breathed from her stomach and let her mind go blank. After a while she drifted off.
The second take-off out of Phoenix was only slightly better. At least she knew what to expect this time. About the time the plane leveled off, they hit turbulence. The first dip made her physically ill. Her head went back to her lap. She could not even pray. She begged Tate to forgive her for being so selfish. For running off on a wild goose chase to help people she didn’t even know and getting herself killed. Why hadn’t she made out a will?
The shaking and dipping seemed to go on forever. Sula looked up occasionally between spells and noticed other people chatted and read as if they were riding a bus across town. She vomited twice during the descent and vowed that when this trip was over, she would never get on another plane.
The Florida airport was considerably more intimidating than the Phoenix layover had been. The crowds were thicker, the languages more diverse. While in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Sula overheard a conversation that sounded like Swahili. She hadn’t even left the mainland and she was homesick already.
She had to ask directions three times during the long hike from Southwest to American Airlines, but people were friendly and helpful. Sula hoped that would be true in Puerto Rico as well. She’d read on the visitors’ information website that seventy percent of the population spoke English. She was counting on that because she spoke no Spanish. She’d brought a pocket dictionary for emergencies.
Her watch was no longer useful, so she kept checking the time on her cell phone, even though the airport had clocks everywhere. During the two-hour wait to board, her stomach finally settled down so she ate a cheeseburger and watched people come and go.
She could not believe so many of them traveled as part of their job. The whole experience was surreal, like a bizarre dream. Intellectually, she wanted to embrace it, to be adventurous and excited by the unknown. Emotionally, she was on edge and wanted more than anything to be home.
The last leg of the flight was the easiest. She was too tired and too worried about what she would do once she arrived in Puerto Rico to worry about crashing into the ocean. The flight was smooth and her cheeseburger stayed down. She even snoozed for a while.
She arrived at 9:41 local time and reset her watch to match. Her brain felt numb and her body was on auto- pilot, but she was pleasantly surprised by the airport’s small size and American feel. None of the drinking fountains worked though.
Outside, the air hit her with a warm, moist gush. Sula had never experienced anything like it. She peeled off her lightweight jacket and stood for a moment, taking in a sky full of stars. It felt like summer, and she was at ease for the first time in twenty hours. After gulping in a few more deep breaths of warm night air, she approached one of the dark green cabs that seemed to arrive every few minutes.
The driver, a small middle-aged man, jumped out, opened the trunk, and tried to take her overnight bag. She realized he meant to be helpful, but Sula refused to let go. “I want to keep it with me.” He shrugged and made a “whatever” face.
“Where to?” he asked with a soft Hispanic accent.
“The El Canario Inn.” She’d found the hotel online, three miles from the airport, five miles from the Fernandez Juncos Clinica, and only eighty dollars a night. There were cheaper places to stay, but they did not have internet connections. It was cowardly, but she wanted to stay near the airport and the tourists. She didn’t have the time, money, or courage to experience the culture. She was pleased when the cab fare only came to $4.20.
The hotel was old and beautiful. Its high ceiling was inlaid with dark wood and ornate engravings, and the warm peach-colored walls were lined with lush green plants like she’d never seen before. The surprising chill of air conditioning set her teeth on edge. The warm air outside had been so much nicer.
A pretty young woman about her age was behind the desk. She spoke perfect English, with an accent Sula didn’t recognize. After exchanging a credit card number for a plastic card that served as a room key, the woman pointed out some of the hotel’s features. Sula was barely listening. She was so tired, she couldn’t focus and knew she wouldn’t have time to enjoy the pool or the casino.
To reach her room, Sula had to go outside, pass by the long pool, and walk down a foliage lined path. She felt moisture everywhere-in the air, dripping off the plants, oozing from her skin. Once inside her room, she shut off the air conditioner, opened a window, stripped off her clothes, and passed out.
