F5: Desperate Times and Measures

"Sounds wonderful."

I stepped down off the porch, and fired up my homemade grill. Once I was convinced it was going strong, I went indoors.

She followed me into the house, and went to work on her rabbit food. I cleaned two of the little potatoes I still had in the pantry, rubbed them in oil and sea salt, unfolded a couple of pieces of my precious, recycled aluminum foil and wrapped them in it. I ran them out to the grill to get them started, and grabbed a couple of leaves off one of the banana trees before heading back in. Sandra was moving slower, still trying to figure out where everything was. I cleaned the fish, cut one of the oranges into slices, and wrapped the fish in one of the soaked leaves, with the orange slices on top. I broke off the lobster tails and claws, cut the underside of the tail down the soft middle, and stuck a skewer through the tail so it wouldn't curl up. I dumped the fish and lobster remains into the orange garbage bucket. Then I added the fish and lobster to the grill.

I made an herb butter with a stick of butter, some chives, tarragon, minced garlic and black pepper. I mixed it well and took it out to the grill.

Everything looked like it was coming together nicely. I flipped the tails and put a heaping tablespoon of the herb butter on the butterflied lobster meat. Five more minutes and everything should be ready.

While they were cooking, I walked around the porch, lighting the candles that were supposed to keep the bugs away. They weren't bad yet, but it was another habit of mine.

I could hear her moving around, humming to herself. That in itself was odd and a little disturbing. She used to do that all the time. It was her 'happy' hum, something she did when she was in a good mood. I don't think I'd heard it for at least six months before everything went to shit. I peered in the window, and she was setting the little table, folding the paper napkins, adjusting the place settings.

I checked on the grill. The lobster looked just about perfect. I peeled back the leaf off the fish, and checked inside. Done. I brought them inside, and plated them, then finally retrieved the potatoes. Sandra had used the mango and star fruit to make a fruit salad, and she made herself a Chilean salad with the tomatoes and onions.

Dinner in paradise. I ate better every day, than I had through most of my adult life. The only shame was how I'd come to this point.

"Talk to the girls lately?" she asked a few minutes into the meal.

"Every Saturday morning."

I think that surprised her. She took a sip of her bottled water, and went back to eating the fish. "Everything's delicious," she said, stabbing a chunk of the lobster into the little bowl of herb butter before popping it in her mouth.

I never could cook worth a damn. I was waiting for her to say something about it. She didn't.

"David's recipes. For the fish and the lobster."

"You're right. The man's a genius. I'm glad we didn't get chicken."

Near the end of the meal, she put her utensils down. "Do you want to talk?" she asked.

"Not really."

She nodded. "I'll clean up."

"You don't know how."

Over the next fifteen minutes, I showed her the process. Composting materials, recyclables, organic trash, and real trash. I had to clean up the mess she'd already made after making the salads, organizing things into the four five gallon containers I had in the pantry. Once that was done, she followed me around as I dumped the fish and lobster remains in the garbage pit, throwing some dirt on top, and covering it up again. I took the rinsed recyclables and dumped them in the beer bottle barrel.

"What about the other two?"

I explained that the compost bucket didn't go out until it was full, and the trash bucket would go to the landfill when ready.

"How long is that?"

Fuckin' Curious George had made herself at home in my house. "Maybe once a month. When it's full, that's when I make a trip to the city for anything I can't get locally."

With everything cleaned up and put away, I grabbed my second beer, and went out to the porch, with my new shadow falling in step. We sat in our chairs, I opened her beer, and we drank in silence, illuminated only by the light of the candles, and the moonlight above.

When I finished my beer, I stood up to go inside. I usually read for a while each night. Thank god for my Kindle. It used almost no power, and I could download anything I wanted from the laptop. I could thank the retirement community next door for phone, internet, and electricity. It still had cost me an arm and a leg to get it turned on. The internet access was ridiculously expensive, but I'd negotiated with Frank to have that paid for as part of my contract. That saved me almost $200 a month.

Sandra stood after me, and chugged the last of her beer. She tossed it into the bottle barrel. "Thanks for dinner, Dan. It was delicious. I can't remember the last time I ate such a wonderful meal."

"You're welcome." I turned and walked inside before she got any ideas about talking. I watched through the window as she grabbed a tote bag she'd stashed on the side of the house, and took off walking down the road.

