Nadine hears the parrots. So picturesque in the evening, floating over the
courtyard while she sips tequila and deciphers the day’s notes, the birds make
the hot dawn intolerable. Two thin pillows cannot block the cacophony. Nadine’s
sheets press against her body. She remembers the warm lips of a local
journalist, but wakes alone.
Slowly, Nadine makes her way to the wooden table outside the kitchen. She orders
eggs, beans, coffee, and juice from the girl. The juice arrives in a ceramic
glass filled with ice cubes, and Nadine drinks it, though she should not. The
girl-no more than ten-stands next to the table, her bare feet callused. She
watches Nadine.
There is a communal shower. Nadine uses Pert Plus shampoo,
bought in an American Rite Aid on her way back over the border: she was in a
Laredo police station when the news of the twelve dead boys came in. Nadine
travels light: a comb, shampoo, lotion, lipstick. Two T-shirts, two pairs of
pants, lace underwear-her one indulgence. She has an apartment in the Associated
Press compound in Mexico City, but hasn’t been there in a month. On the
dashboard of her rental car, Nadine finds a rubber band. She pulls her black
hair back with both hands, affixes the band, and puts on sunglasses. She opens
her topographic map.
Today, she will find and interview the boys’ families. The
mother of one boy told a local TV reporter that her son had worked in a seafood
restaurant. Her large, two-story home and expensive clothes told a different
story. The car’s air-conditioning is broken. Nadine punches the radio on and
begins to drive.
Her Spanish is good; languages have always come easily to her.
She plays the music loudly and hums along. It’s a song about a man who wronged a
woman.
“If you come back to me,” the man sings, “I will never stray again.” She
thinks of the journalist’s spicy cologne, his breath against her ear as they
swayed to jukebox melodies at the cantina. She smiles. It took half a bottle of
Herradura and a few kisses to get directions to the boys’ tiny village. Nadine
drives slowly down the narrow streets. Men unlock metal doors and heave them
upward, exposing bright fruits and vegetables, rows of shirts, videocassettes.
Women sweep the sidewalk and children walk to school, holding hands. A donkey
cart blocks Nadine’s way, then lurches down a side alley. Finally, she reaches
the outskirts.
Passing squat homes protected by latticework concrete, Nadine
accelerates.
The air blazing through her open window is little comfort. She
heads toward the mountains. Ian made her promise to wear the bulletproof vest,
but Nadine reasons that having it in the backseat is good enough. It’s heavy and
bulky, and for Christ’s sake it’s got to be a hundred degrees. Nadine reaches
the place she’s marked on her map with an X and pulls off the road. At a gas
station, she fills the car and takes out her list of names. The man behind the
counter, old and overweight, looks at Nadine without expression. He sells her a
warm Coke. When she asks to use the bathroom, the man gestures with his hand.
She walks behind the store, positioning her feet on either side of the fetid
hole.
The village does not have paved roads, and Nadine’s head begins to hurt as
she drives over uneven ground. She sees a group of men gathered outside one
thatched-roof home. The men stare as Nadine approaches. Nadine slows the car and
tries a smile. She is met with stone faces. The thoughts flood her-Something is
wrong. You should have told Ian where you were going. You should not have come
alone.
Back away, put on the vest-but the thoughts will fade. Nadine sets her
jaw and keeps driving. The men look at one another, at the approaching Honda. By
some consensus, they rush the car, and Nadine tries to stop, to reach the locks.
It is too late, but she grabs the gearshift, smoothly putting the car in
reverse. As she presses the gas, a tall man wearing a Cookie Monster T-shirt
opens the passenger-side door. His sweat smells metallic as he climbs in the
car.
He unlocks the driver’s-side door, reaching across Nadine. The door is
opened from outside. Two men drag Nadine out of the car and into the street. She
fights-clawing at the men with her fingernails, screaming that she is
periodista, a journalist. Their fists hit her stomach, and then her rib cage.
Two Nadine woke in a blue-and-white hotel room. There was a mini fridge by the
bed, a painting of a sailboat on the wall, and a telephone with instructions in
English. The window framed a familiar ocean. Nadine closed her eyes, then opened
them. Her body ached. Her left arm was bandaged, so she lifted the phone with
her right and dialed 0.
A woman’s voice answered, saying, “Oh my Lord!” “Hello?”
said Nadine. “Where am I?” She heard footsteps on a staircase, and then the door
opened. “Oh, honey,” said a stout woman with a mushroom cap of blonde hair. “I’m
sorry,” said Nadine. “Who are you?” “Oh dear,” said the woman. “Didn’t your
daddy tell you?” Nadine had not spoken to her father in months, maybe a year.
“Where am I?” said Nadine. “Why, honey,” said the woman, “you’re at the Sandy
Toes Bed and Breakfast.” Nadine touched her temple. The last thing she could
remember was a man who smelled like rust.
