Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  “Destiny, thanks to you.”

  “I’m just a player in the game.” She holds both hands up, deflecting the spotlight.

  “Hey, let’s have a toast.” I hold my glass up. “To Katherine and Genesis, for making a place in the universe for me to start fresh without feeling like a completely useless human being.”

  “Awww!”

  “I didn’t mean to sound so pathetic. To strong women! And to those getting stronger.”

  “To getting stronger,” she agrees.

  We clink and sip.

  My tongue finds its way around the inside of my lips, feeling the way wine makes them dry. Drowsiness falls over me as if the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland blew a puff of his magic smoke in my face.

  “…And I’m exhausted.”

  Kat’s clarinet laugh blends with my own fuzzy snickering.

  “What is it, ten o’clock?” I ask.

  “Nice try. It’s 8:42.”

  “Wow. I’m officially an adult.”

  “The heat is affecting you too, don’t forget. Your booze tolerance has probably gone down. Drink lots of water.”

  “Okay. I’m just gonna lie down for a bit, but I’ll probably be back in fifteen.”

  She smiles kindly, knowing, like a mom. “Right.”

  “I’ll help you clean up first.”

  “Go. I got it.”

  “Owe you one,” I mumble thankfully.

  The tiles are cool like pears under my feet. Feels like I’m being guided by the forehead to my bed. The covers are crinkly cotton, wonderfully cool after a few minutes of air. I’m crashing fast. Memories, dreams, fleeting before-sleep thoughts become sticky and rosy from the wine, blurring the lines between delirium and rest.

  6

  A man is attacking me awkwardly, his hands slapping me repetitively. I yell at him to stop even though it doesn’t really hurt. He turns to face me, and I see he’s got on a Guy Fawkes mask with a pointy, black stick-on mustache. I hold my hands up to defend myself and realize I’m wearing purple sequined gloves. Guy and I both stop to admire them, cracking jokes about whether it’s too hot to wear fancy gloves. How silly I’ve been to miss that we’re friends. Now he’s got the gloves on and we’re in class, performing a skit for Genesis and Julia. Purple sequins cover the floor, and I realize it doesn’t make sense. I walk over to the light switch and click it on and off. Nothing happens and everyone is still. Creepy. It’s like dreaming. This is a dream!

  I can’t seem to open my eyes. I touch my eyelids to make sure they’re not covered and realize it’s just dark as hell. I’d forgotten where I was, but I’m back. The dream rolls over me like a tidal wave. It felt so real.

  The image of Guy Fawkes’s mustache makes me think of Mr. Valverde. I get that déjà vu feeling again. I can see a tall, lean man dressed well, irritable but refined. The dark dissolves a little as my vision adjusts, pupils open as black holes. When I envision Valverde, his eyebrows arch in disapproval. He’s on the go or something, traveling. Carrying a suitcase.

  Suitcase. That’s it! That’s the connection.

  I’m wide awake now. The quiet clarity of night makes it easier to watch the reels of memory in my head, to hear details a second time. I’m brought back to my very first night in Costa Rica.

  “Dwight, get that beet out of my face before—”

  Michael Scott gets cut off before he can finish. If they’re shutting off the media, we must be landing soon. I can’t complain, having seen every episode of The Office at least once.

  I lift up the plastic blind so I can see out the round airplane window. Lights twinkle below like a half-finished Lite-Brite panel. The jingle goes around in my head a few times: Lite-Brite, Lite-Brite, turn on the magic of colored lights!

  We’re descending to the airport between Liberia and the small town I’ll be living in. Pacífica – it sounded like a dreamland when I first heard the name. How could I not want to go, imagining a place where palm fronds nudge through the window and shake you gently awake in the mornings, where the breeze is coconut scented and the people round, happy, and waving like “It’s a Small World.” The happiest population on earth, the Internet told me about Costa Ricans.

  Mostly I just want to get out of winter.