Robbie peddled home from the store in a daze. He’d gone out to buy cigarettes after calling in sick and falling back asleep for hours. It surprised him to feel so blah after starting out so great yesterday. He wondered about the new medication. Maybe it was a mistake. He had been taking it for less than a week and that was not enough time to tell.
The roads were wet, the sky was dark, and traffic was heavy, but he barely noticed any of it. He couldn’t stop thinking about how badly he’d blown his chance to ask Julie out yesterday. And he was mad at himself for missing work today. Why did he keep making the same mistakes? Because at the end of his day, what did he have to come home to? A crappy apartment, an empty wallet, and a lonely bed. What was the point? The same thoughts kept circling in his brain, round and round with the motion of his tires.
A blaring car horn snapped him out of it. He braked as he looked up to see an old yellow truck making a left hand turn right in his path. He barely slowed, the wet brakes failing to do their job. The truck swerved as he laid down his bike to avoid the head-on collision. They missed each other by inches. The driver took a moment to stop, roll down his window, and yell, “Fucking idiot.”
Robbie picked up himself and the bike, unaware that traffic had stopped around him. He climbed back on and continued down the street, his shoulder throbbing. He’d come so close to being killed. Part of him wished he’d let it happen. His struggle would have been over, just like that. He laughed bitterly. With his luck, he would have ended up in a wheel chair, a paraplegic with his mother spoon feeding him for the rest of his shitty life.
No, if he was going to kill himself, he would do it right. He’d given the subject some previous thought and decided that either an overdose of downer meds or a jump off a tall building were the only way to go. At home in his sock drawer was a small collection of tablets: some sleeping pills he’d pinched from his mother, a handful of Vicodin left over from when he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled, and two Oxycontins he’d scored at a party six months ago. Was it enough?
Robbie didn’t know, and it wasn’t the kind of question you could call “Ask a Nurse” and find out. But in the last five minutes, he’d made a decision.
He reached his campus apartment and carried his bike upstairs. He could have left it on the sidewalk, he thought as he reached the top, because he wouldn’t be here tomorrow to care if it had been stolen.
He parked the bike against the wall in the living room and flopped on the couch, feeling exhausted. For hours, he lay there thinking about his own death. About what would happen afterward. Would they do an autopsy on his body? Would they cremate him or seal him up in a casket? Who would come to his funeral? Not many, he thought.
His mother would be devastated, but she would get over it. She was a bounce-back queen with a new boyfriend and religion to comfort her. She would pray and think of him in heaven and, in the long run, have one less thing to worry about. Robbie had no idea how his dad would feel. The old man had always been a mystery. Mr. Mood Swing. Robbie liked to believe they had loved each other long ago, but he wasn’t sure it was still true.
He pushed himself off the couch and headed for the fridge where he hoped to find a beer. He needed a little boost of courage. Plus the alcohol would add to the effect of the pills.
A chilled half bottle of vodka was waiting for him instead. Next to it on the top shelf was a package of lunch meat and a half empty quart of orange juice. Jason must have been making screwdrivers the night before and brought the leftovers home. A stroke of luck, just when he needed it. Robbie poured a liberal dose of each liquid into a green plastic glass, then downed half of it in a few gulps.
The concoction hit his stomach and revolted. Robbie fought to keep from throwing up. He sat at the kitchen table and waited for the nausea to pass. Moments later, he felt light headed. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which had consisted of a Poptart and a handful of raisins.
He hurried back to his bedroom and found the pills while he was still sober enough to walk straight. Clutching the container, he went in search of the house phone. He’d lost two cell phones already and couldn’t afford a new one yet. But he had to call his mother and say goodbye. He owed her that.
He found the cordless phone in Jason’s room on top of a pile of dirty clothes. Jason was such a slob. A funny, best-friend kind of slob. He would miss the guy. Robbie shook his head. No. Jason might miss him, but he would be dead and have no feelings. That was the point.
Next he went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He wanted everything in place for the moment when the