“You’ve been in a terrible accident,”
the woman said, putting a fat hand on Nadine’s wrist. “Thank goodness you had
your daddy’s card in your wallet.”
Nadine stared at the hand.
“He’ll be here any
minute,” said the woman. “By the way, my name is Gwen.” Nadine did not answer.
Gwen bit her lip and then released it, leaving a bright pink spot on her tooth.
“Your daddy and I are in love,” she informed Nadine. “Is there room service?”
asked Nadine. “What?” “Is there room service,” said Nadine, “at the Sandy Toes
Bed and Breakfast?” “Well,” said Gwen, “of course there is.” “I’d like a tequila
on the rocks, please.” “It’s the middle of the day, dear,” said Gwen. “A ham
sandwich, as well,” said Nadine.
Nadine had not seen her father, Jim, since her
journalism school graduation a decade before. After the ceremony, Nadine had
taken him to the Oyster Bar for dinner. It was her favorite restaurant: dark,
smoky, and, to Nadine, glamorous. She ordered oysters and an expensive bottle of
wine.
“I think you’ll like this,” said Nadine when the waiter began to pour.
“I’ll have a Coors,” said Nadine’s father, covering his wineglass with his palm.
He looked around at the businessmen and well-heeled New Yorkers. Jim wore jeans,
a green windbreaker, a cap that said falmouth fish. “So I’ve decided,” said
Nadine. “I’m going to Cape Town.”
“Cape Town?”
“I’ll be freelancing, of course,
but maybe it’ll lead to a job with the AP, or the Times. People are fighting the
pass laws, standing up to the government. Remember that kid from Nantucket?
Jason Irving? He was killed outside Cape Town last month. Everything is changing
in South Africa. There’s so much to write about.” Jim sighed. “That kid from
Nantucket,” he said. “Poor kid comes home in a coffin. This is your role model?”
“Dad,” said Nadine, leaning toward him, “I could be in South Africa for the fall
of apartheid!”
“Nadine,” said her father, “for all I know, you’re speaking
Chinese.” “Come on, Dad,” said Nadine. “Don’t you get The New York Times? I
renewed your subscription, I thought.” “I’m busy, honey,” said Jim. “I get home
late. It’s just so much paper.” “So much paper.” The waiter returned with a tray
of oysters and horseradish sauce.
“Flown in this morning,” he said, “from
Buzzards Bay.” He stepped back with a smile and a nod. “If oysters is what you
want,” said Jim, “I’ve got a rake and a pair of waders for you in the garage.”
Nadine looked down at her napkin. “I wish you could try,” she said. She
swallowed. “It’s not that Woods Hole isn’t great. I just-” “What about working
for the Cape Cod Times?” said Jim. “Your mom used to read the Cape Cod Times.”
Nadine sighed. She drained her wine and poured another glass.
For forty minutes,
they talked about housing prices on the Cape, the new pizzeria on Main Street,
and the traffic problem at the Bourne Rotary. Declining dessert, Nadine gave her
father a quick embrace, walked him to his Midtown hotel, and took the six train
downtown.
At McSorley’s, she argued passionately about the future of Romania
with a grad student who smoked unfiltered cigarettes. They agreed that
Ceausescu’s regime was on the verge of collapse, and then pressed against each
other in a dim corner, the boy’s tongue hot in Nadine’s mouth. She moved to Cape
Town the following week. Ten years later, her father stood before her, his hands
in what could have been the same jeans. “Hey, now, Deanie,” he said, reaching
out to touch Nadine’s hair.
“What am I doing here?” said Nadine. “You were in
some Mexican hospital,” said Jim. “You were beaten real bad. Your wrist and ribs
got bunged up, you’ve got a nasty concussion.” “How long-” “You’ll be in Woods
Hole awhile,” said Jim. “Woods Hole?” said Nadine.
Jim put his arm around Gwen.
“You can stay here as long as you need. Gwen and I own this hotel. We open for
business in May, soon as the summer folks get here.” “The Sandy Toes,” said
Gwen. “I thought of the name.”
“So the closest airport is Hyannis?” said Nadine.
“What?” said Gwen. She looked nervously at Jim.
“Nadine,” said Jim, “you likely
can’t feel it, but your wrist is still very weak. Not to mention head trauma.
You were attacked, Nadine, by Mexican thugs.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Nadine. She reached
for the phone, murmuring, “So Logan would probably be just as easy, or
Providence-” “You can’t go anywhere!” said Gwen. “You’re very ill, dear!”
“What
the hell was she doing down next to Guat-e-amala, is what I’d like to know,”
said Jim. “May I make a long-distance call, please? In private?” “Deanie,” said
Jim. “Can’t you give it a rest?” “I’ll pay you back, of course,” said Nadine.
“No, it’s fine,” said Gwen, flustered. “Thanks,” said Nadine. She picked up the
receiver. “Maybe we can visit later,” said Gwen. Jim snorted. “Okay,” said
Nadine, dialing quickly.
