The last five days have been turmoil. I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. Each hour looks different. I hang out with Joy, who’s psychoanalyzing me, explaining what I should do and how to feel and all the yada. At night, some Fratter picks me up from school, because goddamn Luka has appropriated the key to the Mustang.
I don’t feel like doing anything after class these days. I’ve completed my last fellowship application, the one Julian and I worked on before he died. I erased his name and his credentials, which was not okay for my heart.
“You still love him, Geneva,” Joy says. “Hiding behind anthropological theory won’t change that. You gotta suck it up and deal with the grief.”
My turmoil isn’t limited to certain times, like class/lunch or hanging out with Joy/the Fratter du jour. And what’s wrong with me driving anyway? Every one of them is a stonewall when I point out that they should be chauffeuring his brother around, not me, that maybe it will keep Luka away from his own sudden overload of shitty extracurricular activities.
At home, even with my purple doorframes converting to cream and my walls shining a fuchsia pink, my insomnia doesn’t get better. I have a new sleep pattern now. I go to bed at eleven, pass out before twelve, and wake up at one. Sometimes it’s because of a nightmare, but mostly it’s my eyes opening and my body finding no reason to remain asleep.
I try to be quiet. Try to stay in bed, but someone always notices and opens the door to my room. It was Diego last night. He didn’t even say anything. He just slid into the bed behind me, under my duvet, and linked his arms around me so that my back nestled against his chest.
As it turns out, when you’re sad and lonely, you don’t feel like saying no to a friend when he opens his arms for you. Each night, it’s how I fall asleep. Until I wake up one morning in Connor’s arms again with my heart batting like it wants to escape.
What am I doing?
I get up. As per usual lately, everyone is in the kitchen for breakfast when I come down. Connor doesn’t have early classes, but he follows me, tank top haphazardly pulled over his head and man bun in just-slept disarray.
I look around the kitchen with new eyes. We’re all long-time friends, but it’s surreal to suddenly know the lines and edges in each one of the bodies around me. I look away so I don’t remember the plunge at the small of Nathaniel’s back. I don’t want to recall the firmness of Diego’s butt under my fingers. I even kissed Lenny, and I have no problem recalling every shift of his lips.
For the first time, I purposely let my stare rest on Luka even as Connor’s hand remains on my hip.
“Morning, Geneva.” His voice is morning-raspy like Julian’s.
“Morning,” I reply and can’t even muster a sarcastic tone this early.
I admit that it’s nice to look at him. Of the Fratters, he’s the only one who doesn’t come to my room at night, and I only know each dip of his body because they’re like his brother’s.
“How are you doing?” He scans my face, and since we’re all here, why don’t I tell them exactly what’s going on?
“Good. Thanks. I’m taking a break from classes.”
Deep green stares, black, blue, brown, and hazel. We got them all in the Queen. Now, every pair settles on me.
James speaks first. “A break? You’re not leaving the Valley, are you?”
I let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Julian and I were supposed to be off to Kenya tomorrow.”
“So where to, then?” Marlon rests on a hip, his arms folding.
“I’m going home to Portland.”
James’ brows furrow. “Hmm. You said you were going to tough it out so you didn’t get off schedule with your studies.”
“I know. I’ll just have to work harder from afar. I feel like I need to be away from the Queen for a bit.” My throat tightens; I’m not actually sure of anything.
Poet Boy embraces me and supports his cheek on my head. “I’m sorry, babe.”
I huff a laugh over the entire house calling me “babe.” I’ve gone from Julian’s girl to everyone’s babe. I can’t even process that right now.
Luka cuts the distance between us and wraps his fingers around my arm. Surprised, I pull in a breath; he hasn’t touched me since the night in my room.
Over the last week, Luka hasn’t been around much at all. He’s here in the morning, and he’s home in time for our collective dinners, but as soon as I retract to my room, he leaves. Sometimes, he brings girls home. Other times, he returns in time for breakfast, hair disheveled and eyes bloodshot. Yeah, he’s struggling, and I’m aware that I’m the only one who can understand his void after Julian. But I just can’t deal with him.
