on his knees. "I was throwing up yesterday, too."

"What?" I ask, alarmed. "When? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you."

I hug him to my chest, tasting bile at the back of my throat. This close, I feel like every tremor of his is mine, and they fill me with a debilitating fear.

"What do you think it is?"

"Some kind of disease. Maybe from mosquitoes, maybe from some kind of bacteria in the food or water."

"That can't be," I say, almost like a plea. "Why I am not sick then?"

"Our immune systems aren't identical. Even if what we eat and drink is."

Something inside me crumbles—with the speed of the lightning. And its intensity too. But I force my voice to stay steady when I say, "Stay inside today and rest, okay?" He doesn't even attempt to argue; that worries me like nothing else. The moment he's out of sight, tears spill down my cheeks. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when we're so close to leaving this place. Not when we're so close to being safe. Though I have a million things to do, I go inside every half hour to help him drink water and check on him. He's sleeping most of the time, his body temperature higher every time I put my hand to his forehead. As the sun is about to set I grill some roots. When I walk inside the plane to take some to Tristan, he's gone.

I blink, spinning around, taking in every inch of the cabin. The muscles in my legs tighten as I make my way to the cockpit. He isn't there, either. I stand on the edge of the door, gripping the edges, my knuckles white. I was less than ten feet away from the bottom of the airstairs. I should have heard him leave. But did he leave? His pocketknife, bow, and arrows are still propped on the airstairs, where they've been the whole day, which means he's unarmed. The thought of him wandering in the rainforest without anything to defend himself gives me chest pains. I stand on my toes, scanning the space outside the fence. Not very far from the makeshift gate of the fence, I see Tristan, crawling more than walking. Stumbling. I run toward him, picking up my own bow and arrows in the process.

When I reach him I stand in front of him, blocking his way. "Tristan, what are you doing?"

His skin pale and sweaty, he answers, "I need to stay away from you. You might get sick too."

"No, I won't."

His unfocused gaze and the creases of confusion on his forehead tell me he isn't thinking clearly. As I watch him I remember a particularly worrisome piece of information Chris once shared: some animals hide to be alone when they are about to die.

"Tristan, please stop arguing with me." My voice shakes. "Let me take you back to the plane."

"No, you don't understand. The mosquitoes… I may have malaria, or yellow fever. I could give what I have to you too," he mumbles. His knees buckle and I put his arm over my shoulders, grabbing him by the waist to support him. He tries to fight me off, but he's too weak.

"You're not being reasonable. Those are diseases that are transmitted by mosquito bites only." When I put my hand on his forehead I can see why he isn't being reasonable. His skin burns with a fever so high I'm certain his mind must be foggy. Fever is a symptom of a truckload of tropical diseases. Which one does he have and what is the mortality rate?

"Let's walk back; come on." He's so weak he can't fight, and starts putting one foot in front of the other. There are maybe a hundred feet until the plane, but we're going so slow, it'll take us half an hour to get there. I keep my ears tuned for danger, clutching my bow for dear life. I feel vulnerable now, even though I'm better with the bow than I've ever been. If something attacks us now, I can't react fast enough. There's no way I can protect Tristan, who seems to be on the verge of collapse. Those words play in my mind again and again.
Mortality rate
. I shake my head, tightening my grasp on the bow. I need to get him to safety first, and then I'll worry about the mortality rate.

I'm drenched in sweat by the time I lay Tristan on his seat in the plane. Tristan’s fever has soaked through his shirt so I help him change into a new one. I light a torch with some shreds of my wedding dress and go outside for a basket of water. I intend to use it for compresses to bring down his fever, but since the water isn't cold… What is effective against tropical diseases? I don't even know which one he's got, so I focus on what I do know. He has a fever. He needs to keep hydrated. I breathe in, refusing to cry.

When I'm back inside, I secure the torch and soak one of my shirts in water, then charge toward Tristan.

I freeze in my steps when I see him. He's curled in a fetal position, shaking, his teeth chattering, his eyes unfocused. I drop the shirt, rushing to him, kneeling by his side. He's mumbling something I can't make out, so I put my ear as close to his lips as possible. I realize I can't understand what he's saying because my heart is thumping in my ears.
Pull yourself together Aimee; you can't help him if you lose it. Come on.

But when he interlaces his burning fingers with mine, I do lose it, and the tears I've been holding back start rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away. I don't want him to see me crying.

"Cold," he says through his chattering teeth. His eyes are unfocused.

"You're cold, of course." I slap my forehead. "That's why you’re shaking. I'll bring you blankets." I try to untangle his fingers from mine, but he doesn't let go. "Tristan, I'll get some blankets. I'll be back in a second." My voice undependable, I continue, "You have to let go of my fingers, my love. Please."

At the word love, he focuses his eyes on me for a second before sliding away again. He lets go of my hand. I bring two blankets and throw them over him. He's shaking just as much as before.

"Cold," he mutters. "So cold."

"There are no more blankets, Tristan." My voice crackles and I realize he's not hearing me, or acknowledging me. I bring the basket of water next to him, making him drink and putting compresses on his forehead. They don't help at all. His skin gets hotter by the minute while his trembling worsens, repeating the word
cold
every few minutes. I cradle his head with my arms, perching myself on top of him under the blankets, hoping some of my body heat will seep into his.

