Withering Hope

As I watch him rub my jeans on the washboard, I wonder why the employee rumor mill in Chris's parents' household, which was a reliable source of news about everyone's private life, never mentioned anything about Tristan's love life… like the fact that he had been married. I suppose he was as tight-lipped there as he has been with me.

I remember him telling me in our second week here he isn’t seeing anyone in L.A., and I wonder why. I can imagine women would knock themselves out trying to get a date with him. He's stunningly good-looking, with a body so well-sculpted he could give most underwear models a run for their money. His face has beautiful features, with black eyes and high cheekbones. Though for all their beauty, his features are peppered with a harshness I can't place. Like tiny shards of glass in the sun—shimmering bright and beautiful, like diamonds, but cutting at the touch. It's not his looks, though, that make him excellent boyfriend material. It’s his heart-melting protectiveness that leads him to taste weird-looking, potentially harmful, fruit himself instead of letting me do it; it’s his thoughtfulness to do things for me just to put me at ease, from washing stuff to making sure he calls me by my name a couple of times a day because I asked him to. He’ll make a woman very happy one day—if we ever get back to civilization. I remember what he told me about his wife, and I can’t imagine why anyone would fall out of love with him.

I rub my numb feet and stand up. "I'm going to look for some fruit for dinner."

"We have plenty of grapefruit, and I'll see if I can catch something. Just rest a bit; there's nothing wrong with resting."

"I feel guilty just sitting here and staring at you rubbing the skin off your hands on that thing."

He laughs, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. He pushes them away, and I can tell he's annoyed with his long hair, but I like it. He asked me to help him cut it a few days ago but I declined, afraid I'd poke his eyes out with the knife.

"No need for guilt. You work a lot. I never imagined you'd be able to do so many outdoor things so well." He says the words with a tinge of incredulity as if he still can't believe it.

I put my hands on my hips, pretending to be offended.

"I bet you thought I was a spoiled, rich girl."

That isn’t far off. My family was rich. Not like Chris’s parents, but rich enough. My grandparents had been wealthy, and passed their wealth to my parents, trusting they'd continue the family business and multiply the wealth. But my parents dedicated themselves to humanitarian causes. They donated most of their fortune, though they kept enough for us to have a privileged life. We didn't have household employees, like Chris’s parents, which is why I was always a bit uncomfortable when I was at their place, where there was someone ready to meet my needs every moment of the day.

"Well, no, I mean I knew you were down-to-earth, but I was expecting you to complain a lot. You adapt well," he says with approval, and I feel childishly proud.

"Thanks. By the time we leave this place, I'll feel more comfortable outside than inside."

Darkness slithers over Tristan's face and he doesn't reply. Sometimes he’s so negative. Despite Tristan's ominous predictions that the forest holds dangers at every step, we’ve managed to survive unscathed for more than a month, except for discomfort from fruit that failed the edibility test. I may have a false sense of security, but I believe we stand a good chance of getting through the months until the water recedes just fine. These weeks are proof of that.

It won't be long before I realize these weeks have been nothing more than the calm before the storm that never ends.

"This was a definite treat," I say a few days later, rubbing my belly. Tristan hasn't managed to catch a bird in two days, so we've feasted mainly on fruits. Tonight we got lucky. After we're done eating, I announce that since we still have about half an hour left before the darkness sets in, I want to inspect our wood supply, to see if we need to gather more wood first thing in the morning. I still make the signal fire every day. Tristan cleans out the carcass of the bird we ate. While I have no problem eating it, I still get nauseous when I see the bare bones. I wish we had some vegetables to go with the meat, but we haven't had much luck finding any we can tolerate.

I lift myself from the ground with an acrobatic sway caused by a wave of nausea. I regain my balance, shaking my head. I've come to expect this, but that doesn't mean I'm used to it. The humid, choking heat strains my body, and I often find it hard to concentrate on what I'm doing. The mud muffles my footfalls as I make my way to the depleting wood shelter. I inspect the remaining branches, assessing whether they'll be good for starting a fire or just maintaining it. Tristan joins me before long.

"These are no good for starting a fire. Tomorrow morning I'll…" I begin to say when I feel something crawl up my arm. For a few seconds I’m petrified. Then I lower my gaze, and my sweat turns to icicles on my body. My arm is covered with spiders. A twinge of relief wedges inside of me, because they aren't very big. My moment of relief lasts one second, as a horrifying pain grips me, starting where the spiders are. I begin to scream, trying frantically to rub them off, but Tristan shouts something, grabbing my arms, stopping me. How can something so little cause so much pain? It's as if they have sharp knives instead of claws.

"Get them off me," I cry hysterically. "Get them off."

In a swing of his arm, he brushes them away. But the pain persists.

"It's important to—” he begins, but the rest of his sentence transforms into a howl. The spiders get him too. But I don't see them anywhere on him.

"Where is the pain coming from?" I ask.

"My back," he pants, gritting his teeth.

I start unbuttoning his shirt, but he shakes his head, and I understand what he means. No time for unbuttoning. I turn him around and rip open his shirt. I can tell he's trying to say something, but his words mingle with grunts of pain, and all I can manage to make out is the word palm.

There they are. Two spiders, on his lower back, right next to his spine. I slap my palm over them as hard as I can, and they fall off. Tristan's grunts don't stop.

"Let's get inside the plane," I say.

Tristan nods and we half-carry, half-drag each other inside the plane. My arm stings like hell, but I am more concerned about Tristan, who keeps stumbling. His stings were very close to his spine. I shiver. There are a lot of nerves in that area.

"There is insect cream in the first aid kit," he says once I lower him in one of the seats.

"I'll get it." I don’t have much faith that the cream will help. We also use the insect-repellent wipes every day, and they aren’t very useful.

Tristan makes me apply the cream on my arm first. It looks dreadful. There are red, swollen blotches all over, not just in the places where I was stung. I almost throw up when I see Tristan's back. His entire lower back is little skin hills.

"Your stings look much worse." I apply the cream as best as I can. "What were you trying to say when I was trying to get rid of the spiders on your back?"