CHAPTER SIX
MARCUS
He was dying. Marcus was sure of it.
Marcus lay on his lumpy mattress, willing a swift death. His stomach was on fire, as if someone had lacerated the lining and squeezed lemon juice over it.
A hundred times that.
He had tried to tell the hotel front desk that he needed a doctor, but the lady couldn’t understand him. He’d managed to climb the flight of steps to his room and collapse on the bed.
He was sure he’d been lying there for a day. Two? Three? Maybe a week? Forever.
Okay, more like two hours. But still.
He heard footsteps. Female voices. In that infernal Spanish language that he should have learned in high school.
Maybe this was heaven.
They spoke Spanish in heaven?
Maybe they also had Taco Tuesday.
Ugh, the thought of food made him even more ill. He leaned over the edge of his bed, wanting to hurl.
Panicked voices now. Moving around. Fast and blurry. Legs and waist-long hair, something hard being pushed under his chin.
He retched for a long time.
Ugh. What a mess. His face. Everywhere.
A warm washcloth touched his face. Gently. No more dribbles on his chin.
He leaned back onto his pillow and groaned.
“Marcus.”
A soft female voice.
“Marcus.”
There it was again.
He opened his eyes. It was the girl who wanted him to come here. Kay? Kenna? Katy? Yes, Katy.
“What did you eat?” she asked.
“Eat?” His voice shook. “Straw…bee……berries.”
Her eyes widened. “Ah-ha.”
Her hand hovered over his forehead and then pushed back his hair. Her touch was gentle.
He closed his eyes. “Feels good,” he murmured.
Amanda’s face floated in his mind. Her blonde hair framing her face, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. That laugh, like a bell in the crisp spring air. Her eyes, blue like the sky.
And then the next he knew, she was lifeless on a gurney.
He waved his arms. He wanted out of there. That wasn’t his wife. His wife was safe somewhere, and the baby too.
“Marcus.” The voice was more insistent now. Worried.
He opened his eyes again. His arms were thrashing in front of him, and Katy was trying to stop him.
“You’re okay,” she soothed. “You’’re okay.”
He stared at her, and then from nowhere, he burst into tears. Just sobbed like a baby. He hadn’t cried in…forever. Not since the funeral. And even then, he had held himself back.
His stomach hurt still, but not as much.
But his heart did over Amanda and the baby. They had barely decided on a name. In his records, Marcus named him Caleb, after Amanda’s grandfather.
He cried and cried while drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he saw Katy; sometimes he didn’t.
Until he woke in semi-darkness. Out the window, the sky had turned a deep twilight blue.
He felt stiff on one side of his body, the one he was lying on. He was still in his room in his Antigua hotel, and the bedside lamp was on. Katy sat in a chair, her face on her arm which was draped over the back, her reddish-brown hair long and silky over one shoulder.
She woke up and blinked uncomprehendingly at him, and then she smiled.
“You’re better,” she said.
“I was sick?”
She nodded. “Violently.”
“For how long?”
“Since earlier this afternoon.”
“Felt like days,” he muttered. Boy, was he thirsty. “Why are you here?”
“Why?” She scrunched her nose. “Because you needed help.”
“But…you don’t know me.”
“We’re not buddies, right.” Her eyes danced. “But we’’d met.”
“Twice,” he croaked. “And I made you mad.”
Her lips twitched as if she was trying to not laugh. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes.”
She stood and crossed the room, grabbing a bottled water. She handed it to him, and he drank greedily, even though it was room temperature.
“First rule,” she said. “Do not eat fruits that haven’t been washed properly. You can eat the ones at the nicer restaurants.”
He groaned and sank back on his pillow. “Those strawberries.”
She nodded. “Don’t feel bad. I did the same thing when I first visited. Those strawberries look so good.”
“They do,” he agreed. “How many times have you been here?”
“Oh,” she said airily. “Five or six times.”
He tucked his head under his arm. “You must really like Guatemala.”
Her eyes glistened. “I love it.”
When she smiled, her face grew even more beautiful, more animated.
Suddenly, the oddness of his situation struck Marcus. Him, lying on the bed, alone with this lady who wasn’t really his friend, not in the traditional sense of the word. Yet it seemed as if she cared.
Bless her heart.
“Why?” he said.
“Why what?” She blinked.
“Why did you help me?”
“You asked me that earlier.”
“I know…you said I was sick, but why did you take the time to help me?”
She hesitated. “I was mad at you yesterday, I will admit. So I looked up your name to see…I can’t even remember why.” She paused. “Then I read about…about the accident.”
His smile froze and then died. “I see.”
“And so I thought…well, I felt sorry for you. I understand now, you see.”
“Oh, you do?” His voice was icy.
Naive girl. Silly girl. She kept on going, oblivious.
“Yes. I understand why you don’t like Christmas. Why it’s such a hard time.”
“Get out.”
She stared at him. “Pardon me?”
“Get out!” he bellowed.
When she did, upturning a chair in her haste, he banged his head on his pillow, spent and hating himself.