Her father and Gwen exited the room, and Jim pulled the
door shut with a thud that shook the Nantucket basket on the windowsill. “You
are on mandatory vacation,” Ian said when Nadine finally reached him. In the
background, Nadine heard the sounds of the New York office: typing, shouting,
televisions tuned to CNN. Nadine sighed into the phone.
“I’ve got to get out of
here,” she said. “You’ve been beaten within an inch of your life by Mexican drug
traffickers. I talked to your doctor. You can’t even use your left arm for two
weeks.” “You think they were traffickers?”
“Whoever they were, they didn’t want
you nosing around,” said Ian. “Some shopkeeper called the embassy. You were
found in a ditch. They could have killed you.” Nadine looked out her window, at
the placid sea. A large vessel, the Atlantis, was docked in the harbor. “How
long?” she said. “Six months.” “Ian!” “Three months. You need to rest.”
“I know
you don’t believe me,” said Nadine, “but I feel fine. I do, really.” “Wander
along the beach. Have an affair with a lifeguard. Whatever it takes, Nadine.
Don’t call me until March.” “I can’t believe this.”
Ian was silent. Nadine could
picture him stroking his snow-colored moustache.
“I’ve known you a long time,”
he said, finally. “And I’ve told you this before. You let the wall come down,
you can never go back.” “I didn’t let the wall down,” said Nadine. “Nadine, I’m
trusting my gut on this one.” “What am I supposed to do all winter on Cape Cod?”
“Write a novel,” said Ian. “Write a memoir about your hair-raising adventures
around the world. If all else fails, watch TV.”
“Lord help me,” said Nadine.
“Talk to you soon,” said Ian.
“Not that soon,” he added. Dr. Duarte had olive
skin and a rich voice. Nadine hit mute but continued to watch Law & Order as he
listed her many bruises and lacerations. “When can I get out of here?” she asked
when he stopped talking.
“Out of bed? A week, maybe ten days. I’m most concerned
about the head trauma, and we’ll just have to keep an eye on that.” Nadine lay
back and sighed. “Can you turn off the television, please?” said Dr. Duarte.
Nadine hit the power button as Dr. Duarte told her how lucky she was to be
alive, how her body needed time to heal. She nodded, eyes on her intertwined
hands. There was a pause, and then Dr. Duarte said, “What’s it like?” Nadine
looked up, into his brown eyes.
“Sorry?” “What’s it like?” he said. “What does
it feel like, being a reporter, putting yourself in danger? I guess I’ve always
wondered what that feels like.”
“You just think about what you need to do,” said
Nadine. “Warnings, they come into your head, but they go away. You do your job.”
Nadine’s voice sounded confident.
She did not say that some evenings, after her
story was filed and she was safe in a hotel room, taking a shower, her legs
shook so hard she had to sit down, letting the water rain over her until she
calmed.
“You get used to being terrified, basically?” Nadine looked out the
window. She still remembered the dark winter days of her childhood, the sense
that life was happening elsewhere. The thought of staying on Cape Cod was
unbearable.
“When’s the last time you were terrified?” she asked. “Senior year,”
said Dr. Duarte. “Right before I called to ask Suze Phillips to the prom. No,
wait, my boards.” He paused. “No, Suze was scarier.” “What did she say?” “She
said yes,” said Dr. Duarte.
“I hung up the phone and almost cried with
happiness.” “That’s it exactly,” said Nadine. “So being a globe-trotting
journalist is like asking Suze Phillips to the prom,” said Dr. Duarte. “It’s
like asking her, and having her say yes.” He nodded, pleased.
“Well,” he said,
“I’ll be back tomorrow. I can bring you some books, if you want. Might help pass
the time.” “Thanks,” said Nadine. “But I’m fine, really.” “How many Law & Orders
do you think you can watch?”
“Seven?” said Nadine. “Maybe eight.”
“Wow,” said
Dr. Duarte. “My limit would probably be six.” Gwen ministered to Nadine as if
she were a child home from school. She made chicken soup and lasagna. She
brought gossip magazines and crossword books.
She went to Wal-Mart and returned
with a nightshirt featuring a grinning cat. “I’m thirty-five,” said Nadine when
she opened the bag.
“No one’s too old for Garfield,” said Gwen. Nadine slept and
watched television. Fellow journalists and off-again lovers sent flowers.
Nobody
called, however: what had happened to Nadine was the thing you didn’t allow
yourself to think about.
All of them were playing a game of chance, and even the
best luck ran out eventually. There was a point at which many took a desk job,
for love or family.
But Nadine, with the exception of Jim, had no family. As for
love, there had been Maxim, shot by a stray bullet in Cape Flats.
One love, one
bullet. Nadine learned her lesson.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Forgive Me
by Amanda Eyre Ward
Copyright © 2007 by Amanda Eyre Ward.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Ballantine Books
Copyright © 2007
Amanda Eyre Ward
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-345-49447-4
