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A doctor walks around the curtain. “Hello, Dr. McMahon, I’m Dr. Weeks.” He glances at his chart and notes the machine beeping in the corner. Then he looks at me.
“Hi. I’m Eden, Samuel’s fiancée. I’ll pop out while you speak to Samuel.”
Samuel eyeballs me, and his expression softens as though he understands what I’m doing—giving him space to discuss his condition honestly. “There’s a café on the second floor, Eden. Grab a bite to eat, and you might need some caffeine to stay awake.”
I’ll need more than caffeine.
* * *
By mid-morning, Samuel is falling in and out of sleep. After speaking to Caroline and Christopher, they decide to visit after lunch, so I head home so Samuel can rest. They have the keys to his Porsche so they can use his car until the hospital discharges Samuel. Then I call Mum, and she insists on keeping Rose for the day, and I’m relieved. As much as I want Samuel’s parents to see Rose, there’s only so much I can handle.
After a brief conversation about his condition, I tell his parents I need to rest. Once my body touches our luxurious mattress, I melt into it. Only my mind can’t shut down. My thoughts tear at my heart, and my gut churns.
Gran’s journal is on the bedside table.
“Gran,” I whisper as though she can hear me. I close my eyes and imagine her presence. “Please, help Samuel. I know you have touched him spiritually. Please, please heal him.”
I open my eyes and reach for her words to heal my aching heart.
37
IVY
March 11, 1963
I survived another night sleeping in the canoe.
God, my back hurts.
My friend has given me a clay bowl of water from which I drink. No cup. I simply tip the bowl and drink from it. I’m clueless as to how the water is clear and thankful it’s not scooped straight from the river. While sitting and watching me, which seems to be his new hobby, he refills it from the bamboo. A flower and leaves float on top. I sense it’s not where it is sourced. Regardless, I’m grateful he’s taking care of me during the day.
Last night I was afraid to close my eyes yet also exhausted from only a few hours’ sleep the night before. Without seeing any of his people, I knew I was being watched. I could feel it. Sense it. It’s hard to describe, but out here in the jungle, my senses are on high alert, and it’s a new awareness I’ve developed—my body’s adaptation to prevent death.
It’s something I’ve thought about frequently, especially facing it every day. Will it be today or tomorrow? A few months from now? Will I make it back to Australia, to my family?
My friend is watching me cry. I can’t help it. I’m extremely overwhelmed. If I’m to survive long enough to get back to Maria, I must make peace with these people hidden in the jungle and hopefully return without an arrow in my back.
There are more men standing beside my friend.
They speak, not Spanish, their own indigenous language.
One is walking toward me, and I keep my head down, writing.
March 18, 1963
A week has now passed since I arrived in Ulara.
My bag was confiscated and only returned to me today.
The women took my clothes and washed them, and although I have them back, they gave me a tweed skirt and beads to wear around my neck. I wear it to keep the peace, but it doesn’t leave much to the imagination. My joggers are gone, replaced by my flat sandals. I’m not risking a parasite entering my feet, and yet I’m bathing in a stream with the ladies every morning. I’m also living in the village in my own hut, although everyone keeps a distance.
In the mornings after bathing in the stream with the other women, I walk down to the river’s edge and listen for a sign that Maria has come looking for me. I check where I abandoned the canoe. Again, the area is absent of any sign of her presence. Footprints get washed away by the late afternoon rain, yet I hoped she’d call out for me or leave a note or something in the canoe.
The people in the village are gentle. Most of the women have shorter hair, except for the children. They have long hair, and some are plaited with beads. It appears the older women with gray hair may grow their hair as do the women with children. I’m not sure about hierarchy, although the hair signifies a rule within the village. The men’s jet-black hair is cut around their faces in a bowl shape, except for my friend. His hair sits at his shoulders. Until this morning, I never knew why. Only minutes ago, the chief, and I assume a medicine man—the shaman—emerged from their respective huts and gathered in the circle, both with the same fashionable long hair with graying strands throughout. Only they wore a crown of feathers on their head and walked with sticks that jingled with beads and bones of dead animals.
It feels safer for me to keep my head down and keep writing than to stare at… I guess they’re my new leaders. The bosses of Ulara.
April 1, 1963
