Fables&other lies

Chapter Three

Evidence of my father’s chain-smoking lingered throughout the house long after he was gone. I couldn’t take a breath without thinking of him. Smoking was a terrible thing, of course. For the lungs, for others’ lungs, but even though I later developed an allergy to it, I never minded when Papi did it. It was part of him, like I was. As I sat on the couch, it was the scent of the cigarette smoke stuck to the couch that made me break down in tears, because it finally hit me that I’d never see him again. I’d never get a chance to redeem myself in his eyes. That last bit was what hurt the most. I’d worked hard because I needed money to live, but mostly I just wanted to make my father proud, and for what? He’d never called.

I heard voices coming from my mother’s room; the nurse who was watching over her was watching a telenovela. I buried my face in my hands. At least I still had her to make amends with, though I wasn’t sure I would. I knew myself. I knew her. We were both stubborn as goats. My father was like that as well, but my mother was worse about things. Judgmental. One-sided. After sitting there for a little while, looking at the television in front of me but not really paying attention to what was actually playing, I pulled my computer onto my lap and uploaded the pictures of the Devil’s Chair I’d taken. I must have fallen asleep at some point, after reading some of the Reddit message boards about it, because when I opened my eyes again it was already morning.

“Don’t put your foot on my couch.” That was Wela. I obeyed, turning off the television and standing up to take my half-eaten bowl of Lucky Charms to the kitchen.

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t wait and have a real breakfast with me today. I was going to make you mangú y queso frito.” She shook her head. “We haven’t had a meal together in ages.” She walked up to me and squeezed me into a hug. “I see that you’re dressed so I assume that means you need to leave.”

“I do, but I’ll be back by di

“I’m holding you to that.” She pulled away and started getting things out for the breakfast she was going to make. “Carnival kicks off tonight.”

“I know.”

“You’re not partaking in the festivities?”

“Papi is dead and Mami is, well, like that.” I signaled toward her room. “How can I celebrate anything?”

“New life, mi amor. That’s what Carnival is, after all. The fact that your father died the week of this celebration is a good thing. His soul will be welcomed by angels and live in the light.”

“We’ll see.” I bit my lip. I didn’t much believe in angels, but it was just one thing on the long list of things my grandmother and I disagreed on and I didn’t want to bring it up now. I grabbed my camera bag and looped it around my neck, deciding not to. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I thought you were going to hang out with those scoundrel friends of yours.” She eyed the camera. “You’re going to work?”

“Yep.”

“Someone is selling their house here?”

“Apparently so.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know everyone on the island, Wela.”

“Try me.” She shot me a look. “What’s their last name?”

“I’m not privy to that kind of information.” I smiled wide and walked away quickly. “See you later!”

“Be careful on that Vespa. There have been more accidents these last two years than ever before,” she called out.

“That’s because the tourists don’t know how to drive here.”

“Be careful with those tourists!”

“I will.” I strapped on my helmet and sat on my Vespa, driving it out of the neighborhood and waving at some neighbors as I went.

I thought about my mother, who I should have gone to see this morning. What if she died before I got a chance to say goodbye? The thought made my chest squeeze. That wouldn’t happen. She’d survive. She’d survive and we’d forgive and repair our damaged relationship. That was what would happen. I rode off toward Dolos Island with that thought in mind.

Wela wasn’t kidding about the tourists. There were rented Vespas everywhere and most of the people on them didn’t seem to know how to maneuver them. I held my breath as the light turned green and hoped to God no one crashed into me. The streets were filled with so many people that I was forced to stay at a whopping ten miles per hour out of fear that I might hit someone. The celebrations clearly started early, with people spilling out of bars, laughing, and telling their renditions of all of the horror stories Pan Island had survived. The bits and pieces I’d overheard at stop signs and red lights were enough to convince me not to partake in this “celebration.” Carnival was something I found to be fun when I was a kid, since I got to paint my face and dress up. It was a local celebration. The minute the politicians opened up the ports and allowed for tourism, it became something else. That was also when my parents forbade me from going because they thought it was too dangerous. We didn’t know the outsiders or what their intentions were. I didn’t get to experience it as a teenager or adult, which was the only reason a small part of me was curious about it.

As I neared the iron gates, I slowed even more so. The number of tourists on this side of the island was almost unimaginable. It had always been an attraction, even when I was a child, but back then there were maybe a handful of people with cameras trying to get evidence of the supposed vanishing house. No one could get past the iron gates though, and even if they did, they’d only walk a few steps before they hit water. The house was said to be six miles beyond the gates. One mile was covered in dark sand, the rest was the ocean, and then, finally, the Manor. I’d never seen the water nor taken a boat over. It was strange, really, I had a photograph of the house that I didn’t remember taking, but that day there was no water, there was no fog. It was as if the darkness lifted in the precise moment I snapped the shot and then fell upon me all over again. I parked my Vespa and looked around as I took my helmet off and put it away. Everyone was talking about the Caliban Manor and the water that surrounded it. Some were trying to figure out how they’d make it over there, if they dared. Others were talking about global warming and what that could mean for the house. I almost felt bad for the Calibans for not having privacy.

Almost.

The high tide usually served as a barrier between the Devil’s Chair and the house. Even if someone wanted to walk across it, they couldn’t. They’d have to boat, like some were saying, and those who boated often were never seen again. I thought of Esteban being in that dark water and shivered. A few nights a year, like tonight and tomorrow, the tide would be so low that it was almost nonexistent. On nights like these, you’d never know there was an ocean between us and them at all. The closer I walked to the black iron gates, the clearer it became that today wouldn’t be a good day for photos either. The fog was clear, but still there, and even though I knew that might add to the beauty of the shots, I wasn’t sure how in the world they’d let me in and keep everyone else at bay.

I took some pictures of the gate, of the street view, figuring I’d have to photoshop everyone out of the picture, and then looked to my left and swallowed at the sight of the Devil’s Chair. There was a line of people waiting to be pictured with it. A line of idiots. As I examined the pictures on the small screen of my camera, I heard the unmistakable sound of wet sand being walked on. I turned and saw a man walking over to me. A man dressed in dark pants and a dark lightweight jacket. At first glance, my heart did a little dip. He had a chiseled jaw and a head full of hair parted to the side, like an old Hollywood film star, and then he looked at me, setting the weight of his attention on me, and I thought I might stop breathing altogether. He was beautiful, gorgeous, unreal. He stopped on the other side of the gate and brought a key to undo the lock.