* * * *

The following day was eerily similar. She was sanding the porch railing when I came outside, humming her little happy song. I guess she was planning to either paint or stain it. Not that it couldn't use it. Pretty wasn't high on my priority list, when it came to chores. I had my swim, and we ate. I logged my hours on the laptop while she worked out on the porch, then we walked into town. Conch for lunch, some kind of stew that David had concocted. I bought a chicken.

It must have been around three o'clock when I heard the tinkle of the bicycle bell. Shit. With all the craziness, I'd forgotten about Gabrielle. I heard her walk up to the porch, and before I could do anything about it they were talking. Five minutes later Gabrielle was inside doing her bi-weekly cleaning.

I had a choice to make, and in the end it was simple. I wasn't about to let Sandra change my life. Not again. She wasn't a guest, she was an interloper. I didn't owe her anything. If she didn't like it, tough shit. She could leave. I hadn't asked her to interrupt my life.

When I finished my work, Gabrielle gave me her big sweet gap-toothed grin. "Boom boom?"

"You know it."

"But the lady . . .?"

"Doesn't matter."

The way I understood it, the going rate for having someone come in and clean your house was about $10 a day, for a full day's work. Two hundred a month. Gabrielle only came in twice a week for a few hours, and I paid her $40 on Thursdays. The extra hour we spent in the bedroom once a week was worth the added sawbuck.

Gabrielle was neither young, nor particularly attractive. She was as black as the night. What she had going for her was that she was clean, willing, and uninhibited.

We retreated to the bedroom, and enjoyed ourselves for the better part of an hour. She went down on me, I enjoyed the use of her soft body, she got me up for seconds, and I let her do the work for the second round. She took care of the condoms, neatened the bed, and we took a quick shower together. It was about the only time I used the inside shower. We dressed, and I gave her my dirty laundry in a bag which she would bring back clean on her next visit.

I paid her for the week, sent her on her way with a pat on her substantial butt, grabbed a couple of beers and went out to the porch. I was wondering how my little escapade was going to play out.

Sandra was sitting in her chair, ostensibly reading her book. I passed her a beer, and saw the tears on her face. Maybe now she understood. I was over her. I had a new life, and she wasn't part of it.

I sat in my chair, and drank my beer. "I thought I'd do a beer can chicken." I had an old empty can of Heineken, one of the few imports I could find. I saved it for just that purpose.

"That would be nice."

I kept waiting for the explosion but it never happened. We had another quiet dinner, and she did most of the cleaning up. I only had to correct her once. We retired for another silent beer on the porch. When I bid her goodnight, I noticed she stayed on the porch for a good hour before she took off on her mystery walk.

It wasn't what I'd expected, and to be honest, I felt a little bad. I think I would have preferred the confrontation. I noticed that she hadn't hummed at all that night.

* * * *

I didn't see Sandra the next day.

I stayed home and ate alone. Drank five beers and even dug into my bottle of Jack Daniels for dinner.

Fuck her.

* * * *

When I returned from my swim the next morning, I had a surprise.

On my little table lay three items: a handkerchief, a book, and a knife.

The handkerchief was stained with what looked like rust. I knew better. The book had about a third of the cover charred off. The knife looked shiny and new.

I looked around the room, but I was alone. I went out to the porch, but she was nowhere to be found. What the fuck? I didn't want to play her stupid game.

But I did. Against my better judgment I took the book out to the porch, and flipped through it. It was Saturday, and normally I'd walk the property, do a little beach cleanup, maybe even go to town. Instead I leafed through the pages of a different time, a different life. I watched our girls grow up, and our lives mature, from that little first apartment, to the home I thought I'd grow old in. The pages started to blur about a third of the way through. She leaned over and wiped my eyes.

I looked up, wondering how the hell she'd snuck up on me.

"I want another chance, Dan."

It took a minute for me to be able to control myself. "Why, Sandra?"

She sat down and closed the book. She reached for my hand and squeezed it in hers. "I screwed up, baby. I know I don't deserve it, but I love you. I hate my life without you. I'll make it up to you if you'll let me . . ."

I was shaking my head, and I could see the disappointment on her face. "Please, baby—"

"No, Sandra. Why?"