  I can see why spring graduation is so popular; finishing four years of school in January just isn’t as festive. There’s no ice cream man at the reception or photoshoots under a sun-dappled trellis. My parents and I pretty much just ran to the car after the ceremony, the red folder with my diploma thwopping in the wind as I held it in my gloved hand.

  I take off my headphones as my ears begin to pop, just in time to hear the staticky click of the audio system turning on.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We’re going to be landing in approximately three minutes. The weather in Liberia is mild and clear, about eighty-eight degrees with a light breeze. We sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed a pleasant flight…”

  Sounds like the captain has addressed his passengers with a similar message several thousand times. I close my eyes and try to recall what eighty-eight degrees feels like, but nothing really comes to mind. The winter has been too long, and my memories are buried beneath a deep crust of ice and snow. This move will be good. Apparently things are more relaxed in Costa Rica, move more slowly, because that’s how coastal people roll. It’s hard to imagine that being true in a work environment, but relaxation is just what the doctor ordered. Literally.

  Dr. Sim had told me, tucking a lock of thick, dark hair behind her ear, that I needed to take myself out of stressful environments and focus on activities that empower me. When I mentioned my new job, she was really supportive, telling me I could check in with her once a month to make sure I was staying on track. She said putting some physical distance between myself and the familiar places that were anchored to negative events and memories could give me the time and energy I needed to get back on track.

  I couldn’t have agreed more, and anyway, I had the travel bug.

  “If you feel that you’re at risk, whether it’s someone else’s influence or your own, call my office or the twenty-four-hour emergency line, all right Ms. Noble? It’s never a bad time,” she’d said, eyes wide with intensity.

  She definitely seemed a little too worried about me, spelling out each word with her hands like I was a preteen instead of a university graduate. Sure, it had been only weeks since I’d dressed in a heavy, black robe of dry-clean-stinking polyester and stood in line backstage with other grads in my faculty, but still. Come on. One adult talking to another, here, Sim.

  I guess she’d seen me at my worst, with bruises on my wrists and ribcage, tears running down my cheeks and onto trembling, bitten lips.

  “Please stay seated until we’ve come to a complete stop,” reminds the flight attendant stiffly, snapping me back to the present.

  The attendant rests her hip against the seat in front of me, looking a little like she’s just defrosted from being cryogenically frozen. Her silvery-blonde hair glistens with hardened gel, and her makeup rests in uneven, powdery patches on her cheeks and forehead. She’s probably been switching altitudes across the globe for the last week. I don’t envy her. She smiles tiredly at me, and I return the expression.

  “I’m sure you deserve to take a break in a hot climate.”

  “You read my mind,” she says. “I’m taking a long weekend on the coast, actually. I’ve been working for ten days straight.”

  “Wow. Well, enjoy your vacation.”

  “Thanks. Are you traveling on your own?”

  “Just today. I’ve got family here. I’m actually going to be teaching English in Pacifica for a while.”

  “Oh yeah? Good for you. Do it while you’re young and you don’t have a couple toddlers hanging off you,” she advises. “My kids are out of the house now, which is why I went back to work. It’s like a second life. Wish I was your age again, though.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. I only just graduated,
so I want to gain some work experience. And, you know, suntan by the ocean.”

  “I’m telling you…” she trails off, nodding. The captain reminds us to stay buckled until we’re stopped, but it has the opposite effect on the restless passengers and everyone’s stretching, wrestling their belongings free.

  “Good luck, 17E,” says the attendant as she turns and walks up the aisle.

  “Thanks. And you.”

  Not a bad way to start.

  I wait as patiently as I can in my seat, and then in the aisle as a tall, stern-looking man with a black cowboy mustache takes his sweet time at our expense. He’s inching his overstuffed bag out of the overhead compartment. Don’t know how he jammed it in there in the first place.

  He’s been at it for a minute now; doesn’t notice or give a shit about the lineup forming behind him or the guy crammed in the seat next to him, half-standing. Guy moves to squeeze past, but Mustachio holds up his hand neatly, like Stop. The other guy is bewildered, frozen in social awkwardness.

