Contents ( 49)
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TWENTY-TWO
That evening, For God’s Sake offered us his hut to give us a break from the longhouse. In fact, he said we were welcome to it as long as we wanted, since he was leaving for San Solidad soon anyway and a hammock in the longhouse would suit him just fine. Grateful and exhausted, Omar and I settled into his small but well-kept hut. I decided to wait till the next morning to deal with Charlotte and the birds.
Under a tattered, moldy poster of the Virgin Mary, we woke the next morning on a thin straw mat under wilted mosquito netting. As he dozed, arms around me, I turned the moisture-swollen pages of my battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, mesmerized. My head swam with elegant balls, where glorious food was served and uptight white people who never said exactly what they meant swirled in bodice-cinching gowns on a marble dance floor, holding each other at arm’s length while staring meaningfully into each other’s eyes.
Omar stirred; he rested both hands on my belly, as if weighing me, assessing me. “Lily,” he said. “Put the book down. Look at me.”
All I wanted to do was read, but something in his voice was so serious that I slipped a piece of straw between the pages and turned toward him. A window-shaped square of yellow sunlight burned into the far side of the hut, but we lay in shadow.
He gently traced the contours of my face. On his—an expression of wonder, of rapture, all mixed with a trace of confusion. It frightened me. I thought, What have I done wrong now? He said, “Why didn’t you tell me you’re going to have our child?”
“What? What are you talking about? I’m not—”
But I couldn’t finish my sentence because I had to run down the stairs and hurl. I stayed on my hands and knees like an animal, eyes closed, breathing the smell of jungle rot and half-digested banana as I finally let myself listen to what my body had been screaming for months: you are not just yourself anymore; your body has said yes to Omar in every possible way; you have another life growing inside of you that will do what it needs to survive—make you puke, make you exhausted, make you swell, make you cry at nothing, make you a mother.
Oh sweet Jesus, Omar was right.
I wiped my mouth, spat, sat back on my haunches and laughed a short, rueful laugh: Ignore what’s happening to you, Lily, that will make it go away. All my life I was so busy protecting myself emotionally; my strategy with my physical body was to pretend it didn’t exist. Menstrual pain? What’s that? I barely had my period anyway; sometimes I didn’t get it for months at a time. Besides, what a luxury to piss and moan about some fucking cramps. I felt nothing, thank you. It was amazing what I could tune out. But look where it had gotten me . . .