She looked confused. "I . . . I need you. I think you need me too—"

I yanked my hand away. "No, God damn it! WHY? What was wrong with me? What did I do? Why couldn't you love me anymore? Why did you leave me?"

"I . . . I didn't leave you. I wouldn't."

"Bullshit! You left me almost two years ago. Yeah, you lived in the same damn house, but it wasn't you. What the hell happened? Why would you dump me for that asshole?"

She settled back in her chair, folding in on herself. "Because I was an idiot. It had nothing to do with you."

"If you're not gonna be honest with me, just leave, alright? I don't need this. I was happy alone. I was getting by. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."

She was crying. "There's no simple answer, baby. Don't you think I wish there was? Hell, it took me eight months of twice a week sessions to come to understand even a little of what was going on in my own head. There's no excuse for it. None. I fucked up, badly. I hurt you, our girls, and destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't deserve you, and I don't expect you to take me back. But I'm asking anyway. I'm begging you for another chance."

"I can't, Sandra. I can't, not knowing why. I could never trust you again. I'd never know when you'd abandon me, leave me, hurt me. I can't do it again. I can't. I won't make it this time."

She nodded sadly. "I wish I had a good answer for you. I do. All I have is a lot of psychological mumbo-jumbo bullshit, and a broken heart. I'm sorry. I think we could make it, if you wanted to, but I understand. I probably wouldn't take you back either." She stood up, and leaned over, kissing me on the cheek. "I still love you, Dan. I always will. I'd do anything to change the past but I can't. I'm sorry."

She walked off the porch and I let her go.

* * * *

She messed me up. Again. It took the better part of a month for me to get my head on straight. I was pretty rough with Gabrielle the next week. I used her hard, and I felt ashamed at my behavior. She never complained. I gave her an extra hundred bucks, and told her to take a few weeks off.

I drove up to Mexico, a couple of hours drive. I got drunk, got obnoxious. Almost got my ass kicked. I did my monthly shopping, and returned home.

The girls called twice, wanting to know what was going on. Apparently they knew their mother had come to see me, and I had to break the news that it wasn't going to happen. No reconciliation. I even took the time to explain why. They took it well, better than I thought they would.

When I had first bought the property, I'd had plans for it. Improvements, things I wanted to change. I wanted to extend the beach, for the length of the property. Clear out some more of the jungle. Improve the road. Add solar lights along the main drag. Lots of things.

I worked my ass off, putting in more hours telecommuting, and dipping into my reserves for the cash I needed. More solar panels, a bigger cistern, a shaded gazebo nearer the water. Fix up my makeshift grill. I cleared almost an acre of dense jungle and another of mixed underbrush. So damn many things to do. I kept myself busy from dawn to dark. I spent nights working at my computer, using the daylight to work the property. Fix the shutters before a big storm hit. Paint the place. Extend the porch. Add the solar lights, and a conch shell street border. Stay busy.

Don't think about her. And why the fuck she couldn't answer one simple question.

* * * *

I woke, startled, and felt her arms around me.

"Shh, it's just me, baby."

It took me a few seconds to figure out what the hell was going on. I pulled away from her. "No, Sandra—"

"Shhhh," she whispered, sidling up against me. "I'm not here to cause you any more pain. I'll leave when I'm done."

"We're not going to—"

"I know. I'm here to answer your question, if you'll give me a chance. You may not like the answer. I know I don't."

I could barely see her outline, and I knew the sun hadn't fully come up yet. "Why now?"

She chuckled. "One question at a time, alright?" She wriggled closer, resting her head on my shoulder. I could tell she was naked.

I was torn. I wanted to strangle her for what she'd done to me, ripping open all my old scars. I wanted to shake her, make her feel my agony. Another part of me wanted to hold her, tell her it would be alright. I could sense her pain. I understood she hurt as well, but I knew the difference. She deserved it. I didn't.

Most of all I still wanted to know why.

"Why now?" I asked. I pulled her close, and felt her body molding against mine, so achingly familiar.

"You were right. I didn't deserve you to take me back. Not if I couldn't face the real problem myself. Why would I do that? Why would I throw away a lifetime of happiness? I needed to know, for my own sanity and peace of mind."

I waited patiently, waiting to see what the answer was. So far I was no closer to understanding.