  Finally, he yanks the thing free and stumbles backward into the curvy lady in front of me, whose backpack hits me in the stomach.

  “Ow! That really hurt!” she exclaims indignantly, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring up at him.

  He got her right in the knockers. That’s awkward.

  “Perdón,” mutters Mustachio over his shoulder apathetically, and then paces down the small walkway to deplane.

  She turns around to me and apologizes.

  “It wasn’t your fault. Are you all right?” I ask.

  She nods, her face ham pink. “Yeah. What an asshole. Didn’t give a damn, did he?”

  I shake my head. Get me off of this plane.

  Slowly I amble along to the front of the aircraft and then have myself a mini-moment when I reach the open doorway. Black night spills in, wet and warm. Salt water is pervasive, already winding around my hair follicles and making my scalp tingle.

  There’s no fancy tunnel walk, just a set of wheelie-stairs leading down to the runway. Reminds me of the old Tintin comic books I used to read when I was a kid. Off school with a flu, I’d curl up in bed with ginger ale and live vicariously through Captain Haddock and co. How I envied their trips to Krakow, to the land of black gold in the Middle East, and especially their two-part journey to the moon. Back then, it seemed possible for me to do it too, one day.

  “Goodnight, miss.” An attendant nods at me, his eyes glazed.

  “Thanks, goodnight,” I hear myself say dreamily.

  As the heat and smells and tall palm silhouettes hit me, it’s hard to believe it’s all real. I have to admit I’m feeling some Tintin vibes, except this time I’m the adventurer.

  Excitement fizzes inside me. I make my way across the tarmac to the airport. I’d been expecting an open-air building, like the time I went on an all-inclusive vacation with my school friends to Dominican Republic, but the structure is modern, brick, sturdy.

  With my chevron shoulder bag jam-packed with stuff in one hand and my passport in the other, I head toward customs. There are at least fifteen people ahead of me, and I soon find myself doing the same thing as them – checking my phone, texting my ride. Katherine responds, saying she’s outside waiting and to relax while I go through customs and security. I drop my phone into my bag, regretting immediately that I didn’t put it in the small pocket. My big bag may as well be a sinkhole – it’ll take days to find it again.

  With a sigh, I gaze around the airy room. Two booths are open and the line behind me has grown three times as long as it was just a few minutes ago. Three other booths sit empty, mocking us. A couple of uniformed guys hint at being available to help, but they’re chatting happily and don’t seem to notice the impatient, travel-weary crowd.

  As the line inches forward, my eyes keep wandering back to this massive fan in the center of the room, the biggest I’ve ever seen. It’s got six long paddles whipping in circles, the thick hinge rocking in a way that makes me imagine a scene right out of Indiana Jones where it comes loose and goes whirring around the room like a propeller.

  Think happy thoughts. You’re so lucky to have this opportunity.

  At last, one of the chatty customs agents enters a third booth and motions the next traveler over. Things start moving.

  I’m two turns away now, and I have my passport ready with my ticket stuffed inside. I’m squinting my eyes and looking for Katherine among the vague hubbub outside, beyond the baggage area, when I notice Mustachio walking out of an office to my left.

  “Pasen,” calls an agent impatiently to the family in front of me, and the parents grab their kids, strollers, and backpacks hastily. I’m next.

  I love being next, able to see what’s going on up front where all the action is. I’m checking out the designer bag of the woman in the other line when I hear the guard call my turn.

  With a tired smile I walk toward the kind-looking guy behind the glass, but I stop in my tracks to avoid an outstretched arm swinging a heavy bag. I’m cut off abruptly by a tall man with his elbows bent, nearly clocking me in the nose.

  Mustachio! What the fuck is his problem?