“No. You don’t need to leave.” Luka’s pitch is gravelly. “We can take care of you here. You’ll be fine. Tell me what you need, and it’s a done deal.”
I stare up into light eyes rimmed with pink. From a hangover or from tears, I’m not sure. Behind me, Connor lets go, and then it’s just Luka and me, staring, staring, and I can’t seem to let go of his eyes.
My chin quivers. His gaze flits to it, and with a blunt fingertip, he steadies it. “Seriously, what can be better in Portland than here?”
“My family. Mom and Dad are there. Aci too. Everyone I love, my old friends. I need some distance. I want to find a place where I can breathe something that isn’t pure fucking emptiness.”
“So running off is the solution, now?” He tosses it at me, curveball-like. “That’s how you’re gonna get over Julian?”
“Luka. Dude,” Lenny mutters. “It’s her decision.”
“Right, but she’s making a goddamn mistake. You can’t get back on your feet by fleeing.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing, Luka?” I ask. “Isn’t it fleeing to party around the clock, getting sloshed, fucking everything that moves, and dragging them home with you so it’s impossible for anyone else to sleep?”
His eyes are frozen on me, and I glare back. There’s so much hurt in them. It’s Luka though, and I can’t worry about him. He’s got his “colleagues,” his bimbos, all of the shit he’s chosen for his life.
“Guys.” I twist my arm free of him. “I appreciate everything you do for me, but I need to leave. It’s been a couple of wild weeks, and I feel like I’ve got no control anymore. I just need my family around me.”
“I understand.” Diego’s voice is warm with compassion. “Luka has a point, but as long as this isn’t you just scramming, I agree with you. It’ll do you good to be with your family.”
Dad picks me up at the airport. He hugs me like I’m tiny again. Then, we bustle my oversized suitcase to his Volvo and push it into the trunk.
“Aci at school?” I ask.
“Yep, she’s out at two today. She wanted to come with me to pick you up, but you know your sister. That girl’ll do anything to get out of class.”
I smile. It’s true. My little sister never was crazy about school. Dog groomer is her latest idea for a job after high school because she “lurvvvs” animals. Our father is a physician, and our mother is the star real-estate agent in our area. Needless to say, Aci doesn’t know how it will be to live off minimum wage.
“Neither do you,” Luka told me once when I complained about it. “Julian should know better, though.”
“You don’t study anthropology to get rich,” Julian said lightly while I sent Luka a cold side-glance. I didn’t comment on Luka’s way of earning money. It wasn’t my business. I sure as heck would rather have Julian be poor with me than rich from having sex with other women.
“Ha, that much is true,” Luka chuckled and actually rolled his eyes. I hated when he did that. “My li’l bro does what he enjoys. And so does the missus.”
“Seems you’re doing the same thing,” I blurted.
Julian’s attention strayed from his computer to study me.
“What, med school?” Luka asked.
“No, sleeping with everyone and their grandma.”
“That bugs you, doesn’t it? Does my brother not give it to you right?”
“What the fuck?” It was rare to see Julian work himself up, but he straightened on the chair and pierced Luka with a glare. “Don’t fucking disrespect my girlfriend.”
Luka shrugged. “I’m not going to be obvious here and say that she started it and I was just happy to play along.”
But who was he disrespecting? Wasn’t it Julian?
“See, some people need money to live. Some people can’t do without a job on the side.” Luka’s voice lowered into a sexy murmur, and I didn’t like how it made me feel. His similarity to Julian was the only reason though. That’s why excitement curled in my stomach.
Dad and I roll onto the gravel of where I grew up, a two-story house made entirely out of wood. White, romantic, and so completely home, its old-fashioned glass veranda gives to a lawn-clad riverbank.