To my astonishment, his eyes fly wide open. "You shouldn't be this close to me. You'll get sick…"

"Shh… I won't. Trust me on this, please."

"You can make it fine on your own. You can feed yourself and make fires." It takes all his strength to speak. "You're strong and brave. You can make it through the forest on your own."

"Don't talk like this, please. You'll be all right, you'll see."

"Aimee," his voice holds such urgency, horror trickles in my veins. "I might not wake up tomorrow.”

"I don't… No, you'll—”

"You have to accept that."

I lean in to kiss him, tears pouring down my cheeks. He refuses to open his lips, still afraid of making me sick. "If you don't wake up tomorrow morning, I don't want to wake up either," I whisper. He wraps his arms around me. I never want him to let go. He gives in to my kiss at last, and I coax his fever-cracked lips open with mine, caressing his tongue tenderly.

"You don't need me to survive," he says.

"You're right. I don't need you to survive. I need you to live." I bury my head in the crook of his neck, grateful to be feeling his pulse against my cheek.

"You don't need anyone. You're like a star, Aimee. Stars shine from within. They don't need anything else."

This talk of stars means that his delirium is bad. I fist his shirt with trembling hands, as if this will help me keep him from sliding into a world where I can't reach him.

"I'm not a star," I whisper. "I'm a satellite rotating around you. You're the star. I need your light to shine."

"I could say the same."

"Let's agree that we are each other's star, then," I say.

"You can only discover your own light in the darkness."

I've been in the darkness. There is no light to be found in it. But I don't argue with him. Light doesn't come from darkness, but from something else… from kindness and understanding, the kind he showed me. In sharing his pain, he took mine away. In sharing his nightmares, he showed me just how endless the darkness can seem. By letting me chase away his nightmares, we both learned how to find light. Together.

I wish I could find words to tell him how much he means to me. But I've never been good with words, and if I try to talk, I might end up speaking of stars, just like he has. But I'm not the one who is delirious, though the pain and fear of losing him may have spurred a delirium of their own.

I just say, "I love you, Tristan," and kiss him anew.

"You'll be all right. You'll do your best. Promise me," he whispers between kisses, tightening his hug even more. He still wants to protect me, like always, despite the fact that death is knocking at his door. He can't protect me from the one thing I fear most: his death. I want to tell him I won't be all right, that I can't be all right in a world where he is no more. But when we stop kissing, his eyes are burning with an urgency that sparks awareness as if the only thing keeping him in this world is the thought of knowing I’m safe. I’ll give him that peace. It may be the last time I'll be able to offer him any kind of peace before he’s ripped from my arms.

"I will take care of myself." Before I kiss him again, I add, "I promise." Internally, I scream, making myself a different promise altogether, hoping that nature—begging nature to side with me.

If he's a star and the night is claiming him, I want the night to take us both.

I undo the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, to take some of the tremors shaking his body upon me. I kiss him again.

"Aimee, stop. I shouldn’t kiss you… I don't want you to get sick… please."

"I won't. Kiss me, Tristan. It’s the only way I will be all right."

I lose myself in the warmth of his lips and the weakness of his body as he kisses me sweetly, though it feels more like goodbye to the thousands of kisses that will never be ours. I kiss him again and again, hoping to catch his disease. Hoping that whatever will keep him from opening his eyes and drawing a breath tomorrow morning, will take me as well. Maybe his disease is not from the mosquitoes, but from something he can indeed pass on to me.

I hope so.

Later, I rest with my head on his chest, neither of us speaking. The sound of pain fills the silence. It's less intense than before, and I think I know why. Fear numbs it now. I remember the power of fear of the unknown. I remember waiting, crouched on my bed, for news of my parents after I learned the revolution had begun. I
needed
to find out if they were all right. It terrified me, imagining scenario after scenario. I wanted to know what happened to them. If they were still alive. I thought nothing would be worse than the uncertainty.

But the pain of losing them was a million times worse.

I wish I could pour some of my life into Tristan. Maybe that could buy him a few hours, a few days. Since there is no way I can do that, I hold out the hope that my own life will trickle out of me at the same time his leaves him. People enter and leave your life all the time; I've learned that long ago. But I've also learned that their loss makes you feel as light and meaningless as the wind yet at the same time your whole existence has an unbearable weight. When they leave, they punch a hole in your existence, and you never feel complete again. The memories they've left you with turn to shadows. You always carry them with you, but they are never whole, and you can never touch them. I've lived surrounded by shadows since my parents died. I can't live in a world where Tristan becomes a shadow too. Without the man who taught me what it feels like to be whole, I become a shadow myself. How lucky to be the one who leaves, and not the one who's left behind.

Everything crumbles inside me when sleep finally overcomes him and he closes his eyes. With every breath and every heartbeat he slips farther away from me. All I can hope for is one more breath, one more heartbeat. So I stay perched above him, listening, drinking each heartbeat in.

My last thought before sleep claims me is that I won't get to hear his last heartbeat.