  He doesn’t even turn around, and butts right in front of me. Infuriatingly, my agent waves him through politely. I’m staring with my eyes wide, aware of the astonished look on my face and too pissed off to care. How incredibly rude! He didn’t seem like any kind of happiest person in the world, not for a second.

  I look to my right, but no one’s paying attention. I look the other way and a middle-aged guy with a red, bald head is watching me.

  “Fuckin’ people, huh?” he says with a Southern drawl, pulling the fabric of his neon tropical shirt away from his skin in little fanning tugs.

  “You said it,” I respond, not wanting to make this a Big Thing. I saw him downing some airplane spirits pretty enthusiastically on my way to the bathroom earlier.

  Luckily I get called, again, and I look over my shoulder to make sure no one else is going to merge ahead of me.

  I’m through in seconds. With my passport stamped and my plastic, aqua-colored suitcase located, I’m off and out of the building. It’s so dark even though it’s only about seven at night. I scan the sidewalk for Katherine, but I can only see blurry headlights. I have no idea what kind of car she drives, if she drove herself here.

  “Ahhh!”

  Thin arms wrap around my shoulders from behind me. That’s got to be her. We jump up and down excitedly a couple of times before she grabs my suitcase and hauls it over to a taxi. The driver, an unusual looking guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and both front teeth missing, loads it into our taxi with a big gummy smile and opens the back doors for us.

  I sit, the cracked seat already sticking to my skin. For the plane, I’d chosen to wear lightweight leggings with a loose purple tank top and a long buttonless cardigan. The long-sleeves are stowed away in my bag now, likely for a good long while.

  In the car, Katherine provides instructions to the driver in Spanish and then gives me a once-over.

  “Good god, I forgot your hair gets so curly in the humidity!”

  “So did I. Look at my shadow!”

  We laugh at my frizzy silhouette on the back of the driver’s seat. I brought my ionic dryer and ceramic straightener, but knowing my tendency to just throw my hair in a messy bun, I should invest in hair products designed for tropical weather.

  “Was your flight okay? How was customs?”

  “It was all fine, pretty standard. Except there was this snooty asshole on the plane who was causing issues in line and almost bashed into me when he butted in customs!”

  “Really? That’s obnoxious.”

  “Yeah. I’m here twenty-five minutes and I’ve met the one angry Costa Rican.”

  She laughs from the belly. “You have the best luck.”

  “I know.”

  “I had that overwhelmed feeling too, but you’ll see that we’re living in a small place and you’ll get to know it pretty easily. Things move p
retty slowly.”

  “That sounds about right, actually.”

  She pats me on the shoulder. “We’ll have you all set in no time.”

  After about fifteen minutes of one long stretch of road, we slow down and turn left into a gated neighborhood. The driver banters with the local guard before asking Katherine which number. Qué número? I’m proud to have understood that. Point for Noble.

  “It’s seventeen, beyond the pool,” her high voice pipes up.

  The gate swings up, and we drive down a narrow street that looks like it was paved yesterday, kind of like the course you do your driver’s license test on.

  Pool. She’d said it so casually. I love that word.

  In the dark I see the faint outline of a short, white fence and get a whiff of chlorine through the open window. We stop in front of number seventeen, which is virtually identical to all of the other houses on the street: a yellowy, sand-colored paint job on the outside with terra cotta tile roofing. It’s a tall, narrow semi-detached with a small driveway and a short cement walkway. A lamp post about as tall as I am glows from the patch of front lawn.

  We grab my things and pay the driver, who gives us his card and grins crazily even though he doesn’t mean to. You can’t forget a face like that. We head inside.

  “Before I forget, here are your keys. This one’s for the front door, this one’s for the safe in your room, and this one’s for the school’s main door.”

  I take the keys and drop them in my bag distractedly. Looking around, I’m very happily surprised. Katherine’s place is much nicer than I’d expected, with pale stone tiles, modern furniture, a big-screen TV, and a fully loaded kitchen. Smells like spiced vanilla, and I see she’s lit a big, three-wick candle. Cozy but fresh.