"I spent the last couple of months trying to figure that out. Nothing else mattered. If I couldn't get a grip on what I'd done and why, I was never going to be happy again. I'd never be able to trust myself, never mind having anyone else trust me."

I felt her lips press against my skin. "Thank you for the few days you gave me. I didn't deserve that much."

She sighed, and wriggled against me, her leg slipping over mine. "I went for a run. A long one. When I couldn't run, I walked. When I couldn't walk, I sat down until I could move again. When I ran out of road headed south, I turned around and came back. I ate when I smelled something good, I drank whatever I could find. I slept whenever I had to."

I heard a little giggle. "The people here are pretty amazing. I think it was my third day after I left you when I couldn't move another inch. I crawled up to a house, and asked to sleep on their property. They took me in, fed me, let me sleep in their children's bed. When I woke, they fed me again. They asked me what I was doing, and I told them. We talked, they forced food and water on me, and then I started running again, until I couldn't."

I felt her fingers on my chest, rubbing me. "I probably should have been scared. I don't know why I wasn't. I guess I wasn't right in my head. The next time I was on the brink of collapse, it happened again. Anywhere I went, no matter how little they had, they'd share it with me, help me, talk to me. Each time I'd try to give them money, and they'd fight me on it. Shit, I had money. You made sure of that. So I'd leave them a little, a couple of twenties, and go on."

Her hands were wandering, moving where they shouldn't. I didn't stop her. I wanted to hear her story. It wasn't what I expected. The woman was more screwed up than I was. That's saying a lot.

"I think I crossed this whole damn country half a dozen times. I spent a few nights in jails, when the local police didn't know what to do with me." She actually laughed.

"About a month ago, one of the families that put me up for the night invited someone over. She took me to her home. She was probably close to eighty years old, a Swedish ex-pat."

Sandra squeezed me, and I felt her tears on my chest. "She saved me. Marta saved me. I was fucked up. Skin and bones. I think I was going to just keep moving, keep running and walking until I died. I had nothing to live for."

I started to say something about her girls, and she put her finger over my lips. "Shhh. Let me finish. Hell, this is the easy question.

"She wasn't nice about it. She cursed me, and yelled at me. She forced me to eat, and go out. She had her friends over, and made me play nice. And she talked. I think she must have saved up forty years of conversation and dumped it all on me.

"Marta knows everybody. She took me to visit some of the locals, then she made me go out with her to Ambergris Cay, where there were more people I had to talk to. Or listen to in a lot of cases. We were there for over a week. That crazy old woman has more energy than someone half her age. She just wouldn't stop. Then one day she said I was ready, and told me I had to come back here and make things right. So here I am. And that's 'Why now'."

We lay quietly, while I tried to absorb her crazy story.

"Nothing? You don't have anything to say?" she finally blurted.

"I don't know what to say. You seemed so calm, so normal. It's hard to believe you'd just take off like that. It sounds awful Forrest Gump. Running across the country? Sleeping wherever you collapsed? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? What if something happened to you? What if you were robbed, raped, or even murdered? What the hell were you thinking? Didn't you ever once consider what it would to the girls? How it would destroy me?"

"Baby, I couldn't think straight. All I could do was beat myself up over and over again for what I'd done. I ruined everything, and I didn't even know why."

"But now you do?" I asked.

"As much as I probably ever will."

I waited, and could feel her tensing up. I gave her a little hug. "Go ahead."

"My stupid psychiatrists didn't know shit. The first spent a couple of months telling me that these things happen, that it wasn't my fault. She kept trying to find out what you'd done to cause the problem. I finally fired that bitch."

I could feel myself getting angry when she mentioned what I had done. She noticed. She ran her hand down my chest, kissing my shoulder. "I knew it wasn't you, Dan. That's why I found a new psychiatrist. He was subtler, helping me find excuses for what I did. I was too close to the kids, he said. That fact that my email address was EandJsMom explained it all, or so he said. My identity was buried in theirs, and when they left, I was lost. I was clinically depressed. I was going through the change of life. I was bitter that I had a degree that I'd never used. I never had a real job, since the girls were born. I had dreams, and they'd all turned to dust. It was too much, and I took it out on you, that's what he said. What he tried to get me to believe."