In my first year in high school, the veranda became the Reading Room, its name alluding to the books not being plentiful enough to call it a library. Deep chairs with adjustable reading lamps and a tucked-in study desk make it the perfect sanctuary for dreamers like their oldest daughter.
Our neighborhood is located within a verdant forest. Heavy with the promise of rain, a breeze flushes the scent of incense cedar and pine at me. I inhale deeply and take my first step toward the Reading Room in six months.
“It’s locked,” Dad says. He and I have some sort of unspoken telepathy between us. Now, I crave the peace of the Reading Room, and he knows. “Take the front door, and I’ll bring your luggage in. Mom’s got a surprise for you. It’s on your bed.”
I walk through our cream hallway, small palm trees guiding the way in. The smell is the same, familiar, home. As soon as I hit the living room, French doors give to the Reading Room, and I enter, inhaling Mom’s diffuser, her signature lemongrass scent.
God, this room.
“Mom coming soon?” I call out.
“She’s at an open house, so it depends on the interest.”
I head on to my teenage room. It’s untouched, which is what happens when you move away from my kind of parents. I guess Mom approves of how I kept it. Whenever I visit, it feels like returning to a simpler time in life.
There’s a lot of pink in here, a lighter shade than in my room at the Queen. The walls are covered with horse paraphernalia, and I still have the big bed I got years before my friends changed out their own twin beds. I was a little spoiled, I guess, much like Aci is now.
I start to unwrap Mom’s gift.
I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be pampered. You just have to figure out how to survive when the world beats you up at a later stage in life. It’s what I’m trying to do now. For a moment, I see the irony in me coming back home. Maybe I did flee after all.
My mother has bought me the Encyclopedia of the Amazon. It’s overwhelming, because at the hundreds of dollars price tag, I’ve only ever borrowed it from the library. The three-volume collection is the most comprehensive work on the lives of Amazon tribes ever presented. It’s up to date too, with findings we discussed as late as last semester.
I open to the first page: “Social anthropology, the branch of anthropology concerned with the study of human societies and cultures and their development.”
How old was I when I first became fascinated with the Lara’ people of the western Amazons? Mark Z. Moore was my first anthropologist crush. I don’t remember the name of his partner, but the two of them lived in a small village among the Lara’ people for extended periods of time. After their second stay, they returned with a film crew to document their approach to grief.
I flip the pages and find the chapter recounting the last Lara’ stay. It’s complete with pictures and quotes by Mark Z. Moore. God, the story still enthralls me, even though my studies and the mere fact of growing up have changed my response to it.
When I watched my first documentary back in my teens, I had opinions. I was sad and shocked over the Lara’s behavior, but today, as an anthropologist, I don’t let my background influence my reactions to my material. It’s a fine balance we teeter at the edge of, to remain objective and observe in fine detail while never jeopardizing our compassion and respect.
I should have boarded a different flight today. I should have been on my way to my first big field study with Julian as my husband and colleague. I pull in a breath and remind myself of the truth, that even if the logistics had worked out, I couldn’t have completed the job with my current mindset.
My heart hammers when I get to the photo of the old woman they buried at the center of the Lara’ people’s “town square.” They showed their respect for her by digging a hole, stuffing her in there, and filling it with dirt. Then they danced on top of her until all there was, was trampled dirt.
I flip forward to the tribe that practiced compassionate cannibalism. Until the sixties, it was their preferred burial rite. They left the body to decompose until the funeral guests arrived from distant parts of the jungle. When all were present, the deceased was cooked and eaten in small morsels so that they would live on in their relatives’ bodies. It was considered disrespectful to let the leftover human remains rot and disintegrate, so they burned the rest.
“Geneva!” My sister explodes into the room and drops her backpack on the floor. Then, she throws herself at me on the bed. “I’m so glad you’re home. Are you okay?”
I hug her tight, my little sister with those big violet eyes brimming with concern. Oh how I’ve missed her.